Mage of Clouds (The Cloudmages #2), page 32
It explained everything.
No, she wanted to tell him. You can’t think about me that way. I don’t want you to think about me that way. It’s not fair—to either of us.
He was smiling shyly and now she found herself frowning in response. “I can’t really believe I did it either,” he continued. “I thought I was going to die at least a dozen times—remind me to tell you about the dragon. But I was lucky enough to find the right people. Cataigh was the one who really made it possible; he told Keira to watch for me and for you. That’s what saved us both.” Owaine glanced back to where Keira had gone, back to the road. “Who were those tiarna and what did they want? Who put you with the Taisteal in the first place?”
Meriel shook her head. She didn’t want to explain anything to him. “That’s far too long a story for right now. Where’s Keira? I’m worried—if the tiarna uses that Cloch Mór—”
“I’m here and safe,” Keira’s voice answered, heavy with the accent of the Bunús Muintir. Meriel turned her head to see the woman standing near them. The crow was back on her shoulder, but Meriel could see no sign of the dire wolves. “We were lucky; there were two Clochs Mór here, but one was empty and couldn’t be used. The Riocha are gone. They’ve taken what remains of their gardai and fled. They took the Clannhri and most of the Taisteal men with them.”
Meriel struggled to sit up. “And the other Taisteal? Sevei?”
“Was she the woman who attacked the tiarna?” Keira asked, and her voice and gaze softened. “You were her friend? I’m sorry.”
“No!” Meriel couldn’t stop the scream of protest even though it racked her lungs and set her coughing. She wept, putting her hands over her eyes. “Oh, Mother-Creator, no!” She couldn’t imagine Sevei dead: her smile, her eyes, her laugh. “I promise you that when the right moment comes, I’ll help you get out,” she’d said. She made the promise knowing that it might come to this. She made the promise knowing it was the path the cards had shown her. “Sevei . . .”
Meriel sobbed at the emptiness inside herself.
She felt Owaine’s hand on her shoulder and she shrank away from him; the hand left. Keira’s voice continued, calm and soft. “The other Taisteal have your Sevei’s body and will send her to the Greatness in their own way. I told the wolves not to hurt them, though I don’t know what the Riocha will do later. That’s their fate, not yours—your path goes elsewhere. For now, though, you can rest and grieve if you need to. Owaine, help her over to the carrier . . .”
He held out his hand. Meriel ignored it and tried to rise by herself but quick sharp pain racked her sides and she fell back again. She could see a reflection of her pain in Owaine’s face as he held out his hand again. She nodded, and he crouched down alongside her, helping her to her feet and over to the horse, where he eased her down slowly onto the cloth between the poles. Meriel felt the carrier lift as Keira clucked at the horse. They started forward, Meriel prone in the hammock with the oaken limbs of the forest shielding her tears from the sun.
The cave entrance was a few hours’ walk into Doire Coill, halfway up a bare knoll. By the time they reached it, Meriel was stiff and sore and barely able to rise from the carrier. Owaine and Keira both helped her stand, then Owaine almost carried her into the cavern, which opened out into a large room.
She noticed that he was careful where he placed his hands.
“Your mam was here once,” Keira said as Owaine helped her down on a straw pallet to one side of the torchlit room, which emptied into a black void leading farther back and down. Cold air welled outward from the dark. The crow had settled on a ledge near the entrance. A peat fire smoldered in the center of the room, the smoke curling upward to some unseen opening; around the fire were several racks—herbs laid over wooden poles to dry. The smell of the herbs was nearly overpowering to Meriel, as if she’d put her nose in one of the spice jars in the White Keep’s kitchens. “This was one of Seancoim’s homes,” Keira continued. “Now it’s one of mine.”
“Seancoim? I remember my mam talking about him.”
Keira nodded. “His fate was bound with hers. I was his pledge-daughter; now I serve as the Protector of Doire Coill as he once did.” She went to a shelf at one side of the cavern and poured water from a jar into a wooden cup. Dried herbs were scattered on the table; she broke a leaf from one of the stalks and crushed it to powder in her palms, then brushed the tan dust into the cup of water. She brought it over to Meriel and crouched down next her. “And I get to care for you as Seancoim did for Jenna. Here, drink this.”
