Mage of clouds the cloud.., p.36
Mage of Clouds (The Cloudmages #2), page 36
Ragan jiggled the pouch and upended it on the table. Bits of polished ivory bones spilled out along with a single black feather and three blood-red, polished half circles that might have been seashells. They rattled on the tabletop. “Bones of crow and scale of dragon,” Ragan said.
“Dragon scales?” Owaine said. “Really? I saw a dragon . . .” He leaned forward, reaching out toward them but Keira touched his wrist, shaking her head, and he reluctantly pulled his hand back.
“These oracles give a similar pattern every time I cast them,” Ragan said. “See there, farthest out?—the wing tip is under the claw, and see how far the bit of spine has gone from the rest? And look next to it: the feather is covered by a scale. I see our time passing. Here, closest to me, the bones jumble—a war, perhaps, or certainly a great struggle coming soon. And just beyond that, the dragon scale covering a rib bone: a threat from outside that is still hidden.” He scooped up the pile and placed them back in the bag, then handed the bag to Meriel. “Throw them again,” he said.
Meriel remembered Sevei in her tent, placing the array of cards on the table and peering down at them. She shivered, afraid suddenly. “I don’t believe in this,” she said, but the truth was that she was afraid that, like Sevei’s cards, she believed in them all too much.
“You don’t have to believe,” Ragan answered. “The bones will feel what’s in your heart whether you have faith in their ability or not. Go on.” He peered at her with ancient eyes. “I’m not afraid to see what they say,” he told her. “Your Taisteal friend accepted what she saw in the future, also.”
“How do you—?” Meriel stopped. Shivered. Ragan smiled at her gently.
“Cast them,” he said. She jiggled the bag as she’d seen Ragan do and turned over the bag, letting the contents scatter on the table. Ragan bent forward, squinting so that his white, bushy eyebrows seemed to curl together around the wrinkles above his nose. “Interesting,” he said. “Not what I expected.”
“What do they say?” Owaine asked. Ragan didn’t answer, looking instead at Meriel. She shrugged at him.
“I don’t care,” she said. “Whatever it is, you can say it.”
A nod. “The dragon scales touch there,” he said, jabbing at the table with a thick-nailed hand. “And see how the feather floats free while the claw and beak touch. I thought . . .” Ragan looked up, staring at Meriel. “You reject the path others would set for you. Instead, you follow what calls to your soul. That will bring you danger and possibly an early death.”
A coldness gripped her chest. Meriel stared at the artifacts, trying to see in them what Ragan saw. “The parts within you are at war,” Ragan continued. “You are pulled in many directions—toward something or someone different than you and away from what someone else wants you to be, even though I see that you would do well in that place.”
Meriel felt the brush of cold fingers along her spine. “You’re saying I’m making a mistake,” she began, but Ragan was already shaking his head.
“No one can say that. The bones indicate that you stand at the branching of paths. There are several futures for you: some where you fulfill a great destiny, others where you turn away from that destiny because the choice is being imposed on you rather than being your own. I also see here—” he touched the bones that had fallen closest to Meriel, “—that the most risk for you comes from someone close to you, not from those you think of as your enemies.”
Meriel drew in a breath. It’s what Sevei said, also. “. . . that it’s those you love you should fear the most, for they hold the greatest danger for you.” Meriel nodded, but Owaine spoke, almost angrily. “This is nonsense,” he said. “You can’t see the future in a few bits of bone. You’re talking in such vague terms that of course Meriel imagines it applies to her.”
Ragan looked placidly at the young man. He scooped up the bones and placed them back in the bag. “Would you like to cast them?” he asked Owaine, holding out the pouch to him. “There might be enough of the spell left within them for one more telling.” Owaine blinked and Meriel saw the anger slowly fade, replaced by a grudging curiosity. He held out his hand and Ragan placed the pouch in Owaine’s upturned palm.
“I still don’t believe in this,” Owaine said. Ragan said nothing and Owaine upturned the pouch. Bones chattered on wood, bouncing. “Well, what do you see?”
