curse?”
A bitter laugh. “The one who holds Lámh Shábhála gains power for their pain. Some believe that’s more than a fair barter—those who have never held the cloch itself. It’s the First who suffers the most, not those who come after, and you are the First, the one who will open the way. So watch, Jenna of the Daoine. Watch for those who follow the mage lights, for they aren’t likely to be your friends.”
Jenna thought of the riders from Connachta, and she also thought of Mac Ard. But before she could say more, Riata’s shape stirred. “The mage-lights beckon,” he said. “They call the stone. Do you feel it?”
She did. The cloch was throbbing in her hand. “Go to them,” Riata said. His shape was fading, as was his voice, now no more than a whisper. “Go . . .” he said again, and the apparition was gone. She could feel its absence, could sense that the air of the tomb was now dead and empty. She called to him—“Riata!”—and only her own voice answered, mocking. The mage-lights sent waves of pure red and aching blue-white shimmering down the passage, and Jenna felt the stone’s need, like a hunger deep within herself. She walked down the passage and out into cold fresh air again. The mage-lights wove their bright net above her, a spider’s web of color that stretched and bent down toward her, swirling. She raised her hand, opening her fingers, and the light shot down, surrounding her, enveloping her in its flowing folds. The whirlwind grabbed her hand in its frigid gasp, and she screamed with the pain of it: as the brilliance rose, a sun caught in her fingers, consuming her.
Hues of brilliance pulled at her. Knives of color cut into her flesh. She tried to pull away and could not, and she screamed again in terror and agony.
A flash blinded her. Thunder filled her ears.
Jenna screamed a final time, as the cold fire seemed to penetrate to her very core, her entire body quivering with torment, every nerve alive and quivering.
Then she was released, and she fell into blessed darkness.
9
Through the Forest
“J ENNA?”
The smell was familiar—a warm breath laden with spice. Jenna opened her eyes to see Seancoim crouching alongside her. The dolmen towered gray above her, rising toward a sky touched with the salmon hues of early morn ing, and Dúnmharú peered down at her from a perch on the capstone. Jenna blinked, then sat up abruptly, turning to look at the tomb behind her. “Riata,” she said, her voice a mere hoarse croak. Her throat felt as if it had been scraped raw, and her right arm ached as if someone had tried to tear it loose from its socket. She could feel the cloch na thintrí: cold, still clutched in her fist, and she slipped it back into the pocket of her skirt, grimacing with the effort. Something was wrong with her right hand—it felt wooden and clumsy, and the pain in her arm seemed to emanate from there.
“You saw him?” Seancoim asked, and Jenna nodded. Seancoim didn’t seem surprised. “He walks here at times, restless. I’ve glimpsed him once or twice, or I think I might have.”
“He . . .” Jenna tried to clear her throat, but the effort only made it hurt worse. She wanted to take her hand out from where it was hidden in the woolen skirt, but she was afraid. “. . . called me. Spoke to me.”
Seancoim’s blind eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He opened the leather bag at his side and rummaged inside, pulling out a smaller leather container capped with horn. “Here. Drink this.” Jenna reached out. Stopped. The skin of her right hand was mottled, the flesh a swirling pattern of pale gray and white, and the intricate tendrils of whitened flesh ached and burned. Her fingers were stiff, every joint on fire, and the damaged skin throbbed with every beat of her heart. She must have cried out, for Dúnmharú flew down from the capstone to Seancoim’s shoulder. The Bunús Muintir took her hand, examining it, pushing back the sleeve of her blouse.
A bitter laugh. “The one who holds Lámh Shábhála gains power for their pain. Some believe that’s more than a fair barter—those who have never held the cloch itself. It’s the First who suffers the most, not those who come after, and you are the First, the one who will open the way. So watch, Jenna of the Daoine. Watch for those who follow the mage lights, for they aren’t likely to be your friends.”
Jenna thought of the riders from Connachta, and she also thought of Mac Ard. But before she could say more, Riata’s shape stirred. “The mage-lights beckon,” he said. “They call the stone. Do you feel it?”
She did. The cloch was throbbing in her hand. “Go to them,” Riata said. His shape was fading, as was his voice, now no more than a whisper. “Go . . .” he said again, and the apparition was gone. She could feel its absence, could sense that the air of the tomb was now dead and empty. She called to him—“Riata!”—and only her own voice answered, mocking. The mage-lights sent waves of pure red and aching blue-white shimmering down the passage, and Jenna felt the stone’s need, like a hunger deep within herself. She walked down the passage and out into cold fresh air again. The mage-lights wove their bright net above her, a spider’s web of color that stretched and bent down toward her, swirling. She raised her hand, opening her fingers, and the light shot down, surrounding her, enveloping her in its flowing folds. The whirlwind grabbed her hand in its frigid gasp, and she screamed with the pain of it: as the brilliance rose, a sun caught in her fingers, consuming her.
Hues of brilliance pulled at her. Knives of color cut into her flesh. She tried to pull away and could not, and she screamed again in terror and agony.
A flash blinded her. Thunder filled her ears.
Jenna screamed a final time, as the cold fire seemed to penetrate to her very core, her entire body quivering with torment, every nerve alive and quivering.
Then she was released, and she fell into blessed darkness.
9
Through the Forest
“J ENNA?”
The smell was familiar—a warm breath laden with spice. Jenna opened her eyes to see Seancoim crouching alongside her. The dolmen towered gray above her, rising toward a sky touched with the salmon hues of early morn ing, and Dúnmharú peered down at her from a perch on the capstone. Jenna blinked, then sat up abruptly, turning to look at the tomb behind her. “Riata,” she said, her voice a mere hoarse croak. Her throat felt as if it had been scraped raw, and her right arm ached as if someone had tried to tear it loose from its socket. She could feel the cloch na thintrí: cold, still clutched in her fist, and she slipped it back into the pocket of her skirt, grimacing with the effort. Something was wrong with her right hand—it felt wooden and clumsy, and the pain in her arm seemed to emanate from there.
“You saw him?” Seancoim asked, and Jenna nodded. Seancoim didn’t seem surprised. “He walks here at times, restless. I’ve glimpsed him once or twice, or I think I might have.”
“He . . .” Jenna tried to clear her throat, but the effort only made it hurt worse. She wanted to take her hand out from where it was hidden in the woolen skirt, but she was afraid. “. . . called me. Spoke to me.”
Seancoim’s blind eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He opened the leather bag at his side and rummaged inside, pulling out a smaller leather container capped with horn. “Here. Drink this.” Jenna reached out. Stopped. The skin of her right hand was mottled, the flesh a swirling pattern of pale gray and white, and the intricate tendrils of whitened flesh ached and burned. Her fingers were stiff, every joint on fire, and the damaged skin throbbed with every beat of her heart. She must have cried out, for Dúnmharú flew down from the capstone to Seancoim’s shoulder. The Bunús Muintir took her hand, examining it, pushing back the sleeve of her blouse.
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