Heir of Stone (The Cloudmages #3)

by S L Farrell

  “Cima,” Ennis said, “I wouldn’t ever hurt you. Never. Don’t you know that?”

  The litter swayed as the bearers moved over the uneven ground. Cima nodded uncertainly. “I know,” he answered. “But you scare me sometimes, Ennis Svarti. I don’t understand you. Are all the Daoine like you?”

  “I don’t know,” Ennis answered honestly. “I used to be scared of Da sometimes, and Kayne and Sevei if they were mad at me for something, but never Mam.” He stopped, watching the play of light through the litter’s curtain move across Cima’s face. “Where did you learn to talk like me?” he asked the Arruk.

  The bright color of Cima’s scales faded slightly, and he looked away from Ennis as if fascinated by the curtains at the side of the litter. “It’s not a tale I enjoy telling, Ennis Svarti.”

  “I’m sorry, Cima. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

  Cima’s frill lifted and settled again; Ennis wondered if that was a shrug. “I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Cima said. He took a long breath, his underlids closing for a long time before opening again. “A cycle or more ago, we noticed there were new bluntclaws dressed strangely with the Perakli army, and as Kurhv Kralj told you, a few of them were able to snatch at Cudak’s Web each night and could unleash a power more awful than even the spell-sticks of the greatest Svarti. But Kurhv Kralj didn’t tell you all. I was Cima Svarti: Kurhv Mairki’s chosen Svarti. These sky-stones of the new Perakli had cost us lives and territory, and Meidi Kralj wanted the new Perakli dead, wanted us to have the sky-stones and learn to use them. Meidi Kralj asked Kurhv Mairki to capture a few bluntclaws alive from the battlefield, so we could learn more. Kurhv Mairki assigned me to the task of working with the bluntclaw captives and learning their language, since it would certainly be a Svarti who would be able to use the sky-stones. If I learned the language well, Kurhv Mairki told me, if I learned how the Perakli used them, I would be given a mage-stone. He was certain we would capture one or more of them. I’m certain he also believed that this would make him Kralj.”

  Cima went silent. The litter lurched and swayed, and Ennis shifted in his cushions. “What happened?” he asked Cima.

  The Arruk grimaced. “Several moons ago there was the great battle that Kurhv Kralj told you about, where the strange bluntclaws came with their great mage-stone when we least expected it, the stone that threw great red fires. Just as Kurhv Kralj said, the mage-stone broke our Svartis, killed many of the Arruk, and sent us to our worst defeat. One of the new Perakli even killed Meidi Kralj and Meidi Kralj’s Svarti was killed also.”

  Cima turned back to Ennis, but his gaze wasn’t on Ennis’ face but to where Treoraí’s Heart lay hidden under his léine. “Is that why you’re not a Svarti, because Meidi Kralj’s Svarti was killed?”

  “After the battle, Grozan Mairki became Kralj. He blamed Kurhv Mairki for our loss because he hadn’t been able to learn enough about the sky-stones, and broke him to Ruka, as you know. As for me . . . All the other Mairki had their own Svarti, and Lieve Mairki, who was elevated when Kurhv Mairki was broken, didn’t want a Svarti who had failed in his task and who was also associated with a disgraced Mairki. He named Daj Svarti as his Svarti. They took my spell-stick and broke it in front of me, and they took all titles from me. They laughed at me as they did it, and they wouldn’t let me kill myself, even though I offered.”

  Ennis heard Cima exhale, as if he were about to say something more, but his snout closed and he leaned his head back against the pole of the litter. “There’s more . . .” Gyl Svarti whispered in his head, snorting in derision. “He doesn’t tell you all . . .”

  “Cima?”

  Cima took another long breath. “I thought . . . I thought that I would be in your place one day, that I would be the Kralj’s Svarti. When I was little more than an eggling, my Life-Weaver told me that the patterns of my scales showed greatness and an affinity for magic, and that’s all I ever thought about, ever since that day. The Life-Weaver was right, because whenever Cudak’s Web appeared in the sky, I could feel the power in it. Some of the Svarti were already talking about Cudak Zvati and how we must go to it, but I knew, Ennis Svarti, I knew where it was. I could feel Cudak’s Web better than any of the Svarti, even when I was just a Nesvarti. And I could feel Cudak’s power in the Perakli’s stones, too, and as I learned the Perakli language I also learned how the bluntclaw’s sky-stones could call down the sky’s power and hold it, and that those bluntclaws came from a land to the west, where I knew Cudak Zvati was. The other Svarti—they were already afraid or jealous of me. So when Meidi Kralj was killed . . . well, the Svarti had me broken as well.”

