indeed, the list of grievances against the Tuatha was a lengthy one, and vengeance was a motivation that all the Inish clans knew well. Some of them would welcome the chance to go against the armies of the Tuatha with Lámh Shábhála and their cloudmages at their head and let the blood of their foes redden the soil.
Part of Jenna might agree with Kyle, but another, more visceral part of her sympathized with Mahon. “The dead enemy cannot strike.” It was an old Inish saying.
“The Northern Clans came to us freely,” she said. “We didn’t go to them or ask them to join us. If the islands feel that they’d rather be aligned with Inish Thuaidh than Tuath Infochla, then perhaps Infochla should have done a better job of attending to them.”
“ ’Tis true they came to us freely, aye, but then you also offered to halve the tribute that they would pay to the Comhairle each year and increase the shipments of grain they were getting from Infochla,” Kyle said. There was no heat in his voice, only a touch of resignation. “But still, that’s a pretty speech. Should I bring the delegates into the Weeping Hall to hear it?
“No,” Jenna answered. “Tell them yourself, Kyle, and send them away.”
“As the Banrion wishes,” Kyle said. She could see the disappointment in his face, though she knew none of it would be there when he spoke to the delegates. She held out her left hand and Kyle took it, pressing his fingers against hers. “Is it also as Jenna wishes?” he asked.
She nodded faintly. “Aye. I think so.” They reached the carriage, a servant opening the door as they approached and putting down a footstool under it. Mahon snapped fingers to a garda, who brought his horse over to him. Kyle stepped into the carriage, then helped Jenna up. “Thank you, Kyle,” she said. “For everything. All along.”
He smiled. “I’m your husband,” he said.
Edana emerged from the Rí Ard’s chambers as Doyle approached.
The woman was dark-haired, fair of complexion, with eyes that were startlingly blue. Edana was the daughter of Nevan O Liathain, the Rí Ard, and his second wife—Nevan had little luck with wives. His first wife had died not long after delivering the Rí Ard’s firstborn son, Enean. Three years later Nevan had married Edana’s mam, who would have a series of miscarriages yet finally bring one child to term, only to die like her predecessor a few days after Edana’s difficult labor and birth.
Nevan’s third wife had died before giving the Rí Ard any children at all. After that, perhaps understandably, the Rí Ard had never married again (though Doyle, sensitive on the point, had heard the usual rumors of bastard children scattered throughout the Tuatha).
The hall garda and Edana’s maidservant glanced politely away as Edana came up to Doyle and embraced him. Old MacCamore, Enean’s guardian, was in the hall also, and Doyle nodded to him over Edana’s shoulder. MacCamore did not look away; he watched.
“Maidin maith, darling,” Edana said brightly. Doyle kissed her once, enjoying the soft warmth of her lips and the feel of her lithe body under the heavily brocaded royal clóca.
“How is your da today?” he asked.
Edana sighed. “No better, I’m afraid. Enean’s in there with him. Is there news from Rí Mas Sithig and Infochla?”
“Aye,” he told her. “Jenna did exactly what you said she would do—she sent the delegates away without even deigning to receive them. She had that fat servant of a husband talk to them instead.”
“Good,” Edana said with a grim satisfaction. “Then we’ll use that against her with the Riocha. She’ll tighten the noose around her own neck.” She hugged him again. “I know how hard it is for you, Doyle. You’ll take back what’s yours. It’s what my da wants, too. I’ll help you.”
“And I’ll need that help. You know the politics better than anyone.” Doyle kissed her again, deeply, his fingers caught in the glossy strands of
Part of Jenna might agree with Kyle, but another, more visceral part of her sympathized with Mahon. “The dead enemy cannot strike.” It was an old Inish saying.
“The Northern Clans came to us freely,” she said. “We didn’t go to them or ask them to join us. If the islands feel that they’d rather be aligned with Inish Thuaidh than Tuath Infochla, then perhaps Infochla should have done a better job of attending to them.”
“ ’Tis true they came to us freely, aye, but then you also offered to halve the tribute that they would pay to the Comhairle each year and increase the shipments of grain they were getting from Infochla,” Kyle said. There was no heat in his voice, only a touch of resignation. “But still, that’s a pretty speech. Should I bring the delegates into the Weeping Hall to hear it?
“No,” Jenna answered. “Tell them yourself, Kyle, and send them away.”
“As the Banrion wishes,” Kyle said. She could see the disappointment in his face, though she knew none of it would be there when he spoke to the delegates. She held out her left hand and Kyle took it, pressing his fingers against hers. “Is it also as Jenna wishes?” he asked.
She nodded faintly. “Aye. I think so.” They reached the carriage, a servant opening the door as they approached and putting down a footstool under it. Mahon snapped fingers to a garda, who brought his horse over to him. Kyle stepped into the carriage, then helped Jenna up. “Thank you, Kyle,” she said. “For everything. All along.”
He smiled. “I’m your husband,” he said.
Edana emerged from the Rí Ard’s chambers as Doyle approached.
The woman was dark-haired, fair of complexion, with eyes that were startlingly blue. Edana was the daughter of Nevan O Liathain, the Rí Ard, and his second wife—Nevan had little luck with wives. His first wife had died not long after delivering the Rí Ard’s firstborn son, Enean. Three years later Nevan had married Edana’s mam, who would have a series of miscarriages yet finally bring one child to term, only to die like her predecessor a few days after Edana’s difficult labor and birth.
Nevan’s third wife had died before giving the Rí Ard any children at all. After that, perhaps understandably, the Rí Ard had never married again (though Doyle, sensitive on the point, had heard the usual rumors of bastard children scattered throughout the Tuatha).
The hall garda and Edana’s maidservant glanced politely away as Edana came up to Doyle and embraced him. Old MacCamore, Enean’s guardian, was in the hall also, and Doyle nodded to him over Edana’s shoulder. MacCamore did not look away; he watched.
“Maidin maith, darling,” Edana said brightly. Doyle kissed her once, enjoying the soft warmth of her lips and the feel of her lithe body under the heavily brocaded royal clóca.
“How is your da today?” he asked.
Edana sighed. “No better, I’m afraid. Enean’s in there with him. Is there news from Rí Mas Sithig and Infochla?”
“Aye,” he told her. “Jenna did exactly what you said she would do—she sent the delegates away without even deigning to receive them. She had that fat servant of a husband talk to them instead.”
“Good,” Edana said with a grim satisfaction. “Then we’ll use that against her with the Riocha. She’ll tighten the noose around her own neck.” She hugged him again. “I know how hard it is for you, Doyle. You’ll take back what’s yours. It’s what my da wants, too. I’ll help you.”
“And I’ll need that help. You know the politics better than anyone.” Doyle kissed her again, deeply, his fingers caught in the glossy strands of
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