Heir of Stone (The Cloudmages #3) (18 page)

O Leathlobhair started to move past Kayne, going back to the hearth, but Kayne stopped him. “When I get back to Dún Laoghaire,” he said to the man, “I’ll make certain that you’re well rewarded for this. I promise.”

The old man smiled sadly at Kayne. “I know this much about Rí Morven Mac Baoill: he’s not a man for bold moves. If Tuath Airgialla dares to march openly against the Banrion Ard’s husband and son, then I don’t think you’re going to find Dún Laoghaire the same if you go back there.”

EDANA DIDN’T LOOK up as Doyle approached, though he knew his wife had to have heard his approaching footsteps. At his entrance, the servants in the Great Hall judiciously scattered for the exits and other tasks. Edana continued to stare down at the body on the bier before her, but he saw her body tense under the ornate clóca she wore, the cloth dyed the dark gray of Dún Laoghaire, the same color worn by the body before her. A golden weaving of interlaced knots and curlicues shifted at the hem and collar.

“How is Padraic?” Edana asked without turning to Doyle. “If you’ve gotten him injured or killed with this business, I will never forgive you. Never.”

The question momentarily shocked him. He’d underestimated Edana in the past; it was a lesson he’d thought he’d learned, but if she knew that Padraic had been with him and where, then it was obvious that her network of informants was larger and more capable than he’d believed.
So she knows at least some of it.
He’d have to do some hard questioning of the staff at the Order of Gabair.

And if she knew, there was no sense in maintaining the lie. “Our son’s fine, Edana,” Doyle answered. “Padraic’s unhurt. Unbloodied, even. There was . . .” He sighed, remembering. “. . . no fighting at all with weapons, and only a little with the clochs.”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, but she didn’t question his response, which told him that she knew where they’d been, and probably why. “Is he with you?”

“No. Shay O Blaca sent me back with Quickship just now—Padraic will return with the others in a week or so. To Lár Bhaile. I told him to send you a letter, at least.”

Edana nodded, still staring. Doyle came up behind her, standing there without touching her. He glanced over Edana’s shoulder at the body. Meriel lay behind a screen of filmy gauze, a pair of golden mórceints over her eyes, the string of an embroidered cap tied tightly under her chin to keep the mouth closed, her hands resting at her sides. He told himself he felt no guilt. He told himself that there was nothing he could have done that would have avoided this. He told himself . . .

He sucked in his breath. He’d expected to see a smaller body lying in the bier next to Meriel, and she was alone. Worse, around Meriel’s neck there was a chain and a pendant with a jewel, but the stone wasn’t one that Doyle recognized. He felt a quick stabbing of worry and panic. Too much had gone wrong already—if this had been another failure, Rí Mallaghan would be furious, and Doyle knew who would ultimately be blamed.
It doesn’t matter that this was all his plan, that I told him that I was uncomfortable with it all, that I thought we should wait, that I worried about what could so easily go wrong . . .
“Where’s Treoraí’s Heart? Has someone taken it?”

Edana took a breath and finally turned to face him, and there was ice and scorn in her gaze. “What’s the matter, Husband?” she asked. “Weren’t your orders followed? Did you really hate poor Meriel that much? Were you that jealous that she was Ard?” The muscles in her face were tight and there were dark hollows under her reddened eyes. “Riders came to me today, one from Tuath Éoganacht and the other from Tuath Locha Léin. Meriel’s other two children, Tara and Ionhar, seem to both have met unfortunate accidents in the last few days, despite the best care of their relatives. And there’s been talk that the gardai of Tuath Airgialla are out riding near the Finger, where Owaine and Kayne are expected. I suppose there have been ‘accidents’ there, as well. Can’t have any of the immediate family left to cause problems of succession, can you?”

This wasn’t my idea,
he wanted to tell her, as he’d told Jenna.
I argued with the Ríthe against this, but Rí Mallaghan was adamant . . .
He knew none of it would convince her or make her change the way she looked at him. He knew, also, that word would already have been sent to Rí Mallaghan about what had transpired here. They still did not have Lámh Shábhála; if they’d failed here also . . . “What of Ennis?” Doyle asked, and Edana’s gaze narrowed.

“No one’s seen Ennis or the woman who was watching him—Meriel had supper with Isibéal and Ennis the night she died. My aides tells me that the dessert was poisoned—they fed a piece to a dog and it died within a few hours. The herbalist I consulted tells me that the poison was almost certainly a Taisteal concoction.” She cocked her head at Doyle, as if judging him. “Poison’s a coward’s tool, Doyle. I’m surprised even you would stoop to that. Perhaps I should hire someone to taste my own food in the future?”

