Mage of Clouds (The Cloudmages #2) (68 page)

“I think we should leave,” she told the others.

“Why?” Owaine asked.

“I just think we should go to another tavern. Maybe we’ll hear something different there.”

Owaine shrugged. “Fine.” Neither Doyle nor Edana made any protest, and after they finished their drinks, they rose and left the tavern.

“My ale’s not good enough for the likes of you, eh?” the innkeeper called after them mockingly as they passed. Owaine started to answer, but Meriel put her hand on his shoulder and shook her head warningly. He frowned at her but closed his mouth. They left.

The air smelled of the river, flowing silvered by moonlight across the flagstones and down a grassy verge; a few hundred strides to their left, the town’s wharves poked out into the slow-moving water, and a boat was moving silently northward in the flow, the light from two lanterns shimmering on the waves.

The main street of Kilmaur was busy in the darkness: couples walked the street arm in arm; a cluster of drunken gardai in the colors of Tuath Locha Léin stumbled past, talking loudly and laughing. Street vendors hawked their wares; in the shadows, a few women offered less tangible goods for sale. The bright sound of a giotár came to them from up the street where a musician sat on a corner in the light from another inn, the bottom of his felt hat layered with small coins. Meriel could feel a sense of desperate gaiety in the movement and the laughter and the conversations, as if they could banish the reality of the coming war with hilarity, grinning mouths, and alcohol. Or maybe, she admitted to herself, she was only overlaying her own fears on the scene. Maybe this was simply Kilmaur celebrating and none of them were frightened by what was coming at all—they had Lámh Shábhála and their new Rí Ard and saw victory as both certain and easy.

She stood on the street, watching the activity around them and wondering what the truth was.

“I don’t know that this is a good idea, Meriel,” Doyle said. Both he and Edana had the hoods of their clóca up, keeping their faces in concealing shadow. “There’s the danger of someone recognizing Edana or me, and we’re leaving the Banrion all alone in her room.” His voice was tired and throaty; his shoulders sagged and he held himself like an ill old man. Edana stayed close to him, her eyes worried. Meriel felt a small stab of guilt.
He’s not much better than your mam and you’ve done nothing to help him.
But the guilt vanished quickly: Doyle had refused her help once and she had no intention of venturing inside the mind of another person gone cloch-mad. Doyle’s suffering was far less than that of her mam, and he could bear it on his own—at least, that was how she justified it to herself.

Meriel glanced behind them. “We won’t be gone long,” she said, and started walking up the street to the corner where the street musician played. She paused to drop in a coin, then led the group quickly around the corner into a tiny, quiet lane with few people about. Meriel led them into the gap between two buildings. “Wait,” she said to them, putting her fingers to her lips. Owaine looked at her quizzically, then his eyes widened slightly and he nodded. He placed himself at the opening.

They didn’t have to wait for more than a few moments. They heard hurrying boot steps on the flags and the man in brown appeared. Owaine slid from darkness behind him, grasping him by the shoulder and pressing his dagger’s blade immediately against the man’s throat. “Don’t,” he whispered warningly as the man started to struggle. Owaine pulled the man quickly back into the gap and pushed him against the wall, his left hand fisted in the man’s clóca. The knife flashed in his other hand, high enough that the man could see it.

“If we’d known you wanted to come with us, we would have waited,” Owaine said to the man, the tip of his knife just touching the soft flesh where the carotid artery pulsed. Meriel saw Edana’s hand slide under the fold of her clóca to where her cloch was hidden; Doyle had straightened, glaring hard at the man with his own knife out. The man pressed his back to the wall, eyes wide, as if he were trying to force his spine between the very stones.

“Who are you? Why are you following us?” Meriel asked him. The man didn’t answer, only glared at them with an odd mixture of fright and defiance. Owaine pressed the knife against the skin so that the man hissed as a trickle of blood slid down his neck.

“I’m Bran Mowlan of the Kilmaur gardai, and you’re making a horrible mistake here if you don’t put that knife down now.” Despite the threat, there was no bluster in his voice. The words sounded more like a plea.

