Holder of Lightning

"I can't," Jenna said. The pain inside her, forgotten for a moment with the sighting of the storm deer, returned. "I don't know how. I'm scared, Seancoim. I'm so. ." She couldn't finish the sentence. The tears came again in racking, terrified sobs, and she wanted more than anything else for her mam to be here, to comfort her as she had so many times. She had thought of herself as a woman now, an adult and self-sufficient, but she suddenly felt like a child again.

It was O'Deoradhain who came to her. "I can help you, Jenna," he told her, crouching down in front of her. "I can't do it for you because Lamh Shabhala has chosen you, but I can help you. If you'll let me."

His arms went around her, and for a breath she stiffened, ready to pull away. He started to release her, to back away, but she laid her head on his shoulder. She let herself fall into the embrace,

allowing herself to believe that she was safe in her mam’s arms again, imagining that she was home again and that none of this had ever happened.

But it wasn’t an illusion that could last.

"There’s another who will help you as well," she heard Seancoim say. "Or at least, I hope so. We’ll go to him tomorrow."

Chapter 30: Release

SHE remembered the valley. The sight of the central dolmen, carved with the pattern of the scars on her arm and surrounded by the passage graves of the Bunus Muintir chieftains, still made her shiver. The day was gray and sullen with rain misting from lowering clouds, the water dripping heavily from the cap-stone of the dolmen as they stood under it. Only Denmark seemed un-bothered by the rain-the crow was perched above the entrance to Riata’s grave, mouth open to the sky and occasionally shaking droplets from his feathers.

Jenna’s mood matched the weather. Her stomach roiled and she’d thrown up nearly everything that Seancoim had put into her. The head-ache refused to leave, so that at times she could barely walk, and her right arm hung useless at her side. She’d leaned heavily on O’Deoradhain as they’d made the two-day journey to the valley. She remembered little of the time: it was a blur of pain and fatigue. She’d begged Seancoim for anduilleaf off and on, sometimes weeping, sometimes in a fury, once with a threat to use the cloch; he refused each time, though never with anger.

Jenna sank down with her back against one of the standing stones, not caring that the ground was soaked and muddy. "Now what?" she asked.

"We wait," Seancoim answered.

"Here?" Jenna spat.

"Here, or in Riata’s cairn."

"Here," O’Deoradhain said. He cast a look at the blackness beyond the stones where Denmark

roosted, and shivered. "Graves aren't for the living."

"Riata isn't quite dead," Seancoim told him.

"Then that's even worse."

"Can we at least have a fire?" Jenna asked. "I'm cold through."

O'Deoradhain gathered together what kindling he could find and pulled his tinderbox from his pack, but the spark wouldn't catch despite repeated efforts. "It's too damp," he said finally. Jenna nodded miserably, and Seancoim hunkered down in front of the nest of kindling O'Deoradhain had built. He rubbed his hands together several times, chanting words that Jenna could not understand. He picked up O'Deoradhain's flint and struck it. A blue flame shot out, startling Jenna, and the kindling began to crackle. O'Deoradhain chuckled. "I'm beginning to think that I was lucky you only hit me on the head," he said to Seancoim.

Seancoim's grizzled, ancient face grinned back at him as he warmed his hands over the flames. "That you were, young man."

They stayed there under the dolmen as the sun lowered itself beyond the lip of the valley and the valley grew darker under the overcast sky. The rain stopped before sunset; as night fell they began to glimpse stars between the thinning clouds.

Seancoim and O'Deoradhain talked as they waited, but Jenna said little, sitting on the ground with her knees drawn up and her right arm cradled against her. She stroked Lamh Shabhala from time to time. The cloch seemed almost restless, its image throbbing in her head, filling her vision with bright sparks. There was a tension in the air itself like the drone of some sepulchral pipe, so low that she couldn't quite hear it but only feel the sound, rumbling just below the threshold of perception.

A finger of light appeared above them, blue outlined in gold, wavering and brightening so that they saw the shadow of the dolmen sway on the ground in response. Jenna rose to her feet.

"So it is to be tonight… "

The voice spoke in her head, not in her ears: a resonant, warm baritone. The others looked up as well, as if they'd also heard. "Riata?" Jenna glanced toward the entrance to his tomb. There was a wavering in the dimness, a mist that formed itself

into a man’s shape as she watched. "Do you remember me?"