Mage of Clouds (The Cloudmages #2), page 49
Meriel looked at Keira, who shook her head slightly. “Later, Mam,” she said. “First we need to say good-bye to Keira, then get out of this bog. We’ve a long walk ahead of us yet.”
47
Fatal Decisions
UNLIKE the High Road near Doire Coill, the road here was heavily traveled, wide enough that two carts could pass each other and still have a bit of room for travelers on foot, the doubled line of ruts worn deeply in the earth and most of the grass scrubbed away by the soles of boots. Travelers walked carefully around the piles of steaming dung from the horses and other beasts of burden. The area south of Falcarragh down to the drumlins that surrounded Lough Donn was heavily farmed. Well-maintained stone fences lined the High Road with large pastures flecked by white dots of sheep or Dun blotches of cows stretching out to the lines of trees that demarked the property lines, or fields of dusty yellow grain, or long rows of breadroot mounds.
Smaller lanes led off toward the cluster of buildings glimpsed through trees—the estates of the Riocha of Tuath Infochla—and at frequent intervals there would appear the thatched roofs of a small village and the bright signboards of inns and other merchants.
Meriel and the others were unremarkable among those walking the road. Before they’d left Doire Coill, Owaine had followed Doyle’s example and shaved his head and beard close as if he were a lice-ridden peasant; Meriel, with Edana’s help, had cut off much of her own tresses with deliberate choppiness, then they’d done the same to Jenna. Jenna’s mage-light scarred right arm was carefully wrapped, and the others all wore open-fingered and tattered gloves so that their lesser-scarred hands wouldn’t show. The trek across the fens of Lough Donn and through the wild brush of the drumlins had given them further authenticity, layering them in the same dirt and grime that coated the legs and clothing of other poor travelers. The Riocha who passed them riding their fine horses or in carriages gave no more than a passing glance at the road-caked group trudging along toward Falcarragh with their heads down: that was the proper attitude for those whose blood was common and whose lives were mundane, short, and toil-ridden. There were gardai and squads of conscripted soldiers passing as well; even as they reached the road, they had to wait for troops to pass, quick-marching north with banners in Tuath Airgialla’s red and white.
They followed in their wake.
By evening, they’d reached a town called Kilmaur along the banks of the River Donn, flowing northward to Falcarragh Bay and the Ice Sea. They paid for a room at an inn on the edge of the town; the innkeeper—an elderly man as thin and hard as one of Keira’s staffs—eyed them suspiciously and tested the mórceint that Owaine handed him with his few remaining teeth.
“Can’t be too careful,” he grumbled. “Too many people on the road these days, an’ I have to say that you have an odd accent. There’s thieves and murderers and worse. And the soldiers all a’headin’ to Falcarragh where the ships are waiting. Why, only two days ago, the new Rí Ard passed through on his way to Falcarragh, an’ you should have seen the commotion.” Doyle’s head lifted at that and Meriel saw the innkeeper glance at Doyle’s face, his eyebrows lowering. “The two of you should be careful if you don’t want to be on those ships yourselves,” he said to Doyle and Owaine, but his gaze came back to Doyle and rested there. “I hear that the gardai are pressing men into service if they look like they could handle a pike, and you seem healthy enough for that.” Doyle dropped his head and nodded.
In the room, they gratefully dropped the packs from their shoulders and collapsed. After resting a few minutes, Meriel went to the hearth and blew on the coals to get them started again as Edana brought over a few pieces of black turf the innkeeper had provided for them. Doyle and Owaine were talking together near the shuttered window, peering out at Kilmaur’s main street and across it to the river and discussing how far it was to Falcarragh.
“I don’t like the way he looked at us, especially Doyle,” Edana said to Meriel. Meriel poured water into the small black pot on the crane and swung it over the flames to boil.
“There’s nothing we can do to change it,” she said. “We knew we were taking the chance that someone might recognize us on the way, especially you and Doyle.” She rummaged in the pack and pulled out one of the packets Keira had given her. She sprinkled the dry flakes into the water and the smell of andúilleaf filled the room. The aroma seemed to ease some of the aches and pains of the day. Jenna stirred, limping over to the pot and leaning over the water to sniff the fragrance. “I’ll bring you the brew as soon as it’s done, Mam,” Meriel said. “How are you feeling?”