Owaine continue to press the blade against him, the line of slow, bright blood soaking into the bunched cloth at the base of his neck. “My friend asked why you were following us,” he said. “The mistake would be not answering her.”

Mowlan’s gaze flitted wildly around them. “Blowick, the innkeeper, he sent word that there were suspicious strangers at his inn, so I was sent to investigate.”

“And what did you see?” Doyle asked.

“Nothing worth reporting,” Mowlan said. His voice trembled and his eyes were round and huge as he glanced at Doyle without moving his head. “Just some people passing through, that’s all.” Meriel heard the faint sound of water. She looked down to see liquid trickling down the man’s legs and pooling between his feet. The sour smell of urine came a moment later. “Let me go,” Mowlan said with a small sob. He sniffed. “Please. I’ll say nothing. I swear by the Mother.”

“You’re right about that,” Doyle said. Meriel caught the glance between Doyle and Owaine and the faint nod which was Owaine’s response.

“Meriel, take Edana and Doyle back to the inn and see to your mam,” Owaine said. “I’ll follow in a bit.”

“No,” Meriel answered sharply. “Owaine—”

“Meriel,” Owaine cut in quickly. He glanced again at Doyle. “Watch him,” he said, and then took Meriel’s arm. Angrily, she pulled away from him. “Then just come with me,” he said. “Please.” He moved deeper into the darkness between the buildings. She glared at him, then followed.

“I know what you’re thinking of doing,” she said when she caught up with him, hands on hips. “I won’t allow it.”

“It isn’t just your decision, Meriel. I know you don’t want this and I don’t either. The Mother knows I’ve never had to make a choice like this before. It’s one thing to defend yourself when you’re attacked or to go to help someone else, and another to . . .” He stopped, looking back toward where Doyle held Mowlan to the wall. “I wish we could avoid this, but it’s not possible for us to take Lámh Shábhála back without hurting or killing people. How many have already died? If we let this man go, he’ll go back to his superiors and tell them what happened.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, not for certain, but look at him. What’s he going to do when his superior asks him what happened? Do you think he’ll take the opportunity to have revenge on the people who humiliated him, who made him soil himself? I think he will. Then we won’t be facing one person but a squadron and we’ll likely end up dead ourselves. I’m willing to trade his life for ours. Think of how many lives we’ll save—the lives of our families and friends—if we can stop the invasion of Inish Thuaidh. Leave this man alive, and they die, Meriel. Not just us, but all of
them,
also.”

Part of her agreed with Owaine’s logic and told her that what he was espousing was the best course. Yet she glanced down the alleyway at the frightened man balanced on the point of Doyle’s knife and she couldn’t stop wondering about him: did he have a wife? Children? Family? He was obviously terrified and it seemed so utterly wrong to kill him. “We could tie and gag him, leave him somewhere where he won’t be found.”

“And what if he is found or if he gets loose before we can leave?” Owaine countered. “Or if he’s found the next day and they send gardai on horses after us and also send warnings ahead to Falcarragh, telling them who to watch for.” He lifted his hand as if he were going to caress her face and Meriel took a step back from him. He let his hand drop back to his side. “Meriel, I owe you so much and I know this hurts you, but we can’t afford mercy here,” he said. “We can’t afford kindness. Doyle would tell you the same thing, and so would Edana. For that matter, so would your mam.”

“Then we’re no better than any of the rest of them, are we?” she retorted. He didn’t answer. “Owaine . . .” she began. The decision seemed to hang between them, solid. “You’ve changed so much. Or maybe it’s me who’s changed. I don’t know. I only know that the way I’ve looked at you has changed.” For a moment, she saw the hope in his face, and she shook it away with a motion of her head. “But if you do this,” she said finally, “there could never be anything between us, Owaine. I couldn’t, knowing what you’ve done. Maybe you’re right; I don’t know. You make the decision.”