The scorn and disgust in her face was shocking, if not surprising. For the last year, perhaps a bit more, he and Edana been husband and wife in name only, no longer sharing the large bed in their inner chamber—ever since Rí Mallaghan had approached him with the concerns he and many of the other Ríthe had about the growing influence of Inish Thuaidh and the Mad Holder with the Ard, with her popularity with the tuathánach and the increasing dissatisfaction among the Riocha, with her concern over the Arruk who had yet to threaten the Tuatha. As the talk and planning became more serious, Doyle gradually found himself spending more days in his private cell in the Order’s tower in Lár Bhaile than in Dún Laoghaire. The more he had to keep hidden from Edana, whose friendship with Meriel had only grown deeper over the years, the more he felt her pulling away from him. They had always disagreed on politics; now the disagreements ignited into shouting arguments.

He still loved her. He knew that. He’d even told himself, before he’d had Shay send him back here, that with Lámh Shábhála lost he needed her love more than ever. But if he’d wondered whether there were any remnants left in her of the affection they’d once shared, he saw Edana’s answer to that in her face now. The realization didn’t hurt anywhere near as much as he thought it should, but there was enough of the memory of their relationship left that he wanted her to understand.

“My love—” he began and saw the muscles of her face tighten with that. “No one intends you any harm, Edana,” he told her. “You may think what you want about the assassination of the Banrion Ard, but this wasn’t done at my instigation. My hand’s not the one that started this, nor was I a willing part of it. You have to believe me.” That was a half-truth and an evasion—aye, Rí Mallaghan had made it clear that Doyle’s cooperation was required if he didn’t want his family harmed, but Doyle’s lust for Lámh Shábhála and knowing that Jenna would also die had made that cooperation easy. He suspected she knew that also.

“No?” She stepped away from him, looking at his chest where Snapdragon, his Cloch Mór, lay. “Where’s Lámh Shábhála, Doyle? Aren’t you wearing it yet? Isn’t that why the Order sent so many mages west, and Padraic among them? If you’re going to assassinate the Banrion Ard, you couldn’t leave the Mad Holder alive to avenge her, could you?”

Doyle scowled inwardly, only lifting his eyebrows at Edana’s questions. “I apologize, Edana. You’re much better informed than I expected. But you’ve known all along how much I loathed Jenna, and why.”

Edana pointed to Meriel’s body. “Look at her, Doyle. She was my dear friend, and she was Banrion Ard because of me. She thought of herself as
your
friend, also—or, at least, she didn’t think of you as an enemy. She loved our children as much as we did. Do you remember when Padraic was ill with the Bloody Cough and she took Treoraí’s Heart and cured him? Do you remember? He’d be
dead
if Meriel hadn’t been here, Doyle.” Tears of grief and anger were spilling down her cheeks, and Doyle saw her wipe them away angrily and unashamedly. “Do you remember the last Feast, how the people of the city cheered her when she rode out to the temple? The common folk loved her, even if the Riocha didn’t. And so did I.” Edana sank to her knees alongside the bier.

“Edana . . .” In years past, he might have gone to her, might have crouched down alongside her and taken her in his arms and let her sob her grief against his shoulder. He wanted to do that now, wanted it more than anything he could imagine, but he could not. Instead, he stood with his arms crossed, watching her as she lifted the gauze around the bier and clutched Meriel’s lifeless hand. “How can I make you understand? It was the other Ríthe who wanted this, not me; they kept it from you because they knew how you felt about Meriel.”

“Then we could have stopped it, Doyle,” she said through her weeping. “With Lámh Shábhála, the Inishlanders and their clochs, with Snapdragon and Demon-Caller, with those who were loyal to her, we could have stood against them. The two of us, together. But
you
didn’t say anything. You didn’t say anything because part of this, at least, was what you wanted, too. No, maybe you didn’t start this, maybe you didn’t do anything actively against Meriel or Owaine or their children, but you also didn’t stop it. You didn’t
want
to stop it.”

The accusations lanced deep inside him, piercing all the way to his troubled soul. “Once I knew, I had to cooperate or they would have killed me, too, Edana—and you and our children as well, perhaps. You can’t hate me for that. I . . . I cooperated to protect you.”