“How would you think I feel, after crawling through swamps and trudging miles, you silly child?” Jenna answered angrily before her face softened and she sniffed at the andúilleaf again. “I’m sorry, Meriel. I’m ... hurting badly, and—”
Meriel touched her mam’s face and smiled. “I understand, Mam. The andúilleaf will help.”
“We should go down to the tavern,” Owaine said. “We might be able to learn something listening to the patrons.” He shrugged. “Besides, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m hungry.”
The others agreed, all but Jenna, who wanted to stay in the room after she drank her andúilleaf tea. “I’ll be better here, resting,” she told Meriel. “Go on. I know where you are if I need you.”
They found the owner of the inn in the tavern. He greeted them with a sniff and a lift of his grizzled chin, and poured the round of ale that Owaine ordered only after he paid first. Owaine brought the wooden mugs over to the table Meriel had commandeered in the far corner of the room. “Friendly place,” Owaine remarked as he slid onto the bench next to Meriel.
“It’s the war preparation,” Doyle answered. “Look around; half the women here are clinging to their men like it’s the last time they might see them, and they might be right.” Meriel glanced around, seeing that Doyle’s observation was accurate. There was a forced, deliberate gaiety in the atmosphere, and the smiles on the faces seemed painted there, fixed and unchanging and artificial. Those who looked back at her narrowed their eyes suspiciously at the strangeness of her face and averted their gaze. The conversations they could hear seemed all concerned with the movement of the troops on the High Road and rumors about Falcarragh.
“. . . I was told by Tallan, who’s been there, that the city glitters in the sun with all the armor and weapons, and that the bay is filled with ships from all the Tuatha.”
“Tallan exaggerates, and he’s half-blind besides. I heard from my cousin that there’s an army marching up from Connachta right now, and it’s bigger than any of the others. They’ll be through here in three days.”
“More likely it’s a big flock of sheep he saw. They’re going to need the mutton to feed all those soldiers in Falcarragh... .”
As they listened to the talk around them, sipping at the foamy dark beer, Meriel saw a man enter the tavern. He was dressed in a plain brown clóca and immediately entered into a conversation with the innkeeper, whose gaze kept drifting over to their table though the man to whom he was talking never looked that way. The man in brown paid for an ale and took a stool in the corner of the room. He sat there, his back to the wall, where he could see the whole room. He never looked their way directly, but Meriel frowned, seeing him.
“I think we should leave,” she told the others.
“Why?” Owaine asked.
“I just think we should go to another tavern. Maybe we’ll hear something different there.”
Owaine shrugged. “Fine.” Neither Doyle nor Edana made any protest, and after they finished their drinks, they rose and left the tavern.
“My ale’s not good enough for the likes of you, eh?” the innkeeper called after them mockingly as they passed. Owaine started to answer, but Meriel put her hand on his shoulder and shook her head warningly. He frowned at her but closed his mouth. They left.
The air smelled of the river, flowing silvered by moonlight across the flagstones and down a grassy verge; a few hundred strides to their left, the town’s wharves poked out into the slow-moving water, and a boat was moving silently northward in the flow, the light from two lanterns shimmering on the waves.
The main street of Kilmaur was busy in the darkness: couples walked the street arm in arm; a cluster of drunken gardai in the colors of Tuath Locha Léin stumbled past, talking loudly and laughing. Street vendors hawked their wares; in the shadows, a few women offered less tangible goods for sale. The bright sound of a giotár came to them from up the street where a musician sat on a corner in the light from another inn, the bottom of his felt hat layered with small coins. Meriel could feel a sense of desperate gaiety in the movement and the laughter and the conversations, as if they could banish the reality of the coming war with hilarity, grinning mouths, and alcohol. Or maybe, she admitted to herself, she was only overlaying her own fears on the scene. Maybe this was simply Kilmaur celebrating and none of them were frightened by what was coming at all—they had Lámh Shábhála and their new Rí Ard and saw victory as both certain and easy.