Meriel sniffed at it suspiciously. “What is it?”
Keira’s face creased in a smile. “I’m not likely to hurt you after spending so much energy saving you, girl. Drink it—it’s to stop the swelling.”
Keira slipped her hand under Meriel’s neck and lifted her head to the cup. Meriel drank, grimacing at the taste of the potion. Keira laid her head back down, but her hand remained there. She slipped her fingers around the chain there and pulled Treoraí’s Heart from under Meriel’s léine. Meriel reached out her right hand to stop Keira, and she saw the Bunús Muintir gaze at the mage-scars on her skin. “I’m not going to steal it,” she said. “I only wanted to see it. Tonight, when the mage-lights come, you can fill this and heal yourself instead of others.”
“How do you know—” Meriel began, but Keira was laughing, her wide face bright with amusement.
“It’s not magic,” she said. “Just Owaine. He told me. You should be grateful to the Bráthair—his clochmion told us where you were far better than my slow magics could have. Without him, we might have been too late.” At the foot of Meriel’s pallet, Owaine grinned. His mouth seemed too large in his plain face, his teeth were crooked, and his nose wrinkled as he squinted.
“Don’t let her try to tell you the slow magics are weak, though,” Owaine said. “From what I’ve seen here and in Foraois Coill, I think I should have paid more attention in Siúr Bolan’s class back at Inishfeirm. You saw what she did with the Cloch Mór out there—that must have been the one called GodFist; it was one of the Clochs Mór stolen from Inishfeirm just before the Filleadh A Cloch Mór, and she turned it aside.”
Meriel remembered the hammer blow of the cloch and the force that had stopped it, but she said nothing to Owaine. Instead, she looked at the Bunús Muintir. “Thank you,” she said to Keira. “They were going to kill me.”
Keira nodded. “So it appears.”
“That was slow magic?”
Keira shrugged. “Aye. You Daoine have forgotten most of those skills. You’re likely to ignore it even more now that the clochs na thintrí are awake again and in your possession. The slow magics can be as powerful as a Cloch Mór—perhaps even more so—but the spells require time and patience to build and can be used only once. You don’t have time to create them during an urgent need, nor can most people hold more than a few of them within themselves for any amount of time. That’s why those who hold the clochs don’t care about the slow magics—the clochs are easily used and easily renewed; the stones themselves hold the magic, not the person. But the slow magics are all we Bunús Muintir have had for many generations; we never forgot them.”
“Teach me,” Meriel said impulsively.
“And me,” Owaine echoed, causing Meriel to tighten her lips.
Keira scoffed. “Oh, and when you each have a Cloch Mór around your neck, will either of you remember the slow magics or even care about them?”
Owaine answered first. “Right now all we have are clochmions, Keira.”
“Aye, that’s what you have, Owaine.” Meriel heard the faint stress Keira put on the word “you,” but Owaine seemed not to notice. “I’m not talking of now, though, but later.”
Owaine shook his head in disagreement. “Meriel’s the Banrion’s daughter. She’ll have a Cloch Mór one day. But not me. I’m just an unimportant Bráthair of the Order and there are too few of the great stones to go around.”
Another shrug. “Perhaps not, but you have your clochmion, your head has been filled with the lore of the clochs na thintrí, and only the goddess Pauk sitting in her web of fate knows what you might possess in the future. You may not be as unimportant as you think, Owaine.” The young man beamed at that, and the obvious friendship he felt toward the woman made Meriel frown. “The slow magics are also terribly slow to learn,” Keria continued. “It took years and years for Seancoim to give me the skills I have, and I can’t match what he could do yet. Do you have years to spend here in the shade of the oaks? Do you want to become like the Bunús yourselves and show me your dedication by binding yourself to me as pledge-daughter and pledge-son? Do you want to never see your home again or your parents or friends?”
