Mage of Clouds (The Cloudmages #2) (67 page)

The Great Mist was past Ballintubber in but a few fearful breaths, leaving behind the memory of its dangerous laughter as inhabitants blinked and wondered, as the first wails arose from those who found loved ones missing. The mist moved on, ever faster, as if desperate to outrace the rising sun. It passed through Ballyrea, Elphin, and Garventon and all the villages and farms between, then bent a little more eastward toward Lough Donn along the High Road to Falcarragh. There, in the wild landscape of drumlins west of Lough Donn, in the fens and bogs near the shore, it blended into the more natural fogs and mists and wisps, falling apart into smaller mists until the sun, now lifting higher in the sky between scudding rain clouds, burned it away entirely.

All in all, it was said that a hundred people or more vanished that morning, though no one would ever know for certain; of the sióg-taken, none ever returned to their homes, though workers cutting the turf around Lough Donn would find brown, leathery bog bodies in the peat for generations afterward.

In the roiling whiteness, there was only the feel of another hand clutching hers, the terror of the voices and the fingers that tried to pull them apart and a frightening sense of far too rapid movement, as if they were flying blindly as unseen
things
rushed past them on either side, dangerously close. Finally, when Meriel was ready to scream herself and let go of the hands to strike at the clutching fingers of the Corcach Siógai and their derisive voices, Keira’s voice called a command. Mocking laughter answered, and Meriel heard Keira thunder the order again, then yet again, and this time the Corcach Siógai shrilled and screamed and shouted and the mist was shredded as if by a furious wind.

They were standing, wide-eyed and breathless, on a grassy hummock in a fog-hung swamp with misty gray hillsides all around. For all Meriel knew, they were still in Doire Coill, except that the slopes closest to them were bracken-covered with only a few straggling elms and maples thrusting upward into the pallid morning.

“That,” Meriel said as she released Edana’s and Jenna’s hands, “was another thing I don’t ever want to do again.”

“Agreed,” Owaine mumbled. He shivered, shaking dew from his clóca. “Where
are
we?”

“Near Lough Donn, south of Falcarragh,” Keira answered. The Bunús Muintir was turning slowly around, gazing at the bogland. “We’ve traveled in a morning what would have taken us two weeks to walk.” She pointed. “The High Road should be over there beyond that hill. You should be able to reach it before the sun goes down.”

“ ‘You?’ Not ‘we’?” Meriel asked.

Keira shook her head. “I’m the Protector of Doire Coill. That’s my task. I have to return there. Besides, your hope now is to be inconspicuous on a well-traveled road—for a Bunús Muintir, that’s not possible.”

“We need you,” Owaine said. “We could travel off the road, moving at night if we have to.”

“And as we came closer to Falcarragh, there would be less and less cover, and we’d be traveling over estates and farms and through villages where even in the night we would be seen, by the dogs if nothing else. The tiarna would tell you that; he knows this land.” She glanced at Doyle, who nodded. “No, this is your time and your struggle. My charges are the oaks of the Old Forest, and I have to go back to them.” She smiled at Meriel, her leathery, dark skin creasing. “It will be a long walk for me. Like you, I don’t want to go back the way we came. You have two Clochs Mór and Treoraí’s Heart; that’s weaponry enough for the road, I would think. What I can do for you, I’ve done.”

Meriel hugged the older woman, who enfolded her in furs and the scent of herbs. “Keira, I’ll miss you.”

“Make sure you come back to Doire Coill and see me, then, after this is done,” Keira answered. Her arms tightened around Meriel before she stepped back. Her regard moved from Meriel to each of the others: Owaine, standing next to Meriel; Doyle and Edana; Jenna, standing apart from all of them and seemingly lost in her own thoughts. “There’s andúilleaf in your pack,” she said to Meriel, softly enough that Jenna couldn’t hear. “Not in hers. She’ll need it if she’s not to fall back into madness, but don’t give it to her more than twice a day, morning and night, no matter how much she asks. For now, you need to be
her
mam.” Then she raised her voice, going to Jenna. “First Holder, I wish you luck. You had the strength to bring the Filleadh to us; I know you have that strength still inside you or you wouldn’t have been able to survive losing Lámh Shábhála. Few Holders have managed to survive that loss. I hope you hold the cloch again. You have people with you who want the same.”