  Ennis nodded. The blue ghost was silent, but he spoke the words anyway, not caring that he broke away from the dance because he couldn’t stand the pain he heard in Cima’s voice. “My da had a sky-stone,” Ennis told the Arruk. “A Cloch Mór, one of the great stones. He was here with my brother. That’s who you fought. He was the one who threw the red fire,” he finished with certainty.

  Cima’s scales had paled even more, the hues muted. Ennis wondered if he was sick, wondered if he should take Treoraí’s Heart and try to cure him as Mam had done. But the Arruk stirred, moving as far from Ennis in the litter as possible. “I warned Meidi Kralj about the sky-stones, especially about the red one that was the strongest of them,” Cima said. “I told Meidi Kralj that perhaps the Perakli would let a few of the Svarti go to Cudak Zvati if we stopped fighting them. But the Kralj didn’t listen; he wouldn’t listen. Meidi Kralj said that I’d spent too much time with the bluntclaws when I learned their language, that I’d been infected by them and was now only half-Arruk—and I know that he was speaking words the other Svarti had told him.”

  Cima lowered his head and glared at Ennis. “I know that Cudak calls for us,” he continued. “He calls so that He can teach us how to call down the sky-net and use it. Maybe He will show the Svarti how to use their spell-sticks the way you bluntclaws use your clochs, your sky-stones. Or maybe He will give us sky-stones of our own.” Again, Cima glanced at Treoraí’s Heart around Ennis’ neck. His underlids flicked over his bulbous eyes and slid back again. “My Life-Weaver said I would be one of the greatest of the Svarti. But I’m nothing. Not a Svarti or a Nesvarti or even an apprentice. Just a half-Arruk with no title at all.”

  “If I die, you can take Treoraí’s Heart, Cima,” Ennis said earnestly, not caring that he felt the faint resistance of the blue ghost as he spoke the words. “I’d want you to. You’re the only friend I have. You’re the only one I can talk to.” Cima’s head cocked to one side, but his expression looked uncertain. “It’s what you want, isn’t it, Cima?” Ennis asked.

  “It’s what I wanted once,” Cima answered. “I don’t know anymore.”

  The Arruk looked away again, opening the curtains of the litter with a hand and staring out as the Arruk force moved ever higher into the mountains.

  48

  At Tory Coill

  DESCENDING FROM the heights of the Narrows to the lightly rolling plains surrounding Lough Tory had plunged Séarlait’s mood into depression, Kayne realized. She scowled as she rode alongside him, glaring at the road ahead. He tried talking to her as they rode, but she was as silent as she’d been before Sevei had healed her, responding only with headshakes and shrugs.

  Rí Mac Baoill and Shay O Blaca rode close by, while Kayne, Séarlait, and Harik were enclosed in the Rí’s entourage of Riocha and céili giallnai. Kayne found the sensation uncomfortable. He’d been so long away from the Riocha of the Tuatha that their mannered speech and rich clothing seemed somehow alien to him. His own clothing more closely resembled that of the common tuathánach soldiers trudging on foot before and behind the mounted tiarnas: dirty, stained, tattered from both wear and battle, and far more utilitarian than decorative. He’d refused the Rí’s offer of some of his own clothing from the chest in the retinue’s supply wagons; it felt better to stay dressed as he was. In any case, Séarlait was dressed the same way, and
there was no sense in deepening her mood. Áine, the Hand of the Heart, had offered some of her skirts to Séarlait, who had just stared at them. “Those might do well for a Riocha’s nice hall,” she told the woman. “They’re not for fighting, and I expect there’s still fighting to do.”

  Áine, at least, had known better than to argue.

  Kayne also found the circumstances uncomfortable simply because they were outnumbered. At Harik’s suggestion, he’d sent most of his da’s remaining gardai back to the Bunús Wall under the command of Garvan O Floinn, who had fully recovered from his wounds. Rodhlann and his Fingerlanders would continue to guard the Narrows. “We have three Clochs Mór,” Harik said when Kayne broached his worry to the Hand. “Three Clochs Mór make up for a lack of men, as long as we stay alert.”

