Mage of Clouds (The Cloudmages #2) (51 page)

Doyle knocked on the door to Enean’s chambers. MacCamore opened the door, the old man’s face brightening at seeing Doyle. “Tiarna Mac Ard,” he said, opening the door wide. “I’m pleased to finally see your face again. Come in, come in.”

“How’s it been?” Doyle asked as he entered and MacCamore shut the door behind him.

“Not good,” the old man answered quickly in a low voice. “Tiarna Ó Riain . . .” The old man growled in the back of his throat.

“I know,” Doyle said. “We’ll deal with him soon enough. How’s Enean?”

“We need to speak quietly, sir,” he said, lifting a forefinger to his lips. “I kept Toiréasa De Danaan away from Enean as much as I could, as Bantiarna Edana asked, and I’ve tried to do the same with Tiarna Ó Riain, though with less success. But . . .” He managed a quick grin. “Nuala Chathaigh, that young woman Tiarna O Blaca brought here from the Order, tells me her moon time is a week late. If she’s pregnant, the arrangements for the marriage have already been made with her parents. She’s good with Enean and seems to genuinely like him. I thought that might have settled things, but then after the Ríthe got here I started hearing all the talk of making Tiarna Ó Riain the Regent Guardian . . .” Again, the growl. “He uses the boy. It makes me want to—” He stopped. “Well, that’s not for now, and we do need to keep our voices down. Tiarna—”

“Doyle!”
Enean shouted, interrupting MacCamore and grinning widely as he came into the foyer from another room. “Where’s Edana? I want to see her.”

“She’s on her way from Falcarragh, Enean,” Doyle told the young man, clasping him in a fierce hug. “She’ll be several days, I’m afraid, but she’s looking forward to seeing you, I know.”

Enean managed to frown and smile at the same time. “I wanted to tell her about Nuala. I like her. She reminds me of Sorcha. I might even marry her.”

“Why, that’s wonderful news,” Doyle said, clasping Enean around the shoulders as he glanced back at MacCamore. “I know Edana will be delighted to hear this.”

“Tiarna Ó Riain doesn’t like her, though. He says that she’s too common and Toiréasa is a better match for me. He thinks I’m going to be the Rí Ard, like Da, so I should marry someone with a better name. He says that the Óenach will say the same thing.”

Doyle managed a smile. “Not everything Tiarna Ó Riain says is right.” His arms still around Enean’s shoulders, Doyle guided Enean away toward the hearth. Behind him, he heard MacCamore clear his throat warningly, then a flash of motion from the archway of the room from which Doyle had just come caught his eye.

“Not always right? Why, Tiarna Mac Ard, I would never deliberately tell Enean an untruth.”

Doyle gave Ó Riain as small a bow of acknowledgment as etiquette allowed. He didn’t bother to smile. “Tiarna,” he said. “Why am I not surprised to find you here?”

“We both have an interest in Enean,” Ó Riain answered. “He’s not only a good friend to me, but I also have his da’s dying request to consider. And
I
. . .” Ó Riain went over to Enean and tapped him on the cheek as he might a small child. “I will be pleased to see him wear the torc of the Rí Ard.” Standing in front of Enean and Doyle, Ó Riain raised his eyebrows as he looked at Doyle. “Is that what you and Bantiarna Edana want for Enean, Tiarna Mac Ard? Do you want to see him as Ard?”

“I would like to see him happy,” Doyle replied. “And that’s what Edana wants as well.”

Ó Riain’s lips stretched in a tight, toothless smile. “That’s so good to hear. I’ve been entertaining Enean with tales from our history. It’s interesting how often siblings have turned into enemies when an empty throne was placed between them. Why, I had just mentioned an incident from your own family history: Sinna, the second wife of Teádor Mac Ard, who wanted one of her children to be the successor despite the better claims of the children of Teádor’s first wife . . .”

Doyle flushed. “That was many generations ago, in another time.”

“Ah, but history can sometimes illuminate the present, don’t you think?”

“I think that every family has its dirty tales, Tiarna,” he said, “and I hope yours doesn’t fall in this generation.” He was pleased to see Ó Riain stiffen at that and his smile go cold. “I need to speak with Enean, Tiarna. Privately. If you’ll excuse us . . . ?”

Ó Riain gave Doyle a quick bow rimed with frost. “Certainly. Enean, I’ll speak with you again soon. Tiarna Mac Ard, MacCamore . . .” With that, Ó Riain left the chambers. MacCamore slammed the door shut after the man.

