Holder of Lightning

O’Deoradhain snorted. He took a step toward her, his hands down at his sides. She saw the well-worn leather of the scabbard there, and heard the gardai shift uneasily behind her. But the man stopped two strides from her. "Oh, aye. I could have walked right up to the gate-and Mac Ard would have had me killed immediately, or the RI Gabair would have bound me in irons to be tortured until I gave them the answers they wanted, or the Tanaise Rig might have had me dragged behind his carriage as he left for Dun Laoghaire, just for the pleasure it would give him. But I could never have gotten to you, Jenna Aoire. They might call me their enemy and be right, but I’m not your enemy."

Aye That’s why you sent the assassin, she wanted to tell him, mockingly. But she saw him through the eyes of Lamh Shabhala, not just her own, and though she could sense that he desired the power she held, there was no malice in him toward her, only jealousy and envy and sadness. The certainty in her failed. "Who’s your master, then?" she asked. "Who sends you? The RI Connachta?"

He laughed and glanced at the gardai. He gestured at Labras with his chin his hands not moving. "I would rather not talk here. In front of them."

"You’ll talk here, or you’ll talk back at the keep. I’ll ask you again, and I’ll know the truth of what you say: are you with Tuath Connachta?"

Again, a laugh. "I gave you the truth when we met. I’m of Inish blood. As to who sent me… I’m a Brathair of the Order of Inishfeirm and the Moister there gave me this task."

Despite herself, Jenna found her interest suddenly piqued at the men-tion of Inishfeirm and the Order. She remembered her da Mall’s tale, and her great-mam’s and great-da’s escape from that island. "And what task was that?"

"To bring you back to Inishfeirm so you could be taught the ways of the cloudmage."

Jenna bristled. The anduilleaf rang in her ears, Lamh Shabhala pulsed in her grasp. "What makes

you think that I need your instruc-" In the fog of the anduilleaf, she nearly missed it: a sudden sense of danger, of attack-not from the man in front of her, but from behind. .

"Jenna!" O'Deoradhain shouted at the same time. He flung himself for-ward as Jenna turned to look.

She caught a glimpse of Labras, no longer holding a sword but with a long dagger in his hand, his gray eyes not on O'Deoradhain but on Jenna and the dagger already beginning to make a sweeping cut that would have found her neck. O'Deoradhain hit Jenna in that same instant; as she fell she glimpsed O'Deoradhain parrying Labras' attack with his own weapon, the clash of blade against blade loud. Then she saw nothing as she struck the floor with a grunt and a cry, trying to roll away. As she tumbled, she heard a shout and a horrible, wet strangling sound: Jenna, on her knees, saw Labras fall, a new, second mouth on his neck gaping wide and frothing blood. The crossbow twanged, the bolt hissing, and O'Deoradhain staggered backward. The remaining gardai tossed the now useless crossbow aside and drew his sword. He moved-toward Jenna, not the wounded O'Deoradhain.

A shout of rage, the tendons standing out like ropes in her neck: Jenna let the power surge from the cloch. A torrent of agony rushed from the cloch, through her arm and into her body, and she threw that torment outward with a scream as light flared from her hand. The searing bolt lifted the garda from his feet and slammed him backward into the wall, lightning crackling madly about his frame. The wood cracked and shat-tered beneath the force of the blow, mingling with the cracking of bones; the body dropped to the floor like a rag doll, neck and spine broken, the wall blackened and smoldering behind him.

The echo of thunder rumbled in Jenna's ears and faded. In the sudden quiet, she could hear O'Deoradhain groan as he pushed himself to his feet, Jenna was breathing heavily, her body shaking. She stared at the garda's mangled body. The eyes were still open; they gazed at her as if in accusation. "I'm sorry…" she whispered to the corpse.

" That is what makes me think you still need to learn how to use your cloch, Holder," O'Deoradhain said. That near-contempt in his voice snapped her head around. His left arm dangled uselessly, the quarrel from the crossbow protruding from his

shoulder and dark blood staining the arm. His right hand still held his dagger, dripping red. He went to the corpse of Labras and wiped the blade on the garda’s clothing. He turned to Jenna, sheathing the dagger. "Your other men are coming," he contin-ued, "and I don’t have time to talk." He was right; she could feel them rushing toward the house from their stations. "I’m not your enemy. They may be."

Jenna shook her head; she could feel nothing in the others but concern and fear for their own well-being if she’d been hurt. She wished she’d taken the same precaution with Labras and his friend. "No," she told him. "They’re loyal."

"To you, perhaps. Me, they’ll kill."

"Stay, O’Deoradhain. You’re right. We need to talk."