Mage of Clouds (The Cloudmages #2) (52 page)

Doyle felt his heart leap at the mention of his fiancee. He knew that Torin had already informed Rí Mas Sithig and Banrion O Treasigh—yet the Banrion pretended that there was no issue with Edana. That gave him hope.

It was too early for Doyle to have heard anything from his cousin Aghy. He wondered how Edana was and if she might have awakened, where she might be now on the road from Falcarragh to Dún Laoghaire. Ó Riain had glanced over at him with the mention of Edana and his flat-lidded gaze lingered appraisingly on Doyle’s face, his attention making Doyle wonder if the man suspected the truth. Edana’s condition couldn’t be kept secret indefinitely—undoubtedly the rumors were already starting to spread. The money Doyle had paid the healers and servants in Falcarragh would only keep their silence so long, and all the Ríthe had spies within each others’ courts.

If the other Ríthe knew, this was over.

Mac Baoill of Airgialla responded. “I’m not surprised that the Banrion O Treasigh would consider Edana a viable option,” he said. “But I don’t. Aye, she has a mind as sharp as her da’s, but there’s never been a Banrion Ard over the Tuatha. There may yet be one in the future, but now’s not the time. Look what a Banrion has done to Inish Thuaidh.”

He doesn’t know . . .
Doyle started to breathe again as Mas Sithig scoffed.

“Aye,” Mas Sithig answered, his tone openly mocking, “and no one is closer to that cursed island than my Tuath Infochla. What’s the Mad Holder done? Well, let’s see . . . She’s unified the clans there as no Rí before her ever could. She’s taken back far too many of the islands that have been with Tuath Infochla for generations. She’s managed to bring the Order of Inishfeirm’s cloudmages back to prominence. She’s made Inish Thuaidh strong enough that though we might all talk about returning with an army there, that’s
all
we do. Aye, having a Banrion Ard who could accomplish something like that for the Tuatha would be a
terrible
idea.”

The sarcasm drew blood to Mac Baoill’s cheeks. Banrion O Treasigh laughed, a crystalline sound in the chill; O Seachnasaigh cleared his throat loudly and spat. The globule landed near the fire, hissing on the stones.

“No one would trust a Banrion in war,” O Seachnasaigh said loudly. “That’s the plain, unadorned truth our Rí Mallaghan seems to find so lacking here, and not just my opinion. And war
is
what’s coming, if not from the west, then from the east. I’ve talked with Toscaire Concordai Rhusvak and my emissary gave me a quite vivid description of the monster the Toscaire brought from Céile Mhór. I tell you that the armies of the Tuatha will fight for Enean because his bravery is unquestioned and because he had his da’s approval.” He sniffed. His gaze, too, found Doyle, challenging. “If you want to know in what esteem Nevan O Liathain held his daughter, look at who he threw her to: the bastard son of a failed tiarna.”

Near Doyle, Labhrás Ó Riain chuckled audibly, the sound loud in the quiet hall. Doyle could feel the heat fill his head at the insult to him and his da, the muscles at his neck tightening at the affront, rude even under the expected honesty of the Óenach. He lifted his hand toward Snapdragon, already imaging the serpent of the mage-lights coiling around Rí O Seachnasaigh. Doyle saw Ó Riain reach for his cloch as well and around the hall there was a rustling as the Riocha prepared to defend themselves and their leaders in any way they could.

But Torin had risen from his seat with a shout. “Enough!” For a moment, Torin’s gaze and Doyle’s met; Torin shook his head slightly. Then there was the bright, unnerving sound of metal ringing as Torin drew his sword. As the other five Ríthe rose in alarm, hands going to their Clochs Mór as the onlookers cried out and the gardai of the hall belatedly put hands to their own weapons, Torin threw his sword at the stone flags between then. The weapon clattered loudly, coming to rest near the fire pit.

“You dare to draw a weapon in the Óenach!” Rí Taafe roared at Torin.

“I do,” Torin shouted back at the man, “when the Óenach turns to name-calling and division.” He pointed at the sword, the polished metal glittering in the firelight. “That’s the legacy of this Óenach if we continue this way. We’re here to name a Rí Ard, not to reopen old wounds. Do we want war between the Tuatha once again while the throne in Dun Laoghaire sits vacant? Wouldn’t the Mad Holder love that, or those monsters from the east that you seem so worried about? We’ll kill ourselves without our true enemies having to raise a finger, and they’ll laugh as they pick over our corpses.”