His gaze held hers. She could see the pain in his eyes, in the netting of fine wrinkles that held them. He nodded and slid past her. His knife was in his hand again. “Go on,” he said to Doyle, staring at Mowlan and looking at Meriel as she came up behind him, her eyes fierce. “I’ll see the rest of you later. Go on.”

Owaine returned to the room a little over a stripe later. “As soon as we got back, I told Blowick that we talked to Mowlan,” Doyle told him. “I mentioned that Mowlan had said if Blowick ever bothered him again with unfounded suspicions, he would personally see that it was the last time.”

“Good,” Owaine said with little inflection. His voice sounded dead and void of emotion. “That should gain us a few days, at least.” Edana handed Owaine a mug of hot tea. He sipped at it gratefully. Meriel thought that he looked weary and drawn, and his gaze never seemed to find hers. When he opened his clóca and threw it off, there was blood spattered on the front of his tunic. She quickly looked away. “We need to burn these clothes,” he said. “Then we should leave tonight, as soon as we can. There’s a rear stairs just down the corridor.”

She wanted to ask him if he was all right. She wanted to know what he’d done with Mowlan. She wanted to go to him and hold him, to say that she might not like the decision but that she understood. That it didn’t make a difference.

She did none of that. “I don’t know that Mam can walk right now,” she said instead. She hated the rising edge in her voice, didn’t like the way it caused Owaine’s eyebrows to lower.

“I’ll manage,” Jenna said. “Just give me a little more andúilleaf ...”

“More andúilleaf and you’ll be in such a fog you won’t be able to put one foot in front of the other,” Meriel snapped. Jenna glared back at her.

“You forget who’s the the Banrion here,” Jenna snarled.

“And you forget who has the andúilleaf, Mam,” Meriel answered, and she could feel frustration and inarticulate anger coloring her tone. “You also seem to have forgotten what happened when you last were taking it, but Keira hasn’t and I haven’t either. This isn’t Dún Kiil, Mam. You’re not Banrion here, you don’t have your gardai or Lámh Shábhála to protect you, and you’re hurting too much to make good decisions.” She looked hard at Owaine, not wanting to glare at him but knowing that she did. “There don’t seem to be any good decisions for us.”

They were
all
staring at her, none of them saying anything. “Let’s get ready if we’re going to leave,” Meriel finished and went to her own pack, rummaging about in it even though it was as well arranged as it could be. Tears shimmered her vision and she sniffed them away angrily, her back to the room. She heard the others start to get themselves ready, Jenna grumbling under her breath and moaning. Meriel didn’t turn around until her eyes were dry. “You seem to know what you’re doing, Owaine,” she said. “Lead us, then.”

He’d changed into a spare léine and was crouching in front of the hearth. She saw him poke at a burning pile of cloth and straighten. He looked at her with a mute sympathy in his eyes that made Meriel put her gaze on the floor. He put on his clóca and pinned its wooden brooch, then hefted his pack. “This way,” he said.

They moved quickly out of the inn and onto the street, which was deserted except for a few people still going from tavern to tavern. Owaine kept them in the shadows near the river, and led them away from the road to the edge of the river itself. They walked along through marshy, high grass until they’d left behind the last stone building of the town, then moved back to the road, staying to one side where they could quickly hop over the stone fence to the cover of brush and grass if riders appeared ahead or behind. Owaine stayed at the head, a few strides ahead of Doyle and Edana. Jenna and Meriel followed at the rear.

Jenna was struggling to keep up, Meriel could see. Her mam staggered now and then, her feet dragged the ground, her left hand clutched at her wrapped right arm as if it were broken and painful. Her breathing was heavy and ragged, and she trembled from time to time from some inner spasm. She seemed to force herself forward only by sheer will. Her eyes were glazed and fixed straight forward. She seemed to be staring as if pulling herself along toward a vision only she could see. Perhaps, Meriel thought, that was actually true, and it was only the faint hope that Lámh Shábhála was somewhere ahead of them and might be recovered that kept Jenna from drowning entirely in the black morass of her loss and physical pain.