Holder of Lightning (34 page)

“I never—” Jenna began.

“You want more of this
truth,
Holder?” Cianna spat out, interrupting. “Well, here’s more: the Rí and Damhlaic Gairbith have planned more than just the defense of Gabair. When the Connachtans attack, the Rí will take you with him, let you use the cloch, then—when you’re weak and hurt and exhausted and the cloch is empty of power—you will be unfortunately ‘killed in the battle.’ You’ll receive all the plaudits and honors you desire, but you’ll be dead and the Rí will be wearing Lámh Shábhála. You see, he’s no different than me. And as to Nevan O Liathain, do you really think the Tanaise Ríg would have an interest in someone as common and plain as you if you weren’t the Holder? Do you honestly believe he doesn’t have his own plans to take Lámh Shábhála from you? You’re a stupid, common child, and you don’t deserve what you possess.”

The rage was flooding Jenna’s mind, a foaming, wild flood that swept away reason before it. She shouted back at Cianna, a wordless, guttural scream lost in the din of the fury. She lifted the cloch on its chain, her hand a trembling fist, and Cianna began a cry that suddenly choked into silence. Jenna’s fist tightened. There was a sense of unreality to her action, as if it were someone else moving her hand, and it was not only Cianna’s image that she choked—she imagined doing the same to Coelin, Mac Ard, the Rí Ga bair, and the Tanaise Ríg and Tiarna Aheron and everyone who stared at her and whispered against her.

But they were not here. Cianna was.

Jenna felt something break inside the woman. A bloody froth bubbled on the Banrion’s lips and she fell as Jenna turned away, stalking out of the room. The maids shrank back against the wall as the doors slammed against their stops with Jenna’s thrust, and she strode across the anteroom and out into the corridors of the Keep.

Behind her there was a scream and a cry of alarm.

Jenna paid it no attention. She stalked through the wing toward her own rooms, pushing open the doors. “Jenna!” Maeve called as she entered. “What’s happened?”

Silent, Jenna pushed past her into her bedroom. She grabbed the pouch of andúilleaf, placed the torc of Sinna Mac Ard around her neck. She pulled her traveling pack from its shelf, and stuffed some clothing in it. She put on her old coat, the one she’d worn in Ballintubber. She turned to leave.

Her mam was standing in the doorway, one hand at her swelling belly, the other on the thick, polished wood of the doorframe. There were tears in her eyes. “Jenna, talk to me,” she said. “Darling, you look so . . .” She stopped.

“Get out of my way, Mam,” Jenna said. “I’m leaving.”

“You can’t.”

“I have to. I just murdered the Banrion.”

Maeve gave a cry that was half-sob. She swayed, the hand on the doorframe going to her chest and Jenna pushed past her. As she started across the parlor, the door opened and Mac Ard entered, his dark face grim. He saw Jenna and his hand went to his sword. For a moment, Jenna blinked, seeing him.

“Don’t do it,” Jenna told him. It sounded like someone else’s voice. “Show me a hint of steel, and I’ll kill you where you stand, even if you are the father of my mam’s child.”

“Jenna,” he said. “Listen to yourself.
Look
at yourself. If Lámh Shábhála or the andúilleaf has driven you mad—”

“Then
you’ll
gladly take the cloch,” Jenna finished for him. “So kind of you, Tiarna. Why don’t you tell my mam
all
of your kindness, like the way you arranged for Coelin to come here to be my lover when you knew he was married to Ellia and she was with child. Tell her about that. Now move out of the way.”

“I can’t let you go, Jenna. I can’t. I love you as my own daughter, but I also have my duty and my word.”

“Move!”
Jenna shouted at the man. The word tore at her vocal cords, a shriek.

“I can’t,” Mac Ard repeated.

Jenna screamed again. Her vision had gone dim, a red haze over everything, and she could see only what stood in front of her: Mac Ard. She lifted Lámh Shábhála, and it flared in her hand as her mam shouted behind her. Lightning crackled, wrapping around Mac Ard and lifting him. Jenna gestured and the man was flung across the room, his body slamming against the wall. He collapsed with a groan. Maeve ran to him, crouching down alongside him and cradling his head in her lap. He was moaning as blood poured from a cut along his forehead. Maeve wept, tears sliding down her face. “Jenna! Stop this . . . Please, darling, you must!”

