Heir of Stone (The Cloudmages #3) (2 page)

THE PINES NEAREST TORIN Mallaghan sighed in the wind as if weary of holding up their branches. Underneath his boots, the ground was carpeted by a thick, soft covering of needles. The man kicked at a brown drift pooled around his toes: dry and pale on top, below the needles were wet and so dark as to be almost black. They clung to the slick, polished leather of his boots—he would have to have one of the servants clean them tonight. The wind gusted in the high branches, sending a momentary drizzle of green, fragrant needles down over his well-made, intricately-embroidered clóca. He brushed them away, looking up at the swaying branches fringing the overcast sky. A crow darted and swooped through the trees, coming to rest on a nearby branch. Torin scowled at the creature and kicked again at the well-needled ground, looking for a rock to throw at the bird, but his horse, tied to a nearby tree, nickered restlessly. Torin heard the sound of another horse approaching slowly on the road through the forest.

Torin’s hand went to the jewel captured in a cage of silver and suspended from a gold-linked necklace around his neck, not to the sword in its scabbard. He caught sight of the rider; slowly, his fingers relaxed around the gem. He stepped out onto the rutted, muddy road, holding his hand up in greeting. “I was beginning to wonder whether you’d actually come today,” he said. “But I should have known you would obey orders. Tell me, what news do you bring, Doyle?”

The rider pulled at the reins of his mount. He leaned forward in the saddle. His face was stained with travel, his eyes snagged in dark, puffy circles. Red hair spilled from under the hood of his clóca. “You’re here alone, my Rí?” he asked with some surprise. “Is that wise?”

“How better to make sure there are no unwanted ears listening? You look . . . disappointed.”

The rider shrugged underneath the clóca. “All I could think about the entire morning is reaching Lár Bhaile, where I could rest in comfort in the Order’s common room, drinking a good mug of stout and sitting by the fire. We could ride there together, and talk while riding so we get there all the sooner.”

Torin waited, arms crossed over his chest, and Doyle finally sighed. “All right, since it appears the stout and the fire will have to wait until you get your answer. I’ve spoken to the other Ríthe, as you requested; they’re in agreement and they’re willing to offer you their help as long as they’re not seen to be directly involved.” The man couldn’t keep the disappointment from his voice, but then Doyle Mac Ard’s emotions and ambitions had always been transparent to Torin—it was what made the man easy to manipulate.

“As long as they’re not seen to be directly involved,” Torin repeated, mimicking Doyle’s tone. “But they’re not willing to do all I asked for.” Again, Torin’s fingers brushed the stone at his chest. From the corner of his vision, he saw the crow flap heavily from its branch to one just above them. “I must admit I’m disappointed. To have Jenna MacEagan received in Dún Laoghaire, to have the Banrion Ard greet her as if she were one of
us
. . .”

“Even with the Mad Holder’s impending arrival, the other Ríthe are still not willing to move directly against our Banrion Ard,” Doyle answered. “But in truth, Rí Mallaghan, did you really expect them to do so? They’re all afraid of the Banrion Ard’s popularity with the tuathánach—and not just with the common folk, but even some of those among the Riocha.”

Torin scoffed. “You mean that’s what
you’re
afraid of, Doyle.”

Doyle nodded. “Aye, I am, Rí Mallaghan. That doesn’t make it any different for the Ríthe. None of them want to be known as the one who brought down the beloved Healer Ard. But . . . they’ll offer what help they can as long as they’re not visible giving it, and they’re more than willing to share in the vulture’s feast once she’s gone. Banrion Taafe, in particular, had a . . .” Doyle paused as if uneasy. “. . . specific recommendation,” he said finally. “A person she knew, discreet and reliable though expensive. I’ve already hired the woman and sent her on to Dún Laoghaire, and she only awaits word from us to act. She’s supposed to be excellent at what she does, and frankly,
I’d
rather that our hands aren’t seen in this either. No mage from the Order of Gabair should be directly involved in the Banrion Ard’s death, nor should you, my Rí. No clochs na thintrí should be used. This shouldn’t look like the work of the Riocha.”

Torin nodded. The crow hopped on its branch alongside the road. Its eyes stared down at them, a brighter black caught in jet, “Oh, I agree. You’ve done well, then. As well as I hoped for, anyway. And as for the rest of the Geraghty brood?”

“I let the Ríthe know what we had planned. Assuming all goes well in Dún Laoghaire, Rí Mac Baoill will take care of Owaine Geraghty and Kayne, and Rí Fearachan has a spy within the Mad Holder’s retinue who will help us deal with Sevei and perhaps the Mad Holder herself.” Doyle smiled grimly. “Though, if you’ve no objection, I’ll deal with
her
myself.” The harsh emphasis in Doyle’s voice surprised Torin not at all; he smiled, hearing it.
It’s that long hatred of Jenna MacEagan and his lust for what she holds that makes the man so malleable. When this is done, I may have to do something about Doyle, too. . . .

Torin brought his attention back as Doyle sighed and continued. “As for Meriel and Owaine’s other children . . .” Doyle shrugged. “They’re too young at this point to be players in this; we’ll only need to be certain that they’re . . .
removed
so they can’t be used as pawns by others.”

“And Edana, back in Dún Laoghaire?”

Doyle laughed mirthlessly at that, shaking his head. “Oh, I’ll say
nothing
to my dear wife about this, my Rí. Ever.” Doyle let out a long breath. A squirrel chattered on the crow’s branch, its tail flicking angrily, and the crow fluttered its wings. “After all these years, to think that the wait might actually be over . . .”

