Mage of Clouds (The Cloudmages #2), page 4
“Then why didn’t you ever bring me to see her or have her come to us?”
Meriel saw her mam’s lips tighten. Her eyes shimmered in the sunset. “It’s a long and complicated story, and—” She sighed. “I’ll tell you someday. I want to tell you. Maybe when we get to Inishfeirm and can sit down for a long chat. But the short version is that we both, Mam and I, made the choice to stay apart because . . .” Her voice became softer than the hush of the water against the hull.
“Because you killed Padraic Mac Ard.”
Meriel saw her mam’s eyes close with remembered pain. “Aye. Because of Padraic Mac Ard. I wrote to her, oh, once a year or so. I told her about you. I told her lots of things, but she never responded. After a while I stopped writing. We’re both—well, we’re both too proud for our own good. I know that was a mistake, now—and I hope the Mother-Creator will forgive me for it.” Jenna turned her head to look at Meriel. “It’s a mistake I don’t want to make with my own daughter.”
She couldn’t hold back the retort this time. “Then tell the captain to turn the ship around. Don’t send me to Inishfeirm.”
Jenna was already shaking her head before she finished. “I can’t, Meriel.”
“Why not? This isn’t what I want, Mam. How does it help us to get closer if I’m there while you’re in Dún Kiil? Tell me why you’re doing this to me.”
Jenna had turned away from the ocean. The seals had vanished, and only the edge of the sun was still visible. In the dusk, Meriel could see her mam’s eyes glistening. “There are things you shouldn’t know, Meriel. Not yet. This is one of them.”
“Fine,” Meriel said, snapping her mouth shut with the word. She slapped the railing with her hand, the sound loud. “You treat me like I’m still a child, Mam, but I’m not. I suppose that’s something else you didn’t notice.”
With that, Meriel pushed away from the railing and left. She heard her mam call her name behind her but she paid no attention. She went to her cabin and shut the door, causing Nainsi, still in her bunk, to glance up startled.
Meriel expected any moment to hear a knock and her mam’s angry shout.
She heard nothing at all.
The next day, a small island lifted from the sea ahead of them.
Inishfeirm was a fog-wrapped, steep-walled mountain thrusting out from the waves five miles from Inish Thuaidh. As they approached, Meriel could see houses and buildings scattered up the slopes from the small harbor sheltered by a tall rock (“Inish Bideach, that rock’s called,” one of the sailors told her. “Tiny Island.”) Smaller white dots moved along the green-cloaked, steep hillsides: grazing sheep. High up on the mountainside, a large, towered structure gleamed as if it had been molded from snow: the White Keep, home of the Order of Inishfeirm and Meriel’s intended residence for the next several years.
It looked a gloomy prospect, indeed.
The sailors furled the twin sails and took to the oars, rowing Uaigneas into the harbor as Jenna and Máister Kirwan came up from their tiny cabins. They flanked Meriel and Nainsi. Jenna greeted Meriel with a “Maidin maith,” but said nothing else to her. Those on the shore had noticed the Banrion’s insignia fluttering on the forward mast, and a crowd gathered quickly around the wharf where they tied up.
“Most of the island’s turned out,” Máister Kirwan commented, smiling and waving to the people. “Everyone wants to see the Banrion and First Holder again.”
Meriel refrained from comment: if this was “most of the island,” then there weren’t many people here at all. She’d seen larger crowds on nearly any day at the market at Dún Kiil, and during the Festivals the streets there were so full that this pitiful group waving back at them would have been utterly lost. They seemed to be fisherfolk or farmers mostly, with plain clothing and plainer faces, hands stained dark with work and toil. Here and there among them were a few men and women in white clócas like Máister Kirwan, some with a white léine underneath, others—mostly younger than Meriel—with red. A man all in white came forward as the lines were secured to the pilings and the planking laid from deck to wharf: slightly built, with hair so dark brown it verged on black, and eyes the color of freshly-turned earth. His beard was still downy and short, patchy on the cheeks, and to Meriel’s mind he looked to be no more than four or five years older than she was. He also seemed to be rather nearsighted, for he leaned slightly forward and squinted heavily in their direction, his nose wrinkling. He wore a glittering stone around his neck “Máister! And Banrion MacEagan! Welcome!”
