Heir of Stone (The Cloudmages #3)

by S L Farrell

  Though she still didn’t know what her stone could do. It had yet to tell her.

  “Was it awful for you tonight, my love?” she whispered into Dillon’s ear. “I know Gram can be . . . intimidating.”

  “Well, that’s certainly one word for her,” Dillon answered and she felt him shiver once in her arms. “She seemed . . . I don’t know, a bit distant all evening.”

  “She’s not feeling well,” Sevei answered, “and she’s taking medication for the pain. Kala bark.”

  Dillon nodded. “The rumors I’ve heard among the students are that she uses andúilleaf, too.”

  Sevei shook her head at that. It was gossip she’d heard as well, a tale she hoped wasn’t true. Andúilleaf addiction had driven Jenna mad twice already, with disastrous consequences both times. “I don’t think so. I don’t think she’d be that foolish.”

  Holding him, she felt Dillon’s shrug. His breath tickled her ear, warm. “Maybe not. But when she finally started talking during dinner, I thought she was going to interrogate me about every last person in my family down to the fourth cousins. I swear that she knew family members I didn’t know I had.”

  “I’m sure Gram had her staff doing research all day before you arrived. She’s thorough that way. I don’t blame her for wanting to know, though. A little suspicion is a survival trait in our family, I’m afraid.”

  “I understand.” He gave a quick chuckle. “And then watching all three of you, with the mage-lights . . . well, I’m amazed that I’m allowed to be near you at all.” His lips sought hers again, and she lifted her face to his.

  For several long breaths, they said nothing. Sevei let herself fall into him, as if they were one body. She’d had infat uations before, some serious, some not. Before she’d been sent out to fosterage, she and Padraic Mac Ard—Banrion Edana and Doyle Mac Ard’s oldest son—had become close, close enough that she knew Mam and Auntie Edana had whispered about a possible marriage in the future.

  But Dillon . . . Dillon was an even more intense attraction than Padraic: handsome, intelligent, a talented Bráthair of the Order even if he held no cloch na thintrí yet, and a gifted musician with the harp. She could sometimes feel as close to him as she could her twin Kayne. She wondered if she could feel his thoughts as she did her twin’s, if she tried hard enough. They’d been together for half a year now; a time that felt simultaneously like forever and but a few days. When at last she reluctantly pulled her head back, she put her mouth next to his ear.

  “I suppose you’ll do,” she husked.

  They both laughed—that had been Jenna’s comment to Sevei as they left her chambers hand in hand: “I suppose he’ll do. As long as he’s what you want right now . . .” They kissed again, shorter this time but more urgently, and when Dillon’s fingers slid down her side to her waist, she caught his hand with hers. “I should be getting back to my room. Máister Kirwan said he was going to be following along in a few minutes, and you know what that means.”

  “Aye, I know. Though . . .” He stopped. “Maybe he’ll spend the evening with your gram instead.”

  “Dillon!” Sevei exclaimed in mock horror, then chuckled. “So you noticed, too.”

  “Aye. It was obvious. Our Máister likes the First Holder, and she seems to like him as well.” He kissed the nape of her neck and she lifted her chin with a sigh, feeling the kiss all the way to her core. “I wonder if your great-da knows?” he continued.

  “I don’t think he would care, actually. They hardly spend much time toge—” Dillon stopped her words with his mouth, but she gave a gasp, feeling a stabbing of something almost like pain in her chest; Dillon pulled back, looking at her quizzically.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know . . .” Sevei felt as if a knife point had been pressed between her breasts, heated to a white-hot glow. She reached for the spot and felt the clochmion there. Her fingers went around it, almost involuntarily, and with the touch, she felt her awareness double: part of her was standing there in the courtyard in Dillon’s arms, and another part of her went sweeping outward over the Westering Sea. She could feel . . . out there . . . something . . .

