Holder of Lightning

The voice came from the darkness, and a form stepped from the night shadows into the light of the fire: a man, old and hunched over, attired in ragged leather and fur and supporting himself with a gnarled oaken staff. The crow cawed again, flapped its wings, and flew to the man, perching itself on his left shoulder. "Who are you?" Mac Ard asked, the bow still drawn and the arrow now pointed at the chest of the stranger.

"No one worth killing," the man answered. His words were under-standable, but thick with an odd accent. He seemed to be staring some-where slightly to the side and above Mac Ard, and in the gleam of the firelight, Jenna saw the man's eyes: unbroken, milky white pupils.

"He's blind, Tiarna," she said.

The man laughed at that, and at the same time the crow lifted its head and cackled with him, the two sounds eerily similar. "This body's blind, aye," he said, "but I can see." The man lifted his right hand and stroked the crow's belly. "Denmark here is my eyes. What he sees, I see. And what I see now is two village folk and a tiarna, who know so little they would light fires under these trees."

"This is not your land," Mac Ard answered. "This forest is within Tuath Gabair, and belongs to the Rl. And you've still not given us your name."

The old man's amusement was loud, echoed by the crow. "My name? Call me Seancoim," he answered. "And Rl Gabair can claim whatever he likes: his cities and villages, his bogs and fields. But the old places like this forest belong to themselves, and even Rl Gabair knows that." He grinned at them, gap-toothed, and gestured. "Now, follow me. I'll take you where you'll be safe."

"We're safe enough here," Mac Ard said.

"Are you?" Seancoim asked. "Do you think your young woman's sky-magic can protect you here?"

He glanced up with his dead eyes. A strong wind stirred the tops of the trees, and Jenna could hear their limbs groaning and stirring. At the edges of the firelight, branches writhed and stretched like wooden, grasping arms, and the sound of the wind through the trees was like a sobbing voice, mournful. The hair raised on Jenna’s forearms and the light of the fire shuddered, making the shadows move all around them. "Mam?" Jenna called out.

"Stop!" Mac Ard commanded Seancoim, and he brought his bow back to full draw. The crow stirred, wings fluttering, and at the same moment the arrow snapped in half like a twig even as Mac Ard released the bow-string. The crow settled again on Seancoim’s shoulder; the wind in the trees died to a breeze, the leaves rustling. "Put out your fire and follow me," Seancoim repeated. "The tiarna can keep his sword in his hand, if it makes him feel better. But it won’t do him any good here, and the trees hate the smell of iron."

With that, the old man turned, shuffling slowly into the darkness, his staff tapping the ground before him.

Chapter 7: Seancoim's Cavern

JENNA wrinkled her nose at the smell: musty earth, and a strange, spicy odor that could only be Seancoim himself. A draft wafted from the entrance of the cavern, the mouth of which was a narrow slit in a rocky, bare rise another stripe's walk deeper into the forest. Yellow light beck-oned beyond, outlining the stone arch, and she smelled burning peat as the wind changed.

"It's warm inside," Seancoim said, gesturing to them as he ducked into the passage. Denmark cawed and leaped from his shoulder, disappearing into the cave. "And light. There's food as well, enough for all. Come." He vanished inside, and Jenna saw her mam glance at Mac Ard. "We've fol-lowed him this far," she said.

"I'll go first," Mac Ard answered. He drew his sword and, turning side-ways, followed the old man. Maeve waited a moment, then went into the opening with Jenna close behind.

Beyond the narrow passage, the cavern widened significantly, the roof rising to follow the slope of the hill, the sides opening up quickly left and right. The passage led slightly downward a dozen strides, and Jenna found herself in a large room. A central fireplace ringed with stones sent smoke curling upward toward the roof, lost in darkness above. The low flames from the peat sent wan light to the stone walls, and Jenna could dimly see another passageway leading deeper into the hill. Along the wall were sev-eral querns, small stone mills used for grinding corn and other grains. Hung everywhere around the cavern were racks with drying herbs and various plants laid over the wooden rods. Some of them Jenna recognized: parsley, thyme, lemon grass, mint; others were entirely unfamiliar. The smell of the herbs was almost overpowering, a barrage of odors.

Denmark had roosted on a rocky shelf nearby. Beyond the drying racks and querns, there was almost no furniture in the room. If it was a home, it was a bare one. Jenna could see a straw pallet laid out near the fire, a bucket of water, and a long wooden box that Seancoim eased him-self down on. He leaned his staff against the box, but it fell to the

stones and the sound echoed harshly.