“I try to keep the tiarna away,” MacCamore said to Doyle, but Enean shook his head.

“Tiarna Ó Riain’s my friend,” the young man insisted. “He likes me.”

MacCamore rolled his eyes and lifted his hands. Doyle clapped Enean on the shoulder. “I know,” he said. “But he’s not my friend or Edana’s.”

“He told me that you and Edana don’t want me to be Rí Ard. Is that true, Doyle?” In Enean’s clear eyes, there was a hint of the old Enean, the man Doyle remembered from a few years before: ambitious; courageous; very much his da’s son, who would have taken the torc of the Rí Ard without hesitation and worn it deservingly; who would have immediately challenged any person who stood in his way or who threatened those he loved. Suspicion and doubt colored Enean’s voice now. “He says that you want Edana to be Banrion Ard because you’re going to marry her.”

“I will marry Edana, aye,” Doyle answered, smiling at Enean and holding his gaze. Watching those eyes carefully. “I love her, Enean, the way you loved Sorcha and the way you’re feeling now with Nuala. And Edana loves you also, Enean. She wants only what’s best for you. Think of her, Enean. Can you imagine Edana doing anything to hurt you?” As he spoke—soothingly, slow and soft—Doyle saw the uncertainty dim in Enean’s eyes as the corners of his lips turned up again. “None of us know what the Ríthe will decide. But if you’re chosen as the Rí Ard, Enean, I will never be your enemy. I promise you that.”

Enean brightened like a child praised by a parent. “I know, Doyle. I know.” He clasped Doyle to him, laughing.

Doyle hugged the man in return, hoping that what he’d just pledged was true.

“Tiarna Mac Ard!”

Doyle heard the call from behind him and turned to see the Toscaire Concordai waving at him from down the corridor. Rhusvak came up to Doyle with the odor of grease and oils, his face shadowed under the upper jaw of the bearskin. “Toscaire,” Doyle said. “I understand you enjoyed your tour of the Order of Gabair.”

“Indeed I did,” the man smiled. Doyle had made certain that Rhusvak was well fed and entertained while at the Order, and had also made certain that two of the female acolytes would be particularly interested in the Toscaire Concordai during his stay. From the reports, Rhusvak had found his short stay with the Order quite satisfactory in all regards. The bear’s head tilted slightly on Rhusvak’s shoulders, and the man’s glittering eyes went from Doyle’s face to his Cloch Mór and back. “I’m very impressed. Though perhaps the Order isn’t quite as powerful as I thought. I’d hate to have to rethink my position. I had hoped that the Concordance would be able to unequivocally state its preference for the new Rí Ard in light of a newly-acquired power, but . . .” He stopped. Eyebrows lifted in shadow.

Long practice was all that allowed Doyle to keep his smile from faltering. “I assure you, Toscaire Rhusvak, that the power you hint at
will
be acquired. Very soon.”

“Ah.” Rhusvak sniffed, a loud, wet clearing of nostrils. “Before the Óenach?”

Doyle shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s no longer possible. But soon after.”

The eyebrows lifted again. “In your position, I might worry that ‘after’ would be too late. I’d prefer to tell you that I can urge my Thane to support Bantiarna O Liathain and yourself, but I can’t do so with vague promises. Not at this point. I need to make a decision, since I’ve been asked by other parties to give them the same kind of support you and I have discussed. If I knew more, perhaps . . .”

Doyle hesitated, not wanting to confide in the man, not trusting him. But Edana was out of reach, two of those who had followed him dead, and the Rí Gabair’s support wavering. He couldn’t afford to lose more. He would have to hope that the man’s promises were genuine or he’d lose him.

He didn’t think he could afford another piece going to the other side of the board.

“Come walk with me,” he told Rhusvak. “We’ll talk of power and how it might be acquired.”

F
OR the Óenach, the Ríthe of the Tuatha met in Tuatha Halla, a circular and ancient edifice outside the walls of Dún Laoghaire. There, the leaders of Talamh an Ghlas had met for long generations to name and certify the Rí Ard, their high king. Once, when the fiefdoms had been smaller and more numerous, over fifty Ríthe might have filled the expanse of cold stone thrones enclosed within the hall’s stone walls.