  ... the beating of huge wings, slow and steady and comforting . . . the waves rushing below cold and gray, the wave tops tipped with red from the sunset, the wind lifting phosphorescent whitecaps from the tops . . . off to the left, the island rising from the sea . . . and there the touch of recognition . . . the rumble of heat in your belly and the urge to be with another of your kind, but the pull of recognition brings your head around on your long neck . . . helpless to ignore the summons, your wings tilt, and the ocean looms close and clouds wheel overhead with the turn . . .

  “Sevei, what is it?”

  “Shh . . .” she told Dillon. “There’s something close to us, out to sea.”

  Letting go of Dillon’s hand, Sevei hurried to the entrance of the courtyard and the bars of the gate. She pushed open the gate open and stepped out from the keep wall, peered down the steep slopes of Inishfeirm to where the Westering Sea could be seen through the trees fringing the cliffs of the island. To her right, the main wing of the keep loomed. “I don’t see anything,” Dillon called behind her, still inside the gateway of the courtyard. “Maybe if we went up into the tower . . .”

  “We don’t need to do that,” Sevei answered. “I can feel it with the clochmion.” She lifted the chain over her head, holding the stone in her hand. It was glowing now, as if in response.

  ... the island coming near . . . an anger roaring in the belly at being forced to respond this way . . . wanting to turn and go seek out the nest of your own kind, but you can’t because of the call . . .

  “No, wait,” Sevei said. “There is something. Look. Is that a bird, maybe?”

  She tried to point so that Dillon could see, though it was difficult with the doubled vision in her head: she saw both herself looking out but also staring inward at the island where she stood. The form did seem like a large bird—a shape seen against the stars—but suddenly the perspective shifted on her and she realized that the creature was much farther away than either of them thought, and that the beast was far, far too large to be a bird. The creature rushed toward her, or she rushed toward it—with the twin visions in her head, it was difficult for Sevei to tell which.

  “By the Mother . . .” Dillon husked behind her. “Sevei . . .”

  “I know,” she answered, not looking back at him but at the creature, her voice full of awe. “Dillon, I think I brought it here.”

  Majestic and terrible, the dragon swelled in size as it came over the island, the tops of the very trees bending with its passage. It hovered above the library tower flanking the main gate of the keep: leathery wings catching the cold air, brown-and-gold scales glinting in the last light of the day, though with the moonglow from the east and the twilight to the west, the tail stretched out behind the dragon seemed to be blood-red. The wings flapped once with a boom like thunder and clawed, muscular feet grasped the top of the tower as it perched there, far down the main wing from Sevei. Claws clenched and mage-stones fell, cracked and broken. The creature stared at her down the length of the White Keep: at Sevei and the stone in her hand. Even at this distance she knew the creature’s attention was on her, because she could see herself through the dragon’s eyes. Its mouth opened and it screeched as alarm bells rang throughout the keep, heat shimmering from the tooth-lined cavern of its mouth. Then the wings flapped again and it pushed away from the library tower, sending a portion of the wall falling. Now it came toward the First Holder’s Wing and her.

  Sevei was frozen; she could only watch.

  Dillon darted out and pulled Sevei under cover of the archway as the dragon half landed, half crashed into one of the guard towers above them. A milk-white block smashed to the ground a dozen strides from them, burying itself in one of the garden beds as it crushed pansies and herbs. The beast’s frilled head lowered on its long neck and eyes the size of a man’s head glared at the
m under thick ridges, no more than an arm’s span away. It opened its mouth once more and there was a glow inside, while heat wavered and steamed in the night air. They could feel the warmth of the air and smell the scent of carrion.

  The dragon spoke, sounds Sevei could not understand with her ears, but which formed into dark and low words in her head.

  “Why do you call me, Soft-flesh?” it asked.

  Sevei almost staggered. “Call . . . you?” she stammered, her voice seeming impossibly small against the roar and presence of the dragon. “I didn’t . . . I mean . . .”

  “You called me here and now you hold me,” the dragon intoned. “If there is nothing you want of me, then let me go.”

  “Let you go?” Sevei repeated, then saw the dragon’s gaze lower from her face to her hand (and seeing its viewpoint in her mind), and she realized that she was still clutching the clochmion, that the energy of the mage-lights was pouring out from it. She also realized that it was emptying quickly of the power she’d placed in it just a stripe ago.