Jenna glanced at Doyle and Edana. “Some, perhaps,” she said. “Others might want it for themselves.”

Doyle stirred at that. “I don’t deny that I wanted to take the cloch from you, Sister. I won’t tell you that I don’t still want it or that I wouldn’t take it if you fall in this gamble. But if we take Ó Riain down and you’re there, I’ll hand you Lámh Shábhála myself. I promise you that—as payment for what Meriel did for Edana and me.”

“I’m supposed to take comfort in your pledges?” Jenna retorted, and Doyle shrugged.

“I don’t care if you believe me or not,” he said, his voice flat.

“Mam,” Meriel said. “
I
trust him, and I trust Edana as well.”

Jenna’s face contorted and she hunched over with a spasm of pain, groaning. With a visible effort, she straightened. “You may trust them if you wish,” she said. She took a few breaths, holding her stomach. “But Doyle’s the same man who snatched you away from Inishfeirm. He’s the same man who on Inishduán told me that he would kill you, and he very nearly succeeded. Trust him?” Jenna spat on the ground, then groaned again. “I need andúilleaf,” she said.

Meriel looked at Keira, who shook her head slightly. “Later, Mam,” she said. “First we need to say good-bye to Keira, then get out of this bog. We’ve a long walk ahead of us yet.”

U
NLIKE the High Road near Doire Coill, the road here was heavily traveled, wide enough that two carts could pass each other and still have a bit of room for travelers on foot, the doubled line of ruts worn deeply in the earth and most of the grass scrubbed away by the soles of boots. Travelers walked carefully around the piles of steaming dung from the horses and other beasts of burden. The area south of Falcarragh down to the drumlins that surrounded Lough Donn was heavily farmed. Well-maintained stone fences lined the High Road with large pastures flecked by white dots of sheep or Dun blotches of cows stretching out to the lines of trees that demarked the property lines, or fields of dusty yellow grain, or long rows of breadroot mounds.

Smaller lanes led off toward the cluster of buildings glimpsed through trees—the estates of the Riocha of Tuath Infochla—and at frequent intervals there would appear the thatched roofs of a small village and the bright signboards of inns and other merchants.

Meriel and the others were unremarkable among those walking the road. Before they’d left Doire Coill, Owaine had followed Doyle’s example and shaved his head and beard close as if he were a lice-ridden peasant; Meriel, with Edana’s help, had cut off much of her own tresses with deliberate choppiness, then they’d done the same to Jenna. Jenna’s mage-light scarred right arm was carefully wrapped, and the others all wore open-fingered and tattered gloves so that their lesser-scarred hands wouldn’t show. The trek across the fens of Lough Donn and through the wild brush of the drumlins had given them further authenticity, layering them in the same dirt and grime that coated the legs and clothing of other poor travelers. The Riocha who passed them riding their fine horses or in carriages gave no more than a passing glance at the road-caked group trudging along toward Falcarragh with their heads down: that was the proper attitude for those whose blood was common and whose lives were mundane, short, and toil-ridden. There were gardai and squads of conscripted soldiers passing as well; even as they reached the road, they had to wait for troops to pass, quick-marching north with banners in Tuath Airgialla’s red and white.

They followed in their wake.

By evening, they’d reached a town called Kilmaur along the banks of the River Donn, flowing northward to Falcarragh Bay and the Ice Sea. They paid for a room at an inn on the edge of the town; the innkeeper—an elderly man as thin and hard as one of Keira’s staffs—eyed them suspiciously and tested the mórceint that Owaine handed him with his few remaining teeth.