“You must feel pleased and vindicated, my friend.”

“Honestly, Rí Mallaghan, I feel mostly tired. It’s cold and I want to be somewhere familiar and comfortable. I’d like to see Edana and my children again. I’d like to see the end of this. Talamh an Ghlas needs a strong leader, now more than ever if we’re to deal with the threats around us, and I’m glad you’ve made this decision. It’s long past time to rectify the mistakes the Ríthe made in the wake of Falcarragh.”

Torin’s gaze moved from the man in the road to the crow. His eyes narrowed. He lifted his right hand, the white sleeve of his léine falling down to reveal a faint pattern of scars reaching to the wrist, and placed it over the jewel at his breast. He spoke a quick phrase as the crow, seeming to understand, cawed and started to fly away. The squirrel chirped and vanished behind the trunk of the tree. But as the bird’s wings flapped and it started to rise, something unseen struck the bird. Black feathers exploded in a flurry at its chest as if an arrow had found its mark; the bird gave a startled
caw
and fell, landing in a dark, motionless heap at the side of the path.

“We’re too close to Doire Coill to trust crows,” Torin said.

Doyle nodded with a glance at the dead crow. “Then, my Rí, let us get to Lár Bhaile and see if I can find that fire in the Order’s Keep . . .”

Torin unhitched his horse, swung up into the saddle, and the two rode off.

The squirrel reappeared on the branch and looked down at the crow. It scurried quickly along the branch, leaping from there to the branch of the nearest tree, and vanished among the needled crowns, hurrying in the opposite direction to that taken by the riders.

The wind stirred the pines, sending dry needles down to cover the body of the crow.

SEVEI STRODE OUT of the surf into the overcast day, the gray waves lapping around her knees as her body shifted from that of a seal back to human form. With the change, she shivered, the air suddenly cold and the water dripping as frigid as a winter rain down her bare back. She ran to the rock where she’d left her clothing and a towel. As she wrapped herself in the cloth and started to dry her matted hair, she heard someone clear his throat loudly from behind a screen of boulders green with moss and algae.

“It’s about time, Bantiarna Geraghty,” the voice said.

“Dillon?” Sevei said hopefully.

“If I were Dillon, then I’d have been absolutely remiss in my duties,” the voice answered, and this time she heard the quaver of age, the rough gravel in the words. Sevei pressed the towel tightly to herself with a hissing intake of breath.

“Máister Kirwan?”

“This is the beach where your mam swam during her time here on Inishfeirm. If you thought I wouldn’t know what you do on certain nights, then you’re making the same mistake she did. And if you think I’d allow one of my male students to follow you down here, you’re doomed to be forever disappointed.” She heard the Máister clear his throat again with a rumble of phlegm, though he stayed discreetly behind the rocks. “I trust your swim was pleasant; my wait certainly wasn’t. Damn this weather. Are you dressed yet, girl?”

“Not yet, Máister.”

A sigh. “Then quickly. There’s someone waiting for us up at the keep.”

“Who?” Sevei asked, then the answer came to her. She saw the flash of a vision in her head, as she sometimes saw people in her family:
a slender, gray-haired woman, her face creased and folded with a life of cares and loss, and a small green stone caged in gold and silver at her breast. She sat in the chair in Máister Kirwan’s office. She was drinking something from a steaming mug . . .
“Gram!” Sevei shouted gleefully. “Gram’s here!”

“Aye,” Máister Kirwan’s voice answered gruffly. “The Banrion of Inish Thuaidh is here and she wants to see you. It’s impolite to keep a Banrion waiting, not to mention that half my staff is acting as if they’ve never seen a Riocha before. I’ve been waiting here for half a stripe or more for you to show up, and every joint in my body is aching. So I’d suggest you hurry, Bantiarna Geraghty, or perhaps Siúr O’Halloran will get the notion that it’s your turn for kitchen duty after supper.”

“If your staff doesn’t know how to act around Gram, then perhaps you should have sent one of them to fetch me and stayed there yourself to teach them, Máister,” she answered teasingly. She tilted her head impishly even though she knew the man wasn’t looking at her. “Or were you hoping to catch a glimpse as I came out of the water?”

Máister Kirwan sputtered once from behind the rocks, then sniffed. “You flatter yourself needlessly. Get dressed, child, or I’ll mention to Jenna that you go swimming with the seals without permission,” he said, though she could hear the amusement in his voice.

“And perhaps I’ll mention that you refer to the Banrion in public by her given name,” she answered with a laugh. She shrugged on her red léine and white clóca: the uniform of an acolyte of the Order of Inishfeirm. “I’m ready, Máister. You don’t need to hide any longer.”

Máister Kirwan stepped out from behind the rocks. His bald head was protected by the hood of his clóca. In the shadows cast by the rolled cloth, she could see his thin mouth pursed under the strands of a gray-white beard, but his dark eyes glittered kindly. He leaned on a staff of oak, and Snarl—one of the Clochs Mór, the great stones of magic—lay atop the white cloth of his léine. “Come on, then, Bantiarna Geraghty,” he said. “Before your gram causes all the bráthairs and siúrs to go into apoplexy or my bones freeze up entirely.”

He turned his back and started toward the long trail up the steep flanks of Inishfeirm to the White Keep, but Sevei suddenly gave a gasp. She stopped, putting her hand to her forehead. “What’s the matter, Sevei?” Máister Kirwan asked, but she couldn’t answer him through the welter of images flooding her vision.

“It’s Kayne,” she answered finally. She clutched her side as if something had struck her, groaning. “Something’s happening to him . . .”