Heir of Stone (The Cloudmages #3) (50 page)

She thought he might display outrage at that. His eyes widened, his mouth opened. But his voice was soft and gentle and understanding. “Jenna would never have understood or agreed with that,” he told her. “But your mam ... You sound like her, Sevei. How long will you stay? I should let the Comhairle know . . .”

“Until the mage-lights come tomorrow night,” she told him. “No longer. But I’ll go and talk to the Comhairle with you....”

HARIK ACCOMPANIED KAYNE as they rode through the pass and down toward the still-ascending army. The wind raked the slopes; the rocks of the mountains tore open the low clouds and tossed spatters of rain down on them; the horses skittered gingerly down the muddy slope until they reached a wide straight road well down from the Narrows where they could see for a long distance. Massive rocks tilted in the stony soil all around them, like the gravestones of giants. One of them had fallen recently, the torn ground at the base as black as old blood. Seeing it, Kayne stopped.

Glancing behind and up, Kayne could see the ragged jaws of the pass where the laird and the Fingerlanders waited. They could hear the clamor of the approaching vanguard. At Kayne’s gesture, Harik unfurled the white banner; the advance riders of the Airgiallaian force saw them—they could hear the shouts of orders faint in the distance, and one of the riders below was given a hastily-made flag of parley. He rode quickly ahead to stop just out of easy arrow range—though, Kayne noted carefully, not out of range for the bows that Séarlait and the Fingerlanders used—and hailed them. “The Tiarna Maitiú O Contratha, commander of the Southern Army of Tuath Airgialla, demands to know who requests parley,” the man called.

“I am Tiarna Kayne Geraghty of Dún Laoghaire, son of the Banrion Ard, Commander of the army of Dún Laoghaire and heir to the throne of the Ard,” Kayne shouted back. “I would speak to Tiarna O Contratha.”

The rider stared at Kayne for a long breath, then turned his horse and rode back through the ranks of the gardai. Not long after, the front row of the troops parted and two horsemen rode forward under a white banner. Kayne recognized the man on the left, dressed in gold-stamped leathers: Tiarna O Contratha of Airgialla, a nephew of Rí Mac Baoill to whom Kayne had once been introduced. A cloch hung around his neck on a golden chain. “The words of a pretender mean nothing,” O Contratha declared without preamble. “But I see you, Kayne Geraghty. You ride with Fingerlanders who are traitors to their Rí—that makes you a traitor also. There’s no parley for traitors; you know that law as well as I do.”

“That’s it, Tiarna? That’s all you have to say?” Kayne frowned, raising his voice so that his horse fidgeted nervously. He wanted the soldiers with the army to hear him, though he had little enough hope that it would do any good. “The Ríthe murdered the Healer Ard and the rest of my family without warning or cause, and you dare, you
dare
to call
me
traitor, Tiarna? My loyalty is to Talamh An Ghlas and all the Tuatha. I am the heir to the Healer Ard, and I name Rí Mac Baoill and the other Ríthe as true traitors. I’ve come to see if there is anyone here who will admit the truth, who is willing to ride with me to Dún Laoghaire. Ride with me, Tiarna O Contratha—ride because that would be just and right, and the Mother-Creator and all those who are honest realize it.”

He could see that the gardai were listening, and that there were stirrings in the ranks and a few nodding heads. He could imagine their whispers even if he couldn’t hear the words.
“The Healer Ard’s son . . . They say that she still heals, even from the grave . . .”
For a moment, Kayne felt hope rise within him—that he wouldn’t have to do what still struck him as somehow dishonorable, that the affection Mam had for all Daoine might reach out even in death and end this peacefully.

But O Contratha glared back at his men, and the whis perings went silent. “You’re deluded with grief, Tiarna Geraghty,” O Contratha answered coldly. “I’m sorry for the Banrion Ard’s death, but the murderer wasn’t the Ríthe, only her Taisteal nursemaid.” O Contratha’s gaze went up to the pass above Kayne, pointing with his chin. “Everyone knows that the Taisteal are as untrustworthy as Fingerlanders.”

“I am married to a Fingerlander,” Kayne told the man. “Insult them, and you insult her. Insult her, and you insult me.”

“Then you’ve made yet another poor choice, Tiarna,” O Contratha sniffed, “and we’ve nothing more to say to each other. Get out of my way and let me do what I must.” He pulled at the reins of his horse, turning its head.