  So that’s what it does . . .

  One of the bráthairs emerged from the doorway of the opposite tower, gaped in astonishment at the dragon perched above, and fled shouting for help. Close by, Sevei felt a Cloch Mór open, and then—like the sun rising again—Lámh Shábhála also wakened. Sevei wasn’t sure how she knew this: she could feel the impact on the net of energy flowing outward from her clochmion. Dragoncaller . . . She thought the name involuntarily and knew that would be the name for her stone. Dragoncaller . . .

  “Let me go,” the dragon said again, “or wait, if you prefer.” Its face seemed to leer at her and she could hear amusement in its voice. There was sharp intelligence behind those eyes, but also a strong malevolence that made Sevei shudder. She realized that the creature cared nothing about or for her or the world of humans—there was no common ground between them. She stared into the cold eyes of Otherness. She knew—somehow, inside—that the dragons called themselves the Earc Tine, and that this one’s name was Kekeri the Bloodtail, and that . . . “You can’t hold me much longer,” it said, guessing her thoughts, and she knew it was right—already the clochmion was nearly drained and once its power was gone . . .

  If she had called the dragon, if she held it here with the clochmion, then once the cloch’s energy was drained, the creature would be free to do whatever it wished. As if to underscore her thoughts, the dragon’s claws clutched hard at the lip of the tower and more stones fell.

  Gram would emerge in a moment, and Máister Kirwan, and she could imagine what they would do with the beast perched on the ramparts of the White Keep, and she could also imagine what the dragon might do in response. An image flashed before her of the White Keep caught in dragon flame and the lightnings of the clochs na thintrí. She could smell the fire and hear the screams.

  She could see people dying. People she knew and cared about.

  “Go!” she told it loudly. She waved her free hand at it as if shooing away a persistent fly. “Go back to your journey!”

  The dragon lifted its head. “I will meet you again,” it said. “Another time . . .” It lifted its head away as the great jaws opened and it screamed: a deep mournful howl that shivered with the sound of hissing flame. The wings flapped once, sending a blast of summer-hot air over the courtyard that raised dust from the flagstones. Its massive legs pushed hard against the tower, cracking the stones and showering the courtyard with a final cascade of rock. The scarlet tail slapped at a crenellated wall and it fell. The dragon’s shadow flitted over the court as Sevei heard shouts of alarm from around the keep. Sevei and Dillon rushed out from their shelter to see the dragon wheel high above the keep and then flash downward over the cliffs of the island toward the sea. In a moment, it was gone behind the screen of trees.

  Sevei released the clochmion. There was but a bare breath of power left within it. When it was gone, what would have happened? Sevei found herself shivering from more than just the cold.

  “Sevei! Sevei, where are you!”

  “Here, Gram!” Sevei stepped out into the open with Dillon beside her. Jenna was standing at the balcony of her room overlooking the courtyard, clutching Lámh Shábhála, and Máister Kirwan stood there with her.

  “The dragon—”

  “It’s gone, Gram. I—”

  Jenna peered down at them. “I know what you did. I felt it.” The light had nearly vanished in the west and in the gloom and with the distance, Sevei could not read the expression on the older woman’s face. “You’ll come up here,” Jenna said, and it wasn’t the voice of Gram but the command of a Banrion who expected obedience. “Both of you. Up here. Now.”

  “You called that creature with the clochmion.” The way Gram said the words made it a statement, not a question.

  “Aye, Gram,” Sevei answered. “I didn’t know . . . I felt the clochmion, and when I touched the stone, it was like I was the dragon. I know exactly how the beast felt: the stone called and it had to come even though it didn’t want to. The clochmion could hold it as long as there was still power in the stone, and I think if I had ordered the dragon to do something, it would have, though with a great reluctance. The dragons don’t really like or understand us, or us them . . .”

  “It talked to you ...You could understand dragon-speech . . .” Sevei saw her gram glance at Máister Kirwan. “All her da could do with the same stone was find lost items,” she said to him, “and this child brings down half the library and one of my towers the first night she fills it. Dragons, of all things!”