“Owaine Geraghty.” Jenna’s mam was smiling. “And in a Bráthair’s colors finally. It’s good to see you once again—you’re taking good care of the clochmion I sent you, I see.”
Owaine smiled, touching the stone. “Thank you again for the gift, Banrion. It was unexpected and very much appreciated.”
“You and your family helped me once; that’s just a small return of the favor.”
“It was far more generous than that,” Owaine answered. “I never expected to actually hold a cloch na thintrí.” He gestured toward the buildings near the docks. His squinting eyes found Meriel. “So this is our new acolyte. Welcome, Bantiarna MacEagan. I have a carriage for you—we saw the ship from the keep. There’s a supper waiting above . . .”
Meriel found the White Keep depressing despite its bright outward appearance. The stonework was ancient, with a central tower that appeared far older than the Keep at Dún Kiil. The stones were a pale granite coated with layer upon layer of whitewash. Inside, the structure was huge, drafty, and cold—a maze of corridors and passages, all of them seemingly added to the existing structure at various times over the centuries. The architecture varied wildly, from plain work around the oldest portions that might have been crafted by the ancient Bunús Muintir race; to ornate, fancifully ornamented archways that belonged to the Before, back when the mage-lights had last gleamed in the sky; to the stark, utilitarian lines that Meriel associated with the Great Hall of Dún Kiil; to a colorful geometric style of decoration that she didn’t recognize at all. A flagged corridor might end suddenly, going down two abrupt steps to a marble-tiled hall built a century later that jutted off at an angle. Corridors never seemed to intersect at right angles, or several corridors would meet all at once in a strangely-shaped room, and a few of the halls they walked were so ancient that the feet of countless people had worn double hollows in the very stones. The entire population of the island could have lived here easily, with room left over for every last goat, sheep, and chicken.
Meriel began to doubt that she would ever come to know this place. She also doubted that she would ever enjoy it.
“This will be your room, Meriel,” Máister Kirwan said, “and—ah, good, you’re here—this is Faoil Caomhánach, who will be your roommate for now . . .” They had entered the dormitory wing, a dreary expanse of wide halls and spacious rooms. This particular room was undistinguished—a parlor with a peat fire burning in the grate, some dark utilitarian furniture, and two doors leading off to bedrooms. A young woman’s head lifted in the warm glow of a sconce of candles, glancing up from a roll of parchment spread out on a pine desk: Faoil. Hair the color of candlelight sparked from under a white wimple; large green eyes flecked with brown regarded Meriel first, then went to Máister Kirwan and Jenna. Faoil’s eyes widened even more, and a blush touched her cheeks. She rose, scattering papers in her rush, and curtsied.
“Banrion MacEagan, Máister,” she said. Her voice was honeyed milk; the momentary fluster gone. She gestured to the chairs near the fire and spoke as if meeting the Banrion were something she did every day. “Please, come in. I was just studying; Siúr Meagher hinted that she might give us a small test tomorrow.”
“Faoil has a great potential in the slow magics,” Máister Kirwan said, “if she continues to apply herself.”
“And Máister Kirwan has made certain that all of the Bráthairs and Siúrs keep me working,” Faoil added with a smile. Meriel decided that Faoil was too smooth, too polished, too flattering. She’d seen the type before: the polite sycophants who prowled the halls of Dun Kiil, the width of their smiles a gauge of the relative rank of those they met. She wondered what the real Faoil was like.
She had the distressing realization that she would undoubtedly find out.
Her mam seemed to have the same curiosity. She was staring at Faoil as she might a meal set in front of her. “Caomhánach,” she said, pronouncing the name as if tasting the sound of it. “There are Caomhánachs in Tuath Infochla and Tuath Airgialla. And Tiarna Iosep O’hEagjra, who is on the Comhairle, has a sister who is married to Odhrán Caomhánach of Infochla ...”
“That would be Aisling,” Faoil answered. “She’s my mam, and Odhrán Caomhánach my da,” Faoil answered. “We have land near Glenkille, though he’s often in Falcarragh.”
“In the Rí Infochla’s court,” Jenna said. It was a statement rather than a question. Faoil nodded. “And your da holds a Cloch Mór.”
