Holder of Lightning (32 page)

Maeve turned, her clóca flaring outward with the sharp motion. “I will
never
forget Niall.
Never.
And I can’t believe that you’d be cruel enough to even suggest that.”

Guilt made Jenna momentarily forget the throbbing coldness in her arm. “Mam, I’m sorry . . .”

There was a tentative knock at the door and one of the servants stuck her head in. “Pardon, m’ladies, but Coelin Singer is here asking to see the Holder.”

Maeve was still glaring at Jenna. “Tell him he may come in,” Jenna said.

“In
here,
Holder?” the servant asked.

“Do you not have ears?” Jenna snapped. “Aye, here. If the Tanaise Ríg doesn’t like it, then he should have left his own people to stand guard.”

The servant looked at Maeve, who shrugged. “The Holder obviously doesn’t care to have anyone else suggest what she should do or question her commands.”

The servant fled.

“Mam—” Jenna began, but then the door opened again and Coelin entered. His face was full of concern and question, but he seemed startled when he saw Maeve.

“Oh, Widow Aoire,” he said, nodding to Maeve and glancing once at Jenna questioningly. “I don’t mean to disturb . . .” He gestured at the door. “I can wait in the outer room.”

“Stay. Maybe you can talk some sense into the girl,” Maeve said to Coelin. “I obviously can’t tell my daughter anything. She would rather learn from her own mistakes, I suppose. Just see that you’re not another one, Coelin Singer.” Maeve didn’t turn back to look at Jenna, but walked out of the room. The sound of the door closing was loud in the apartment.

“What was that about?” Coelin asked. “Jenna? I saw the lights, and thought that you might—”

Jenna shook her head. “Don’t talk,” she said. “Just . . . come here. Please. Hold me.”

Coelin, with a glance back at the door, went to the bed in two long strides. He took Jenna up in his arms.

“Kiss me,” she said. “Make me forget about all this for a little bit . . .”

And, for a time, she did.

26

A World Changed

D
EER Creek ran at the bottom of a steep ravine. Above, to the north, was the city of Lár Bhaile; south rose the steep and stony flanks of Goat Fell with the Rí’s Keep perched on top. Not far beyond the bridge that linked Low Town to Goat Fell and the ramparts of the keep, the creek widened and fanned out into a marsh-clogged mouth before flowing into Lough Lár. To Jenna’s mind, Deer Creek was more river than creek, nearly twice as wide as the Mill Creek that ran past Ballintubber, deeper and faster.

And Deer Creek had seals; one, at least: on a flat slab thrusting out of the rushing water, a dark, shiny-furred head watched as Jenna made her way down the path from the Rí’s Market Square. Getting away from the keep had been easier than Jenna had expected. After the incident with the gardai, no one voiced an objection when she left the keep unescorted except by two chambermaids. Jenna noticed that another carriage departed the keep immediately after they left, and that the square seemed particularly well-populated with gardai. Jenna had opened the cloch slightly, letting its energy spread out over the square—there were at least a half dozen tendrils of attention leading to her, none of them overtly dangerous but all watching.

And down in the hawthorn-choked ravine, another: O’Deoradháin.

The chambermaids were easy: she gave each of them a mórceint and told them to go buy whatever they liked. It took time to lose the gardai, but she eventually managed to lose all the watchers and sneak away, to the wooden stairs leading down to Deer Creek and a small patch of meadow there where a few people sat fishing despite the cold. Jenna stayed under the trees, moving east along the creek and away from the meadow, where someone glancing down from the market above wouldn’t easily spot her. She saw movement out in the creek—the seal rose from the cold water and clambered onto one of the flat rocks in the middle of the stream.

She could sense O’Deoradháin in the tangle of woods huddled against the steep bank. Jenna shivered and wrapped herself tighter in her clóca, one hand grasping the stone on its chain, ready to open it fully and strike the man down at need. “You could have at least picked a warm place to meet,” she called out to where he hid.

There was a rustle of dry brush and leaves, and O’Deora dháin stepped out. One arm was in a sling, but there was a knife at his belt, and Jenna watched his free hand carefully, knowing how quickly he could move with that weapon. She stayed ready to strike if his fingers strayed near the hilt. “If it were summer, the midges would be out. Would you rather be cold or bitten to death?”

