Read Online Mage of Clouds (The Cloudmages #2) by S. L. Farrell - Free Book Online
Authors: S. L. Farrell
Ads: Link
Ard the tale of bandits along the High Road from Dun Laoghaire. Enean had taken a severe blow to the head from a highwayman’s sword while defending his mam and his bride-to-be, and he would never be the same again: feeble-minded, childish, prone to seizures and fits.
Vaughn Mac Ard, Doyle’s uncle and commander of the Rí Gabair’s army, had immediately sent troops from Lár Bhaile in pursuit of the attackers, largely suspected to be raiding Inishlanders—no one believed they were mere bandits, then or now. The highwaymen fled west along the High Road pursued by a squad of gardai, retreating into the haunted and feared depths of the ancient oak forest of Doire Coill, dark and trackless. None of them, attackers or gardai, ever came back out. Three days later, where the northern edge of Doire Coill touched the High Road, the heads of both the bandits and the squad of gardai were found in a field amid a black flock of feasting crows. Doyle, as squire to his uncle, had ridden with the Rí Gabair and the Rí Ard to see the sight. He still could recall how the crows took flight, reluctantly, as Nevan O Liathain rode toward the gory sight, shouting. The heads had been stripped of much of their flesh by then, the eye sockets just raw bleeding holes and the gaping mouths tongueless . . . Some would say later that they’d noticed Bunús Muintir watching from under the shadow of the oaks, but Doyle hadn’t seen them, the Old People who supposedly lived there.
No one ever knew for certain who had sent the murderers. Many, including the Rí Ard, would continue to believe it was the Inish, but Doyle never believed that—it wasn’t Jenna’s style to be covert. But there were factions enough among the Tuathian Riocha, families who wanted to advance their own fortunes and who wouldn’t be troubled over stooping to hired murder.
Doyle would say afterward that this was the day he gave up his childhood and took up his da’s legacy, at once and early, driven by the awful vision in front of him. Doyle knew who the Rí Ard blamed and they were the same people who had taken Doyle’s da away from him. He would take allies where he found them, justified or not.
“What Enean did was incredibly noble and brave,” Doyle said to the Rí Ard. “The Mother-Creator saved him for a reason. He still has a destiny to fulfill.”
“Then I wish She would whisper Her secret to me, for I don’t see it,” O Liathain answered. He groaned as he shifted in the bed. “And I fear that I never will.”
“Don’t say that, my Rí.”
“Why not? For the last many months, I’ve been thinking this is the last summer I will see, the last Festival of Gheimhri I’ll ever celebrate, the last harvest. One thing I’ll never see is the face of the person who will take this torc from my cold body and put it on their own, but I know that will be soon.” For a moment, O Liathain closed his eyes and Doyle wondered whether he’d fallen asleep. Then the gray, rheumy eyes opened again and he licked dry lips. “What of Inish Thuaidh and your sister?”
“News came from Tuath Infochla this morning—that’s why I asked to see you. The rumors we’ve heard are true: the northern Stepping Stones have gone over to Inish Thuaidh, and the Ards of those clans are now sitting in the Comhairle in Dún Kiil. We bleed in the north, Rí Ard. The Banrion refused to see the delegation Rí Infochla sent in protest. She wouldn’t even accept Rí Mas Sithig’s letter. She defies us all.”
“Damn that woman!” The effort cost O Liathain another spasm of coughing, his face going red then gray; he spat again, and again the servant hurried forward. When he’d recovered his breath, he shook his head. His voice was much fainter. “We should have moved against her before now. We shouldn’t have let her recover after Dun Kiil—I should have renounced the oath I made to her, should have gathered together all the Tuatha and clochs na thintrí and come against her with an
Vaughn Mac Ard, Doyle’s uncle and commander of the Rí Gabair’s army, had immediately sent troops from Lár Bhaile in pursuit of the attackers, largely suspected to be raiding Inishlanders—no one believed they were mere bandits, then or now. The highwaymen fled west along the High Road pursued by a squad of gardai, retreating into the haunted and feared depths of the ancient oak forest of Doire Coill, dark and trackless. None of them, attackers or gardai, ever came back out. Three days later, where the northern edge of Doire Coill touched the High Road, the heads of both the bandits and the squad of gardai were found in a field amid a black flock of feasting crows. Doyle, as squire to his uncle, had ridden with the Rí Gabair and the Rí Ard to see the sight. He still could recall how the crows took flight, reluctantly, as Nevan O Liathain rode toward the gory sight, shouting. The heads had been stripped of much of their flesh by then, the eye sockets just raw bleeding holes and the gaping mouths tongueless . . . Some would say later that they’d noticed Bunús Muintir watching from under the shadow of the oaks, but Doyle hadn’t seen them, the Old People who supposedly lived there.
No one ever knew for certain who had sent the murderers. Many, including the Rí Ard, would continue to believe it was the Inish, but Doyle never believed that—it wasn’t Jenna’s style to be covert. But there were factions enough among the Tuathian Riocha, families who wanted to advance their own fortunes and who wouldn’t be troubled over stooping to hired murder.
Doyle would say afterward that this was the day he gave up his childhood and took up his da’s legacy, at once and early, driven by the awful vision in front of him. Doyle knew who the Rí Ard blamed and they were the same people who had taken Doyle’s da away from him. He would take allies where he found them, justified or not.
“What Enean did was incredibly noble and brave,” Doyle said to the Rí Ard. “The Mother-Creator saved him for a reason. He still has a destiny to fulfill.”
“Then I wish She would whisper Her secret to me, for I don’t see it,” O Liathain answered. He groaned as he shifted in the bed. “And I fear that I never will.”
“Don’t say that, my Rí.”
“Why not? For the last many months, I’ve been thinking this is the last summer I will see, the last Festival of Gheimhri I’ll ever celebrate, the last harvest. One thing I’ll never see is the face of the person who will take this torc from my cold body and put it on their own, but I know that will be soon.” For a moment, O Liathain closed his eyes and Doyle wondered whether he’d fallen asleep. Then the gray, rheumy eyes opened again and he licked dry lips. “What of Inish Thuaidh and your sister?”
“News came from Tuath Infochla this morning—that’s why I asked to see you. The rumors we’ve heard are true: the northern Stepping Stones have gone over to Inish Thuaidh, and the Ards of those clans are now sitting in the Comhairle in Dún Kiil. We bleed in the north, Rí Ard. The Banrion refused to see the delegation Rí Infochla sent in protest. She wouldn’t even accept Rí Mas Sithig’s letter. She defies us all.”
“Damn that woman!” The effort cost O Liathain another spasm of coughing, his face going red then gray; he spat again, and again the servant hurried forward. When he’d recovered his breath, he shook his head. His voice was much fainter. “We should have moved against her before now. We shouldn’t have let her recover after Dun Kiil—I should have renounced the oath I made to her, should have gathered together all the Tuatha and clochs na thintrí and come against her with an
Similar Books