“We shouldn’t be fighting each other, Tiarna,” Kayne called out, caring more that the other soldiers heard him than O Contratha or the other Riocha, trying once more to end this. “Our true enemy is out there past the Fingerlands in Céile Mhór, and it’s coming to us. The Arruk will laugh if they find we’ve slaughtered each other before they even arrive. The Banrion Ard knew that, which is why she sent my da to Céile Mhór. Yet we come back after fighting for Talamh An Ghlas, and find that our own cousins attack us—without warning. We find the Healer Ard assassinated. My mam
healed,
Tiarna. She healed anyone who came to her: tuathánach, céili giallnai, or Riocha, from the commonest to the most royal.”

The whispers had begun again.
“Aye . . . She did that . . . My own cousin was healed by her . . .”

This time Tiarna O Contratha turned and shouted back at his men. “Be silent in the ranks!” he barked. He gestured to the rider with him, and the man yanked on his reins and rode quickly back to the waiting army. Kayne heard him snarl at them.

“You want this battle to end without blood, Tiarna Geraghty?” O Contratha continued. “I’m willing to allow that. Tell the Fingerlanders to lay down their arms and go back to their hovels,” O Contratha answered. “And surrender yourself to me to be taken back to Rí Mac Baoill.”

“I’ve done nothing that deserves surrender, Tiarna. I’m the Healer Ard’s son, and I served her well and loyally. She brought peace to Talamh An Ghlas for nearly two double-hands of years. I say that we should return to that. I say we should heal rather than kill, and if you turn your army back now,
we
will let
you
go unharmed.” Kayne pointed back to the Narrows above them. “There’s nothing but death for you and your gardai there, Tiarna. The ghosts of the last force Rí Mac Baoill sent to the Fingerlands are howling in the air for you. If you listen, you can hear them.”

The Airgiallaian soldiers nearest looked to where Kayne pointed, but O Contratha laughed derisively and loudly. His horse whickered in response, its front hooves tearing at the ground. “Let them howl,” he spat. “You’ll soon be with them. I’m done with you, Tiarna.”

Kayne’s faint hope faded and he realized that they must do what they had planned to do all along. He frowned. “No, you’re not,” he told O Contratha. He nodded to Harik, who tossed the white banner aside. “The truce is over. Take your cloch, Tiarna.” As O Contratha scowled and his hand flew to the chain around his neck, Kayne took Blaze in his hand, opening the cloch.

Blaze tinged the world red, and in the midst of the bloody wash was a blue star: the Cloch Mór known as Bluefire. It bloomed and brightened even as Kayne took Blaze and hurled its power toward O Contratha. Twin meteors belched smoke and flame, roaring away from Kayne and arrowing toward O Contratha, but the cobalt star flared also and the fireballs hissed and split to either side, striking the ground to the right and left of O Contratha. The tiarna laughed. “I was schooled by the green-robes of the Order of Gabair, Geraghty,” he said. “What are you? Just an untrained Inishlander pup . . .” With that, the azure radiance raced outward like the ripple on a pond. Kayne pulled energy from Blaze, desperately throwing it between the wave and his small group, but where the ring touched the power that Kayne held, the impact was a physical blow that tore Kayne from his horse’s back and threw him to the ground. Blue fire and red sparks exploded around him and Kayne cried in surprise and pain. His ribs, not yet fully healed, tore in his chest so that he could hardly breathe, but he saw that Harik was still on his horse. “Go!” he managed to shout to Harik as he struggled to get to his feet. “This is what we came for. Go!”

He saw Harik hesitate and then obey, turning his horse and fleeing back up the road toward the Narrows. O Contratha saw him as well, and Kayne saw the blue sun bloom again. In desperation, Kayne took the power of Blaze and wrapped it around the sea of O Contratha’s cloch. He could feel the energy in the cloch yearning to break free, but though the snarled energy crackled and hissed and Kayne could feel each spark as if it were a flame touching his own skin, he held. He screamed: he couldn’t hold it back, not with the agony of trying to contain the magic. He could hold it only a few breaths, but even as he let it go, he pushed it aside and the energy broke well to the side of the road.

Harik galloped on.

Kayne stood uneasily. He could see, with his true eyes, the nearest soldiers readying bows, and the rider who had accompanied O Contratha riding hard back to his commander.

