Holder of Lightning

All right," she said. She fumbled in the pouch she carried. At least Tiarna Mac Ard wasn’t stingy with his money; she had the two morceints and more. She counted out the coins into du Val’s grimy, callused palm, then reached again for the jar. He wouldn’t release it.

"Does someone know you’re taking this?" he asked again.

"Aye," she answered. "My mam." It was a lie. The truth was that no one knew, unless Aoife suspected it.

He nodded. "Then tell your mam this: take the leaf no more than once a day, and for no longer than a month. Start with four leaves in the brew; cut the dosage by one leaf every week, or you’ll be back here again in another month, and the price will be four morceints. Do you understand that?"

"Aye," Jenna answered.

With the word, du Val released the jar and closed his fingers around the coins. He jingled them appreciatively. "A pleasure doing business with you, Holder."

"I’m certain it was."

He snorted laughter again. "I’ll see you again in a month."

"I don’t think so."

"The magic you're trying to hold is powerful, but also full of pain. There's no cure for it. You can look for ways, like the leaf, to dull it, or you learn to bear what it gives you. Either way, it will always be there. Better to accept the pain as it is, if you can."

"Do you charge for your platitudes, also?"

Du Val grinned. "For you, I can afford to give the advice for nothing."

"And that's exactly what it's worth," Jenna retorted. "I won't be back."

She immediately hated the way the words sounded, hated the intention to hurt that rode in them: she sounded too much like some of the Riocha at the keep, the ones she despised for their haughtiness. If du Val had shown that her words stung, she would have felt immediate remorse. She would have apologized. But the dwarf shrugged and moved away behind the desk. He puttered with the flasks and vials there, ignoring Jenna. Finally, she turned and went to the door. When her hand touched the rope loop that served as a handle, du Val's voice came from behind her.

"I'm sorry for you, Holder. I truly am."

She took a breath. She opened the door, nodded to the relieved glances of the gardai, and closed the door behind her again.

She spent another candle stripe or so in Low Town Market, desultorily pretending to shop as an excuse for the trip. The wind began to rise from off the lake, and she could see storm clouds rising dark in the west beyond the roofs of the houses, and finally told the gardai to fetch the carriage for the ride back. The carriage moved slowly through the twisting maze of narrow lanes, heading always up toward the stone shoulders of Goat Fell and the keep high above. Jenna lay back on the seat, eyes closed, listening to the sounds of vibrant, crowded life around her: the strident, musical calls of the vendors; shouts and calls from the windows of the houses she passed; the laughter from the pubs, seemingly on every corner; the sound of a fine baritone voice lifted in song. . "Stop!" Jenna called to the driver.

The carriage jolted to a halt, and she got out, the gardai hurriedly following her. She could still hear the voice, coming from the open door of a tavern

just down the street. She strode down the lane to the pub, squinting into a hazy darkness fragrant with the smell of ale and pipe.

So over the sea they sped

From Falcarragh where the mountains loom

From home and bed

To Inish and their doom. .

She knew the tune: the Song of Mael Armagh. She had heard it once before she left Ballintubber. And she knew the voice as well.

"Coelin!"

The song cut off in mid-verse, and a familiar head lifted. "By the Mother-Creator. . Jenna, is that you, girl?"

"Aye. ’Tis me, indeed."

Laughing, he set down his giotar and ran to her.

He took her in his arms and spun her around, nearly knocking over a few pints. He set her down again, holding her at arm’s length.

He kissed her.

"I thought you were dead, Jenna. That’s what everyone was saying. The damned Connachtans killed the Ald, and Tom Mullin, too, when he tried to stop them. Then there were the killings down by your old house, and the fires…" Coelin was shaking his head; Jenna’s finger still touched her lips. Now she placed the finger on Coelin’s lips.

"Shh," she said. "Quietly. Please." That, at least, she’d learned from the Riocha: you never knew who might be listening to your words.

Coelin looked puzzled, but he lowered his voice so that only she could easily hear him against the murmuring conversations of the pub. "Any-way, the Connachtans went off in a fury, and we heard they were looking for you and your mam, and that tiarna-what was his name? Mac Ard? — but everyone figured you’d either been burned up in your cottage, or lost in the bogs." He stopped, looking at her closely, and glancing behind her at the trio of soldiers who watched carefully from the doorway. Coelin’s eyes narrowed a bit, seeing them. "All the rumors were wrong, obviously, and by the looks of you, you’re hobnobbing with the Riocha.