Mage of Clouds (The Cloudmages #2) (7 page)

“I don’t enjoy pain, Mam,” Meriel told her. “I prefer to avoid it.”

Jenna’s mouth twitched, as if she wanted to smile. “Sometimes it comes and finds you, whether you want it or not. Sometimes enduring a certain amount of pain is necessary to avoid a greater hurt later.”

“I’m not you, Mam. I’m not as strong as you. Fiodóir didn’t weave the same destiny into the tapestry of Fate for me.” She bit at her upper lip. “I don’t think He wove
anything
for me.”

“Nonsense,” Jenna spat out. “You have no idea yet what you’re capable of. That’s why you’re here—to begin to learn.”

“Mam . . .” Meriel started to protest, but then everything seemed to overwhelm her, all at once: her weariness; the new surroundings; the feeling of being torn away from all and everything she’d ever known; the fear of not knowing what she faced, of being surrounded by strangers; her exile from Lucan . . . everything. Tears formed unbidden in her eyes, and she wiped at them angrily with the sleeve of her léine, blinking and sniffing. Suddenly, her mam was crouched in front of her, her arms around Meriel, and she sank into that embrace in surrender, letting the tears flow.

“Hush, darling . . .” Jenna whispered into Meriel’s ear. Her left hand stroked Meriel’s hair; her right sat on Meriel’s shoulder like a dead block of ice, cold and unmoving. “I know you’re scared, Meriel. I was scared, too—many, many times. It’s all right to feel that way.” Meriel felt Jenna’s lips brush her forehead with a soft, fleeting kiss. Her mam’s face was in front of her, very close. “I’m
still
scared, Meriel,” Jenna said. “Only now I’m scared for both of us. And that’s worse. If something happens to me, that’s one thing, but if it’s you that would be hurt . . .”

“Then keep me with you, Mam. Let me go back to Dún Kiil.”

“I can’t,” Jenna answered, “as much as I might want to, I can’t let myself do that. You
need
to be here. You must start learning how to become what you’ll need to become, because of who you are. And as much as I might like to, I can’t stay here while you get that knowledge. My place is in Dún Kiil.”

“Don’t
I
have a choice in any of this?”

Jenna did smile at that. She leaned forward, kissing Meriel’s brow once more. “I used to pretend that I had choices, but I didn’t. Not really. The Mother-Creator wanted me to have Lámh Shábhála, or Lámh Shábhála wanted me itself, and I couldn’t avoid what happened afterward, only deal with it as best I could. And you can’t avoid it either. Not with me as your mam, and with your da . . .” She stopped, pressing her lips together.

“Is this what Da wants, too?” Meriel asked. “I wish he’d been there to see us leave, or to come here with us. He’s never . . .” She stopped, sniffing again. “I always felt like he was never as involved in this,” she gestured to include the keep—“as you are. He doesn’t even come to Dún Kiil much unless he has to for the Comhairle’s gatherings, and you hardly ever go to Dún Madadh to see him. I remember he told me that even if you gave Lámh Shábhála to him, he wouldn’t take it because he doesn’t have the skill or the desire . . .”

Meriel stopped. Jenna had risen as Meriel spoke, walking over to the curtains that screened the balcony. She stood looking out at the night; faintly, Meriel could hear the voices of the cloudmages as they spoke among themselves in the courtyard below. “Mam?”

“Believe me, Meriel,” she said, though her face was to the curtains, “having you come here would . . . was . . . your da’s desire, too.” Jenna took a breath, and Meriel thought she heard a catch almost like a sob. Finally, she turned and gave Meriel a wan smile. “My arm hurts,” she said. “I think I need to rest and let the kala bark work. And you need to sleep, also. Tomorrow, you’ll be starting your new life.”

She came over to Meriel, crouching down again and hugging her. “Do you know how much I love you and care for you, Meriel?” she asked. “Do you have any idea at all.”

“Aye, Mam,” Meriel answered. “I do.”

She said it because she knew it was the answer Jenna wanted.