“Aye,” Faoil said. “He does.” She paused a moment, glancing at Máister Kirwan again. “I ... was introduced to your mam once about a year ago, Banrion, by your half brother Doyle Mac Ard, at the Festival of Gheimhri in Dún Laoghaire. She was ...” Meriel couldn’t see her mam’s face, but she could see Faoil’s smile falter. The girl visibly blanched, as if realizing the gaffe she’d just made. Faoil blinked, obviously not wanting to finish the thought but thinking that it would be even more awkward to leave the sentence unfinished. “. . . a bit ill at the time, but she was very pleasant to me.”
Meriel saw her mam’s hand drift toward where Lámh Shábhála rested on its chain. She could only imagine her face under the cowl of her clóca. “It’s good to have met you, Faoil,” Jenna said. “Mundy, I remember a courtyard at the end of this hall. Does it still have the statue of Peria? I’d like to take a look at it again—shall we go there?”
With a nod toward Faoil, Jenna abruptly left the room. Máister Kirwan hesitated a moment, an expression on his face as if he’d just swallowed sour milk, then he turned to follow. “We’ll be back in a bit,” he said to Faoil. “You ought to continue studying; Siúr Meagher’s examinations are generally quite thorough. Meriel, if you’ll come this way, please . . .”
They found Jenna already in the small courtyard, staring at a young woman caught in a moment of agony, her tortured face lifted toward the sky as if in supplication, her right hand clasped to her chest. On the woman’s arm, Meriel could see the same pattern of scars that marred her mam’s skin. For a moment, Meriel didn’t realize that it was a statue—the coloring of the flesh and the clothing she wore were entirely realistic, and the figure itself was so lifelike. She almost expected it to breathe, or sound to come from that mouth.
It was instead her mam who spoke. “What in the Mother’s name do you think you’re doing, Mundy?” Jenna said without turning around. “Do you think I’m going to let my daughter sleep in the same chambers as a Tuathian spy?”
“She’s not a spy, Jenna,” Máister Kirwan answered. “Faoil’s a girl, the same as Meriel. No more.”
Jenna whirled around, and Meriel saw the anger on her mam’s face. (Behind her, the statue remained unmoving, caught in its moment of sheer terror. Meriel moved around the outside of the small garden, wanting to get closer to it.) “You can’t know that. How fortuitous that a tiarna in the court of Infochla would send his daughter here to study. And that remark about my mam and Doyle Mac Ard . . .”
“She was trying to make polite conversation and meant nothing by it. You saw her face; she realized that she’d said something she shouldn’t have, but she tried to make the best of it. Faoil’s an only child, and her da could have sent her to the Order of Gabair instead, but he didn’t. He has family ties to Inish Thuaidh and knows that it’s here that cloudmages are best taught. I’ve met the man and I trust him. Are we already back to war with the Tuatha, Jenna, or do the agreements we’ve made still hold? Have I missed something?”
“You know what I mean, Mundy. We might not yet be at war with the Tuatha, but you know as well as I do that we will be, and perhaps soon.”
“But not yet,” Máister Kirwan said, unrelenting. “We have several students here from Talamh an Ghlas; you knew that from the beginning. We teach anyone who comes here, regardless of their home or background or heritage—that’s the way it’s always been.”
“Perhaps that should change, since you teach the enemies of Inish Thuaidh, who will use that knowledge against us.”
“Perhaps the Banrion is seeing enemies where there are none.” He lifted his hands in exasperation. “Jenna, I chose Faoil personally, myself, because she has work habits and abilities that Meriel—”
Meriel, an arm’s length from the statue, heard her name and glanced over to the two. She saw her mam’s face go dark as her arm slashed air, cutting off Máister Kirwan’s words. “Listen to me, Mundy. I don’t want Meriel in that room. Put her with someone from Inish Thuaidh or place her in a room of her own—the Mother knows you have enough to spare here. I don’t care which you do, but do it. You can pretend she’s just another acolyte all you want, but she’s still the Banrion’s daughter—my daughter—and I need to know that she’s safe.”
“Aye, she is the Banrion’s daughter, but while she’s here she will be just another acolyte. I told you this in Dún Kiil, Jenna: if Meriel is to be here, I will treat her as I think best. If that isn’t to your satisfaction, then find somewhere else to put her. I’ll keep her as safe as—”
Meriel reached out a hand to stroke the statue’s arm and gave a startled, half-strangled cry. Her mam and Máister Kirwan both spun around to look at her. “The statue,” she said, embarrassed at the attention. “The skin is soft, and warm . . .”