Ragan peered at the array. “The beak is down while the rib bones have opened to enclose the scale . . . You’ve given your love to someone who doesn’t return it. You’re afraid to speak too much of your feelings to her because you think you know what her answer would be, so you stay silent. And the claw holds the feather . . . You would protect that person even at the cost of yourself. That speaks of an unselfish and brave heart.”
Owaine looked up from the table and his gaze caught Meriel’s. Owaine blushed; Meriel looked quickly away. We both know what Ragan is implying, and I don’t want you thinking that way about me, she wanted to say to him. I don’t want to hurt you after all you’ve done, but I don’t love you. Not that way. Dhegli has that part of me . . . I’m sorry.
She didn’t say it; she pressed her lips closed, staring only at the bones. “You talk of now, Ragan,” Owaine said. With his voice, Meriel stole a glance at him, but he kept his gaze fixed on Ragan. “What of my future?”
A soft smile. “I thought you didn’t believe?” Owaine sputtered, and Ragan laughed. “I didn’t need the bones to give you the reading just now, Owaine,” Ragan said. “I could see all of what I said in your face and your eyes. The bones were empty of the slow magic; I could feel that when you put them on the table. I’m sorry. But I can tell you one other truth without needing magic: you haven’t thought much of your future. Someone who would rush away to find someone without any preparation or concern for himself doesn’t look that far forward. Right now you see little hope that there will be a future.” Ragan scooped up the bones again and knotted the string around the neck of the pouch. “There will be one, of course, but whether you or I will be in it . . .” Ragan shrugged and gave a low laugh. “Only the gods know.”
“That’s hardly comforting,” Owaine said. “And hardly magic.”
Ragan sighed and straightened. “Comfort is for fools, and only fools depend on magic.” He set the pouch aside on the table and folded his hand on the polished surface. His wrinkled gaze returned to Meriel. “I wanted to meet you because the bones tell me you’ll be here for a time yet, and that affects us.”
“I’m sorry,” Meriel told him. “I didn’t want to bring trouble to your people. If you want, I’ll leave. All I need do is go to the lough.”
“And leave Owaine behind, trapped here?” Keira asked.
She could feel his gaze on her and wouldn’t look his way. “Owaine can’t travel the way I’d go. The Riocha aren’t after Owaine, but me. Once the Riocha realize I’m gone, it would be easy enough for him to leave.”
Ragan shook his head. “The bones don’t see you leaving, Meriel,” he said. “And having you here isn’t a great danger for us. Or rather, only a little more than we already had. I see allies coming here to find you. So rather than escape from Doire Coill to return to your mam and your home, I would propose that we bring your mam here.”
33
A Game of Ficheall
THE sense of failure sat in the pit of his stomach, indigestible and heavy and booming with every pulse of blood in his body.
. . . my fault, my fault, my fault . . .
“I need you to take care of Edana,” he told his cousin, the young tiarna Aghy O’Maille. “I’ve sent word to my family and a dozen of our retainers should be here in a few days to ride with you and your own gardai. I’m giving you the thing I treasure most in this world, Aghy. Take her to the Order of Gabair. Shay will begin a search for a healer who understands this type of mage-caused injury. But if she wakes, bring her back to Dún Laoghaire as quickly as you can. Trust no one you might meet on the road. Send me regular messages on your progress. I’ll be waiting to hear from you in Dún Laoghaire.”
He’d kissed Edana then, tenderly, wanting to cry at the sight of her pale, thin face. “I love you,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear. “Please come back to me, Edana. I need you, now more than ever. I hope you can hear me. Let me tell you again: I love you.” Then he’d straightened and nodded to Shay, and the tiarna had closed his fingers around his Cloch Mór and the coldness of the Between had gripped Doyle . . .
You have to wake up, Edana. You have to return to me . . .
. . . my fault, my fault, my fault . . .
“It’s your move, Doyle.”
Doyle started. Torin Mallaghan, Rí of Tuath Gabair, waved a hand at the ficheall board set up on the table between them. Torin was more like his mam Cianna—murdered almost twenty years ago by Jenna—than the da after whom he’d been named. Torin was thin almost to the point of appearing fragile, with fine-boned and soft features, though those who made the error of mistaking appearance for reality had paid heavily. Rí Mallaghan had arrived in Dun Laoghaire a day after Doyle, and had called Doyle to his chambers within a stripe. But since Doyle had been ushered into the Ri’s presence, Torin had mentioned nothing about either Meriel or Jenna. Instead, they’d played ficheall, Doyle engaging in carefully circumspect small talk as he waited for the Rí to come to the real topic.
