Heir of Stone (The Cloudmages #3)

by S L Farrell

  Here, in the dirt, he was begging a filthy graybeard for aid, because he had no other choice. The indignity of it made him scowl. “I need to warn Hand Harik of the treachery. Perhaps with the men we left at the Bunús Wall . . .”

  “And why should we help?” O’Blathmhaic interrupted. “This is Tuath Airgialla, is it not?—the Rí Mac Baoill’s land, not yours, even if you be who you claim to be.”

  “You don’t believe me?” Kayne said, pushing his chair back as O Leathlobhair squawked in alarm and O’Blath mhaic watched with bland amusement in his gaze. “Then there’s nothing to gain here.” He rose to his feet, unable to stifle the groan as his ribs protested, as the deep wound in his thigh threatened to rip open again. His head brushed the low beams above him as he forced his body to straighten. He took a limping step toward the door as O’Blathmhaic’s dog growled and nipped at his feet.

  “And how are you going to find your way back in the dark, boy? You can barely walk as it is. We’ll find your broken body in the morning after you fall over one of the cliffs. Sit, and listen to someone older and wiser than you—or is that something you Riocha canna do?”

  Kayne glared at O’Blathmhaic, who gazed back at him placidly as he reached to the center of the table to tear off a piece of the bread loaf that sat there. The clan-laird pushed the wedge into his mouth, chewing noisily. Kayne looked at O Leathlobhair, who didn’t seem inclined to leave with him. The dog sniffed at his boots.

  Kayne sat again.

  O’Blathmhaic chuckled softly to himself. He tipped back in his chair. “There now. You can think with that handsome head of yours.” Now he leaned forward again, and Kayne could smell the man’s breath: ale and bread and rotting teeth. “Listen to me now, and listen well. O Leathlobhair here has already told you that we Fingerlanders don’t care for the Rí Airgialla. Mac Baoill can claim the Finger if he likes, but he also knows that he can’t hold our land except in name. He can tithe us, but if he makes the tribute too burdensome, it won’t come to him and he’ll be forced to either look impotent in front of the other Riocha or start a war in the highlands that he can’t win. Oh, he sends his gardai here when he has to, but they don’t stay.” O’Blathmhaic grinned gap-toothed at that. “Mind you, a few of ’em always do stay—or rather, their bones do. Help you? Maybe I can. It depends on what you’re asking of us, and what the clans would get in return. The wars of the Riocha aren’t our wars, Tiarna Geraghty. All we want here is to be left alone.”

  “Help me, and I make you this promise: the Finger will become its own Tuath, not under Rí Mac Baoill, but under whomever the clans wish to call Rí. Maybe even you, Clan-Laird.”

  O’Blathmhaic roared at that, pounding the table with his fist as the dog barked and O Leathlobhair grinned. “That’s a good one, Tiarna. A good one. The likes of me as Rí. I’m sure you’d love having me visit your fancy chambers in Dún Laoghaire, eh?” The mirth seemed to die as quickly as it had come. He frowned, leaning forward toward Kayne. “A promise that can’t be kept means nothing, boy. If Mac Baoill feels safe enough to attack the Banrion Ard’s husband and son, then I doubt that Dún Laoghaire has enough power to take the Finger from him. You’ve been away, and everything has changed in that time. Why should I have any confidence in you and the few remnants of your troops?”

  “Because I’m also the great-son of the First Holder. Because I hold a Cloch Mór myself.” Kayne dragged Blaze from underneath his léine. The ruby facets glinted like rich wine in the firelight. “Because my mam is the Banrion Ard, the Healer Ard. Because, by the Mother, I will have vengeance for what happened here, whether you help me or not.”

  A trace of a smile touched O’Blathmhaic’s lips and departed. “Brave words. But that’s all. It still only concerns you Riocha.”

  “There’s a war coming that none of us can avoid, Laird O’Blathmhaic,” Kayne told him. “Not Riocha, not céili giallnai, not tuathánach. An enemy is coming from Céile Mhór, and they will affect everyone in their path. Everyone. They’ve already made their first strike here, in Ceangail.”