“Severii O’Coulghan, who was the son of Peria, the woman it depicts, made the statue,” Máister Kirwan said. “He created it with the dying energy of Lámh Shábhála in the last days of the Before. There’s a huge statue of his da, Tadhg, the Founder of the Order, elsewhere in the keep—it’s the same: when you touch it, it seems like you’re touching flesh.”
“So real . . .” Meriel breathed, gazing up at the woman’s face.
“Severii had a gift, and used Lámh Shábhála to help him create it. The clochs can be used for more than war, though they rarely are.” Máister Kirwan sighed, turning back to Jenna as Meriel touched the statue’s arm again. “I’m not your enemy, Jenna. I never will be. Trust me to do what’s best.”
Meriel thought that her mam would fly into a rage. She’d seen it before when her da or some tiarna or bantiarna persisted in giving Jenna advice that went against her own instincts. “Your mam’s strong-willed and independent,” Da told her once. “And don’t misunderstand me, Meriel—I think that’s good. Jenna wouldn’t have survived all she’s gone through without those qualities. But sometimes it does makes her blind.” Meriel watched her mam struggle internally, the cords standing out in her neck. Jenna’s gaze caught on Meriel, still standing next to the anguished depiction of Peria. Her mam’s hand slid over the jeweled cage of Lámh Shábhála, and the touch seemed to calm her. Her breathing slowed, her posture relaxed slightly.
“You’ll watch her, Mundy,” she said. “Personally. She’ll be your charge.”
“I’ll watch her,” Máister Kirwan answered. “As you would watch her yourself.”
Her mam stayed the night on Inishfeirm, and for that night Meriel stayed with her rather than with Faoil. The supper was interminable, with Meriel sitting alongside as her mam spoke with seemingly every one of the Bráithars and Siúrs of the Order, all of whom also appeared to have a long history with her, as did several of the Inishfeirm residents who also attended. Meriel was introduced all around and smiled as well as she could into the barrage of greetings and well-wishing, and endless variations on “I remember when you came here as a little girl . . .” The supper was served by the acolytes, and Meriel found that the gazes of the young men and women rested curiously on her most of the evening, at least a few of them, it seemed to her, with open hostility. Afterward, there was singing—Meriel nearly fell asleep during the Song of Máel Armagh, done badly by one of the male acolytes whose prepubescent voice kept breaking on the high notes.
She was relieved when the night sky suddenly bloomed into shimmering brilliance. “Mage-lights!” someone called. The latest song stopped in mid-verse; the people in the hall shifted in their seats. Máister Kirwan leaned over toward Jenna. “Banrion, would you like to step outside here with the rest of us, or meet the mage-lights in your own room?”
“In my room, I think,” Jenna answered, and Meriel sighed inwardly with relief. One of the acolytes guided them back; Nainsi came to the door, fluttering around solicitously until Jenna, annoyed, shooed her away. Meriel started for her own bedchamber, but her mam called to her. “No, Meriel. Come out on the balcony with me.”
Never a request, only a command . . . It was the way her mam always phrased things. Meriel grimaced, then set a faint smile on her lips as she turned. “Aye, Mam.” Jenna was already pulling aside the heavy, tapestried curtains in front of the balcony doors. Meriel felt the cold air sweep into the room as Jenna pushed them open, and the colors of the mage-lights danced on the walls.
Green veils of light glistened overhead, shifting to a chill blue as Meriel stepped out alongside her mam. A blood-red fold sparked directly overhead, shot through with white spirals. Mage-lights: Meriel had seen them her whole life, though she knew that it was her mam who had opened the way for them. Mage-lights: the energy that fed the clochs na thintrí, that had brought them back to life after their centuries-long slumber.
Meriel had also seen the lights fill Lámh Shábhála, and she knew what to expect as her mam lifted the chain from around her neck, closed her right hand around the stone, and held it toward the sky. The mage-lights responded, seeming to dip and sway and curl above them as tendrils of light snaked down from the zenith in long streamers. To the left, where the cloudmages of the Order had gathered below them on the grounds outside the dining hall, other light-streams were swirling, wrapping around the gathered clochs. But the largest and brightest concentration was around Jenna, sparkling coruscations that made Meriel squint against their brilliance. The lights danced around Jenna’s upraised hand, and the scars etched in her arm seemed to glow themselves as the mage-lights filled Lámh Shábhála with their energy.