Now only five men and one woman were there under the painted gaze of ancient kings and battles: Torin Mallaghan, the Rí Gabair—the second Torin, son of Torin the First and Cianna; Harkin O Seachnasaigh, the Rí Connachta ; Brasil Mas Sithig, the Rí Infochla; Mal Mac Baoill, the Rí Airgialla; Kerwin Taafe, the Rí Eoganacht; Siobaigh O Treasigh, the Banrion Locha Léin. There should have been a seventh, the Rí Dún Laoghaire—ruler of Tuath Dún Laoghaire. Often, the Rí Dún Laoghaire was also chosen to be the Rí Ard; that had been the custom now for several generations. But Nevan O Liathain had left his successor as Rí Dún Laoghaire in doubt and so there was another empty stone throne in the ancient circle.

The six were not entirely alone, however. Several tiarnas and bantiarnas—bound to silence by custom and the presence of gardai who would escort them away if etiquette was breached—watched and listened from outside the circle of thrones as the Ríthe conversed.

Doyle was among them, as was Labhrás Ó Riain, too near to Doyle for comfort. Enean was not—he remained at the keep under the watchful eye of MacCamore. That decision had been Doyle’s, but when Enean complained, Ó Riain had agreed. Both men doubted that Enean could have remained quiet and neither of them knew what he might say or how that might influence the Ríthe.

None of the onlookers wore weapons—swords and knives were forbidden at the Óenach except for those worn by the Ríthe and the trusted gardai of the hall. But there were clochs on many chests; those could not be taken away. Each of the six Ríthe displayed a Cloch Mór.

A large turf fire burned in the pit at the center of the hall, smoke curling upward to the hole in the high thatched roof, but the warmth never seemed to reach the thrones. All the six were huddled in blankets and looked unhappy to be here rather than in the more comfortable and hospitable keep.

By the time Doyle and the other Riocha had settled in the hall, Rí Taafe had already broached the subject. “I feel strongly that the best course we can follow is the plan that Rí O Seachnasaigh and I have already proposed: we name Enean O Liathain as Rí Ard and Rí Dún Laoghaire. At the same time, we appoint Tiarna Labhrás Ó Riain to act as Regent Guardian. That way, the interests of the Tuatha are best protected.” Rí Taafe shifted uncomfortably on his stone seat despite the cushions, pushing himself up with flabby arms. Doyle knew that the man suffered from piles. He hoped they were particularly inflamed today. To Doyle’s left, Ó Riain smiled modestly as the Riocha gathered around him—the older families, mostly—nodded. Rí Taafe shifted again, grunting. “
Damn
these seats,” he muttered.

Torin Mallaghan couldn’t quite keep the smile from his lips, Doyle noticed. “That would serve the interests of Connachta and Éoganacht, perhaps,” Torin said. “But not necessarily Gabair. After all, Tiarna Ó Riain is Rí O Seachnasaigh’s first cousin and your nephew, Rí Taafe.”

“If we’re going to look for someone unrelated to any of us, we’ll be here for a cursed month,” O Seachnasaigh answered heatedly, but Rí Taafe cleared his throat. O Seachnasaigh waved a hand, his protest falling off to a mutter.

“The relationship of Tiarna Ó Riain to any of us doesn’t matter,” Taafe said easily to Torin as O Seachnasaigh scowled. “Labhrás Ó Riain has proved himself many times over the years. Who else would you have as Regent Guardian for Enean, Rí Mallaghan?”

“I wouldn’t have Enean at all,” Torin replied. “Let’s at least say aloud what we’re all thinking and what all the Riocha listening already know—we all realize that Enean will never be capable of being Rí Ard or Rí Dún Laoghaire on his own, not in the way of his da or great-da. This idea of a ‘Regent Guardian’ is just a pretense.”

“Rí Mallaghan’s conveniently forgetting that Enean is the person Nevan O Liathain designated as his successor,” O Seachnasaigh grumbled. “He’s the firstborn and a son.”

Banrion O Treasigh snorted derisively at that. Her hair, ringleted and full, flowed over her shoulders and around the golden torc she, like the others, wore around her neck. Once the hair had been flaming red; now it was mostly white, with the barest shadow of its former color, but the face underneath still appeared young. “If all that mattered was the equipment hanging between his legs, any fool could be a Rí,” she said. “Or perhaps that’s already the case.” Torin barked a quick laugh as the Banrion hurried on before any of the others could react. “The Enean of a few years ago would have been a fine Rí Ald. I don’t disagree with that at all—if that Enean were still here, I think we’d already be back at the keep enjoying our meal tables and making plans to return to our own keeps. But the Mother-Creator decided otherwise, despite Enean’s undoubted courage. But if we look to Nevan O Liathain’s family as his successor, there’s still Edana.”