The Rl MacBradaigh moaned once more, and everyone's attention went to him, almost with relief. Aithne leaned over and took a washcloth from a basin of water, wringing it out and placing it over his forehead. "There's nothing we can do for him?" Jenna asked.
The Banrion shook her head. "Too many wounds, and some of them very deep. I'm afraid he's beyond the skills of any of the healers here. Moister Cleurach says that there was once a healing stone among the Clochs Mor, but he doesn't know who holds it. There were reputedly clochmion with the same skill though with less potency; Moister Cleurach is asking if anyone among us holds one, but he doesn't know that even a clochmions would have the ability to help. The Rl sank into deep sleep early yesterday and hasn't woken. In just the last stripe of the candle, his breathing's gone shallow and fast, as you hear it now. The healer thinks he'll be with the Mother-Creator by morning." Aithne took the cloth, moistened it again, and patted his cheeks with
it. "Perhaps it’s better this way. He’ll be remembered for his last acts, not the incompetence that came before."
"I talked with the rest of the Comhairle," MacEagan said to the Banrion. "They agree with us. We’ll meet tonight for the appearance, but we already have the votes."
"Agree with what?" Jenna asked, looking from Aithne to MacEagan.
MacEagan answered. "We sent runners to all the townlands when we learned that the fleet was coming. Many of the Riocha, especially those from the north and west, didn’t have enough time to muster and arm their people and come to Dun Kiil. But they’re coming in now-we al-ready have as many troops here now as we did for the first attack. The Banrion and I think that we shouldn’t wait for the Ri Ard to get his reinforcements from Falcarragh. We think we should counterattack now, as soon as we can. The Tuathians may well be expecting it, but they won’t ever be weaker than they are now." He paused. "Especially if Lamh Shabhala is with us."
"Attack again? So soon?"
"Tomorrow, so long as the mage-lights come tonight so you can restore your cloch, and we’d better pray that they do-by now word will have reached Falcarragh and ships could already be on their way. We can’t wait."
"Waiting was what allowed them to come here in the first place," Aithne commented, her thin lips pressing together after she spoke. Jenna felt the point of that rebuke and grunted in response.
Going into battle again. . Her whole body cried out in protest at the thought. Her wounds had just begun to heal, the arm that linked her to Lamh Shabhala throbbed and complained, her soul was heavy with the loss of Thraisha, and the pleasure that she thought she’d feel at avenging Ennis’ death with Aron’s life was diluted by guilt and remorse. The faces of the widows haunted her, and that of the boy Mahon, and the fierce loyalty of the soldiers who had crafted something from her that she was not.
Ennis, what should I do? Thraisha? Seancoim? But they were all gone, those whose advice she might have trusted. She had only herself. She could not even ask Riata or the dead Holders, silenced because of Lamh Shabhala’s emptiness. Aithne and MacEagan stared at her, and she could feel their eagerness and certainty.
An image came to her, as sharp as reality, and she had a sense that she was glimpsing the future: herself lying dead on the cold ground, the remnants of battle smoking around her. Jenna touched her stomach: the child lay unmoving inside her.
If you die, your baby dies with you. But you have no choice. No choice. You can't flee, and if they take Lamh Shabhala from you the pain of the loss will be more than you can bear…
Jenna cupped the fist of her right hand in her left, her gaze traveling along the swirled lines of white, dead skin until they reached the sleeve of her leine and disappeared under the white cloth. Her right hand felt like a frozen stone in her palm. She half-closed her eyes, willing the fin-gers to open. They obeyed only reluctantly, lifting until she could see folded lines crossing her palm then refusing to move farther. She moved the hand to her breast, leaning forward slightly so that Lamh Shabhala slipped between the fingers into the hand. She looked at it: the plain, ordinary stone trapped in its web of fine silver.
"Aye," she told them. "I agree with you. We can't wait."
Chapter 59: Death on the Field
THE mage-lights rippled and flowed, and Lamh Shabhala suckled at them like a ravenous infant, drawing down the power. Jenna sagged, her knees buckling with the sense of relief, the energy of the lights easing the aching of her muscles and the bitter chill along her right side. The world around her seemed saturated with color again, no longer so gray and dim. Her awareness seemed to swell out, encompassing the entire valley where the Clochs Mor of MacEagan, Aithne, Moister Cleurach, Galen, and the others were also renewing themselves; and at the outer edges of her senses she could feel the pinprick presence of the Tuathians’ clochs also feeding on the same energy-all of them linked to the sky, all of them tied together.
She could pluck them if she wanted, like the strings of Coelin’s giotar. She reached out with the cloch, found the blood-red strand of an ail-too familiar cloch, and followed it back. Faintly, she could feel the mind be-hind the energy-and that person sensed her at the same time.
"Jenna…" The voice was a dark husk, the tones familiar. "So you are still alive. 1 told them you were, but they still hoped…" "Aye, Tiarna, I’m alive. How is my mam? My brother?" She could feel the surprise in Mac Ard’s mind. "You know?"
"Lamh Shabhala told me." He didn’t respond. She felt him try to close his mind to her, and she pushed aside the curtains he drew over himself, enjoying the frustration and fear she felt in response. "You can’t hide from me, Mac Ard. I am your bane. You hold the Cloch Mor I gave to my lover, and I intend to take it back."
"It was mine first, as you know since it was you who stole it from me."
"Stole? Won it, perhaps, and only after you attacked me twice. If I’d been able to glimpse the future, I’d have killed you then. I left you alive only because of my mam. Tell me about her, Mac Ard."
Again, he threw up a shield; she broke it down as quickly. He tried to mask the flare of anger he felt, and that pleased her. Grudgingly, he an-swered. "Maeve’s well enough, and waiting in Falcarragh with my son."
The mention of the child, her half brother, made her think of the baby in her own womb, the child she would never see. "Your bastard, you mean."
"I love Maeve, Jenna, as I’ve told you before, and I treat her as well or better than any wife. I have acknowledged publicly that the child is mine; there’s no secret there. No matter what you want to believe, Jenna, I’m no monster. I never was your enemy. Never. You forced that upon yourself, like all the rest."
"Aye, none of this could possibly be your fault," Jenna taunted. "You’re so faultless and noble."
"Your mam misses you," Mac Ard said, ignoring
the comment, "and she is afraid for you. I think she may even be afraid of you after what you did in Lord Bhaile. And she hates this war."
"As do I."
"Then end it, Jenna. Surrender yourself and Lamh Shabhala and we can negotiate a peace. You can't win this, Jenna. Inish Thuaidh can't stand alone against all the Tuatha."
Jenna sent scorn hurtling through the mage-lights, not allowing him to see the doubts that his statement caused to stir within her. "Believe what you will. Tell Nevan that I remember his words at Lord Bhaile, how he said that everyone must know that the arm of Dun Laoghaire is long. Well, I know that now, but he will find that the arm of Inish Thuaidh may not reach as far, but it is stronger. Tell him that." Lamh Shabhala was full. She closed her eyes, reveling in the sense of completeness and power that the lights gave her. She released the cloch.