  O’Blathmhaic grunted. “Take my dog out to check the flock, would you, Caolán,” he said abruptly to O Leathlobhair. The other man hesitated, then shrugged, rising from his seat and whistling to the dog, who padded out from under the table. O’Blathmhaic sat back, the rude chair creaking as he shifted his weight. “I heard the rumors about Ceangail, aye. So they’re true?”

  “They’re true, and worse. It will take all of us, Riocha and Fingerlander, common or noble blood, to hold back this storm.” Kayne felt the memories of the past year crease his face. “I’ve faced the Arruk, and I know how powerful they are. Laird O’Blathmhaic, all I ask now is that you help me and my friends reach Bunús Wall, where the rest of our people should be. Take us there, and you’ll see the truth of Ceangail as we pass. Talk to the laird there.”

  O’Blathmhaic’s fingers sought his bearded chin again. “I could do that, aye. Or I could tell Mac Baoill’s gardai that I have the rabbit that slipped from their noose. I wonder what Mac Baoill would be willing to pay for a Cloch Mór?”

  Kayne started to rise from his seat again, but he bumped into O Leathlobhair even as he stepped back, feeling a sharp and cold blade touch the side of his neck as the dog growled. “I wouldn’t move your hand to that stone, Tiarna,” the old man hissed in his ear.

  As Kayne froze, O’Blathmhaic laughed and gestured. “Sit, boy! You think we’d give Mac Baoill a Cloch Mór when I could keep it for myself? Do you think I have any interest in doing a Riocha’s dirty work for him? Sit, and be careful about it. Old O Leathlobhair’s hand is none too steady, and I’ve seen the edge on that knife of his lay open a wolf’s gut like it was a pie crust.”

  O’Blathmhaic watched Kayne ease himself back down, O Leathlobhair’s blade remaining at his neck. “Now then, let me finish. I don’t know if you’re telling me the truth or not. Even if you are, helping you might not help us. But even here in the Finger we know the Healer Ard wasn’t like the rest of the Riocha, and we’ve always had a certain sympathy with the Inishlanders for the way they’ve thumbed their noses at the Tuatha all these years. Taking you to Ceangail won’t hurt, and I can as easily make up my mind there as here. So we’ll go to Ceangail, and we’ll talk to those there, and if I learn that what you say is true, then I’ll take you to Bunús Wall and your men. Is that good enough for you?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  O’Blathmhaic lifted a shoulder. “Aye. There’s always a choice. You can accept the offer or I can let O Leathlobhair give you a second mouth.” He took a sip of his ale and gave an appreciative smack of his lips. He stared hard at Kayne, his eyes unblinking and alert. “Here among the clans of the Finger, Tiarna, a person’s word is taken as if it came from the Mother’s lips, and when that word is broken or found to be false, the punishment is swift and harsh. Give me your word that you’ll do nothing to harm any Fingerlander, and I’ll have O Leathlobhair put his sheep-skinner away.”

  Kayne gazed steadily back at the man. “You have my word, Laird. I’ll do no harm to those who might help me.”

  A nod. The blade was gone from Kayne’s neck and he heard the whisper of steel in leather as O Leathlobhair sheathed the blade. Kayne rubbed at the side of his neck and looked at his fingers, half-expecting to see blood there. There was nothing.

  “I’ll meet you at O Leathlobhair’s in two stripes of the candle,” Laird O’Blathmhaic said. “And we’ll take a bit of stroll in the dark.”

  It wasn’t just O’Blathmhaic who arrived not long after the mage-lights had faded, but a quartet of clansfolk: two men and a woman with a long and ugly scar across her neck accompanied him. The group set out on sturdy and small highland ponies, with mounts for Kayne and each of his men. Garvan, Bartel, and Sean rode with Kayne, but they left Uilliam with O Leathlobhair, too injured to ride. “We’ll be back for you,” Kayne told him. “Get yourself better, Uilliam. I’ll need you later.”

  They rode through the night by paths that K
ayne could not discern, the ponies plodding slowly and surely through the gorse and heather that mantled the steep hillsides. They stayed mostly to the edges of the valleys and the shadows of the trees—stands of birch and elm and pines. Liam O’Blathmhaic said nothing once they were on the way, riding next to Kayne and content to let the scarred woman—who seemed to be the guide—lead the way. Watching the stars when he could glimpse them above, Kayne could see that they moved sometimes north, sometimes south, but always eastward as well. He wished he could see the land around them. Often, black cliffs reared on one side or the other, or there would be a yawning emptiness over a hidden ravine where water could be heard rushing. There were calls and cries from animals, and twice the shivering voicelike howl of dire wolves made Kayne sit up and peer about him.

