Holder of Lightning

A rider had come up to their party that morning, as they moved deeper into O Dochartaigh’s land. A white banner fluttered from his spear, and his scabbard was empty of its sword. He’d glanced at Jenna, Moister Cleurach and their escorts, then handed the Banrion a note. "I wasn’t told the Holder would be coming, or the Inishfeirm Moister," the man said. "The tiarna… "

"Is my brother so defenseless that a dozen riders are a threat to him?" the Banrion asked, and the man flushed.

"The Holder-"

"— wishes to see that the hostage is delivered into her hands as was promised," the Banrion snapped. "Nothing more. Tell Aron that she is here to give him the eraic he demanded. Or if he prefers, we can ride back to Dun Kiil and he can be content with nothing."

Jenna had remained silent, staring back as the rider’s eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened. Then, with an arrogant sniff, he wheeled around and galloped away. The Banrion had unrolled the parchment. "He’ll meet us at Glenn Aill," she said. Her eyebrows raised as she glanced at Jenna. "This is what you want, isn’t it, First Holder?"

Jenna felt a flush rise in her cheeks. "I don’t know of any other way to get Ennis back." Moister Cleurach came up to them, listening. Jenna couldn’t look at him, afraid of what Aithne might see if she did.

The Banrion seemed mostly amused by Jenna’s statement. "Love is a phantom, Holder. It lives but a few years, then withers away and leaves you wondering how you could have ever thought you liked this sad per-son sharing your bed." She paused, her head tilting slightly as she re-garded Jenna. "I think we’re more alike than you want to believe, Jenna, and I certainly wouldn’t give up what you have for that."

"I suppose I don’t have your cynicism, Banrion."

Moister Cleurach, grunted but said nothing.

Aithne smiled at Jenna. would call it realism,

Holder. Besides, your sacrifice leaves my brother as the Holder of Lamh Shabhala."

"I would have thought that was something you might prefer."

"Love is a phantom," Aithne repeated, "whether 'tis between lovers o between siblings. I hold no illusions as to whether Aron would allow any lingering affection for me to stand in the way of what he wants."

"And that is…?"

"He would like to see a true Rl sitting on the throne at Dun Kiil, one who wouldn't need or want the Comhairle. With Lamh Shabhala, he could well have that." Her gaze lingered on Jenna, and Aithne seemed to sigh. "I wish you trusted me more, Holder. I think we both actually want the same thing." She kicked heels into her horse's side.

"Does she know?" Moister Cleurach asked softly as the Banrion moved up the trail. Jenna shook her head.

"I don't think so."

"We may have made a mistake in not telling her."

"If so, it's already made," Jenna answered. "We've gone too far to take the chance now."

The Banrion stopped, looking back at the two of them. She waved her arm. "We go this way," she said.

They were in their second day of storm.

" Tis no worse than others I've seen," Moister Cleurach said. "The sea is a fey mistress and we're no more than a speck in her hand-there's no escaping her whims, not in Inish Thuaidh."

Jenna huddled sullen and miserable on her horse. The reedcoat she wore flapped in the gale force winds that shredded the gray-black clouds above and pushed them firmly across the sky. The persistent and steady rain, blown nearly horizontal, had penetrated every fold and gap in the reedcoat and plastered her hair to her skull under the hood she held over her face. Her mount plodded through the deluge, great clumps of mud clinging to her hoofs and fetlocks, her mane dripping and the leather saddle and reins sodden. The clouds ran aground on the tops of the steep mountains to either side of them, a thousand dancing and splashing rills and streams plummeting down their sides toward the river whose banks they followed.

It helped, a little, that the others in their small party were suffering with her. Moister Cleurach sniffled and coughed, the gardai and retainers grumbled and muttered. Only the Banrion Aithne seemed unaffected by the weather, sitting uncomplaining on her black mare as she peered around her.

"Another few hours," she said. "We’re nearly there."