Harik?” Owaine’s dark eyes held quiet reproach. Then he did answer, and the word was a blade slicing between Kayne’s ribs. “No.”
“The gardai trust me,” Kayne said, a little too loudly—a few of them glanced over toward their table. “They would follow me—they did follow me. Just yesterday. Or have you forgotten?”
“They admire your bravery, aye.” Again it was Harik who responded, and Kayne glared at the man’s temerity. “And they smile and tell you what they know you want to hear when you’re in their presence. They give you sweet little flatteries because you’re Riocha and they’re not. When you’re just a garda and a tuathánach, you hide your real thoughts from the Riocha. But do they trust you? Would they give you their lives?” Harik shook his head before Kayne could respond. “I know them, and the answer is ‘no,’ Tiarna. I don’t think they would. They’ve seen your bravery on the field and they admire it, but they also see how reckless it is. The kind of trust a commander needs you haven’t earned yet. Maybe one day you will. But not yet. Not now.”
Kayne could feel the heat on his face. He wanted desperately to shout at Harik, to demand satisfaction for his harsh words, but Da’s face was steel and he could hear the sudden silence in the tavern as everyone pretended not to watch the three of them talking. He wanted to strike at Harik, to slap the man across the face and bury his words in blood. Every muscle in Kayne’s body felt as taut as a bowstring; he could hear his heart pounding against chest and temple.
“Kayne!” It was Da’s voice, sharp. “I think you should see to the horses, if you’re not going to sit down and break bread with us. My decision’s made and it’s the right one. If you’re going to be a soldier, then right now you need to act like one and obey your orders.”
Kayne trembled, his hands clenched. He was taller than his da by half a head, and younger and stronger. He ached to defy him. He clenched his teeth, hearing them grate against each other. Owaine stared and Harik watched: Kayne knew that if he moved, so would the Hand. “Aye, Tiarna Geraghty, Hand MacCathaill,” Kayne answered finally, almost spitting the words. “I’ll go see to the horses, then. I’ll be glad to put my back to this filthy shite-hole of a village and those who will be staying anywhere near it.”
With that, he stalked out of the tavern. “Let him go, Tiarna,” he heard Harik say as he left. As he pushed open the door, he heard the talk begin behind him.
You don’t want to like these people. You don’t want to admire them . . .
Isibéal and Ennis watched through the grillwork at the end of the Heart Chamber, masked behind a screen of plants and draperies. There were five supplicants this morning in the Chamber, standing just behind Siúr Martain, the Hand of the Heart. Banrion Edana and Tiarna Doyle Mac Ard had also joined the Banrion Ard in the Chamber. Isibéal shivered: two Clochs Mór and Treoraí’s Heart all in the same room; two Banrions and a cloudmage—so much power was concentrated here.
And one of them was Doyle Mac Ard, brushing back his long, fiery red locks. Seeing Tiarna Mac Ard here, so close, made her suck in her breath harshly enough that Ennis looked up at her.
“We have to be very quiet,” Ennis told Isibéal with an overserious expression on his face. “Sevei showed me how to get back here before she left, but she said that Mam would be angry if she ever knew we were watching her, and the blue ghosts have shown me what would happen then.”
“Then let’s not talk,” she whispered back to Ennis. “Just watch . . .”
Isibéal cradled the boy on her lap and leaned in closer to the grille. The stone flags of the little alcove behind the chamber were cold on her bare feet. She could hear the voices faintly from the other end of the Heart Chamber.
“Thank you, Siúr Martain,” the Banrion Ard said. “I appreciate all
“The gardai trust me,” Kayne said, a little too loudly—a few of them glanced over toward their table. “They would follow me—they did follow me. Just yesterday. Or have you forgotten?”
“They admire your bravery, aye.” Again it was Harik who responded, and Kayne glared at the man’s temerity. “And they smile and tell you what they know you want to hear when you’re in their presence. They give you sweet little flatteries because you’re Riocha and they’re not. When you’re just a garda and a tuathánach, you hide your real thoughts from the Riocha. But do they trust you? Would they give you their lives?” Harik shook his head before Kayne could respond. “I know them, and the answer is ‘no,’ Tiarna. I don’t think they would. They’ve seen your bravery on the field and they admire it, but they also see how reckless it is. The kind of trust a commander needs you haven’t earned yet. Maybe one day you will. But not yet. Not now.”
Kayne could feel the heat on his face. He wanted desperately to shout at Harik, to demand satisfaction for his harsh words, but Da’s face was steel and he could hear the sudden silence in the tavern as everyone pretended not to watch the three of them talking. He wanted to strike at Harik, to slap the man across the face and bury his words in blood. Every muscle in Kayne’s body felt as taut as a bowstring; he could hear his heart pounding against chest and temple.
“Kayne!” It was Da’s voice, sharp. “I think you should see to the horses, if you’re not going to sit down and break bread with us. My decision’s made and it’s the right one. If you’re going to be a soldier, then right now you need to act like one and obey your orders.”
Kayne trembled, his hands clenched. He was taller than his da by half a head, and younger and stronger. He ached to defy him. He clenched his teeth, hearing them grate against each other. Owaine stared and Harik watched: Kayne knew that if he moved, so would the Hand. “Aye, Tiarna Geraghty, Hand MacCathaill,” Kayne answered finally, almost spitting the words. “I’ll go see to the horses, then. I’ll be glad to put my back to this filthy shite-hole of a village and those who will be staying anywhere near it.”
With that, he stalked out of the tavern. “Let him go, Tiarna,” he heard Harik say as he left. As he pushed open the door, he heard the talk begin behind him.
You don’t want to like these people. You don’t want to admire them . . .
Isibéal and Ennis watched through the grillwork at the end of the Heart Chamber, masked behind a screen of plants and draperies. There were five supplicants this morning in the Chamber, standing just behind Siúr Martain, the Hand of the Heart. Banrion Edana and Tiarna Doyle Mac Ard had also joined the Banrion Ard in the Chamber. Isibéal shivered: two Clochs Mór and Treoraí’s Heart all in the same room; two Banrions and a cloudmage—so much power was concentrated here.
And one of them was Doyle Mac Ard, brushing back his long, fiery red locks. Seeing Tiarna Mac Ard here, so close, made her suck in her breath harshly enough that Ennis looked up at her.
“We have to be very quiet,” Ennis told Isibéal with an overserious expression on his face. “Sevei showed me how to get back here before she left, but she said that Mam would be angry if she ever knew we were watching her, and the blue ghosts have shown me what would happen then.”
“Then let’s not talk,” she whispered back to Ennis. “Just watch . . .”
Isibéal cradled the boy on her lap and leaned in closer to the grille. The stone flags of the little alcove behind the chamber were cold on her bare feet. She could hear the voices faintly from the other end of the Heart Chamber.
“Thank you, Siúr Martain,” the Banrion Ard said. “I appreciate all
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