Mage of Clouds (The Cloudmages #2) (50 page)

Ragan shook his head. “The bones don’t see you leaving, Meriel,” he said. “And having you here isn’t a great danger for us. Or rather, only a little more than we already had. I see allies coming here to find you. So rather than escape from Doire Coill to return to your mam and your home, I would propose that we bring your mam here.”

T
HE sense of failure sat in the pit of his stomach, indigestible and heavy and booming with every pulse of blood in his body.

“It’s your move, Doyle.”

Doyle started. Torin Mallaghan, Rí of Tuath Gabair, waved a hand at the ficheall board set up on the table between them. Torin was more like his mam Cianna—murdered almost twenty years ago by Jenna—than the da after whom he’d been named. Torin was thin almost to the point of appearing fragile, with fine-boned and soft features, though those who made the error of mistaking appearance for reality had paid heavily. Rí Mallaghan had arrived in Dun Laoghaire a day after Doyle, and had called Doyle to his chambers within a stripe. But since Doyle had been ushered into the Ri’s presence, Torin had mentioned nothing about either Meriel or Jenna. Instead, they’d played ficheall, Doyle engaging in carefully circumspect small talk as he waited for the Rí to come to the real topic.

“It’s your move. You should really pay attention,” the Rí repeated with a hint of annoyance that came easily to him—in that, he was like his da.

Doyle glanced at the board, then slid one of his gardai forward between Torin’s Rí and his remaining dragon. “Marbhsháinn,” he said—
death trap.
Torin hissed and glared at the board. “I’m sure that you’re just distracted with the coming Óenach, my Rí.”

Torin’s face clouded. “Don’t patronize me, Doyle.”

Doyle lowered his head at the rebuke. “My apologies, Rí. But you do generally play better.”

“Aye, but you still generally win. That’s why it disturbs me when you make a mistake in the true game.”

“Rí?” . . .
my fault, my fault
. . .

Torin reached out with a thin finger and toppled his Rí. It clattered onto the marble board. “What’s happened to her, Doyle?”

Doyle shook his head.
Does he know about Edana? By the Mother, if that’s common knowledge, then I’m truly lost . . .
“Edana? She’s on her way here, as I mentioned . . .”

Rí Mallaghan grimaced in annoyance. “Not Edana; the Mad Holder’s daughter Meriel. Do you realize the cost of placing my gardai around Doire Coill? Do you think that none of the other Ríthe will wonder why I’m doing that? Do you comprehend what it will mean if they realize that you snatched the Banrion Thuaidh’s daughter but managed to lose her? Have you thought of the consequences if the MacEagan girl should fall into another Rí’s hands or even—may the Mother-Creator protect us—finds her way back to Inish Thuaidh? Can you imagine the repercussions?” His eyes narrowed, his lips pressed tightly together for a moment. “Do you know how furious I was to find that you and Shay withheld all this from me? Does my patronage of the Order of Gabair and my advice mean so little to you?”

Doyle could feel the heat on his face. Small beads of sweat had formed at his hairline. He wanted to wipe them away but instead closed his hand around one of the ficheall dragons.
Dance with words as best you can . . .
“My Rí—” Doyle began, then closed his mouth as Torin waved a hand.

“Don’t misunderstand me, Doyle. Frankly, the raid on Inishfeirm showed your initiative and leadership skills; even your enemies would grudgingly admit that—though I wish you’d seen fit to consult with me beforehand. I have to assume that the Rí Ard knew and approved, but your home is Tuath Gabair and I still rule there.”

“Rí Mallaghan—”

Torin raised a hand and Doyle again subsided into silence. “You’re arguably the most accomplished mage of the Order of Gabair. You’re young, yet you’ve shown maturity beyond your years and despite your . . . well, let’s call it a dubious lineage, you’ve managed to convince several of the other Riocha—especially those among the Order—that it’s worth their effort to follow you. Those qualities are why I suggested to O Liathain that you’d be a good choice for his daughter and, as I expected, you managed to win him over before his death. In the ficheall of life, you managed to place the pieces of your life well in the opening. But I’m troubled now.”

Torin gestured at the board and his fallen piece. “A good opening isn’t enough. A missed move anywhere in the game can be fatal. I want to know that my backing of you isn’t a mistake that I’ll regret.”

“The game isn’t over yet, Rí, and sometimes a mistake can uncover a new strategy or cause the opponent to become overconfident.”

“Not if your opponent’s also a skilled player. Then, one misstep is often enough, and I fear that your opponent in this game is a very good player herself.” Torin leaned back in his chair, sighing. One of his servants hurried forward and poured ale into the hammered gold cups on the table, then scurried back to the wall; another poked the fire in the hearth, sending sparks whirling upward. “You didn’t get the ransom you wanted from your sister, did you?” Doyle blinked at that, but Rí Torin only waved a hand again at the ficheall board. “Oh, come now. I have eyes and ears out in the world, as does every Rí if he wants to survive, and I know both your history and your style of play. I can guess as to why the Rí Ard’s daughter, her fiance, and a few other of the Order’s mages with Clochs Mór would suddenly go to Falcarragh even though the question of the Rí Ard’s successor is at risk . . . because if you’d gotten what you were after, there’d be no question as to who the next Rí Ard would be—or should I say Banrion Ard? But you didn’t get your ransom, did you?” He looked significantly at Snapdragon hanging around Doyle’s neck.