Rí Mac Baoill, his hand still on the hilt of his own sword, spat. “And Rí Mallaghan has a suggestion? Perhaps he thinks we should elevate
him
to be Rí Ard.”

Torin laughed scornfully. “The Óenach could make a worse choice, if you want the truth. At least I wouldn’t be someone’s boot-licking lackey, as Tiarna Ó Riain would be.” Doyle was pleased to see Ó Riain color at that, his hand fisting near his cloch. Doyle watched the man, ready to loose the dragon if Ó Riain moved to open his own cloch.

“This is ridiculous,” Rí O Seachnasaigh muttered, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Now who is flinging names? We waste our time with these insults.”

“Aye, we do,” Torin agreed, turning to face the man. “And we waste our time as long as you insist on Ó Riain as Rí Guardian. Rí Mas Sithig and Banrion O Treasigh agree with me on this. We won’t have Enean as Rí Ard.”

“No. Instead you’d elevate a woman who couldn’t even bother to be here. ‘Unavoidably detained . . .’ ” O Seachnasaigh sniffed and spat again. “I think we all see that as a flimsy excuse or some subterfuge. I wonder if Bantiarna Edana could tell us the identities of the unknown persons with Clochs Mór who attacked Inishfeirm, an open act of aggression that could have consequences for all the Tuatha. Or perhaps the Rí Mas Sithig could enlighten us, since the bantiarna inexplicably traveled to his Tuath after the Rí Ard died. I’ve heard rumors of a ship leaving Falcarragh with Tiarna Mac Ard and at least three other of the Order of Gabair’s mages aboard and returning two days later. Where, I wonder, would they have gone?”

Mas Sithig simply glared at O Seachnasaigh. For several long breaths, the tension held. Doyle knew that it all balanced on a knife’s edge here. A wrong word, a gesture, and blood would be spilled in the hall, blood that would quickly spread out to all the Tuatha, a drowning, violent tide.

Banrion O Treasigh spoke into the dangerous silence.

“This Óenach is over,” she said. “We all know it. We’re three set against three and there can be no agreement. We should return to our Tuatha, consider our options, and return here in three months to try once more. The throne of the Rí Ard can sit empty for now, as it has in the past.”

“And the throne of Tuath Dún Laoghaire?” asked O Seachnasaigh. “What of it, Banrion?”

“Perhaps in three months we’ll be seven Ríthe instead of six, and the Óenach won’t be deadlocked.” A mutter went around the hall. It was clear to most of the Riocha what the Banrion was actually suggesting, Doyle no less than any of the others:
let this mess sort itself out. Leave the question of the Rí Ard alone for the time being and allow the strongest person to claim the throne of Dún Laoghaire. They can try to hold it while the rest of us watch from a safe distance, sending whatever help we wish. Blood will spill here in Dún Laoghaire, aye, but at least it will be confined to this one place. Someone will eventually triumph, the other Tuatha will hopefully remain at peace, and when the Óenach resumes, there may be no dispute at all.

Torin was staring angrily at the Banrion, and Doyle knew that this was something Torin, Rí Mas Sithig, and Banrion O Treasigh must have discussed and rejected. It meant that O Treasigh had not been convinced by Torin that Doyle could eventually win Lámh Shábhála.

It meant that the Banrion felt safer looking for a compromise and the fragile coalition Torin had put together was already cracking, if not altogether broken.

O Seachnasaigh laughed, slapping the arm of his chair, and the tension in the air dissolved with the sound. “Done! You have my vote, Banrion. We’ll return here in three months. What say the rest of you?”

“Éoganacht says aye,” Rí Taafe echoed immediately, followed by Rí Mac Baoill: “As does Airgialla.”

Rí Mas Sithig shook his head, but the word he spoke was the same. “Aye. Infochla will agree.”

They were all looking at Torin Mallaghan. Again, Torin’s gaze found Doyle, and it was angry and tight, the face he wore when he looked at his pieces on the ficheall board and saw that he had lost the game. He strode down from the dais into the fire pit. Backlit by the flames, he picked up his sword. “I don’t like it,” he said. “But Gabair will also say aye since that’s the will of the Ríthe.” He sheathed the blade in its leather scabbard. “May the Mother-Creator have mercy on us if we’re wrong.”