The seal out in the water gave a coughing roar, and Jenna glanced again at the creature. It was a large bull, its head up and alert and staring back at them. Its coat was coal-black, yet deep blue highlights gleamed within it, like sparks struck from a flint and steel. O’Deoradháin looked toward the seal as well. “There aren’t usually seals in Lough Lár,” he said. “Sometimes in Lough Dubh, aye, but they don’t usually come up the Duán this far.”

“For an Inishlander, you know a lot about Tuath Gabair.”

“I’ve been here a long time now,” O’Deoradháin answered, turning away from the seal and looking back at Jenna. “Ever since the Order decided that Lámh Shábhála might be in Gabair. Almost two years now.”

Jenna cocked her head at that. “And how did you know that Lámh Shábhála was here before the mage-lights came?”

O’Deoradháin shrugged, grimacing as his bandaged shoulder moved. “Some in the Order know the magics of earth and water, the slow eternal spells. I know a bit of them myself. Ordinarily, that means little, but as the Filleadh approached and the mage-lights started to strengthen even though none of us could see them yet, those with the skill could feel the resonance through their own spells. They knew and they started to search, and they realized that Lámh Shábhála had once been on Inishfeirm and that they had lost the cloch. It wasn’t hard, then, to know who had taken it—your great-da. What took time was discovering where he had gone and what had happened to him.”

“So they sent you? Alone?” Jenna scoffed. “Why didn’t they send everyone? Why isn’t Gabair filled with people from the Order?”

O’Deoradháin gazed back placidly into her mocking stance. “If all of Inishfeirm suddenly came here, then everyone would suspect why and everyone would have been searching for the cloch. And there are only a few who are capable of being the Holder of Lámh Shábhála.”

The way he said it lifted the hairs on Jenna’s arms with a sudden chill that was not the cold air. “A few like you?” she asked.

O’Deoradháin nodded. “That’s what I was trained to do.” Jenna took a step back from him. “Jenna,” he said. “Use the stone. Look at me. I’m not a threat to you. I’d take the stone from you if you gave it to me, aye. If you’d died the other day in my room, I’d have taken it then, too. But I won’t harm you to become the Holder.”

That might have been true; she could feel no danger to herself emanating from him. Yet . . . “I don’t know that,” she said. “Even with the cloch.”

O’Deoradháin smiled, which softened his rugged face. “You’re right. You
don’t
know that, and I’ll tell you that there
are
ways to hide yourself from a cloch na thintrí, even Lámh Shábhála.”

“And you know them.”

“I do.”

“Then I can’t trust you.”

“Perhaps not,” he answered. “But you can’t survive alone. Not for long, and not with what you hold.”

“I have those I can trust,” Jenna replied with some heat, and—strangely—O’Deoradháin chuckled at that.

“Who? Mac Ard? The Rí and Banrion? That self-centered boy from your old village?”

“He’s not—” Jenna began heatedly, then stopped, clenching her jaw as O’Deoradháin studied her, as the seal out in the river gave another moaning wail as if calling for a mate. “What did you want of me, O’Deoradháin?”

“Only what I told you: to bring you to Inishfeirm, so you can learn to use the power you hold.”

“I
have
learned,” she retorted. “I wouldn’t be talking to you now if I hadn’t. Three times someone has tried to kill me and three times I’ve killed them instead. I can see with the cloch, see what people are feeling toward me. I can tell whether a person holds a true cloch or a worthless stone. I can draw the mage-lights down to me and fill the stone with their energy.”

“And did you
need
to kill them or even want to? Do you know that you see truth through the cloch? Do you know all Lámh Shábhála wants to do with that power or all it can do? Do you know how to deal with the
pain,
Jenna?” She must have shown something in her face, unwillingly, for he nodded. “Aye, that we can help you learn. But you must come with me back to Inishfeirm.”

“I don’t
trust
you,” Jenna said again.

“I know you don’t. But you’re trusting the wrong people now.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Unfortunately, I do,” he answered calmly. “But I also know that you must learn things yourself to believe them. Let me start you on that path. I’ve done some investigation myself. Go to Night Mist Alley, just off Callaghan Street. Walk down to the third door on the left, the red one, and knock. And after you’ve been there and returned to the keep,
use
the cloch. Look at the ones you haven’t bothered to examine yet because you trust them. And when you’re done, if you think you might begin to believe me, then come to du Val again. He can tell you where to find me.”