“Can’t be too careful,” he grumbled. “Too many people on the road these days, an’ I have to say that you have an odd accent. There’s thieves and murderers and worse. And the soldiers all a’headin’ to Falcarragh where the ships are waiting. Why, only two days ago, the new Rí Ard passed through on his way to Falcarragh, an’ you should have seen the commotion.” Doyle’s head lifted at that and Meriel saw the innkeeper glance at Doyle’s face, his eyebrows lowering. “The two of you should be careful if you don’t want to be on those ships yourselves,” he said to Doyle and Owaine, but his gaze came back to Doyle and rested there. “I hear that the gardai are pressing men into service if they look like they could handle a pike, and you seem healthy enough for that.” Doyle dropped his head and nodded.

In the room, they gratefully dropped the packs from their shoulders and collapsed. After resting a few minutes, Meriel went to the hearth and blew on the coals to get them started again as Edana brought over a few pieces of black turf the innkeeper had provided for them. Doyle and Owaine were talking together near the shuttered window, peering out at Kilmaur’s main street and across it to the river and discussing how far it was to Falcarragh.

“I don’t like the way he looked at us, especially Doyle,” Edana said to Meriel. Meriel poured water into the small black pot on the crane and swung it over the flames to boil.

“There’s nothing we can do to change it,” she said. “We knew we were taking the chance that someone might recognize us on the way, especially you and Doyle.” She rummaged in the pack and pulled out one of the packets Keira had given her. She sprinkled the dry flakes into the water and the smell of andúilleaf filled the room. The aroma seemed to ease some of the aches and pains of the day. Jenna stirred, limping over to the pot and leaning over the water to sniff the fragrance. “I’ll bring you the brew as soon as it’s done, Mam,” Meriel said. “How are you feeling?”

“How would you
think
I feel, after crawling through swamps and trudging miles, you silly child?” Jenna answered angrily before her face softened and she sniffed at the andúilleaf again. “I’m sorry, Meriel. I’m ... hurting badly, and—”

Meriel touched her mam’s face and smiled. “I understand, Mam. The andúilleaf will help.”

“We should go down to the tavern,” Owaine said. “We might be able to learn something listening to the patrons.” He shrugged. “Besides, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m hungry.”

The others agreed, all but Jenna, who wanted to stay in the room after she drank her andúilleaf tea. “I’ll be better here, resting,” she told Meriel. “Go on. I know where you are if I need you.”

They found the owner of the inn in the tavern. He greeted them with a sniff and a lift of his grizzled chin, and poured the round of ale that Owaine ordered only after he paid first. Owaine brought the wooden mugs over to the table Meriel had commandeered in the far corner of the room. “Friendly place,” Owaine remarked as he slid onto the bench next to Meriel.

“It’s the war preparation,” Doyle answered. “Look around; half the women here are clinging to their men like it’s the last time they might see them, and they might be right.” Meriel glanced around, seeing that Doyle’s observation was accurate. There was a forced, deliberate gaiety in the atmosphere, and the smiles on the faces seemed painted there, fixed and unchanging and artificial. Those who looked back at her narrowed their eyes suspiciously at the strangeness of her face and averted their gaze. The conversations they could hear seemed all concerned with the movement of the troops on the High Road and rumors about Falcarragh.

“. . . I was told by Tallan, who’s been there, that the city glitters in the sun with all the armor and weapons, and that the bay is filled with ships from all the Tuatha.”

“Tallan exaggerates, and he’s half-blind besides.
I
heard from my cousin that there’s an army marching up from Connachta right now, and it’s bigger than any of the others. They’ll be through here in three days.”

“More likely it’s a big flock of sheep he saw. They’re going to need the mutton to feed all those soldiers in Falcarragh... .”

As they listened to the talk around them, sipping at the foamy dark beer, Meriel saw a man enter the tavern. He was dressed in a plain brown clóca and immediately entered into a conversation with the innkeeper, whose gaze kept drifting over to their table though the man to whom he was talking never looked that way. The man in brown paid for an ale and took a stool in the corner of the room. He sat there, his back to the wall, where he could see the whole room. He never looked their way directly, but Meriel frowned, seeing him.