Kayne limped toward his own horse, his ribs stabbing at his lungs with each jolting step, and he flung a firebolt toward O Contratha as he ran. “Now!” he shouted to the air, as if calling on ghosts that only he could see. “Now!”

Kayne held fire in his mind even as he took the reins of his horse. He pushed it at O Contratha, not caring if he managed to get through the man’s shield, wanting only to snare the man’s attention and make him use more of the power within the Cloch Mór. Blood met sky between them in a fury, and it was all Kayne could do to continue to keep his hand around his own cloch. He could feel the power draining from it, too quickly, and he despaired, thinking that it was too late, that he was lost.

Bowstrings sang the single note of their death song; black darts arced in the sky from either side—the long bows of the Fingerlanders, lying in ambush for O Contratha as they had for Mac Baoill. Belatedly, O Contratha realized what was happening and he tried to pull the cloch-power away from Kayne, but Kayne held him desperately, sending more fire at him from Blaze. “Coward!” he shouted at Kayne. “So you are indeed a Fingerlander!”

The other rider went down, arrows sprouting in his chest, but blue fire consumed most of the bolts directed to O Contratha. But not all. An arrow buried itself in his thigh, another in his chest, and one arrow took him in the throat. O Contratha’s hand went to his neck, releasing Bluefire, and Kayne saw blood spouting from between the man’s fingers. His eyes widened; his mouth opened as if he were going to shout once more, but only blood emerged.

Harik had turned and come back at Kayne’s call—now he pounded past Kayne. Even as O Contratha started to fall, Harik leaned over in his saddle and tore the chain of Bluefire from around the man’s neck. He lifted the Cloch Mór high in triumph even as the shorter bows of the Airgiallaians loosed and a wave of riders came through the ranks of the soldiers to be cut down in another storm from the two double-hands of Fingerlander archers in the rocks to either side of the road. Séarlait was among them—she had insisted on coming, though Kayne had told her not to use Winter unless there was no other choice: let them think they faced only one Cloch Mór.

Despite the arrows, riders were still charging toward them, and some of the foot soldiers had pulled swords and were following them up the road. Worse, Kayne felt a new Cloch Mór open somewhere close by, behind the ranks of the army but moving forward.

“Back!” Kayne shouted. “We’ve done all we can do now. Back!” Harik turned his mount hard at the command, glaring defiance at the onrushing Airgiallaians. The Fingerlander archers fired a last volley and melted back the way they’d come, into the hidden paths that only they knew.

As he saw Harik turn, Kayne released Blaze and pulled himself astride his own horse. As he did so, he felt something break inside and a terrible pain lanced through his right side, so strong that he nearly fell backward to the ground again. He managed to haul himself the rest of the way up, but he couldn’t straighten. He coughed in surprise and pain, and flecks of blood spattered from his mouth to dapple the neck of his horse. “Tiarna!” he heard Harik yell from alongside him. “Can you ride?”

Kayne tried to speak and found that he had no voice—he could barely draw a breath against the pain. He nodded, still hunched over. He kicked feebly at his mount, who didn’t move. He felt Harik take the steed’s bridle. “Hang on!” he said to Kayne.
“Imigh!”
he shouted to the horse. “Go!”

Kayne clutched desperately at the reins and his mount’s neck as they galloped up the road in full retreat. Each stride was like a knife in his side and the world slowly darkened around him as they rode.

The news that Lámh Shábhála had returned to Dún Kiil spread out like a spring flood, rushing everywhere that it could possibly flow. The Comhairle—the council of thirteen, the heads of all the townlands of Inish Thuaidh—had been in nearly daily session since word had come of the sinking of
Uaigneas
and the death of the Banrion Ard. From the point of view of the Inishlanders, until today the news had gone rapidly from bad to worse. The initial report that the Banrion Ard’s death had been an accident in the storm had quickly been debunked; like the rest of the Tuatha, they soon realized that this had been a concerted attack on the entire family. When Lámh Shábhála failed to appear with the mage-lights in succeeding nights, when it was apparent that Snarl, the Inishfeirm Máister’s Cloch Mór, was somewhere in Talamh An Ghlas under a new holder, when it was learned that Doyle Mac Ard had been named Rí Ard, the Comhairle had erupted into fearful and accusatory arguments as old clan alliances—submerged for long decades under Jenna’s reign as Banrion Inish Thuaidh—emerged once more.