  “Our clochs will do us no good when they slide a dagger into our backs before we can open them,” Séarlait had answered before Kayne could comment.

  Harik had given her a faint eye roll, like a parent listening to a child’s futile arguments. “Not all Riocha are as treacherous as a Fingerlander’s paranoia would make them out to be.”

  “Ah,” Séarlait said. “I should apologize, Harik Hand. The Riocha are the true salt of the earth and their very words are always the golden truth.” With that, she’d spat on the dirt between them and ground the spittle into the earth with her booted foot before stalking off. Harik had carefully avoided meeting Kayne’s gaze afterward, but Kayne thought he could nearly hear the man’s thoughts.

  If this was what it meant be Rí Ard, then he suspected that he wasn’t going to enjoy the experience.

  They had topped a rise where the company could look out over the landscape around them. They’d left the High Road, which after descending from the Narrows turned sharply north to Dathúil and detoured westward around Lough Tory—Kayne recalled the argument he’d had with his da just before he’d died: how following the High Road would add several days to the journey. As Kayne would have done, Rí Mac Baoill took them along the Forest Road, which wound between the southern shore of Lough Tory and the northern boundaries of Tory Coill, The dark oak forest spread its tall canopy like an emerald blanket over the land before them. Rí Mac Baoill came riding up to Kayne and Séarlait as they paused a moment, looking out. “We should ride close,” he said. “This is the least tamed part of Tuath Airgialla. Still, ’tis a pretty sight in its own way, is it not?”

  “It’s too flat and too green,” Séarlait said. She looked behind them. “I prefer the mountains.”

  “Mam and Da always said this part of Airgialla reminded them of the area around Doire Coill and Lough Lár in Tuath Gabair,” Kayne told the Rí. Séarlait would not look at him. “They spent much time there. The Bunús Muintir always treated them well.”

  Rí Mac Baoill nodded. If the Rí had his own opinions of the Bunús, he kept them to himself, though Kayne knew that the Rí’s da and great-da had both been harsh in their treatment of the old race. “We’ll push on so we get past Tory Coill before dark,” he said “It’s become less safe here since the Filleadh. The Bunús Muintir, dire wolves, and worse, you know. There’s a tiny fishing village—Cloughford—at the southernmost end of the lough—not even a village, just a few scattered houses; we’ll hope to have our midday meal there, and make for Broughshane, a larger village just on the other side of Tory Coill, by nightfall. From there, it will be three days to Dún Laoghaire, but there will be towns and villages enough on the High Road. I’m sending Tiarna O Blaca with Quickship to go ahead of us and tell the Ríthe to expect us.”

  “To prepare a proper reception, no doubt,” Séarlait said.

  If Rí Mac Baoill felt any of the mockery that rode in her voice, he made no sign of it. “Aye, Bantiarna Geraghty,” he answered. “That’s exactly so. With the clochs and men we have with us, we’ll be safe enough.” He hesitated a moment, pulling back on the reins of his horse. “Of course, you could always call the Bán Cailleach to our aid in the unlikely event we’re attacked,” he added.

  “My sister comes in her own time,” Kayne told him, “not at my beck and call. I would expect her with the mage-lights, not before.” He paused, not liking the look on the Rí’s face. “But, aye, if she felt me in trouble, I’m sure she would come as quickly as she could,” he added.

  “Ah,” Mac Baoill said. “Still, we’d best move as swiftly as we can. I should make sure my gardai understand the need for haste. Tiarna, Bantiarna.” He nodded to Kayne and Séarlait both and pulled hard at the horse’s reins, prodding the animal with a booted heel.

  “You shouldn’t mention your weaknesses to your enemy,” Séarlait told him as they watched the Rí move off to where the entourage waited farther up the narrow road.

  “Perhaps not,” Kayne answered. “But my true weakness he can see all too easily—that you and I are at odds.”

  Her chin trembled. She stared stiffly away into the wind. He heard her take in a breath as if she were going to speak, then stop. When she finally looked at him again, her face had softened. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I do love you, Kayne. That’s not changed at all.” She gave him a rueful smile. “I’m not good at speaking—I’m too new to it. I haven’t had the chance to learn how to keep my thoughts from tumbling out in words. I do love you, and that’s why I speak frankly when I think you’re doing something that may hurt you or us, and I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too. And I want you to speak those thoughts . . . but to me, not to the others. I both want and need your counsel. And your love.”