Keira paused, her gaze going slowly to each of their faces. She smiled, shaking her head. “I didn’t think so. Your fates aren’t tied to Doire Coill. You can’t learn everything in one life; the best any of us can do is learn what we need to survive. While you’re here, I’ll teach you what I can, but it won’t—it can’t—be much. After all, you can’t stay here.”
“Why not?” Meriel asked. The thought of leaving Doire Coill filled her with fear. The world outside, the world of the Riocha, seemed hostile and dangerous.
“Because even though what’s outside scares you right now, you don’t belong here,” Keira answered softly, as if she’d seen the fright pass behind Meriel’s eyes. “But there’s time enough to worry about that later. For now, rest. I’ll call you when the mage-lights come.”
The mage-lights pulled her, and Meriel managed to rise and limp from the cave on her own despite Owaine’s offer of help though he insisted on walking alongside her, too close for her to feel comfortable. She could see the mage-lights’ dazzling ballet reflected on the stones of the passageway as she climbed toward the entrance. She felt the urge of Treoraí’s Heart to be filled with their power.
Keira was already outside. She said nothing, only watched as both Owaine and Meriel closed their hands around their clochs and lifted them toward the sky that glowed from horizon to horizon with the shimmering curtains of light, rippling as if in some unseen spectral wind. The mage-lights curled above them, tendrils of glowing blue and green snaking down to wrap about their wrists and arms. Meriel sighed, feeling relief as the cloch sucked hungrily at the energy. In the mage-vision, she could see the lattices of crystal inside the stone, sparkling as they took in the mage-lights. She could feel the faint tendrils of connection between all the clochs and their Holders, as all of the cloudmages performed the same duty. It seemed but a few minutes but was probably half a stripe or more before it was done and she released the cloch. The mage-lights were already fading.
Meriel let herself return to the world around her. She could see the scars on her right hand in the moonlight. She saw Owaine looking at them also, curious, and she covered them with her other hand.
She was aware, suddenly, that Keira was not the only other one on the hillside with them, that a dire wolf stood near her. She could hear the growling voice of the creature, its red eyes seeming to glow in the night, though perhaps it was only the reflection of moonlight.
“Arror wants to know if you were worth his mate’s broken legs and the arrow wounds his pack suffered,” Keira said. Meriel’s jaw dropped at that and she stammered as Keira laughed. “Aye, they do have their own language, as Owaine could have told you,” she continued. “And I told Arror that, aye, I think this will be worth the pain they suffered, and that as a reward they can hunt the storm deer in Doire Coill below Misty Fen.”
“Tell Arror that I thank him and his pack, too,” Meriel told her. “I know I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for their help, and I’m sorry for what happened to his mate.”
Keira nodded, and turned to Arror with a series of growls and grunts to which the dire wolf responded in kind. “He says that two-legs are unwise creatures if they apologize for what wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t you who hurt Garrhal, but the one with the magic stone whose face Arror will remember.” Keira visibly shuddered under her robes. “And I wouldn’t care to be the tiarna if Arror finds him. The dire wolves are difficult enough as friends; they make terrible enemies. But now . . . it’s time to heal yourself, Meriel.”
Meriel brushed the clochmion with her fingers, feeling the power tingle with the touch. She felt the ache of her muscles, the sharp knives that slashed along her spine when she shifted her weight, the slow purpling of the bruises everywhere. It would be wonderful to make herself whole and free of pain.
It would be a delight, but . . . Arror stared at her. She could feel his gaze. “Keira, ask Arror where Garrhal is.”
Keira looked at Meriel curiously, her chin lifting. “I don’t need to ask. I know their dens. Down at the bottom of the hill, and a short walk under the oaks.”
“Then take me there.”
“You can’t walk that far,” Owaine said and Meriel glared at him.
“I’ll manage,” she said.
“Then let me help you.”
“Leave me alone, Bráthair,” Meriel started angrily, then stopped at the stricken look he gave her. “Bráithair Geraghty,” she began again, more gently. He smiled tentatively.
“Call me Owaine. I’ve never been entirely comfortable with ‘Bráthair.’ ”
“Owaine, then,” she said, “I appreciate everything you’ve done. Coming after me . . . that was incredibly foolish but also incredibly brave of you, and I’m glad you found Keira and came for me, but . . .”