“It’s your move. You should really pay attention,” the Rí repeated with a hint of annoyance that came easily to him—in that, he was like his da.
Doyle glanced at the board, then slid one of his gardai forward between Torin’s Rí and his remaining dragon. “Marbhsháinn,” he said—death trap. Torin hissed and glared at the board. “I’m sure that you’re just distracted with the coming Óenach, my Rí.”
Torin’s face clouded. “Don’t patronize me, Doyle.”
Doyle lowered his head at the rebuke. “My apologies, Rí. But you do generally play better.”
“Aye, but you still generally win. That’s why it disturbs me when you make a mistake in the true game.”
“Rí?” . . . my fault, my fault . . .
Torin reached out with a thin finger and toppled his Rí. It clattered onto the marble board. “What’s happened to her, Doyle?”
Doyle shook his head. Does he know about Edana? By the Mother, if that’s common knowledge, then I’m truly lost . . . “Edana? She’s on her way here, as I mentioned . . .”
Rí Mallaghan grimaced in annoyance. “Not Edana; the Mad Holder’s daughter Meriel. Do you realize the cost of placing my gardai around Doire Coill? Do you think that none of the other Ríthe will wonder why I’m doing that? Do you comprehend what it will mean if they realize that you snatched the Banrion Thuaidh’s daughter but managed to lose her? Have you thought of the consequences if the MacEagan girl should fall into another Rí’s hands or even—may the Mother-Creator protect us—finds her way back to Inish Thuaidh? Can you imagine the repercussions?” His eyes narrowed, his lips pressed tightly together for a moment. “Do you know how furious I was to find that you and Shay withheld all this from me? Does my patronage of the Order of Gabair and my advice mean so little to you?”
Doyle could feel the heat on his face. Small beads of sweat had formed at his hairline. He wanted to wipe them away but instead closed his hand around one of the ficheall dragons. Dance with words as best you can . . . “My Rí—” Doyle began, then closed his mouth as Torin waved a hand.
“Don’t misunderstand me, Doyle. Frankly, the raid on Inishfeirm showed your initiative and leadership skills; even your enemies would grudgingly admit that—though I wish you’d seen fit to consult with me beforehand. I have to assume that the Rí Ard knew and approved, but your home is Tuath Gabair and I still rule there.”
“Rí Mallaghan—”
Torin raised a hand and Doyle again subsided into silence. “You’re arguably the most accomplished mage of the Order of Gabair. You’re young, yet you’ve shown maturity beyond your years and despite your . . . well, let’s call it a dubious lineage, you’ve managed to convince several of the other Riocha—especially those among the Order—that it’s worth their effort to follow you. Those qualities are why I suggested to O Liathain that you’d be a good choice for his daughter and, as I expected, you managed to win him over before his death. In the ficheall of life, you managed to place the pieces of your life well in the opening. But I’m troubled now.”
Torin gestured at the board and his fallen piece. “A good opening isn’t enough. A missed move anywhere in the game can be fatal. I want to know that my backing of you isn’t a mistake that I’ll regret.”
“The game isn’t over yet, Rí, and sometimes a mistake can uncover a new strategy or cause the opponent to become overconfident.”
“Not if your opponent’s also a skilled player. Then, one misstep is often enough, and I fear that your opponent in this game is a very good player herself.” Torin leaned back in his chair, sighing. One of his servants hurried forward and poured ale into the hammered gold cups on the table, then scurried back to the wall; another poked the fire in the hearth, sending sparks whirling upward. “You didn’t get the ransom you wanted from your sister, did you?” Doyle blinked at that, but Rí Torin only waved a hand again at the ficheall board. “Oh, come now. I have eyes and ears out in the world, as does every Rí if he wants to survive, and I know both your history and your style of play. I can guess as to why the Rí Ard’s daughter, her fiance, and a few other of the Order’s mages with Clochs Mór would suddenly go to Falcarragh even though the question of the Rí Ard’s successor is at risk . . . because if you’d gotten what you were after, there’d be no question as to who the next Rí Ard would be—or should I say Banrion Ard? But you didn’t get your ransom, did you?” He looked significantly at Snapdragon hanging around Doyle’s neck.
