The cart lurched in the ruts as they navigated one of the tight hairpin turns of the road. Jenna felt a momentary surge of irritation that O’Deoradhain would speak so openly, but she forced it down, knowing that it was mostly because she was uneasy about revealing the truth of how she'd come to acquire the cloch. "Then maybe that version's the correct one, Jenna told Mundy. "Her name was Kerys Aoire and she was my great-mam- And the cloch they took was this." She pulled the stone out from under her tunic. "This," she said, "is Lamh Shabhala."
"Lamh Shabhala. ." Mundy breathed the word, leaning forward to peer closely at the cloch. "So plain, compared to the other ones. No won-der no one believed that it was a true cloch na thintri, or at best only a minor one. So we did hold it for a time." An ironic smile touched his face. "Moister Cleurach won't be pleased to hear that. Not after what's hap-pened here."
"What has happened?" O'Deoradhain asked. "There are marks on the walls of the central tower where it looks like fires have burned, and our reception was definitely cold."
"I'll let the Moister give you that news," Mundy responded. "It's nothing any of us like to talk about."
Moister Cleurach was a short, balding man with a fringe of snow-white hair that didn't seem to have been combed in days. He came bustling toward Jenna and O'Deoradhain between the desks of his two clerks. "Ennis!" There may have been pleasure in his shout, but Jenna couldn't see it in his face. The folds of his face settled comfortably in the lines of his frown. "By the Mother-Creator, I was certain we'd lost you. The last letter was a year ago… "
O'Deoradhain shrugged at the mild rebuke. "I wrote six months ago, and again three months ago as well, Moister. But the tuatha are unsettled, and who knows where those letters have gone."
"Aye, we know the tuatha are at war, and we know why." Moister Cleurach seemed to glare at O'Deoradhain as if he were the cause of it, and then the old man went to one of the arched, open windows of the cloister, staring back south and east over the waves.
"Moister Cleurach," O'Deoradhain said, "Mundy hinted that things aren't well here, and I saw marks on the walls. What's happened? Why aren't Mundy and you and some of the others holding clochs? The
Order was founded to make cloudmages… "
The old man turned back into the room, blinking as if the pale light outside had blinded him. "Five months ago," he said slowly, "not long after the Solstice and just before the mage-lights heralded the Filleadh, ships carrying gardai came here out of Falcarragh. When we realized that this was more than an unexpected visit, it was too late. The gardai wore the colors of both Tuath Infochla and Tuath Gabair. We closed the gates to the White Keep, thinking we could hold them in siege until help came from RI Thuaidh, but we had acolytes who were from Infochla and Gabair and some of them betrayed us, opening one of the gates. The gardai came storming in, and though we defended the cloister as well as we could we’re not trained to fight. The betrayal of our acolytes went deeper-these gardai also knew where the clochs na thintri were kept." The Moister sighed, his rheumy gray eyes flared. "They took them all, Ennis. All."
"Moister. ." O’Deoradhain breathed. "I didn’t know. ."
Moister Cleurach grunted, interrupting him. "The clochs na thintri were all they were after. They fled as soon as they had them, returned to their ships and sailed away. When our Ri finally sent men and ships-too few of both, and far too late-they were a fortnight gone. Then the mage-lights began to appear everywhere in the sky, heralding the Filleadh, and we knew all hope to recover them was lost. The Order may have the knowledge to teach cloudmages, but now we have no clochs to give them." The Maister’s sour face regarded Jenna briefly, then returned to rest on O’Deoradhain.
"And what do you bring us, Ennis, you who we sent out to find Lamh Shabhala? More tales of failure, no doubt."
"I bring you Jenna Aoire," O’Deoradhain answered. "The tale is hers."
"Aoire. ." The word was a hissing intake of breath. The clerks looked up from their work and Moister Cleurach’s gaze returned to Jenna. He stared at her face. "Aye, I see it now. The shape of your face, your eyes. . You could be an Aoire-a family whose fortunes, I must tell you, have declined greatly in my time."
"My great-mam was Kerys Aoire," Jenna told the Moister, "and my great-da was an acolyte here
named Niall, though I don't know his sur-name."
Moister Cleurach visibly trembled as Jenna spoke, his hands clenching together at his breast. "I know that tale and those names, and I know Niall's surname," he answered. "I know because I was sent here as an acolyte the following year, and the gossip about Niall Mac Ard was fresh and new among the acolytes and Brathairs, since they'd known him."
"Mac Ard?" Jenna couldn't stop the words, which stabbed her so that she could hardly breathe. "Niall was a Mac Ard?"