O’Deoradháin started to walk away; as if startled by his movement, the seal out in the river roared a last time and dove into the water with a soft splash. “O’Deoradháin, wait.”

“No, Holder. There’s nothing more to say. Go and see things for yourself and ask the questions you need to ask. When you need me again, I’ll find you.” He smiled at her. “I wanted to be the Holder, aye,” he said. “But I think Lámh Shábhála has chosen wisely on its own.” With a wave, he slid back into the undergrowth again, and she heard the sound of his retreat.

Out in the water, a dark shape slid away toward the lough.

Night Mist Alley was a dirt lane in the Low Town area. Even in the sunlight, it was dim, with the houses staring at each other across a muddy strip down which two people could barely walk abreast. Children were screeching and chasing each other through the puddles, filthy and snot-faced, and the adults Jenna saw stared at the sight of an obvious Riocha and her two chambermaids out where the royalty rarely walked.

The third door on the left was indeed red though the paint was scratched and peeling, and the door itself appeared to have been kicked, the lower panel cracked and bowed in. Jenna motioned to the maids to remain in the alley as she went to the door and knocked. There was no immediate answer. She knocked again. “Just a moment . . .” a woman’s voice answered, and a few seconds later, the door opened. A woman blinked into the sunlight. “By the Mother—Jenna?”

Ellia, Tara’s daughter, stood there. Jenna nearly didn’t recognize her. She was heavy with child, one hand under the rounded bulk of her belly, her face and fingers swollen. After her initial surprise, she smiled at Jenna. “By the Mother-Creator, look at you,” she said. “Don’t you look wonderful! Oh, Jenna, it’s so good to see you! Everyone thought you’d died when those horrible soldiers came. And to think you came here, like us.”

“Us?” A feeling of dread was filling Jenna. She wanted to rage, wanted to take Lámh Shábhála and bring a storm of lightning down on this house and this town and leave everything in flames.

“Aye.” A possessive, triumphant smile lifted Ellia’s lips. She turned slightly to call back into the darkness of the room. “Darling, come and see who’s come to visit us. You’re not going to believe this.”

A sleepy grunt came from the interior. Jenna heard the sound of shuffling feet, then a man’s form showed behind Ellia as she opened the door wider. The man took a step into the light. She knew who it was before she saw him, knew from the leaden stone that filled her stomach, knew because of the blackness that threatened to take her vision. Her world was suddenly shattered, crashing in crystalline shards around her.

Coelin.

Ellia’s arm snaked possessively around Coelin’s waist as he gaped at Jenna. “Look, love—it’s Jenna! Back from the dead! Jenna, did you know that Coelin has sung for the Rí himself ... ?”

Ellia must have continued to speak, but Jenna heard none of it. She stared at Coelin. He stared back, slack-jawed, rubbing at his eyes as if trying to rid them of a sudden nightmare. “Jenna, I . . .” he stammered, but Jenna shouted back at him in fury.

“You bastard! You damned lying
bastard!
” Jenna turned and ran from the alleyway, her maids hurrying after her with wide-eyed glances behind.

“Jenna!” she heard Coelin shouting behind her, and Ellia’s now-shrill voice asking him what was happening. Jenna fled, helpless tears hot on her cheeks, unheeding of the people around her, staring. She only wanted to be away before the temptation to use the cloch grew too strong, before she gave in to the temptation to get revenge for this awful deception.
It’s your own fault!
she railed inside.
You’re so stupid. So naive and stupid . . .

“Jenna!” A hand touched her shoulder and she whirled around with a cry, her right hand going to the stone around her neck, the radiance of Lámh Shábhála between her fiingers already brighter than the sun. Coelin, panting, took a step backward from Jenna, his eyes wide. He was shoeless and half-dressed, his feet muddy, his legs bare under his tunic. His breath was a white cloud around him in the cold air. He spread his hands wide, as if to ward off a blow. “Jenna, listen to me . . .”

Her chambermaids flanking her, Jenna chopped at the air with her left hand. “You have
nothing
to say to me!” she shouted back at him. “
Nothing!
You disgust me, Coelin Singer. And I’m ashamed of myself for letting you . . .” She couldn’t say the words. Fury obliterated them.

“Jenna, let me explain!”