Holder of Lightning

THE mage-lights came that night and Jenna caught their power, crying out in mingled longing and agony. Afterward, the anduilleaf dulled only the worst of the pain, and, following a troubled sleep, she took it again early in the morning. The arm was still throbbing, a steady pulsing mirrored by a nauseous headache as she and Aoife moved toward her apartment from the common room, where she'd breakfasted with the Ban-rion.

"Holder, if you have a moment. .?"

Nevan O Liathain called to Jenna as she passed the door of his apart-ments. She stopped, closing her eyes before glancing inside as a wave of pain swept over her: the Ri Ard's son was standing near the fireplace. Rich, dark hangings adorned the walls, gleaming with bright colors; a woven carpet softened the varnished wood of the floor; the tables and chair were carved and expensive, unlike anything she’d seen in the keep. She suspected that most of the furnishings had traveled with O Liathain from Dun Laoghaire. O Liathain looked as rich and as handsome as his surroundings, his raven-black hair oiled, those strange, light blue eyes regarding her.

Jenna saw no way to politely decline. She nodded to Aoife and went to the doorway. "Good morning, Tanaise Rig. Of what service can I be to you?"

O Liathain glanced significantly at Aoife, and Jenna waved to the ser-vant. "Wait in the hall for me," she said. "I won’t be but a few minutes." She hoped that was true; she didn’t know how much longer she could hear the headache, and she longed for another cup of the leaf. Aoife curtsied and continued down the hall; Jenna took a step inside the apartment.

"The door, please, Holder," O Liathain said. "Too many ears and eyes " Jenna pulled the door to, and O Liathain took a few steps toward her stopping an arm’s reach away. He moved with the ease of a dancer or a well-trained fighter. "This is most improper, I know," he said. "Yet I would speak with you privately, without curious ears listening." Another step She could see his lips twist upward in a momentary smile. "I would like to suggest something to you that would be to our mutual advantage."

"And what would that be, Tanaise Rig?"

Another vanishing smile, gone like frost under a spring’s sun. "I will forgo delicacy here, Holder," he answered. "Let me be blunt. It’s come to my attention that your mam is carrying Tiarna Mac Ard’s child. No, you needn’t protest or try to deny it-we both know it’s true. I also know that for the moment Padraic is unlikely to legitimize the child or his relation-ship with your mam. Yet if he did so, if he took your mam to wife, and acknowledged you as his own daughter as well. . well, then that would make you a Riocha, wouldn’t it?"

Jenna sniffed. "I am evidently not quite so awed by that possibility as you, Tanaise Rig. While I would like to see the Tiarna Mac Ard acknowl-edge my mam and his child by her, if that’s the case, I have no interest in being named his daughter."

A nod. An appraising, sidewise glance. "I believe you miss the implica-tions, Holder," he continued.

"If you are Riocha, then you are a peer to anyone here. And if, let us say, the Holder of Lamh Shabhala were to marry, especially someone with power himself, why, that would be an alliance to be reckoned with." O Liathain spread his hands wide.

"I hope I make my intentions clear enough for you."

He did. Jenna could feel a fist grasping her stomach and twisting as he watched her, and for a moment the edges of her vision went dark with the pounding in her temples and her right arm. She struggled to show nothing on her face. She lifted her hand to the cloch around her neck, and he stared at the patterns of scars on her flesh with a flat gaze. He wants the power you hold. He will take it any way he can, through marriage if he can. He will try this, but if it doesn't work, he will try another way. He may have already tried another way. Jenna knew what Cianna would tell her, that this was part of the game, and she must play the card as well and as long as she could. What she must not say was "no."

It would not be good Politics to have the heir to the Ri Ard's throne as an open enemy.

Holder?" he asked, tilting his head. The gold-threaded patterns on his gray cloca shimmered as he took another step toward her. His hand reached out and took hers. He looked at Lamh Shabhala, cupped in her palm, the chain taut around her neck. "So small, this stone. And yet so many lust for it." His finger moved over the smooth surface, trapped in its silver cage, but his blue eyes held hers. "I understand that feeling."