I
N THE moonlight, the waters of Lough Lár were black and silver, alive with shifting promise. But that had been true every night for the last three. Meriel had waited almost a week in Keira’s cave, then awakened from sleep that night with a certainty in her mind. “He’s coming closer,” she’d said to Owaine when he’d also stirred. “I have to go to the lough and wait for him.” She didn’t need to tell Owaine who “he” was; she’d felt the way Owaine had watched her over the last several days, like a puppy waiting for its master’s hand to be raised without knowing if it would be a gentle stroke or a slap. He’d nodded at her words as if turning the thought over in his mind, examining it from every side before deciding to speak.

“You should have someone with you,” he said. His mouth was set somewhere between smile and frown, the lips pressed so tightly together that they paled.

When Meriel told Keira, she’d shrugged, not even turning from the herbs she was laying on racks over the fire. The air around her was heavy with their scent. “Your mam will be coming here soon—we’ve already sent the messengers. I wouldn’t want her to find you gone already.”

“I won’t leave,” Meriel told her. “I promise. Not until Mam comes.”

Keira nodded slowly. “I’ll take the two of you to where the trees come closest to the water, south of here,” she said. “You can cross over to the lough from there if you’re careful and watch for the gardai. They don’t pass by that often, and when they do, they hurry by because of the trees. As long as you don’t light a fire, it will be safe enough there at night; in the day, come back here.”

That was what they did, finding a brush-covered jumble of stones on the shore that shielded them from anyone passing on the High Road. Dire wolves howled close by in the darkness, their shuddering wail no longer frightening to Meriel. Indeed, she found it comforting because when gardai did come along the road, they galloped quickly by with the sound of the wolves pursuing them.

Meriel and Owaine waited. Sometimes, they talked, huddled in their blankets near each other, whispering as they stared out at the water. “You don’t need to stay here with me, Owaine,” she said to him the second night. “I mean, I appreciate the company, but it’s cold and—” She stopped, not quite knowing how to articulate what she was feeling.
I’m waiting for my lover, and I know how you feel and I don’t want to hurt you . . .

“It’s all right,” he answered. “You shouldn’t be alone. It’s not safe.”

“It’s not safe for you either.”

“It wasn’t safe for me to come here at all.”

They sat silently for a time, staring out. “I’ve never thanked you enough for coming after me,” she said at last. “If you hadn’t been here, I might be—”

She didn’t look at him, but she felt his smile. “And in return, you fixed my eyes,” he told her. “That was a better gift than you can imagine for someone who saw the world as I did. I’ll always be grateful to you for that.”

“That wasn’t me . . . it was just the cloch.”
It was nothing I haven’t done for strangers and for the coins they’d give Sevei or Nico. I did it because I couldn’t heal myself. I wasn’t thinking of it as a gift.

Owaine was still talking, not hearing the accusations in her head. “Knowing where you were wasn’t anything, Meriel. Keira, she brought the wolves, the crows, and the slow magics. I just pointed the way and she did the work. I’d say that I’ve been more than repaid.”

The honesty and humility in his voice pulled at her. “You’re too modest, Owaine Geraghty. And braver than I would have been. I think my mam was wise when she brought you to the Order. If I were Máister Kirwan, I’d make sure you had a Cloch Mór to hold.”

“With all the Riocha cloudmages waiting for one? That’s not likely,” he said, but she caught the hint of pleasure in his voice. “I’m happy with what I have.”

“Are you?” she asked.

“Aye,” he answered, though Meriel thought the answer came slow and drawn out, with a finishing rise that sounded uncertain.

“There is nothing more that you want?”

“There is.” The two words were heavy in the darkness and she knew what he was thinking. She felt him shift in his blankets. “But none of us get all we want. At least not people like me. Maybe for you, Meriel. Maybe the Riocha. But not me.”

Impulsively, she reached out and found his hand in the dark. His skin was warm. She pressed her fingers in his and he squeezed her hand back, his fingers strong and yet gentle. “I hope you find someone who deserves you, Owaine,” she told him, the words quiet in the night. She started to pull her hand away and for an instant he tightened his fingers, as if reluctant to let her go. But he did.

For a long time after that, neither of them said anything.

It was the third night of their watch.

“There,” Owaine whispered softly, touching Meriel’s arm and pointing out to a ripple where something—someone—moved. Meriel pushed herself up from the damp grass at the verge between the High Road and the lough, then ran down into the lapping waves, laughing, toward the naked, dripping man who miraculously rose knee-deep from the water.