“No,” Doyle said, grimacing. “I didn’t.”
My fault . . .
The guilt moved through him again, leaden. He’d done nothing but replay his decision ever since he’d seen Edana fall and he thought he’d found the fatal flaw in his own ego.
You wanted the battleground to be Inishduán because you wanted to defeat Jenna where she’d sent your mam spiraling into her depression and madness, and it was too close. You chose the ground and you chose wrongly. You forgot about her affinity with the damned Saimhóir. You didn’t weaken her enough . . . It’s your fault . . .

“A pity. I would have loved to have seen Rí O Seachnasaigh and Rí Taafe pretend to be pleased when they learned that Lámh Shábhála was in Doyle Mac Ard’s hands and the Mad Holder was no longer able to trouble us. Now that would have been a move to win any game. But . . .” Another sigh, then Torin leaned forward, one eyebrow raising, his face serious and grim. “What else should I know, Doyle? Tell me now, because if I find that you’re not telling me everything, I’ll withdraw my protection from you and simply watch when your enemies—and you have enough of those—take you down. We’re approaching the endgame, Doyle, and
I
am the Rí, not you; I can’t afford pieces that hide themselves from me. I’ll use them for sacrifice to protect myself first. Do you understand me?”

Doyle swallowed hard. He stared into the Rí’s face, weighing options and seeing no way out. Too much had happened, and Torin would eventually know—he might already know. This could simply be a trap. Doyle’s gaze flicked over to the servants; Torin caught the movement. “They’re my people and know when to close their ears,” the Rí said. “You can speak freely here.”

Doyle nodded. Haltingly, then with increasing urgency, he told Torin everything: the ransom he’d demanded, how Jenna had betrayed him, how he thought that he should never have used Inishduán, how two of the Order’s cloudmages were now dead and Edana was lost in a dreamworld. Torin said little, but by the time Doyle had finished, he had sagged back in his chair, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, Rí Mallaghan.” Doyle could think of nothing else to say. “This all went so wrong.”

“You realize this changes everything.”

“Aye, Rí Mallaghan.” . . .
my fault . . .

Torin’s lips twisted, as if his thoughts tasted sour. “I came to this Oenach believing that we might just be able to leave with Edana as Banrion. Now . . .” He shook his head and exhaled at the same time. “I think the best we can hope for is to somehow keep Enean from the throne. Does Rí Mas Sithig know any of this?”

Doyle lifted his hands and let them drop back to the table. “We took ship out of Falcarragh for Inishduan, so he would have known that, but the Rí had already left for the Óenach when we returned. He may have heard from his people, but I tried to keep Edana’s condition secret from those in the keep. Still, he’ll eventually know if he doesn’t already.”

Torin nodded at that. “Aye, he will. I’ll need to tell him and Banrion O Treasigh as well, since this also affects Locha Léin.” Torin took a long breath, rubbing at his eyes.

. . .
my fault
. . . But a new thought was forming. He could see the pieces in the game and there was still room to maneuver. “Rí—”

“Unless you have more news for me, I’d rather not hear from you, Doyle,” Torin said.

“Not news, my Rí, but a request.”

Torin blinked heavily, wearily. “I’m listening,” he said. “But this had better be good.”

“Meriel is still in Doire Coill. We know that much.” Doyle hurried into the obvious impatience in Torin’s posture. “My mam always told me how the Bunús Muintir in Doire Coill helped them when she, Jenna, and my da fled Ballintubber. Meriel will try to send word to her mam that she’s safe and the Bunús will help her. That hasn’t happened yet or Jenna would already be here—and we would
know
that.” Doyle shuddered at the thought. “I would think that we should put your best archers around the north of Doire Coill and any birds, especially crows, leaving the woods for the north should be shot. There are a few mages of the Order who can help if the archers miss, and we should use them.”

“To what end?”

Doyle took a breath. “I made a mistake with Jenna, my Rí. I fully acknowledge that. It’s not a mistake I would make again, if I had the chance to meet her again.”

Torin rubbed his bearded chin with thin fingers, looking down at the ficheall board. “I know what you’re thinking. But the game is getting rapidly dangerous for those in it and I fear some important pieces are going to be removed from the board very soon. And with Edana one of them . . .”

Doyle lifted his chin. “Edana is only temporarily gone,” he said. “Only that.”

Rí Mallaghan looked unconvinced. “We need her
now,
Doyle, but you allowed her to be placed in danger. That was another mistake you made, along with the choice of Inishduán. Oh, I can understand why you’d choose that Mother-forsaken dirt speck, but it was a poor choice of ground. You should have made the Mad Holder come here or to Lár Bhaile. You also let your affection for Edana and your desire to avenge your mam cloud your judgment. Edana should never have been there, not when she’s so important. I don’t expect those I support to make such elementary mistakes. I don’t expect you to make another mistake. Ever.”

Doyle allowed himself to breathe. “I won’t, my Rí.”

“Good. Now leave me. I need to go speak with Rí Mas Sithig and Banrion O Treasigh and see what we can do to minimize the damage.”

“And the archers?”

Torin smiled. “They’re already in place, along with the mages. I know your family’s history, too.”

“Thank you, my Rí.” For the first time, the knot of tension in his gut started to uncoil.

As Doyle started to leave, Torin stirred, turning in his chair. “Doyle, you should know this: in your place I would have taken the same chance. The prize was worth the risk.”

“Thank you again, my Rí,” Doyle said, bowing low to the man.

Torin sniffed. “That forgives nothing, though. You failed. Fail again, and you and I will no longer be friends. And I make a ferocious enemy.”