Holder of Lightning

She went back to the table. Mac Ard was leaning toward Maeve, his arms on the table, his hands curled around a mug of the ale, and her mam was talking.". . Niall would go walking on Knobtop or the hills just to the east, or follow the Duan down to Lough Lar, or go wandering in the forests between here and Keelballi. But he always came back, was never away for more than a week, maybe two at the most. There was a wander-lust in him. Some people never seem satisfied where they are, and he was one. I never worried about it, or thought he was traipsing off with some lass. Once or twice a year,

I’d find him filling a sack with bread and a few potatoes, and I’d know he would be going. Jenna,"

Maeve glanced up as Jenna approached, and she smiled softly, "-she has some of that restless-ness in her blood. Always wanting to go farther, see more. I don't know what Niall was searching for, nor whether he ever found it. I doubt it, for he was wandering up to the end."

Mac Ard took a sip of the ale. "Did you ever ask him?"

Maeve nodded. "That I did. Once. He told me. ." She looked away, as if she could see Jenna's da through the haze of pipe and peat smoke in the tavern. Jenna wondered what face she was seeing. "He told me that he came here because a voice had told him that his life's dream might be here." Meave's eyes shimmered in the candlelight, and she blinked hard. "He said it must have been my voice he heard."

Coelin's giotar sounded, a clear, high chord that cut through the low murmur of conversation in the bar. He'd moved over near the fire, Ellia sitting close to him and a mug of stout within reach. "What would you hear first?" he called out to the patrons.

On any other night, half a dozen voices might have answered Coelin, but tonight there was silence. No one actually glanced back to Tiarna Mat Ard, but everyone waited to see if he would speak first.

Mac Ard had turned in his chair to watch Coelin, and Jenna could see something akin to disgust, or maybe it was simply irritation, flicker across his face. Then he called out to Coelin. "I'm told your teacher was a Song-master. He must have given you the 'Song of Mael Armagh.'"

"Aye, he did, Tiarna," Coelin answered. "But it's a long tale and sad, and I've not sung it since Songmaster Curragh was alive."

"All the more reason to sing it now, before you lose it."

There was some laughter at that. Coelin gave a shrug and a sigh. "Give me a moment, then, to bring it back to mind. ." Coelin closed his eyes. His fingers moved soundlessly over the strings for a few moments; his mouth moved with unheard words. Then he opened his eyes and exhaled loudly. "Here we go then," he said, and began to sing.

Coelin's strong baritone filled the room, sweet and melodious, a voice as smooth and rich as

new-churned butter. Coelin had a true gift, Jenna knew-the gods had lent him their own tongue. Songmaster Curragh had heard the gift, unpolished and raw, in the scared boy he'd purchased from the Taisteal; now, honed and sharpened, the young man's talent was apparent to all. Mac Ard, after hearing the first few notes, sat back in his chair with an audible cough of surprise and admiration, shaking his head and stroking his beard. "No wonder the boy has half the lasses here in his thrall," Jenna heard him whisper to Maeve. "His throat must be lined with gold. Too bad he's all too well aware of it."