S Farrell - Holder of Lightning

"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. ."

Jenna wondered why Aithne would argue against Aron, but Moister Cleurach leaned toward her and whispered. "Oh, she’ll make him pay-by bleeding his personal estate dry to come up with the honor-price against the warrant and replacing him in the Comhairle with another tiarna whose gratitude will give her his vote. Leave it to the Banrion to turn her brother’s rash judgment to her own advantage."

The Banrion continued to speak."… but Tiarna Ciomhsog is also correct in that the hostage taking is now eraic, and neither the Comhairle or the Ri can interfere in that." Aithne looked directly at Jenna, and though the sorrow still throbbed in her voice, her gaze was as hard as "int. "I wish it were different, First Holder. I wish the decision weren't so painful and difficult for you, or that I had wise counsel to give you. I don't. You must make your own decision as to how to respond to the eraic's demands. I can only offer myself as your servant to carry Lamh Shabhala to my brother, if that is what you decide."

Chapter 47: Voices

SHE wished she could speak with Seancoim. She wished she could sink into her mam's arms and simply sob. She wished Ennis were there, warming the other side of her bed.

But the night was cold and empty, and there was no one but Jenna herself and the voices inside Lamh Shabhala. She stroked the stone, listening. .

". . give it up! Aye, it will hurt and may even kill you, but holding the clock will end up being more pain for you than this, and death is a final release. Save the man you love… "

". . give up Lamh Shabhala, and you'll die unhappy and young. You'll hate him for having made you lose the cloch, that wonderful love of yours will turn sour and bitter and you'll end up with nothing. Nothing at all… "

". . go there yourself and attack the man. If you lose, at least you've fought… "

". . only a stupid fool would give up Lamh Shabhala for a lover… "

". . only an utterly selfish one would keep it at the cost of a lovers death…"

"Riata, talk to me," Jenna said, but if his voice was there in the babble, she couldn't distinguish it from the dozens of others. Jenna rolled from the bed, grimacing as the healing wounds and burns pulled and com-plained, and went over to a chest at the foot. Under the clothing were nestled the tore of Sinna Mac Ard and the carved blue seal her father had made. She picked up the seal, caressing it and

holding it against Lamh Shabhala. A moment later, the moonlight streaming in from the windows shimmered, and she was looking at the interior of her cottage in Ballintubber, and her da glanced up in surprise. "Who are you?" he asked, as he had every time.

And as she had every time, she told him, and watched his disbelief slowly turn to acceptance. She told him about Mac Ard and Maeve, about Ennis. "I don't know what to do, Da," she said finally, unable to stop the tears. "1 don't know. ."

Niall put down the block of wood he was carving. He walked toward her and a hand went out to touch her in comfort, but it moved through her as if Jenna were no more substantial than air. He looked at his hand as if it had somehow betrayed him. "What if it were you, Da?" Jenna continued as Niall stared at the offending fingers. "What if holding the cloch meant that you lost Mam?"

"I never held a cloch na thintri when it was alive," he answered. "It's not hard to give up something that had little value to you. I would give away a thousand stones like that to keep Maeve." He put his knife to the wood and a brown shaving curled away. "I'm sorry, Jenna. Truly I am. But I can't help you; I can't imagine needing to make the choice or the choice being that important." His sad, lost eyes gazed at her, and she was struck by the softness of his face and his hands. He wouldn't have been strong enough to hold Lamh Shabhala. It would have destroyed him. The thought was so like the cold, judgmental voices she'd heard in her head that she gasped, knowing it was her own voice she heard. She opened her hand and the carving fell to the floor. "Da, I'm sorry. ." she whispered as Niall and the cottage vanished, leaving her alone in the room.

She left the carving where it fell, picking up a shawl and leaving her chambers. The guards posted outside started to follow her, but she ges-tured to them to stay. She hurried down the stairs and corridors of the keep and outside to the courtyard.

"I need to go down to the town," she told one of the pages on duty there, and he scurried off to wake the stable master and bring a carriage. Half a stripe later, she left the carriage at one end of the wharf. "Stay here," she said to the driver. "I'll be back soon."

In the darkness, the harbor area was quiet, though she could hear laughter and singing from the tavern facing the docks, and the waves lapped the piers as mooring ropes groaned and hulls knocked gently against pilings. Jenna strode quickly to the end of the wharf where she and Ennis had gone the night of the Feast of First Fruits. She walked from the planks onto the wet, dark boulders there and sat, staring out over the water. She touched Lamh Shabhala, her attention drifting with its energy over the sea, calling.