Holder of Lightning

O'Deoradhain's rebuke put color in Moister Cleurach’s cheeks. His chest expanded as if he were about to shout something in return, then he let the breath out with a sigh. "I'm sorry," he said simply. His hands opened in a gesture of apology, then fell to his sides. He sat on the edge of one of the desks, slumping. "I'm sorry," he said again. "It's just that it's all gone, everything Moister after Moister worked for over the centuries. He knows-" Moister Cleurach pointed to O'Deoradhain-"but do you? Do you know why the Order of Inishfeirm came to be?"

Jenna shook her head, silent, still half-turned away.

"Come with me, then," he said. He started to walk toward the door through which his clerks had gone, then stopped at the door when he realized that Jenna wasn't following. "It will be easier if you see," he told her. "I promise you that it's not a trap." He held the door open.

Reluctantly, with another glance at O'Deoradhain, she went through.

Chapter 38: The Vision of Tadhg

THEY walked down a corridor of marble flags. Twin rutted hollows were worn in the hard stone, unpolished and stained: the marks of countless sandaled feet over countless years. Jenna realized then just how old the White Keep was. The halls of the Order were quiet; the conversa-tions that drifted from the open doors they passed were whispered and hushed. Even the laughter she heard once had the sense of being muffled and held back. The occasional acolytes and Brathairs-no females, Jenna noticed-they met in their walk gave a quick bow of obeisance to the Moister, but Jenna felt their eyes on her, curious and wondering.

They came finally to a set of ornate, twin doors of bronze, the metal cast with curling flourishes and spirals that Jenna knew all too well: the same lines that marked her arm. Moister Cleurach pushed the doors open and beckoned to her to enter.

The room was large, with columns of polished marble in two rows down either side. At the end of the hall was a huge statue, easily twenty feet high, larger than any carving Jenna had ever seen: the figure of a man, elderly yet still vital. He was a seeming giant, his cloca white and flowing as if in some unseen breeze, his skin tanned, the eyes a startling blue under grayish, thin hair. He seemed to look directly at them, his expression solemn yet pleasant. His right arm was raised, the fingers curled into a fist as if he held something, and on the dome above him were painted the hues of the mage-lights, dancing in a black sky dotted with stars. For a moment, Jenna couldn’t breathe, staring at the colossus. "Go on," Moister Cleurach told her. "Look closer. ."

Jenna walked down the wide corridor between the columns, her foot steps echoing loudly. The gaze of the statue seemed to follow her, watching her as she approached. It was only when she reached the railing set a few yards before the statue that its regard left her. "Go up to him," Moister Cleurach said. "Touch him." She could hear Moister Cleurach and O’Deoradhain following behind. She went to the statue, her head reaching only halfway to his knee. She spread her left hand on the leg, expecting to feel cold, painted marble.

The leg was warm, and the flesh seemed to yield under her touch. She drew her hand back with a gasp, half-expecting the giant to be looking down at her with a sardonic grin. "That is the founder of our order and its first Moister-Tadhg O'Coulghan, Holder of Lamh Shabhala and the da of Severii O'Coulghan, who would be the Last Holder." Jenna could hear amusement in Moister Cleurach’s voice. "And no sculptor carved this image of him, No, the chisel was Lamh Shabhala, the marble the stuff of the mage-lights, and the artist Severii. He made this image of his da with the dying power of the cloch in the last days of the mage-lights." Moister Cleurach gave a soft laugh. "It startles all the acolytes in the same way, the first time they touch it. The statue has remained warm and soft and lifelike for over seven centuries now."

"I've never seen anything to equal it," Jenna said. She touched the statue again, wonderingly. The detail was exquisite: the pores of the skin, the fine hair of the legs. She almost expected to feel the pulse of blood under her hand.