Jenna spoke with a strange calmness in the midst of the red fury. “I can’t stop it, Mam. I can’t. It’s too late for that. I’m sorry . . .” She tore her gaze away from Maeve, went to the door, and left the room.

She could hear footsteps pounding up the stairs. She sent lightning crackling down the long hall toward the sound and flames sprang up where the bright fingers touched. She ran the other way, to the back stairs the keep’s help used. She ran down winding stone steps, scattering the few servants who were on them, and emerged into the courtyard. A tiarna was nearby, dismounting from his horse as two stable hands held the beast. “Holder—” he started to say in greeting. Jenna gave him no chance to go further—she let a pulse of energy flow from the cloch, smashing him in the chest. The horse reared and Jenna snatched the reins from the boy who was holding them, his face a frozen mask of terror.

She leaped onto the horse, not caring that her clóca rode up leaving her legs bare to the cold. “Holder, stop!” the boy shouted, but she kicked the horse into motion. Gardai were pouring out from the keep and an arrow hissed past her ear. Jenna crouched low on her steed’s back, urging him into a gallop toward the gates.

There were men there, she saw, and the gates were closed. She reined up the horse, lifting Lámh Shábhála as the squad of men hesitated. She cried aloud, her hand alight with the power, the scars on her arm glowing. The squad scattered; brighter than the sun, a fist like that of a god arced out from the cloch and smashed into the gate. Metal screeched and wailed; stone cracked and fell. “Now!” Jenna shouted to the horse, kicking him again with her heels. She moved him carefully through the rubble and dust as more arrows shattered on the stones around her, then she was through onto the winding path leading down the steep slope of Goat Fell toward the town. Over the pounding of her mount’s hooves, she could hear the commotion behind her. As she traversed the first of the switchback turns, she glanced back at the keep. Black smoke was pouring from the windows of the main tower, and a cloud of dust hung over the main gates, but a dozen mailed gardai on warhorses were already in pursuit.

Jenna kicked the horse again, and the stallion’s nostrils snorted twin white clouds into the cold air as his hooves tossed clods of half-frozen mud in the air. She would make the bridge, she knew, but already her head threatened to explode and her arm felt as if it was made of frozen granite. Her vision had contracted so that she could see only what was directly in front of her, and that poorly. She clutched the horse’s reins with her left hand, the right hanging limp, her knees trying desperately to keep a grip on the saddle. She heard more than saw the horse reach the bridge and begin to gallop across, the hooves loud on the wooden planking. She halted the stallion on the other side, pulling him around so that she faced the bridge. Wearily, she reached for Lámh Shábhála with a hand that felt as heavy as the stones that formed the bridge’s arches. She could barely see. She squinted into her dimming sight, trying to see her pursuers, ready to open Lámh Shábhála again and take them and the bridge down. She swayed in the saddle, and forced herself erect again.

“Holder!”

Jenna grimaced, her fingers fumbling around the cloch. She could hear the riders approaching, but couldn’t see them in the dusk of her sight.

“Holder! Jenna!” the voice shouted again, behind her and to the left. It sounded familiar, and she turned her head slowly, her eyes narrowing.

“O’Deoradháin . . . You bastard . . .” She lifted Lámh Shábhála, ready to strike the man down. He ran toward her awkwardly, hampered by his sling-bound arm, as she wobbled in the saddle, nearly falling.

“Can you ride?” He seemed to be shouting in her ear. “Holder, listen to me! Can you ride?”

She nodded. It took all the effort she had.

“Then ride. Go to du Val’s. The Apothecary. Go, and I’ll meet you there.”

“The men . . .” Jenna muttered. “From the keep . . .”

“I will deal with them. Go!”

“It’s too late,” Jenna said. Her voice sounded nonchalant, almost amused. Strangely, she wanted to laugh. She couldn’t lift her hand to point, but nodded toward the bridge. The riders from the keep were galloping around the final bend in the mountain road. Sighting Jenna on the other side of the bridge, they shouted and urged their horses forward. Jenna reached for the cloch again, wondering if she could open it in time, wondering if she had the strength to stay conscious if she did.

