Holder of Lightning

"Ennis. . Oh, Mother-Creator, no. ." His name was a wail, a keening of grief. The rain splattered on his still face, on his unseeing eyes, and she rocked back and forth in the muck and grass, willing him to stir, to take a gasping breath, to speak, to live. She cried, praying to the Mother-Creator, to the Seed-Daughter from whom the Miondia, the lesser gods, had sprung, to Darkness in His own realm, to any god that might bring him back. She touched Ennis’ face, still warm in the cold rain, and stroked his hair.

"He’s gone, Jenna." Moister Cleurach’s voice, at her shoulder. "Jenna, I’m so sorry…"

He’s not gone! she wanted to rail at him. I won’t let him be gone. There has to be something, some way to change this. . But no words came out. She looked up at Moister Cleurach, stricken dumb, her mouth open as she shook her head.

She took Lamh Shabhala in her hand. She held the cloch, opening the small store of energy still left within it. She held the energy, not knowing how to shape it or change it so that she could bring his soul back from where it had fled. The brilliance of the mage-lights shimmered around her, and it meant nothing. She let go of the cloch and fell over Ennis’ body, weeping.

She lay there for long minutes until gentle hands pulled her away.

Chapter 49: Leave-taking

THE attendants, returning now that the battle was over, argued that with the rain it was impossible to cremate the body, but Jenna insisted that a pyre be built in the nearest field. Jenna watched as they sullenly constructed the pyre in the downpour, sitting by Ennis' body and refusing to move whenever Moister Cleurach or Aithne came to join her, though she didn't resist when they tended to her injuries. The tears came and went on some internal tidal rhythm; the grief filled her like a cold moon-less sea, heavy and deep. The sun sank below the mountains beyond Glenn Aill; the rain subsided to drizzle as mist and a few stars emerged between ragged clouds.

"The pyre's ready," Aithne said. Jenna felt the Banrion's hand on her shoulder. The woman had said little since the battle. She crouched down alongside Jenna and took her hands, still clutching Ennis' stiffening body. "They need to take him now," she whispered, nodding to her attendants. They came forward silently and took the body as Aithne helped Jenna to her feet. She stood unsteadily, her legs weak with exhaustion and hours of sitting.

They placed the body atop the framework of logs and branches, and placed the bodies of the gardai who had died to either side of him. One of the retainers came forward with a burning torch and touched it to the base of the pyre. A pale blue flame flickered then went out. "The wood is soaked, Banrion," he called. "We used what little oil we had, but.. There was a hint of pleasure in his words, the ghost of an unspoken reprimand.

"I'll do it," Jenna said. She shrugged away the Banrion's hands, drawing a breath as she found Lamh Shabhala’s chain, recovered from where it had fallen and around her neck once more. She lifted the cloch, closing her eyes and coaxing the remaining essence from deep within the well of the stone.

She imagined fire: a flame of elemental force, burning purer and hotter than a smelter's furnace. She placed the image under the pyre and released it. With an audible whump, the pyre burst into flame. White smoke bil-lowed as the moisture in the wood went immediately to steam and evapo-rated.

The pyre hissed and grumbled, but it burned so aggressively that the attendants all moved well back. Shadows lurched and swayed behind them as the flames leaped up to envelop the bodies, the light from it touching even the walls of Glenn Aill. Jenna poured the last dregs from Lamh Shabhala into the pyre; the flames roared in response, sending a whirling column of furious sparks pinwheeling into the night sky.

She watched as the flames devoured the corpses. She imagined Ennis’ soul soaring free, dancing in the glowing ash toward the sky and the Seed-Daughter’s welcome to the afterlife. She watched until the pyre collapsed in a tornado of sparks; until it was no more than glowing embers; until she saw above them the mage-lights snarling the sky and felt the yearning, seductive pull of Lamh Shabhala toward them.

"I know you’re exhausted and hurting, Holder, but you need to renew your cloch," Aithne said softly, startling Jenna. "Aron and the others will be doing the same, and it’s a long and possibly dangerous ride home."

Moister Cleurach, off to one side, had already opened his cloch to the lights. Aithne stood near Jenna, her face gentle and sympathetic. The Banrion looked battered and sore: a bruise discolored her cheek and puffed one side of her mouth. Her cloca and leine were scorched, torn, and filthy, and blood had soaked through along one arm where a long cut trailed down nearly to her wrist. She’d been burned on the other arm-Jenna could see the blisters that glistened on the woman’s left hand, running up beyond the sleeve of her leine.