Holder of Lightning (27 page)

“And what would that be, Tanaise Ríg?”

Another vanishing smile, gone like frost under a spring’s sun. “I will forgo delicacy here, Holder,” he answered. “Let me be blunt. It’s come to my attention that your mam is carrying Tiarna Mac Ard’s child. No, you needn’t protest or try to deny it—we both know it’s true. I also know that for the moment Padraic is unlikely to legitimize the child or his relationship with your mam. Yet if he did so, if he took your mam to wife, and acknowledged you as his own daughter as well . . . well, then that would make you a Riocha, wouldn’t it?”

Jenna sniffed. “I am evidently not quite so awed by that possibility as you, Tanaise Ríg. While I would like to see the Tiarna Mac Ard acknowledge my mam and his child by her,
if
that’s the case, I have no interest in being named his daughter.”

A nod. An appraising, sidewise glance. “I believe you miss the implications, Holder,” he continued. “If you are Riocha, then you are a peer to anyone here. And if, let us say, the Holder of Lámh Shábhála were to marry, especially someone with power himself, why, that would be an alliance to be reckoned with.” O Liathain spread his hands wide. “I hope I make my intentions clear enough for you.”

He did. Jenna could feel a fist grasping her stomach and twisting as he watched her, and for a moment the edges of her vision went dark with the pounding in her temples and her right arm. She struggled to show nothing on her face. She lifted her hand to the cloch around her neck, and he stared at the patterns of scars on her flesh with a flat gaze.
He wants the power you hold. He will take it any way he can, through marriage if he can. He will try this, but if it doesn’t work, he will try another way. He may have
already
tried another way.
Jenna knew what Cianna would tell her, that this was part of the game, and she must play the card as well and as long as she could. What she must not say was “no.” It would not be good politics to have the heir to the Rí Ard’s throne as an open enemy.

“Holder?” he asked, tilting his head. The gold-threaded patterns on his gray clóca shimmered as he took another step toward her. His hand reached out and took hers. He looked at Lámh Shábhála, cupped in her palm, the chain taut around her neck. “So small, this stone. And yet so many lust for it.” His finger moved over the smooth surface, trapped in its silver cage, but his blue eyes held hers. “I understand that feeling.”

He let the stone drop back to her chest. “Listen to me, Holder,” he said. “I can apply enough pressure to Mac Ard to make him do as I say with your mam. I’m a reasonable person, Holder, and, I’m told, not unhandsome for a man of my age. I believe it is possible we could come to love each other in time, but if not . . .” He shrugged. “I would not expect fidelity of you any more than you would expect it of me, and as long as tongues aren’t wagging throughout the tuatha, I would not care who you see.”

Jenna could feel that her eyes were wide, that she must be showing the sick fright she felt inside. O Liathain nodded, as if what he saw on her face was what he expected. “I don’t ask for an answer now, Holder. But soon I must.

I would have you remember that there are . . . other ways. You may have thwarted the first attempts, but others might come, more difficult to prevent. Or perhaps a more efficient tactic would be not to attack you, but rather those you love.”

“Tanaise Ríg, are you threatening me?”

O Liathain put his hand to his throat in theatrical horror. His eyes widened almost comically. “Me? Certainly not.” Then his hand dropped, and his handsome face went serious. “I’m simply pointing out your vulnerabilities to you, Holder. And offering you a solution to effectively negate them. Think about my offer.” The fleeting smile returned. “I leave to return to Dún Laoghaire in three days. It would be best to have an answer by then, so I might speak to my da, the Rí Ard. I assume you know not to speak of this to anyone.”

He brushed past her then, going to the door. His hand closed around the brass handle. “You’ll be at the fete the Rí and Banrion are giving for me in two nights?”

Jenna nodded, silent.

“I will look forward to seeing you then, and perhaps speaking privately at that time.” He swung the door open, and gestured toward the corridor. “Have a good morning, Holder.”

She managed to hold her stomach in check until she and Aoife had turned down the corridor toward her apartment.

Jenna spoke to no one, though the encounter with O Liathain troubled her all day and most of the next. She remained in her rooms, letting Aoife bring her meals with the excuse that she was too tired and in too much pain to dine with others. Cianna sent word that she would like to see her at dinner that night, and Jenna told Aoife to let the Banrion know that she would be there.