She stood on the street, watching the activity around them and wondering what the truth was.
“I don’t know that this is a good idea, Meriel,” Doyle said. Both he and Edana had the hoods of their clóca up, keeping their faces in concealing shadow. “There’s the danger of someone recognizing Edana or me, and we’re leaving the Banrion all alone in her room.” His voice was tired and throaty; his shoulders sagged and he held himself like an ill old man. Edana stayed close to him, her eyes worried. Meriel felt a small stab of guilt. He’s not much better than your mam and you’ve done nothing to help him. But the guilt vanished quickly: Doyle had refused her help once and she had no intention of venturing inside the mind of another person gone cloch-mad. Doyle’s suffering was far less than that of her mam, and he could bear it on his own—at least, that was how she justified it to herself.
Meriel glanced behind them. “We won’t be gone long,” she said, and started walking up the street to the corner where the street musician played. She paused to drop in a coin, then led the group quickly around the corner into a tiny, quiet lane with few people about. Meriel led them into the gap between two buildings. “Wait,” she said to them, putting her fingers to her lips. Owaine looked at her quizzically, then his eyes widened slightly and he nodded. He placed himself at the opening.
They didn’t have to wait for more than a few moments. They heard hurrying boot steps on the flags and the man in brown appeared. Owaine slid from darkness behind him, grasping him by the shoulder and pressing his dagger’s blade immediately against the man’s throat. “Don’t,” he whispered warningly as the man started to struggle. Owaine pulled the man quickly back into the gap and pushed him against the wall, his left hand fisted in the man’s clóca. The knife flashed in his other hand, high enough that the man could see it.
“If we’d known you wanted to come with us, we would have waited,” Owaine said to the man, the tip of his knife just touching the soft flesh where the carotid artery pulsed. Meriel saw Edana’s hand slide under the fold of her clóca to where her cloch was hidden; Doyle had straightened, glaring hard at the man with his own knife out. The man pressed his back to the wall, eyes wide, as if he were trying to force his spine between the very stones.
“Who are you? Why are you following us?” Meriel asked him. The man didn’t answer, only glared at them with an odd mixture of fright and defiance. Owaine pressed the knife against the skin so that the man hissed as a trickle of blood slid down his neck.
“I’m Bran Mowlan of the Kilmaur gardai, and you’re making a horrible mistake here if you don’t put that knife down now.” Despite the threat, there was no bluster in his voice. The words sounded more like a plea.
Owaine continue to press the blade against him, the line of slow, bright blood soaking into the bunched cloth at the base of his neck. “My friend asked why you were following us,” he said. “The mistake would be not answering her.”
Mowlan’s gaze flitted wildly around them. “Blowick, the innkeeper, he sent word that there were suspicious strangers at his inn, so I was sent to investigate.”
“And what did you see?” Doyle asked.
“Nothing worth reporting,” Mowlan said. His voice trembled and his eyes were round and huge as he glanced at Doyle without moving his head. “Just some people passing through, that’s all.” Meriel heard the faint sound of water. She looked down to see liquid trickling down the man’s legs and pooling between his feet. The sour smell of urine came a moment later. “Let me go,” Mowlan said with a small sob. He sniffed. “Please. I’ll say nothing. I swear by the Mother.”
“You’re right about that,” Doyle said. Meriel caught the glance between Doyle and Owaine and the faint nod which was Owaine’s response.
“Meriel, take Edana and Doyle back to the inn and see to your mam,” Owaine said. “I’ll follow in a bit.”
“No,” Meriel answered sharply. “Owaine—”
“Meriel,” Owaine cut in quickly. He glanced again at Doyle. “Watch him,” he said, and then took Meriel’s arm. Angrily, she pulled away from him. “Then just come with me,” he said. “Please.” He moved deeper into the darkness between the buildings. She glared at him, then followed.
“I know what you’re thinking of doing,” she said when she caught up with him, hands on hips. “I won’t allow it.”