  She nodded. Her eyes glittered in the sunlight, and she blinked hard. “It’s just . . .” she began.

  “What? Tell me.”

  “When you get back to Dún Laoghaire, back to your world, you’ll be surrounded by bantiarna who know how to look and act as they should, who will be fairer and less rough-edged than me . . .” She stopped. Her hands were white-knuckled around the leather straps of the horse’s reins. “By the Mother, I sound like some stupid girl.”

  Kayne nudged his horse next to hers, so that their legs touched. He reached over and wound a braid of her hair around his finger. “You don’t need to worry, Séarlait. My da and my great-mam were both tuathánach. We come from humble roots, and our tastes are common.”

  “Are you saying I’m common . . . ?” Séarlait’s eyes still glittered, but the moisture had vanished in heat. Kayne grinned at her, and she slowly allowed herself to smile also. Ahead of them the entourage jerked into motion again, and the soldiers on foot and the supply wagons crowded up close behind them. “This isn’t anything to joke about,” she said, but there was laughter in her voice.

  “I managed to make you smile. That’s all I wanted.”

  “I still don’t like this, Kayne.”

  “I don’t either,” he told her. “But we’ll each watch out for the other, and we’ll be careful.”

  She looked unsure, but she nodded. Together, they prodded their horses into motion, and moved down the forest road toward the waiting trees.

  The village of Cloughford stank of the whitefish that the few inhabitants seined from the deep blue waters of Lough Tory. Their nets, much-repaired and half-rotted, hung everywhere near the muddy shore, and their boats—little more than two-person currachs hollowed out from the oak trees of Tory Coill—lay pulled up like great slumbering turtles with their barnacle-encrusted hulls to the sky. The inhabitants made themselves scarce when the Riocha had arrived, fading quietly away from the village. Doyle had caught a glimpse of one of them; he thought the man looked half-Bunús Muintir, with a flat, thick-browed countenance and a scowl as he vanished behind one of the thatched huts. Doyle and the others had been here since before dawn, and none of the villagers had remained behind to fish the lough that morning or returned to rekindle the dead coals in their hearths.

  There were seals in the lake as well, and Doyle no longer trusted seals—not since the battle at Falcarragh, years ago. Standing on the rotting pier that jutted out a few strides into the lake, he could
see a large seal’s head surface not far out in the water, the black eyes peering back at him. The seal’s fur was suspiciously dark, and Doyle had a moment to wonder if it could be a Saimhóir before the head ducked back under again in a rippling of still water. He thought of opening Snapdragon to snatch the creature from the water, or bringing one of the archers over.

  Doyle didn’t like Cloughford: didn’t like the watching seals, didn’t like the foul smells, didn’t like the tumbledown and half-ruined houses, didn’t like the proximity of Tory Coill with its mistletoe-infested oaken limbs just a few hands of strides across the road, didn’t like that Padraic was here with him.

  “An ugly place, is it not?” a voice intruded. Doyle heard the creak of wood under boot soles a moment later.

  “An ugly place for ugly deeds,” Doyle responded as he turned. “I’d be careful, Rí Mallaghan; I don’t know if this pier can take the weight of two men.”

  Torin Mallaghan smiled at that, his thin, deceptively frail features crinkling like fine paper. “You almost sound like you’re worried, Doyle.”

  “I am worried. I don’t like this.”

  Rí Mallaghan shrugged. “O Blaca arrived a stripe ago, and he’s confirmed what we thought: the Bán Cailleach can only find and go to a Holder when the mage-lights are out and the clochs are feeding. And we know from our experiences with the Mad Holder that Lámh Shábhála is limited like Quickship—Jenna could use Lámh Shábhála to go to other places at any time, but she could only transport herself to locations she herself knew and could remember.” Mallaghan gestured at the village around them as they walked from the pier to the shore past the nets on their poles. “Sevei Geraghty has certainly never been here, and the mage-lights won’t come for stripes yet. And even if we’re wrong . . .” Doyle saw the velvet cloth of Mallaghan’s clóca ripple with his shrug. “If the Bán Cailleach can stand against all the Clochs Mór we have brought here, then there was never any hope at all, was there? That would almost excuse the failures you’ve had with Lámh Shábhála over the years . . .” The Rí stopped and turned suddenly, so that Doyle nearly ran into the man. “You’re not having second thoughts about this, are you, Doyle? I’d hate to think that at this late date I no longer had your loyalty.”