  O’Blathmhaic chuckled at that. “They’re just letting us know that they see us,” he said in a husky whisper. “They’re no different than clansfolk—as long as you stay out of their territory and their business, they’ll leave you alone. But bother them, and they don’t like that a’tall.”

  Twice, they crossed the High Road, the woman always going ahead to make certain that the road was deserted before they quickly crossed, moving swiftly down the rutted lane for a few breaths before leaving it once again.

  They continued on for what seemed stripes. Kayne found himself nodding off even as they rode, lulled to sleep by the rocking motion of the pony and sheer exhaustion. He jerked alert suddenly, realizing that their little troop had stopped in the shadows of a copse of elms. O’Blath mhaic raised a finger to his beard-masked lips, then pointed up a steep slope to where the wavering lights of campfires gleamed. “Some of your friends from Airgialla,” he said in a low voice, “are camped alongside the High Road.”

  The woman guide had dismounted. She came back to O’Blathmhaic: she was perhaps the same age as Kayne, her face bearing the strain of a hard life, but there was also a pleasant handsomeness to her face, and her eyes were as large and dark as those of a fawn. Under her chin, the thick, twisted ridge of the scar pulled at her skin. She gazed up at O’Blathmhaic, lifting her head a bit though she said nothing at all. He seemed to understand. He nodded.

  “Be quick about it, Séarlait,” he told her. “We need to ride.”

  She turned in a single lithe movement, racing quietly off into the darkness. Kayne saw her pluck a bow from the pack on her pony before she scurried quietly up the brush-cloaked hillside toward the lights—she went alone, the other clansfolk remaining with the group. Kayne wondered at that. There was silence for several breaths. “Laird O’Blathmhaic ...” Kayne began, but the old man’s voice answered before he could phrase the question.

  “Séarlait is my great-daughter,” he said. “The daughter of my son. She was twelve when several of Rí Mac Baoill’s gardai came here to collect the bóruma. The bastards decided they wanted to collect more than just our tribute. They raped her mam in front of Séarlait and my son, then they killed my son and his wife. When the gardai turned their attention to Séarlait, she fought back and bit one of them. After they were finished raping the girl, the garda she’d bitten cut her throat in repayment, leaving her for dead.”

  Kayne drew in his breath with a hiss. “Aye,” O’Blath mhaic said. “That’s why she canna talk.” From up the hill came the twang of a bowstring, with two more quickly following, then shouts. Kayne could see the silhouettes of the roused gardai running in front of the fires. “At least not with her voice,” O’Blathmhaic finished.

  Not long after, a breathless Séarlait appeared out of the night, a tight-lipped smile on her face. She raised her hand toward the clan-laird, three fingers up, then unstrung her bow and shoved it back in the pack. She mounted her pony and led them deeper into the cover of the trees.

  “You see, Tiarna,” O’Blathmhaic told Kayne. “You can send an army here if you like, but only the clansfolk know the true paths in this land. You won’t ever find us all, and clansfolk never forget who their enemies are. Never.”

  It had taken Kayne’s troop days to get to the Narrows from Ceangail via the High Road, which had wriggled back and forth over the landscape, climbing ridges and descending again into valleys. When the sun peered over the tops of the mountains ahead of them, they stopped and the clansfolk passed around skins of water and hard biscuits. “Ah, Tiarna Geraghty, would you look at that!” Sean said suddenly, also nudging Garvan and Bartel—both of them half asleep sitting against a tree trunk—with an elbow. “Ain’t that Ceangail already?”

  Kayne blinked into the sunlight: though the valley into which they were descending was still shadowed and foggy, what looked indeed to be the walls of Ceangail could be glimpsed among the trees several miles ahead, on the rise where they’d fought the Arruk—that battle seemed ages ago now. Another age. Another time.

  “That can’t be Ceangail,” Kayne said. “It was nearly a three-day ride from Ceangail to the Narrows.”

