She shook her head.
"Why not? You can't be seriously thinking of doing what the Banrion has suggested. Jenna, you-" He stopped, and she saw suspicion widen his gray, sad eyes. "You intend to go to Thall Coill." He invoked the name as if it were a curse.
She grimaced as pain rippled through her arm, her hand tightening into a fist. "You said it best, Moister," she told him. "I can help Ennis most by being as strong as I can possibly be the Comhdail Comhairle, the Conference of the Comhairle, was as bois-terous and loud as Jenna had been led to believe it would be. Ri MacBradaigh sat in his chair at the head, his pallid face propped on a hand as he listened, his eyes so close-lidded that Jenna wondered if he wasn't dozing. The Comhairle was arrayed down either side of the massive oaken table, much scarred and discolored from years of use. There were six chairs down the right side, seven down the left. One chair on the left side-Aron
o Dochartaigh's chair-sat vacant. Jenna and Moister Cleurach were seated at the far end of the table, facing the Rl and the tiarna. This after-noon, the hall was also crowded with the minor tiarna and the ceil giallnai, standing behind Jenna.
Even though the sun shone beyond the great, tall stained glass win-dows behind the Rl, the keep still dripped, a sullen plop-plop-plop that could be heard whenever the Comhdail Comhairle lapsed into silence.
That was not often. It seemed that everyone
wanted their chance to speak. Jenna decided that the falling water was less the tears of those slaughtered on Croc a Scroilm and more the gods weeping for the waste of words. Most of the tiarna railed against Aron O Dochartaigh’s audacity in ruining the Feast of First Fruits, the destruction and loss of life-over a dozen bodies had been pulled from the burning, charred rubble of the lane-and the temerity in taking Cloudmage Ennis as a hostage. But as the Banrion had predicted, once the indictment had been made, they all stopped short of calling for concerted action against him. Despite the loud and brave talk, they were content with the verbal condemnation of Aron, and no one wanted to pursue him once he was in his own land.
". .we know that a tiarna’s land is his own, and if Tiarna O Dochartaigh is back in Rubha na Scarbh, there will be no pulling him out." That was Kyle MacEagan, looking sour and irritated as he glanced up and down the table. "The Ri should issue a warrant, but then we must wait. Tiarna
0 Dochartaigh will send word, and soon, as to his intentions. Do you not
agree, Banrion? You know Aron better than any of us."
Banrion Aithne rose, nodding to MacEagan and her husband, the Ri. "I do know Aron," she said, "and even though we share the same blood, I agree with those who say that we must condemn this action with the strongest terms possible. And I also agree with Tiarna MacEagan: though
I speak in the Comhairle for my husband’s townland of Dun Kiil, Rubha na Scarbh was my home, and I know it and its clans well. Aron won’t be found if he doesn’t wish to be found. I believe-"
There was a crash as the doors to the hall were thrown open. Everyone turned, and even the Ri looked up sleepily. A bedraggled garda entered, looking travel-stained and tired. He held up a leather pouch toward the Comhairle. "For the First Holder," he said. The Banrion gestured for the man to come forward; a moment later, the Ri did the same. He moved through the press of tiarna, who stepped aside, and placed the package in front of Jenna. "We followed Tiarna O Dochartaigh’s path from Dun Kiil," he said. "He had a dozen riders with him, at least. They stopped at Nealmhar Ford to water their horses. We found this hanging on a tree branch at the crossing, with a note that it was to go to you, Holder." He gestured at the bag. "I rode here as quickly as I could. None of us opened it." He said that last sentence quickly, as if he feared that Jenna would
strike him down with Lamh Shabhala.
"Thank you," she told him, as gently as she could. The Comhairle was staring at the pouch, knotted shut with a leather cord. Jenna untied the cord and opened the flap. She turned the pouch and a necklace slid out along with a sheet of parchment on which she could see the black scrawl of words. The necklace was silver and a cage of fine silver wire hung from one end. The cage was empty, but Jenna knew what had once sat there: Ennis' cloch, the one she had taken from Mac Ard.
"Oh, Ennis. ." she breathed, hand over her mouth to stop the cry that wanted to wail and shriek its way forth. "Don't," Mac Ard had pleaded when she took the cloch from him. "It would be like tearing away part of yourself to lose it. Don't…"
Now it was Ennis who had had his cloch na thintri ripped from him, it was Ennis who must have cried out in pain and loss, suffering more than if Aron had cut him open with his sword and left him to bleed to death. "Ennis. ." Tears dripped onto the paper, the sepia ink running where the water touched, and Jenna blinked furi-ously, grasping the necklace in her hand, wishing she could read the words and also glad that she could not. She handed the note to Moister Cleurach. "Moister, what does the note say?"
He read it slowly, aloud:
"To the First Holder Aoire-
"I send you this token as proof that I hold Holder O'Deoradhdin as hostage against the blood payment you owe for my daughter's murder. The eraic I demand is this: you will give me Lamh Shabhala, for you have shown that you are not fit to hold it. You will send the cloch to me via my sister, the Banrion, who will bring it to Rubha na Scarbh. Once I have the cloch in my possession, I will release my hostage. If I do not have Lamh Shabhala by the Festival of Meitha, I will send back your lover's body for you to mourn as 1 mourned my daughter."
Moister Cleurach laid the paper down on the table as if with great weariness. "It is signed," he said, "by Tiarna Aron O Dochartaigh."
They were all staring at Jenna. She could feel their
gazes, hot against the aching cold dread that had seeped deep into her with each word. "The Festival of Meitha is in ten days," the RI said, the first words he had spoken all morning, and it brought everyone’s attention to him. The Ri shrugged as if surprised. "We have a lot to do before then," he said. "All the preparation for the festival. ." He lapsed into silence, his mouth shutting abruptly. He waved a hand indulgently. "But go on. Go on."
Banrion Aithne audibly sighed.
Tiarna Kianna Ciomhsog rose and pointed to the parchment in front of Jenna. "This changes everything," she said. "Aron has made the affair not treason but eraic, a personal matter of honor between himself and the First Holder in which the Comhairle needn’t involve itself." Several of the other tiarna around the table muttered in agreement. Jenna saw annoy-ance flit over the Banrion’s face; Aithne nodded to MacEagan, who imme-diately interjected.
"He may have tried to do so. But it remains that Tiarna O Dochartaigh disrupted the holiday, destroyed the Ri’s property, and killed several of his subjects. That isn’t eraic; that is lawlessness and a breaking of the oaths of fealty and peace we’ve all sworn to the Comhairle and the Ri. The Comhairle should still recommend that the Ri issue the warrant against him."
Banrion Aithne rose then, nodding to MacEagan. "And I, sadly, must agree with Tiarna MacEagan." Her voice was tinged with soft regret. "Even though Aron is my brother, he has violated the peace of the Ri and de-serves to pay for that. ."