S Farrell - Holder of Lightning

"1 do understand," Jenna said. "And is what’s written in this book also false?"

"In this book is written all that Tadhg and Severii told us of Lamh Shabhala, and all that we have learned since. Some of it is undoubtedly untrue or exaggerated or rumor; other portions are certainly true. You’ll help us revise this at the same time you’re learning from it."

"I have another question," Jenna said, and Moister Cleurach sighed audibly, though he said nothing, waiting. "Sometimes, when I've used Lamh Shabhala, I've heard the voices of all of its Holders. Some of them have spoken of a test, 'Scrudu,' they call it. What is that?"

Moister Cleurach sighed. His fingers brushed the parchment where the false image of Lamh Shabhala was painted. "The Scrudu… " he breathed. "Not all Holders need to know that."

"That's not an answer, Moister."

He glared at her, but continued. "Right now, Lamh Shabhala is like a Cloch Mor, more powerful and with more abilities than any of those, aye, but still a Cloch Mor. Many Holders have been content with that, and spent their years with the cloch that way. No one will think less of you if you do the same."

'Finish your answer, Moister. Please."

He snorted in irritation. "A few, a few Holders have found the full depths of Lamh Shabhala’s power. To do so, they must first pass the trial they call the Scrudu. I will tell you this, Holder Aoire: most who try fail"

"And if they fail?"

"If they're lucky, they die," Moister Cleurach replied. His stare was unblinking and cold. "If you believe that to be overdramatic, I assure you it's not."

"Is this Scrudu in your book?"

"It's mentioned, but neither Tadhg or Severii ever risked the challenge. But the process, the way to begin and what happens then. ." He shrugged. "They-the voices in the stone-will tell you later if you're foolish enough to make the attempt. I would advise you to first learn something about being a cloudmage."

Jenna started to speak, but Moister Cleurach closed the book sharply, surprising her so much that her mouth snapped shut again. Dust rose from the pages, so heavy that Jenna had to turn her head and sneeze. "You've used up your quota of questions for a month, Holder Aoire. If you have no interest in the lore we have to give you, you're welcome to leave. If not, then henceforth you'll learn when I'm ready to teach and not before. Is

that quite clear?"

He glared at her, his head turned sideways, looking so stern that Jenna suddenly felt compelled to laugh. "Aye," she told him, as his face softened slightly in response to her laughter. "I suppose I can work on my pa-tience."

Moister Cleurach might be old, but he was hardly decrepit. If anything, his stamina was greater than Jenna's. The schedule over the next weeks quickly fell into routine: every morning, O'Deoradhain would wake her by knocking on the door of her small cell, located near Moister Cleurach’s own rooms. She broke her fast with O'Deoradhain in the same dining hall as the other acolytes and Brathairs. O'Deoradhain then escorted her to the library, where she and Moister Cleurach worked until sundown.

Moister Cleurach had given over his other duties and students; Jenna's instruction was now his only task. She learned about the clochs na thintri. their history, their behavior, their quirks, how previous Holders had dealt with handling their power. She was shown meditations that helped her deal with the pain of her interaction with the mage-lights, she was guided through the bright landscape she saw when she looked at the world through Lamh Shabhala’s eyes. She and Moister Cleurach pored over the texts left by previous Holders of Lamh Shabhala, and Jenna realized that I had only touched on the surface of the cloch's abilities. As Moister Cleurach had said, some of what was stated in the book was false, but much more of it illuminated pathways within the cloch that Jenna had not even guessed at. The Moister pushed her and prodded her, never letting her rest, taking her past what she thought were her physical and mental limits, never accepting less than her best effort.

"Was he this way with you?" she asked O'Deoradhain after a particu-larly grueling day. "After all, he expected you to hold Lamh Shabhala had you found it. Did he drive you like this?" They were standing on a balcony of one of the White Keep's towers, overlooking the crags and cliffs atop which the cloister perched. The houses and buildings of the village were a collection of dots far below already in deepening shadow. Only the upper rim of the sun was still visible, the clouds above burning molten gold and rose, the waves of the sea tipped with shimmering orange. A sparkling column of wind sprites lifted from the cliffs halfway down the mountain, and several seals had hauled out of the sea, roaring and honk-ing where the waves crashed foaming onto black rocks.

"Consider it a good sign," O’Deoradhain grinned. "He’s hardest on the ones he feels have the most potential. The time to worry is when he’s easy on you."

"You still haven’t answered my question. Was he this hard on you?"

O’Deoradhain smiled again. "That would be telling, wouldn’t it?" Jenna laughed and his smile grew broader. "I knew you could do that," he said.

"Do what?"

"Laugh. Enjoy yourself."

Jenna felt herself blushing, and she glanced down toward the village so that she wouldn’t have to look at him. Her flight from Lar Bhaile now seemed ages ago, and over the intervening months her feelings toward O’Deoradhain had been slowly changing: from suspicion and caution to grudging admiration, to friendship, to… she didn’t know how to term what she felt now. Or perhaps you’re simply afraid to give it a name, for all manner of reasons. .

Below, the seals were leaping into the waves, one after another, dozens of them. "Are those blue seals?" Jenna asked to shift the subject, but O’Deoradhain moved closer to her to peer over the balco-ny’s stone railing. She could feel the heat of his body against her side.

“I don’t think so," he said. "Just the normal harbor seals. There’s a family of blues here, but they’re usually on the other side of the island."

"Are they. .?"

"The ones I first swam with?" he finished for her softly. "No. That was on Inish Thuaidh itself. But I’ve been with this group, when I felt the need.

They know me, and Garrentha, who saved you at Lough Glas is one of the Inishfeirm family." His hand touched hers on the railing — her right hand. She didn’t move away this time. His fingers interlaced with hers, pressing gently. Though the fingers of that hand, as always, moved only stiffly and with some pain, she pressed back. "Jenna. ." he began but his voice trailed off. The throng of wind sprites rose in the darkening air, chattering in their high voices as they swarmed past Jenna and

O'Deoradhain before darting around the bulge of the tower.

"What were you going to say, Ennis?" Jenna asked, and O'Deoradhain chuckled. "What?" she said into his laughter.

"I think that may be the first time you've called me by my given name."

She smiled back at him. "Is that wrong? Is that too familiar for you?"

"No," he answered, still smiling. "I like the way you make it sound."

They were still holding hands. "Ennis. ." she began, and this time the tone was different.

"I know. You don't have to say it."

Her eyes searched his. "What do you know?"

"I'm a bit too old for you. A bit too strange. A bit. ." He shrugged. He let her hand fall away from his grasp. "I understand all that. Truly. But I hope you know that I will always be your ally. When you need my cloch to stand with you against the other Clochs Mor-and I don't think that can be avoided-I will be there."

He started to turn away. She reached out with her left hand and touched his arm. "Wait, Ennis."