“I’m sure they had to go to great lengths to convince you,” she said, the sarcasm lashing at him. “Did Torin Mallaghan—oh, I know it must have been him—offer Lámh Shábhála to you as payment, or did you tell them that Jenna’s cloch must be your reward for planning all this? All this has your feel to it, Husband.”

If her voice had been a sword, it would have gutted him and laid his entrails open on the floor. He gave her, for the first time in years, the bare truth. “Lámh Shábhála is lost in the sea,” he told her, and he saw her gasp in surprise.

“I wondered, last night when the mage-lights came . . . Then Jenna—”

“—is also dead,” he finished for her. He hoped it was true. It
must
be true.

“And Sevei, too?”

Doyle nodded. Neither of their bodies had been found, but Jenna had been grievously wounded and the storm waves terrible and unrelenting. They’d watched for most of the day: for either the two of them or for Saimhóir, the blue seals. They’d glimpsed neither. Doyle found it difficult to believe that either Jenna or Sevei could have survived. And that night, when the mage-lights had come, they had all noticed the absence of Lámh Shábhála.

If Jenna
were
somehow alive, she didn’t have the Great Stone. That at least was some comfort; he could bear not having Lámh Shábhála himself as long as no one else held it. And now Treoraí’s Heart was missing also. The Ríthes’ victory, already bittersweet, soured a little further. If that half-breed woman Isibéal had taken the Heart and left Ennis alive against all the arrangements they’d made, he would personally kill her. Slowly.

“Padraic saw this? Padraic saw the Mad Holder and Sevei die?”

A nod.

“You bastard,” she said.

He said nothing. Edana sobbed for a few breaths, then drew up, sniffing. “They’re all gone, then,” Edana said, her voice hoarse and quiet. “The Mother-Creator will never forgive you, Doyle. No treachery before matches this. Will you be the new Rí Ard, Doyle, the new puppet for the Ríthe? Is that what they promised you for your part in this?”

He might have been Rí Ard, had he been able to take Lámh Shábhála. Even though Torin Mallaghan yearned to be Ard, Doyle had thought that once Lámh Shábhála was around his own neck, he would have a piece on the board so powerful that even Rí Mallaghan would have to bend before him. Now . . . he was no longer sure. “I was just a player, not the instigator, Edana,” he said again. “There were no promises made to me. I tell you again; I had no choice. I was afraid that those I love would be hurt.”

“I’m sure that eases your conscience.” She kissed Meriel’s hand, then pushed herself to her feet, confronting Doyle. “I’ve set the funeral for tomorrow—especially given what you’ve told me, I don’t want or expect the other Ríthe to be here personally; their representatives here in Dún Laoghaire will have to suffice. I expect you to be beside me as my husband. Once we’ve given Meriel to the flames and the Mother-Creator and the Draíodóiri have finished their work, you’ll leave Dún Laoghaire.”

“Edana—”

She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “I don’t care where you go, Doyle. Go to Lár Bhaile and celebrate with Rí Mallaghan and the Order. I don’t care. Just don’t come back to Dún Laoghaire. This is
my
Tuath, and I am still Banrion here. I expect you’ll be returning for the Óenach to elect the new Rí Ard, but from now and forever, no matter what, you and I will be as strangers. I’m disgusted that I ever thought I could love you.”

Doyle found that a righteous anger could manage to dull the hurt and mask the guilt. “If that’s your wish, Banrion,” Doyle answered, emphasizing the title. He gave her a mock bow. “You think too simply, Edana. That’s always been your problem. I don’t like what’s happened, but I couldn’t keep Meriel alive by myself. I made a choice for the good of
both
of us. I’ll tell you now that if I
hadn’t
made that choice, you wouldn’t be Banrion Dún Laoghaire; you’d be lying there alongside Meriel. You’re alive because I was willing to help those who wanted Meriel deposed. And if you don’t watch your words carefully in the future . . .” He stopped.

“Sometimes, Doyle, things
are
simple. If I’d known what was planned, I’d have been willing to die with Meriel, if that was what was necessary. I’m loyal to those I truly love, Doyle, loyal enough that I will stand with them no matter the consequences. You, of all people, should remember that.” She glared at him; he held her gaze. She didn’t understand. She would never understand. Doyle stared back at her as he might at a stranger. “I don’t know if you came to gloat or just to make certain that Meriel was truly dead, but now you know,” Edana continued. “Leave, Doyle. Leave me alone with her to grieve. At least I have genuine sorrow for the loss of a friend.”