She could not hide forever, and perhaps Cianna would be a confidante. Her mam had already gone down to the common room with Mac Ard when the bells rang the sunset and Jenna left her room, Aoife accompanying her as she had her own duties in the kitchen. They were nearing the stairs when she heard her name called.

“Holder!”

“Tanaise Ríg.” She gave him a perfunctory curtsy; Aoife droppping nearly to the floor with hers, as was proper. O Liathain was accompanied by a tiarna she’d seen at the table, well down from her. His clóca was a somber gray, the color of Dún Laoghaire, and he remained back as O Liathain approached her.

“Are you on your way to supper? Good. We will walk with you, then.” O Liathain extended his arm to her; Jenna hesitated, but there seemed no graceful way to refuse. She placed her left hand in the crook of his elbow, and he smiled at her. “Come then,” he said.

They walked on, the other tiarna and Aoife a few paces behind.

“Have you thought of what we spoke about yesterday?” he asked.

“Truthfully, I’ve thought of little else.”

“Has an answer come to you?”

“No, Tanaise Ríg. Not as yet.”

His lips pursed, pushing out from the chiseled, perfect lines of his face. “Ah, I suppose that’s what I would say in your place. But, as I said, I expect to hear from you before I leave Lár Bhaile to return home.”

His face inclined toward her, he smiled, but the gesture never touched the rest of his face. The eyes were as cold as the waves of the Ice Sea as they approached the stairs leading down to the hall. “I . . . I shall have an answer—”

A cry—“Stop!”—and an answering wail cut off her words. O Liathain pushed Jenna to one side of the corridor and with the same motion, drew the sword girded at his side. Jenna moved back again, trying to see past the man and reaching instinctively for Lámh Shábhála. Her awareness went streaming out with the cloch’s energy, and she felt someone die: a spark guttering out in the web.

“Aoife!” Jenna cried. She pushed past O Liathain’s sheltering body and stopped. “No . . .”

Aoife lay sprawled on the flags of the corridor, bright blood streaming from a gash torn in her side. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open in her dying wail. O Liathain’s tiarna was standing over her, his short blade held back at the end of the killing stroke, the honed edges dripping thick blood. “What have you done, Baird?” O Liathain roared at the man, his sword now pointing at his companion. Jenna could hear footsteps pounding up the stairs toward them, shouts of alarm, and the ringing of unsheathed metal.

Baird lowered his sword. “She intended to attack the Holder,” he said. A booted foot prodded Aoife’s limp arm. “Look—the dagger’s still in her hand. She started to rush at your backs; I called, then I cut her down before she could reach you.”

“No!” Jenna cried again. She went to Aoife, sinking down on her knees beside the body. She looked at Baird in fury, her right hand tight around the cloch, and the man backed away from her, his eyes widening in fear.

“Holder, no! I swear—”

“Jenna!” Mac Ard’s voice snapped her head around. Padraic was standing, sword in hand, at the top of the stairs. Half a dozen other people crowded the landing behind him, Jenna’s mam among them. Mac Ard pushed through them and came up to Jenna. “Do nothing with the cloch,” he said to her. “Not here.”

Jenna pointed at Baird. “He killed Aoife,” she shouted. “How
dare
you tell me to do nothing!” Baird dropped his sword; the blade clanged discordantly on the stones.

“Tiarna Mac Ard,” the man wailed, “Don’t let her kill me.”

O Liathain stepped forward. He had sheathed his own sword, and went to Mac Ard, placing a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “Baird did as he had to,” he said. “The girl tried to kill the Holder, and perhaps me as well.”

“That’s not
true!
” Jenna shouted. “Aoife wouldn’t do that!”

“See for yourself, Tiarna,” O Liathain told Mac Ard. “My man is blameless in this.”

Mac Ard gave O Liathain a dark look, then stepped forward and went to one knee alongside Jenna. She was trembling, her hand quivering around the stone, and she could barely hold back the power, wanting to unleash it at someone, anyone. “Calm yourself, Jenna,” Mac Ard whispered to her as he knelt. “We both need to be very careful here.” He leaned over, taking the dagger from Aoife’s hand and turning it before his face. The blade was long, the leather-wrapped hilt ending in a knob of yellowed whale-bone carved as a twisted knot. “This was made in Connachta,” he said, loudly enough so everyone could hear. “I know the hilt design—it’s one they use in the ironworks of Valleylair.”