Something moved in front of her: O’Deoradháin, stepping to the end of the bridge as if he were about to hold back the onrushing gardai himself, one-handed. As Jenna watched, the man bent down and took a stone from the ground in his free hand. He held it in front of him, as if he were offering it to the riders. She heard his voice call aloud:
“Obair don deannach!”
He threw the stone to the ground, and it seemed to shatter and dissolve. The gardai’s horses pounded onto the bridge, and at the same time, the bridge groaned like a live thing, a wail of wood and stone. The bridge decking writhed as if a giant had struck it from below as the tall stone arches to either side collapsed and fell away. Blocks of carved stone rained; support timbers bent and cracked like saplings in a storm.

The bridge fell, with the first of the riders on it. Horses and men screamed as they pinwheeled in air to the bottom of the ravine and crashed against the stones of Deer Creek.

There was a stunning silence. A gout of dust rose from the deep cleft. Jenna gaped. The gardai trapped on the far side stared down at the broken bodies of their companions.

O’Deoradháin alone was free of the stasis. Jenna saw him move, heard him groan with effort and pain as he pulled himself with his one good arm onto her horse, even as Jenna swayed and nearly fell. His arms went around her, taking the reins. He slapped them against the stallion’s neck, kicked at its massive chest. “Go!” he shouted, wheeling the horse around.

Even as the first arrows arced toward them from across the ravine, they were galloping away toward the town, the onlookers staring in terror and fright.

They fled.

28

A Return

J
ENNA remembered little of the flight from Lár Bhaile, where O‘Deoradháin took her or how they came to leave. There were flashes of images:

. . . du Val, his face peering down at her concernedly. His mouth moved, but she heard nothing of what he said. There was another face behind the ugly dwarf’s
—
O’Deoradháin?
—
and Jenna tried to struggle up, but hands held her firmly . . .

. . . the pain as she was lifted. She could see nothing, but she could feel herself moving. There were voices: “We can’t stay here. They’ll be scouring the town in an hour. Not only the keep’s gardai, but the Rí Ard’s garrison as well.” Another voice spoke. “A carriage, then? She can’t ride, certainly.” The first voice answered. “No, they’ll be watching the High Road. If we could get across the lough . . .”

. . . a gentle rocking motion, the creaking of wood, the splashing of water and the smell of damp and fish. She looked up and saw stars above her, swaying softly . . .

There were still stars, and the smell of the lough and the sound of canvas rippling in a wind. Jenna sat up. She was in a small boat, a single small sail billowing in the cold night breeze. She was wrapped in blankets and she hugged them around her against the frigid air. O’Deoradháin was seated in the stern of the boat, the tiller in his hand, his left arm still bandaged tightly against his chest. Ahead, the shore was no more than a quarter mile distant. “Where?” was all she could manage to say. Her throat was raw and burning; the headache still pounded with every beat of her heart, and she wasn’t certain she could move her right arm; it seemed dead. She touched her neck with her other hand: Lámh Shábhála was still there on its chain—that, at least, gave momentary relief. O’Deoradháin hadn’t taken it from her.

“Nearly on the western shore of Lough Lár,” O’Deorad háin answered. “And a bit north of Lár Bhaile as well. I’ve been looking for a good, low shingle where we can land.”

“Andúilleaf . . . I need it. . .”

O’Deoradháin shook his head. “Don’t have it. Du Val took it.”

Jenna shivered at that. Anger burned, and she started to lift her hand to the cloch, but weariness overcame her. She sank back. “I’ll die,” she whispered. “I hurt so much.”

“You might wish you died, but you won’t. Not from the pain of Lámh Shábhála or withdrawal from the leaf. Per haps from the Rí’s soldiers, if they find us.”

She remembered, suddenly, O’Deoradháin standing before the bridge, and it falling . . . “The bridge,” she said. “You said you knew other magics, but you also said they were slow and weaker. That was neither slow nor weak.”