  “She’s an Aoire,” Máister Kirwan answered. “Look what Meriel has done with Treoraí’s Heart. It’s your bloodline, Jenna. Don’t act so surprised.”

  Jenna sighed at that, but Sevei thought she looked secretly pleased. Next to Sevei, Dillon stirred uncomfortably and Sevei took his hand. Jenna’s eyes followed the motion and she scowled. Sevei hurried into the silence before her gram could speak again.

  “Da always said he was fascinated by dragons, Gram, and he’d even seen them three times in his life,” she said, “the first time when he was looking for Mam after she was taken from here and he was still holding this cloch. Maybe that’s why the stone took that ability—because of Da’s interest in dragons.”

  “Why doesn’t matter,” Jenna snapped. “What matters is whether you can control the clochmion, rather than the reverse.”

  “I can, Gram,” Sevei said, her voice taking on an edge to match Jenna’s. “I didn’t know what I was doing or even what I had called just now—I was only responding to the cloch. Now I do know—and I’d remind you that I also knew enough to release the beast before Dragoncaller had spent all its energy, or we might not be talking together. The way the thing looked at me . . . it would have crushed me in its jaws.”

  “It would have had to take me first,” Dillon interjected, and Jenna made a sound of rude disdain in her throat.

  “Phah! Brave words are easy when you don’t have to back them up, Bráthair Ó’Baoill. And you, child,” she said, turning her gaze on Sevei. “So now you name the stone, too? It’s a simple clochmion, not a Cloch Mór. You don’t need to be so overdramatic, Sevei.’

  “And you needn’t be so condescending, Gram,” Sevei retorted.

  “Sevei . . .” Dillon whispered, squeezing her hand warningly, but she ignored him. She sat forward in her chair, ready to answer heatedly, but Máister Kirwan interrupted the tirade she might have unleashed.

  “I think,” he said, stepping forward to stand between Jenna and Sevei, “that if a mirror could show the soul of a person and not just the body it inhabits, the two of you would see that there’s not a whit of difference between you. Which is why you’ll get nowhere arguing with each other, and why you will argue. Sevei, I’ll spend the time between now and your departure for Dún Laoghaire working with you and the clochmion. That way we’ll all be certain that there aren’t any more, ah, unfortunate accidents with it. And that should satisfy Banrion MacEagan, also.” He looked more at J
enna than Sevei. Jenna frowned, refusing to meet Máister Kirwan’s eyes, but she finally gave a huff of exasperation and waved a hand at Sevei.

  “I’ve never been good at acknowledging when someone tells me the unflattering truths about myself,” Jenna said. Her face softened then. “But . . . Mundy, as usual, you’re right—even if I don’t want to admit it. Sevei, I’m sorry. I just . . . worry, that’s all. For you to do this . . .” She shook her head. “You’re stronger than most cloudmages, that’s for certain. You’ll need to be careful because of that. Do you understand?”

  “No,” Sevei answered truthfully. Jenna laughed at the bald starkness of the answer.

  “Good. That’s the most intelligent thing anyone has said here tonight.” She waved her hand again. “You’ve exhausted that stone and can’t fill it again until tomorrow night, so we’re safe for the evening. Go on with you, then. I’m tired.”

  Sevei rose and went to Jenna. She kissed her on the forehead. “I love you, Gram,” she said. “You know that, don’t you? I’m sorry I argued with you. You’re a Banrion and the First Holder besides, but you’re my gram and that matters the most.”

  “Aye, I know,” Jenna said quietly and patted Sevei on the cheek. “And I love you as well, daughter-child. I . . . I just don’t want you to be hurt. I’ll need you. I know that for certain now. I’ll need you soon.” She put an odd stress on the last word, and Sevei nodded. Dillon had come up alongside her; he bowed to the Banrion, who inclined her head in response silently, watching as Sevei took Dillon’s arm and went to the door. Máister Kirwan followed after them.

  “Mundy,” Jenna called out. “Can you stay for a bit? I’d like you to fix some of the tea you talked about earlier . . .”