Owaine’s eyebrows raised. Behind him, Arror seemed to be listening and sniffing the air around them at the same time, his mouth half-open in canine amusement.
“It doesn’t change anything,” Meriel finished. “Do you know what I mean?”
She could see the disappointment in his face and the futile struggle he made not to show it. Too late, he shrugged. “Oh, I understand. Actually, it is Dhegli who’s ultimately responsible. He didn’t give me a chance to think about consequences; he just brought me here.”
Dhegli . . . The name made her smile momentarily. His face, the touch of his fingers on her skin, the sound of his voice. A sense of loss and yearning threatened to overwhelm her. I want to call him. I want to see him again, be with him . . .
Keira had gone into the cave as Meriel and Owaine talked. When she emerged, she was holding an oaken staff burnished at the knobbed top by what must have been years of use. “Here,” she said. “This is one of Seancoim’s old staffs. I keep them, figuring I’ll need them one day myself.” Meriel took the stick in her free hand as Keira turned to Arror and growled something in his language. The huge wolf barked once, and padded off down the hill and into the cover of the trees as the three of them followed slowly, Meriel trying to find a rhythm that would allow her to walk over the broken ground with the least amount of pain, Owaine hovering unasked at her side. At the bottom of the knoll, they turned under the oaks and were plunged into darkness, the moon hidden by the dense foliage above. They could hear animals moving nearby and feel the pressure of eyes on them. Wind sprites glittered a few strides away, the bright stream of them flowing between and around the trees like a fast-moving creek, their voices a high chattering. Wings fluttered heavily above them; to their left some animal suddenly wailed, the sound eerily and abruptly cut off.
Keira seemed untroubled by the dark and the noises, walking quickly ahead of them. “The forest is most alive at night,” she said, glancing back at Meriel and Owaine as they paused, trying to adjust to the dimness. “The trees and most of the creatures who live here rest during the day. They prefer the darkness. Doire Coill is a dangerous place for travelers at night; the trees will hinder you deliberately and try to lead you to the Eldest and your death, and there are other animals out here who would also prey on humans—Arror’s people not the least of them. If the Eldest, the Seanóir, were singing tonight, then even I might be cautious, because ever since your mam brought the Filleadh, Meriel, the song of the Seanóir has been growing stronger and drawing the unwary from greater distances. But they’re quiet tonight and the trees know you’re with me, and you have Arror’s protection as well for now.”
It seemed to Meriel that they walked for a full stripe, though it was probably far less. They came eventually to a small opening in the trees where steep, thorn-covered slopes ringed them on three sides. A bit of moonlight trickled down through the overhanging branches, and Meriel could see the dark, round opening of several holes in the cliffside ahead of them. Red eyes gleamed in the hole just ahead of them and Arror stepped out. Other dire wolves came from the dens until they were surrounded by well over a dozen of the beasts. They sniffed and muttered and growled, and Meriel found herself staying close to Owaine. “Arror says that he can smell fear on the two of you, and says that you should calm yourselves—no harm will come to you here tonight.”
“Tonight?” Owaine repeated, and Keira laughed.
“Tonight,” she repeated. “Among the packs, they have a saying I’ve heard: ‘No throat goes unbared forever. ’ They know that the one who is strong today may be beaten tomorrow, and their social order is always in flux. As a result, they make promises very carefully.”
As Keira was speaking, Meriel saw a gray form limp out from Arror’s den—a female wolf, her rear legs splinted and bandaged so that she seemed to half drag herself along. As she appeared, some of the other wolves growled, their mutters obviously aggressive and angry as Arror snarled back at them and showed his teeth. Four cubs—the size of normal wolves but tiny by comparison with the adults around them—came out with her. “Dire wolves don’t generally save someone injured as badly as Garrhal was,” Keira told them. “She’s protected only by Arror’s status in the pack—if he was less dominant, they might have killed her or driven her out of the pack already. They say she’s a danger, that she can’t contribute to the pack or her cubs and should be left to fend for herself to heal or die.”