Jenna’s arms wrapped tightly around Meriel and she returned the embrace. Then, as quickly, her mam stood again, calling to Nainsi as she left the parlor for her own bedchamber. For a while, Meriel sat in front of the fire, staring at the flames. After a time, she went to the small desk, pulled out a sheet of parchment, sharpened the point of the quill in the drawer, and unstoppered the ink bottle. She began to write, wondering how she could tell Lucan what she felt when she didn’t quite know herself.

Outside, the Bráthairs and Siúrs had left and gone to their own rooms. In the quiet of the night, she could hear the chirping of insects, and—faintly—seals calling to each other on a beach far below.

K
YLE was waiting for Jenna when the
Uaigneas
docked at Dún Kiil, standing next to Mahon MacBreen, the captain of Jenna’s personal gardai. Jenna noticed several gardai scattered around the harbor. “What’s going on?” she asked as Mahon helped her across to the wooden quay.

“Just a few extra precautions, Banrion,” Mahon answered. In his mid-twenties, his face and body had acquired the scars of a violent life, as had his da before him. Mahon was quick with his sword, his intelligence was as sharp as his weapon’s edge, and he was fiercely loyal to Jenna. “There’s a delegation here from Tuath Infochla.” Jenna’s eyebrows raised and Mahon nodded. “I’m sure Tiarna MacEagan will explain,” Mahon said.

Mahon fell in alongside her as Kyle MacEagan came over. They embraced once, as friends would, then Kyle took a step back. His round features folded into a moue of apology as they started walking toward the carriage that waited to take them up the mountain to Dun Kiil Keep. “I’m sorry I couldn’t go with you and Meriel to Inishfeirm. Did you give Meriel my apologies?”

“I did,” Jenna told him. “She understood. I gave her the letter you sent.”

“Thanks. I really wanted to be there, but settling the land dispute in the Comhairle took longer than I thought. How is she?”

“She blames me. She thinks I’m trying to get rid of her.”

“You could have told her the truth.”

Jenna sighed—it was an old argument between them.
“She’s old enough to know, Jenna. About the age you were when you were given your burden.” Jenna could only shake her head. “You can’t keep her sheltered forever, Jenna,” Kyle had persisted. “Do that, and she’ll
never
be ready to handle things herself. And that includes telling her the truth about me. She should know who her real da was.”

“I don’t want to scare her, Kyle,” she said. “Doyle made definite threats against her. Against all of those I love.”

He didn’t argue; he never did—it was one of the traits she admired about Kyle. He would make his point and speak his mind, but once she made a decision, he backed her without question. He had been a steadfast ally for her over the years, a true friend even if they’d never shared their marriage bed. He had also been a wonderful da to Meriel; Jenna had to admit that she was sometimes jealous of the easy, loving relationship the two of them had, so much different from the way Meriel was with her.

Kyle nodded in Mahon’s direction. “I take it Mahon’s told you about the delegation that arrived here yesterday.”

“Aye. From Infochla. Is it a problem or just routine?”

“A problem,” Kyle said.

“Let me guess. The north islands of the Stepping Stones.”

Kyle nodded. “Aye. They’re claiming that the Ards of the Northern Clans had no right to secede from Tuath Infochla, that they still owe their tribute to Rí Infochla, and that allowing them a vote in the Comhairle breaks the terms of our current treaty with the Tuatha and the Rí Ard.”

“And does it?”

Kyle’s lips tugged upward in a slight smile as he shrugged. “Probably. Though that hasn’t stopped us from picking off other islands in recent years. The delegation’s carrying a formal protest to you and the Comhairle; they insist on meeting you today to read it.”

“Today.” Jenna sighed.

“Aye.”

“Send them home,” Jenna said, grimacing. “I don’t need to listen to their whining. If Rí Mas Sithig wants to come here and complain to me in person, then I’ll listen to him. But I’m not going to be lectured by his lackeys.” Mahon snorted quiet, discreet laughter at that. Kyle looked less amused.

“Jenna, I’m not so certain that’s the right tactic at the moment. Considering the threats Doyle gave you and the Rí Ard’s health, this may be the provocation that the Tuatha are looking for—an excuse to pull their armies together again.”

“They’ll come at us one day no matter what we do,” Jenna answered. “We all know that. Today, tomorrow, what’s it matter?”

