Holder of Lightning

Moister Cleurach shrugged. "Life is complicated," he replied simply and continued his tale. "No doubt Lamh Shabhala was eventually given away or lost or misplaced as something not particularly valuable. When Severii was asked by the librarian for a description of Lamh Shabhala, so that it could be painted and written down in our books. ." Moister Cleurach went to one of the shelves and pulled down one of the bound volumes.

"The Book of Lamh Shabhala," he said, placing it before Jenna. He opened the stiff leather cover, the smell of dust and old paper wafting over Jenna. His bony forefinger pointed to an illustration on the first page: a cloch held in someone’s hand: caged in silver wire; whorled with emerald-green and mottled gold; the size of a duck’s egg and glinting as if transparent and full of hidden depths. Jenna could see hints of the actual stone in the representation, but this was Lamh Shabhala magnified and made far more jewel like than the reality.

"Obviously, that’s not Lamh Shabhala," Moister Cleurach said. "Perhaps Severii deliberately lied to the artisan-wanting to make the loss of the cloch and his lover all the more poignant. Or it’s possible that the artisan, knowing that this was Lamh Shabhala, the greatest of the clochs, could not see it as… well. . plain, and Severii obviously never contradicted that image. So when a rather ordinary-looking stone reputed to be Lamh Shabhala did come back to the Order, you can understand why my prede-cessors doubted the identification when they looked here. That’s also why, when your great-da stole it, Moister Dahlga could believe that it was a false cloch that had been lost, not Lamh Shabhala."

"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.