“It isn’t just your decision, Meriel. I know you don’t want this and I don’t either. The Mother knows I’ve never had to make a choice like this before. It’s one thing to defend yourself when you’re attacked or to go to help someone else, and another to . . .” He stopped, looking back toward where Doyle held Mowlan to the wall. “I wish we could avoid this, but it’s not possible for us to take Lámh Shábhála back without hurting or killing people. How many have already died? If we let this man go, he’ll go back to his superiors and tell them what happened.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, not for certain, but look at him. What’s he going to do when his superior asks him what happened? Do you think he’ll take the opportunity to have revenge on the people who humiliated him, who made him soil himself? I think he will. Then we won’t be facing one person but a squadron and we’ll likely end up dead ourselves. I’m willing to trade his life for ours. Think of how many lives we’ll save—the lives of our families and friends—if we can stop the invasion of Inish Thuaidh. Leave this man alive, and they die, Meriel. Not just us, but all of them, also.”
Part of her agreed with Owaine’s logic and told her that what he was espousing was the best course. Yet she glanced down the alleyway at the frightened man balanced on the point of Doyle’s knife and she couldn’t stop wondering about him: did he have a wife? Children? Family? He was obviously terrified and it seemed so utterly wrong to kill him. “We could tie and gag him, leave him somewhere where he won’t be found.”
“And what if he is found or if he gets loose before we can leave?” Owaine countered. “Or if he’s found the next day and they send gardai on horses after us and also send warnings ahead to Falcarragh, telling them who to watch for.” He lifted his hand as if he were going to caress her face and Meriel took a step back from him. He let his hand drop back to his side. “Meriel, I owe you so much and I know this hurts you, but we can’t afford mercy here,” he said. “We can’t afford kindness. Doyle would tell you the same thing, and so would Edana. For that matter, so would your mam.”
“Then we’re no better than any of the rest of them, are we?” she retorted. He didn’t answer. “Owaine . . .” she began. The decision seemed to hang between them, solid. “You’ve changed so much. Or maybe it’s me who’s changed. I don’t know. I only know that the way I’ve looked at you has changed.” For a moment, she saw the hope in his face, and she shook it away with a motion of her head. “But if you do this,” she said finally, “there could never be anything between us, Owaine. I couldn’t, knowing what you’ve done. Maybe you’re right; I don’t know. You make the decision.”
His gaze held hers. She could see the pain in his eyes, in the netting of fine wrinkles that held them. He nodded and slid past her. His knife was in his hand again. “Go on,” he said to Doyle, staring at Mowlan and looking at Meriel as she came up behind him, her eyes fierce. “I’ll see the rest of you later. Go on.”
Owaine returned to the room a little over a stripe later. “As soon as we got back, I told Blowick that we talked to Mowlan,” Doyle told him. “I mentioned that Mowlan had said if Blowick ever bothered him again with unfounded suspicions, he would personally see that it was the last time.”
“Good,” Owaine said with little inflection. His voice sounded dead and void of emotion. “That should gain us a few days, at least.” Edana handed Owaine a mug of hot tea. He sipped at it gratefully. Meriel thought that he looked weary and drawn, and his gaze never seemed to find hers. When he opened his clóca and threw it off, there was blood spattered on the front of his tunic. She quickly looked away. “We need to burn these clothes,” he said. “Then we should leave tonight, as soon as we can. There’s a rear stairs just down the corridor.”
She wanted to ask him if he was all right. She wanted to know what he’d done with Mowlan. She wanted to go to him and hold him, to say that she might not like the decision but that she understood. That it didn’t make a difference.
She did none of that. “I don’t know that Mam can walk right now,” she said instead. She hated the rising edge in her voice, didn’t like the way it caused Owaine’s eyebrows to lower.
“I’ll manage,” Jenna said. “Just give me a little more andúilleaf ...”
“More andúilleaf and you’ll be in such a fog you won’t be able to put one foot in front of the other,” Meriel snapped. Jenna glared back at her.
“You forget who’s the the Banrion here,” Jenna snarled.