“No,” Doyle said, grimacing. “I didn’t.” My fault . . . The guilt moved through him again, leaden. He’d done nothing but replay his decision ever since he’d seen Edana fall and he thought he’d found the fatal flaw in his own ego. You wanted the battleground to be Inishduán because you wanted to defeat Jenna where she’d sent your mam spiraling into her depression and madness, and it was too close. You chose the ground and you chose wrongly. You forgot about her affinity with the damned Saimhóir. You didn’t weaken her enough . . . It’s your fault . . .
“A pity. I would have loved to have seen Rí O Seachnasaigh and Rí Taafe pretend to be pleased when they learned that Lámh Shábhála was in Doyle Mac Ard’s hands and the Mad Holder was no longer able to trouble us. Now that would have been a move to win any game. But . . .” Another sigh, then Torin leaned forward, one eyebrow raising, his face serious and grim. “What else should I know, Doyle? Tell me now, because if I find that you’re not telling me everything, I’ll withdraw my protection from you and simply watch when your enemies—and you have enough of those—take you down. We’re approaching the endgame, Doyle, and I am the Rí, not you; I can’t afford pieces that hide themselves from me. I’ll use them for sacrifice to protect myself first. Do you understand me?”
Doyle swallowed hard. He stared into the Rí’s face, weighing options and seeing no way out. Too much had happened, and Torin would eventually know—he might already know. This could simply be a trap. Doyle’s gaze flicked over to the servants; Torin caught the movement. “They’re my people and know when to close their ears,” the Rí said. “You can speak freely here.”
Doyle nodded. Haltingly, then with increasing urgency, he told Torin everything: the ransom he’d demanded, how Jenna had betrayed him, how he thought that he should never have used Inishduán, how two of the Order’s cloudmages were now dead and Edana was lost in a dreamworld. Torin said little, but by the time Doyle had finished, he had sagged back in his chair, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry, Rí Mallaghan.” Doyle could think of nothing else to say. “This all went so wrong.”
“You realize this changes everything.”
“Aye, Rí Mallaghan.” . . . my fault . . .
Torin’s lips twisted, as if his thoughts tasted sour. “I came to this Oenach believing that we might just be able to leave with Edana as Banrion. Now . . .” He shook his head and exhaled at the same time. “I think the best we can hope for is to somehow keep Enean from the throne. Does Rí Mas Sithig know any of this?”
Doyle lifted his hands and let them drop back to the table. “We took ship out of Falcarragh for Inishduan, so he would have known that, but the Rí had already left for the Óenach when we returned. He may have heard from his people, but I tried to keep Edana’s condition secret from those in the keep. Still, he’ll eventually know if he doesn’t already.”
Torin nodded at that. “Aye, he will. I’ll need to tell him and Banrion O Treasigh as well, since this also affects Locha Léin.” Torin took a long breath, rubbing at his eyes.
. . . my fault . . . But a new thought was forming. He could see the pieces in the game and there was still room to maneuver. “Rí—”
“Unless you have more news for me, I’d rather not hear from you, Doyle,” Torin said.
“Not news, my Rí, but a request.”
Torin blinked heavily, wearily. “I’m listening,” he said. “But this had better be good.”
“Meriel is still in Doire Coill. We know that much.” Doyle hurried into the obvious impatience in Torin’s posture. “My mam always told me how the Bunús Muintir in Doire Coill helped them when she, Jenna, and my da fled Ballintubber. Meriel will try to send word to her mam that she’s safe and the Bunús will help her. That hasn’t happened yet or Jenna would already be here—and we would know that.” Doyle shuddered at the thought. “I would think that we should put your best archers around the north of Doire Coill and any birds, especially crows, leaving the woods for the north should be shot. There are a few mages of the Order who can help if the archers miss, and we should use them.”