  Nearby, O’Blathmhaic grinned into the yellow new light, shading his eyes against the glare and chuckling at Kayne’s bemusement. “When the Riocha brought their people in to mark out the High Road,” he said, “they asked us where best to lay it. If they ignored what we told them and went somewhere else, they always had . . . accidents. Problems. Eventually, they followed the trails we Fingerlanders marked for them because that was easiest.” He pointed to where the thread of the road could be seen behind them, a bare line through the green of the mountain. “Did you really think we’d show them our true paths? No, we made sure they’d move slow and be where we can keep an eye on them. Any Airgiallaians are a full day’s journey behind us.”

  For the first time since the debacle at the Narrows, Kayne allowed himself to feel hope. Harik and the others should be out at the Bunús Wall, and if they could get word back to Dún Laoghaire . . . Kayne tightened his jaw, looking at the High Road.

  Da, I will give you your vengeance for what they did. I promise that . . .

  He hadn’t realized that he’d fallen into reverie and that the others had remounted until Séarlait came up to him. She looked into Kayne’s face, her head tilted slightly as if she were trying to see something that just eluded her gaze. Then she jerked her head sharply in the direction of Ceangail. Kayne found himself caught in her gaze, in the features of her face, in the pain and sorrow and loneliness he saw there. “Sorry,” Kayne said. He smiled at her. “I was just—”

  She didn’t let him finish the phrase, walking off without waiting to hear the rest. Sean had helped the one-legged Bartel onto his pony and then mounted his own horse, Garvan was already astride his, and Kayne could feel the pressure of Laird O’Blathmhaic’s regard on him as he went to the horse they’d given him. “Séarlait would tell you that revenge is a cold and jealous marriage that leaves you with no room for anything or anyone else,” O’Blathmhaic said. “Are you looking to be betrothed, Tiarna?”

  Kayne glanced back at the High Road as if he could see the Airgiallaian gardai approaching, with the Rí Mac Baoill’s son Mal leading them with his Cloch Mór. Kayne’s hand went to Blaze under the layers of the furs Laird O’Blathmhaic had provided. “Aye,” he said finally. “’Tis a marriage I want very much.”

  O’Blathmhaic gave a laugh that was half grunt. “Then you’re more like clansfolk than I thought, Tiarna.”

  Bunús Wall. Five miles long, the ruins of the wall undulated over the ridges and valleys of the Finger from the cliffs of the Ice Sea to the shore of the Tween. Most of the tall barrier of stone had tumbled down long ago, but some parts remained much as they had been: as thick as the outstretched hands of two men and as tall as three, the massive granite blocks carved from some quarry as yet unfound. The wall had been there, in nearly the same condition, since the Daoine had come to Talamh an Ghlas, almost 1200 years before. The legend was that the Bunús Muintir had built the wall as a buffer against some long-forgotten invaders, but even the Bunús Muintir who lived in Talamh an Ghlas didn’t know if that was true or simply myth. Some said it had been raised
by Bunús Muintir cloudmages, that even huge crews of slaves laboring away for centuries couldn’t possibly have built it, that the Bunús lacked the technology to transport the immense carved blocks of stone so far from their source. Whatever the truth might be, the Bunús Wall was still magnificent even in half ruin. There were faces in the wall, leering gargoyles and fierce coiled dragons, snapping wolves and glaring demons—all of them carved in the stone, all of them glaring outward to the east and Céile Mhór. The faces were eroded now by time and weather, though once they must have presented a formidable scene, freshly carved and painted and snarling at any advancing force. Bunús Gate itself, where the High Road passed through it, was made in the form of a strange winged feline with scaled skin, its yawning mouth the opening through which the road passed, its clawed front feet the supports.

  “Whoever it was the Old Ones fought, they defeated them, for the Bunús were still here when we came, eh?” Laird O’Blathmhaic patted a dragon’s snout on a fallen stone. The dragon now stared defiantly at the sky and its mouth was stuffed with an old bird’s nest. “I wonder if they didn’t use their slow magic or their clochs na thintrí to make the dragons roar and the wolves howl, all the carvings writhing like they were alive. Now that would be a sight to make you piss in your boots, wouldn’t it? We should be glad our ancestors didn’t come then, or they might have gone running back to wherever they came from, eh?”