“Then our cousins in Tuath Connachta have much to answer for,” O Liathain said. “I’ll give this news to my father, and tell him how they threatened my life and the Holder’s.”

“No doubt the Rí Ard will send a strong letter scolding the Rí Connachta in Thiar,” Mac Ard responded, getting to his feet. He put Aoife’s dagger in his belt; O Liathain watched, but didn’t ask for the weapon. His face remained somber, but Jenna saw his eyebrows lower as he stared at Mac Ard.

“The Rí Ard will do what is within his power,” O Liathain said. “This was a cowardly act; we can’t condone it.”

“Indeed,” Mac Ard answered. He held his hand out to Jenna, still kneeling alongside Aoife’s body. Jenna ignored the offer. Instead, she reached out and closed Aoife’s eyes, then got to her feet by herself. She strode to O Liathain and stood before him, staring into his face. He returned the stare placidly, unblinking.

“I’m going back to my rooms,” Jenna said: to O Liathain, to Mac Ard, to her mam and the others watching. “If anyone follows me, I
will
use the cloch. I, too, can do what I need to do.” She spun on her toes and stalked down the corridor away from the carnage.

Baird shrank away to the wall as she passed. Behind her, there was only silence.

The Banrion first sent her handmaiden, who was visibly trembling when Jenna opened the door, holding a mug of andúilleaf brew. “The Banrion asks permission to visit the Holder in her chambers,” the woman said. Her eyes flicked upward once to Jenna’s face; otherwise, her gaze remained fixed on the floor, as if fascinated by the parquet pattern there. Jenna sighed.

“When?” she asked.

“My mistress waits just outside.”

“Tell the Banrion that I’m only a guest here and these are after all
her
rooms, not mine. She may come in if she wishes.”

Jenna drained the mug of its bitter contents; the handmaiden curtsied and fled. A few moments later, the door opened again and Cianna entered in a rustle of her ornate, silken clóca, her torc gleaming golden around her neck. As Jenna watched, she took a seat near the fire. She said nothing, only watched Jenna as she paced back and forth across the rug.

“He had her killed,” Jenna said at last. “He didn’t care that he was killing a person. She was just . . . an illustration to me of what he could do. A warning.”

Cianna continued to sit quietly. Jenna plopped into the chair across from the Banrion, not caring about the lack of etiquette. Cianna raised an eyebrow, but otherwise didn’t move. “I don’t know what to do now,” Jenna said.

“We
are
talking about the Tanaise Ríg?” Cianna asked, stirring finally. Jenna nodded. “I thought so. He departs in a few more days, and he grows impatient. Do you know
why
he leaves?”

Now it was Jenna who sat silent. She moved her head slowly from side to side, trying to keep back the headache that threatened to engulf her, starting to feel the brew send its welcome warmth through her body. “Tuath Connachta is gathering an army on its borders,” she said. “They have demanded eraic—blood payment—for the death of Fiacra De Derga. Padraic tells me you may not remember that name, but he was the tiarna you killed in Ballintubber when the power of Lámh Shábhála first came to you. The éraic is the excuse for their aggression, and my husband has already sent back word that they may wait for their payment forever. Of course, what they
really
want is you . . .” Cianna stopped. She seemed to sigh. “Or more precisely, what you hold. We may be at war very soon, and the Rí Ard doesn’t want his son and heir caught up in that collision. The Rí Ard knows he must stay above feuds between the tuatha if he wants to remain on his throne.”

“The Tanaise Ríg wants me to marry him,” Jenna said.

Cianna held her hands out to the low flames of the peat fire, rubbing them softly together. She didn’t look at Jenna. “Does that surprise you? If
I
were Tanaise Ríg, I would have made that suggestion to you, too—just as soon as I had decided that it was too dangerous to take the stone from you myself.”

“He threatened to do this. He hinted that to make me accept the offer he’d attack the people I loved. Aoife was to let me know that he meant it. That wasn’t her dagger—I’m sure of that. That man probably handed it to her, then immediately killed her. I wasn’t watching; she was behind me, both of them were.” Jenna couldn’t speak. The tears choked her throat and blurred her vision, the headache threatened to overwhelm her. If Cianna had opened her arms then, if the Banrion had called to her, Jenna would have sunk into her embrace like a child searching for the comfort of her mam. But the Banrion only watched, wheezing slightly as she breathed and hugging herself as if cold.