“I’d rather avoid it entirely if we can. So would you, if you still remember Dún Kiil.”

“I remember,” Jenna said. “All too well.” She rubbed at her right arm, stiff and icy after the voyage. The scars mottling her flesh were in her mind as well, etched just as deeply. She looked at Mahon, whose da had died in the battle of Dun Kiil; his gray eyes had gone steely, and she knew that he, at least, wouldn’t mind if it came to war. She suspected that there were others like him. The Inishlanders had long memories indeed, the list of grievances against the Tuatha was a lengthy one, and vengeance was a motivation that all the Inish clans knew well. Some of them would welcome the chance to go against the armies of the Tuatha with Lámh Shábhála and their cloudmages at their head and let the blood of their foes redden the soil.

Part of Jenna might agree with Kyle, but another, more visceral part of her sympathized with Mahon.
“The dead enemy cannot strike.”
It was an old Inish saying.

“The Northern Clans came to us freely,” she said. “We didn’t go to them or ask them to join us. If the islands feel that they’d rather be aligned with Inish Thuaidh than Tuath Infochla, then perhaps Infochla should have done a better job of attending to them.”

“ ’Tis true they came to us freely, aye, but then you also offered to halve the tribute that they would pay to the Comhairle each year and increase the shipments of grain they were getting from Infochla,” Kyle said. There was no heat in his voice, only a touch of resignation. “But still, that’s a pretty speech. Should I bring the delegates into the Weeping Hall to hear it?

“No,” Jenna answered. “Tell them yourself, Kyle, and send them away.”

“As the Banrion wishes,” Kyle said. She could see the disappointment in his face, though she knew none of it would be there when he spoke to the delegates. She held out her left hand and Kyle took it, pressing his fingers against hers. “Is it also as Jenna wishes?” he asked.

She nodded faintly. “Aye. I think so.” They reached the carriage, a servant opening the door as they approached and putting down a footstool under it. Mahon snapped fingers to a garda, who brought his horse over to him. Kyle stepped into the carriage, then helped Jenna up. “Thank you, Kyle,” she said. “For everything. All along.”

He smiled. “I’m your husband,” he said.

Edana emerged from the Rí Ard’s chambers as Doyle approached.

The woman was dark-haired, fair of complexion, with eyes that were startlingly blue. Edana was the daughter of Nevan O Liathain, the Rí Ard, and his second wife—Nevan had little luck with wives. His first wife had died not long after delivering the Rí Ard’s firstborn son, Enean. Three years later Nevan had married Edana’s mam, who would have a series of miscarriages yet finally bring one child to term, only to die like her predecessor a few days after Edana’s difficult labor and birth.

Nevan’s third wife had died before giving the Rí Ard any children at all. After that, perhaps understandably, the Rí Ard had never married again (though Doyle, sensitive on the point, had heard the usual rumors of bastard children scattered throughout the Tuatha).

The hall garda and Edana’s maidservant glanced politely away as Edana came up to Doyle and embraced him. Old MacCamore, Enean’s guardian, was in the hall also, and Doyle nodded to him over Edana’s shoulder. MacCamore did not look away; he watched.

“Maidin maith, darling,” Edana said brightly. Doyle kissed her once, enjoying the soft warmth of her lips and the feel of her lithe body under the heavily brocaded royal clóca.

“How is your da today?” he asked.

Edana sighed. “No better, I’m afraid. Enean’s in there with him. Is there news from Rí Mas Sithig and Infochla?”

“Aye,” he told her. “Jenna did exactly what you said she would do—she sent the delegates away without even deigning to receive them. She had that fat servant of a husband talk to them instead.”

“Good,” Edana said with a grim satisfaction. “Then we’ll use that against her with the Riocha. She’ll tighten the noose around her own neck.” She hugged him again. “I know how hard it is for you, Doyle. You’ll take back what’s yours. It’s what my da wants, too. I’ll help you.”

“And I’ll need that help. You know the politics better than anyone.” Doyle kissed her again, deeply, his fingers caught in the glossy strands of her hair. “I love you,” he said. The words came easily because they were true. Doyle often thanked the god Fiodóir for having his fate wound with that of Edana. Arranged marriages were not always blessed with actual warmth and affection.