Holder of Lightning

The Rl MacBradaigh moaned once more, and everyone's attention went to him, almost with relief. Aithne leaned over and took a washcloth from a basin of water, wringing it out and placing it over his forehead. "There's nothing we can do for him?" Jenna asked.

The Banrion shook her head. "Too many wounds, and some of them very deep. I'm afraid he's beyond the skills of any of the healers here. Moister Cleurach says that there was once a healing stone among the Clochs Mor, but he doesn't know who holds it. There were reputedly clochmion with the same skill though with less potency; Moister Cleurach is asking if anyone among us holds one, but he doesn't know that even a clochmions would have the ability to help. The Rl sank into deep sleep early yesterday and hasn't woken. In just the last stripe of the candle, his breathing's gone shallow and fast, as you hear it now. The healer thinks he'll be with the Mother-Creator by morning." Aithne took the cloth, moistened it again, and patted his cheeks with

it. "Perhaps it’s better this way. He’ll be remembered for his last acts, not the incompetence that came before."

"I talked with the rest of the Comhairle," MacEagan said to the Banrion. "They agree with us. We’ll meet tonight for the appearance, but we already have the votes."

"Agree with what?" Jenna asked, looking from Aithne to MacEagan.

MacEagan answered. "We sent runners to all the townlands when we learned that the fleet was coming. Many of the Riocha, especially those from the north and west, didn’t have enough time to muster and arm their people and come to Dun Kiil. But they’re coming in now-we al-ready have as many troops here now as we did for the first attack. The Banrion and I think that we shouldn’t wait for the Ri Ard to get his reinforcements from Falcarragh. We think we should counterattack now, as soon as we can. The Tuathians may well be expecting it, but they won’t ever be weaker than they are now." He paused. "Especially if Lamh Shabhala is with us."

"Attack again? So soon?"

"Tomorrow, so long as the mage-lights come tonight so you can restore your cloch, and we’d better pray that they do-by now word will have reached Falcarragh and ships could already be on their way. We can’t wait."

"Waiting was what allowed them to come here in the first place," Aithne commented, her thin lips pressing together after she spoke. Jenna felt the point of that rebuke and grunted in response.

Going into battle again. . Her whole body cried out in protest at the thought. Her wounds had just begun to heal, the arm that linked her to Lamh Shabhala throbbed and complained, her soul was heavy with the loss of Thraisha, and the pleasure that she thought she’d feel at avenging Ennis’ death with Aron’s life was diluted by guilt and remorse. The faces of the widows haunted her, and that of the boy Mahon, and the fierce loyalty of the soldiers who had crafted something from her that she was not.

Ennis, what should I do? Thraisha? Seancoim? But they were all gone, those whose advice she might have trusted. She had only herself. She could not even ask Riata or the dead Holders, silenced because of Lamh Shabhala’s emptiness. Aithne and MacEagan stared at her, and she could feel their eagerness and certainty.

An image came to her, as sharp as reality, and she had a sense that she was glimpsing the future: herself lying dead on the cold ground, the remnants of battle smoking around her. Jenna touched her stomach: the child lay unmoving inside her.

If you die, your baby dies with you. But you have no choice. No choice. You can't flee, and if they take Lamh Shabhala from you the pain of the loss will be more than you can bear…

Jenna cupped the fist of her right hand in her left, her gaze traveling along the swirled lines of white, dead skin until they reached the sleeve of her leine and disappeared under the white cloth. Her right hand felt like a frozen stone in her palm. She half-closed her eyes, willing the fin-gers to open. They obeyed only reluctantly, lifting until she could see folded lines crossing her palm then refusing to move farther. She moved the hand to her breast, leaning forward slightly so that Lamh Shabhala slipped between the fingers into the hand. She looked at it: the plain, ordinary stone trapped in its web of fine silver.

"Aye," she told them. "I agree with you. We can't wait."

Chapter 59: Death on the Field