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Authors: S. L. Farrell
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army even Lámh Shábhála and the Inishfeirm cloudmages couldn’t resist. But my father and the Riocha were all afraid after our first defeat and I couldn’t get them to agree, and I had given the Mad Holder my word. My word . . .”
O Liathain went into another fit of coughing and Doyle waited patiently, leaning over to press the cloth against the Rí Ard’s lips when he’d finished. “So we waited and waited and now we pay for our cowardice,” the man continued, “and it will be that much harder to pry her out and remove her.” He stopped, his eyes closing again. Doyle waited, and he stirred a few breaths later. “I need you, Doyle,” O Liathain whispered. “As I needed your da long ago: a strong and loyal hand, a strong and loyal mind, someone fit to hold a Cloch Mór. That’s why I’ve given you my daughter, that’s why I gifted you with the stone you hold.”
These were words he’d heard many times before. O Liathain’s mind sometimes wandered along old paths now, and it was best just to nod and pretend you’d never heard the words before. “You have my hand and my mind and my loyalty, Rí Ard,” Doyle said. “You know that. You treated me as a favored son when the others . . .” He stopped, remembering the mingled shame and anger he’d felt since his childhood every time he heard the taunts: “There’s that bastard child of Padraic’s . . .” “Useless offspring of a tiarna’s whore . . .” He bloodied himself frequently in those first years, and as he’d grown, the taunts had come less frequently. But he still saw them in people’s eyes sometimes, unspoken.
“Jenna could have been my Banrion, long ago,” the Rí continued, his mind still drifting back. “I offered her that, when I first met her, but she refused me. It was not long after Enean’s mam had died, when I was still Tanaise Ríg. She could have been my second wife. All this trouble would have been avoided had she accepted. But she went mad with Lámh Shábhála.”
“I know. My mam told me that tale. Jenna is a murderous fool, Rí, and too proud for her own good.”
A faint nod. “Your sister is an abomination and must be destroyed before she destroys us. I’m sorry, Doyle, but that’s true. Still, I hate to ask you to plot against your own sister.”
“Oh, I have no problem with that, Rí,” Doyle answered easily. He fingered the Cloch Mór around his neck. “Someone else needs to hold Lámh Shábhála. Someone whose loyalty to the Tuatha is unquestioned. Perhaps the Rí Ard himself. It would look good around your neck.” Doyle’s hand went to his own neck, and in his imagination it was not Nevan O Liathain wearing the cloch.
There was no answer. The Rí’s chest rose slowly; his breath labored and loud. Doyle rose from his stool. “Rest, my Rí. Don’t worry, Jenna will be weakened, and very soon. Edana and I will see to that.” He touched the man’s cheek and went to the window where Enean had been sitting. Far below, he could see the Rí’s son and his entourage just emerging from the keep’s main gates and riding toward the harbor. He glanced at the ship coming toward the docks. Enean was right; on the mast flew the banner of Tuath Airgialla, and below was another: a stylized dire wolf on a field of blue—the banner of the Concordance of Céile Mhór.
Doyle’s eyes narrowed at that, wondering why Céile Mhór would be sending unannounced someone whose rank demanded the banner. He thought that perhaps Enean had the right idea, after all.
“Make certain the Rí sleeps comfortably,” he said to the chamber attendant. “If he wakes and wants me, I’ll be with Enean at the docks.”
5
Excerpts from Letters
3 rd SILVERBARK 1148
My Dearest Lucan:
I’m alone now.
Well, in truth I’m never “alone” here—that’s impossible. My mam left three days ago with Nainsi and I’m now in my rooms with Faoil, who I told you about in the last letter. Doors are not locked here in the White
O Liathain went into another fit of coughing and Doyle waited patiently, leaning over to press the cloth against the Rí Ard’s lips when he’d finished. “So we waited and waited and now we pay for our cowardice,” the man continued, “and it will be that much harder to pry her out and remove her.” He stopped, his eyes closing again. Doyle waited, and he stirred a few breaths later. “I need you, Doyle,” O Liathain whispered. “As I needed your da long ago: a strong and loyal hand, a strong and loyal mind, someone fit to hold a Cloch Mór. That’s why I’ve given you my daughter, that’s why I gifted you with the stone you hold.”
These were words he’d heard many times before. O Liathain’s mind sometimes wandered along old paths now, and it was best just to nod and pretend you’d never heard the words before. “You have my hand and my mind and my loyalty, Rí Ard,” Doyle said. “You know that. You treated me as a favored son when the others . . .” He stopped, remembering the mingled shame and anger he’d felt since his childhood every time he heard the taunts: “There’s that bastard child of Padraic’s . . .” “Useless offspring of a tiarna’s whore . . .” He bloodied himself frequently in those first years, and as he’d grown, the taunts had come less frequently. But he still saw them in people’s eyes sometimes, unspoken.
“Jenna could have been my Banrion, long ago,” the Rí continued, his mind still drifting back. “I offered her that, when I first met her, but she refused me. It was not long after Enean’s mam had died, when I was still Tanaise Ríg. She could have been my second wife. All this trouble would have been avoided had she accepted. But she went mad with Lámh Shábhála.”
“I know. My mam told me that tale. Jenna is a murderous fool, Rí, and too proud for her own good.”
A faint nod. “Your sister is an abomination and must be destroyed before she destroys us. I’m sorry, Doyle, but that’s true. Still, I hate to ask you to plot against your own sister.”
“Oh, I have no problem with that, Rí,” Doyle answered easily. He fingered the Cloch Mór around his neck. “Someone else needs to hold Lámh Shábhála. Someone whose loyalty to the Tuatha is unquestioned. Perhaps the Rí Ard himself. It would look good around your neck.” Doyle’s hand went to his own neck, and in his imagination it was not Nevan O Liathain wearing the cloch.
There was no answer. The Rí’s chest rose slowly; his breath labored and loud. Doyle rose from his stool. “Rest, my Rí. Don’t worry, Jenna will be weakened, and very soon. Edana and I will see to that.” He touched the man’s cheek and went to the window where Enean had been sitting. Far below, he could see the Rí’s son and his entourage just emerging from the keep’s main gates and riding toward the harbor. He glanced at the ship coming toward the docks. Enean was right; on the mast flew the banner of Tuath Airgialla, and below was another: a stylized dire wolf on a field of blue—the banner of the Concordance of Céile Mhór.
Doyle’s eyes narrowed at that, wondering why Céile Mhór would be sending unannounced someone whose rank demanded the banner. He thought that perhaps Enean had the right idea, after all.
“Make certain the Rí sleeps comfortably,” he said to the chamber attendant. “If he wakes and wants me, I’ll be with Enean at the docks.”
5
Excerpts from Letters
3 rd SILVERBARK 1148
My Dearest Lucan:
I’m alone now.
Well, in truth I’m never “alone” here—that’s impossible. My mam left three days ago with Nainsi and I’m now in my rooms with Faoil, who I told you about in the last letter. Doors are not locked here in the White
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