A Rising Moon Read online

  “I overheard the acolytes whispering that you’re intending to leave Bàn Cill and live here,” Orla heard a voice say from the open doorway. A shadow swept over the floor, and Orla turned to see Magaidh walking toward her, accompanied by her anamacha. Orla thought that she looked older than usual; the lines around her pale-ice eyes were set deep, and in the morning light Orla could see the gray-white that was beginning to invade the blonde strands around her temples. She wore a simple blue-dyed linen bog dress without adornments and no jewelry other than the brass torc gleaming around her neck.

  “People say all kinds of foolish things,” Orla answered—though in truth, it was something she had considered. There were two small rooms to the rear of the temple that, in Pencraig, had been used for storage, but the larger one could serve as a bedchamber, and the smaller one could easily be converted into a kitchen with a hearth for cooking. There was a clear, bright spring running under the bracken not a dozen steps from the doorway and a bog at the bottom of the hill where one could cut turves of peat. And the view from the hilltop—she could see the green-blue waters of the strait to the east, and on a clear day, the distance-hazed hills of Albann Bràghad beyond. To the west were the rounded hilltops of Onglse marching toward the Storm Sea, the stone walls and forts that protected the island from invaders running along their spines.

  It would be tempting to live here, indeed. And it had the added attraction of making it far less likely she’d randomly encounter Greum Red-Hand. Orla smiled at the thought, and Magaidh laughed as if she understood what Orla was thinking. “So you are considering it,” the woman said. “I can’t say I blame you. The view is beautiful up here.”

  “Did you come up here to appreciate the scenery?” Orla asked her, and Magaidh shook her head.

  “No.” The woman’s expression faded quickly into a somber one. “I asked Sorcha where you were, and she said you’d left just a stripe ago and that I’d probably find you here. You and I are to meet with Ceanndraoi Greum and my husband in the gathering hall of the temple.”

  “Meet about what?” Orla asked, and Magaidh shrugged.

  “We’ll find out when we get there. Have you broken your fast?”

  “I’ve had wine and bread. Nothing else.”

  “Then we’ll stop at the kitchens first and coerce Cook into giving us something,” Magaidh said. “You’ll need the strength. And you should probably get word to Sorcha not to expect you for the midday meal.”

  “How long will we be in this meeting?”

  “I don’t know,” Magaidh told her. “Comhnall suggested that it may be a long discussion. We aren’t the only ones invited, either. Most of the senior draoi will be there as well as some of the clan àrds. If that’s the case, Ceanndraoi Greum may be planning to feed us. In fact, I’ll insist on it.”

  Orla frowned at that, puzzled. “So many people? I don’t understand—if Ceanndraoi Greum wanted me to be there, why didn’t he tell me about it before?”

  “He didn’t tell you because he didn’t invite you,” Magaidh said flatly. “I did.”

  “Oh.” The single syllable was all Orla could muster. Her mind conjured up an image of Greum’s reaction to her walking into a meeting of the draoi that she had deliberately not been asked to attend. It wasn’t a pleasant image. “Magaidh,” she began, but the woman was already shaking her head to cut off her protest.

  “I know you think Ceanndraoi Greum hates you, but understand this, Orla. It’s not hatred you’re seeing; it’s fear.” Magaidh put her hands on Orla’s shoulders, her pale gaze not allowing Orla to look away. “Your mother claimed the title of ceanndraoi and proved that she deserved it far more than Greum Red-Hand, and every draoi knows that to be true. He looks at you and instead sees Voada with the Moonshadow’s anamacha alongside her, and he’s afraid that he’ll lose his title yet again. He sees what you’ve been able to do with little training—like creating this temple—and he trembles. He doesn’t hate you; he’s terrified of you and afraid to show that fear to the others.”

  Magaidh’s fingers pressed hard against Orla’s cloak. “If you’re to become what your mother was and more—and I believe you are—Greum Red-Hand has good reasons to feel threatened by you,” she said. “Just look around you. I know Voada couldn’t have made this temple.”

  With that, Magaidh released Orla, and Orla slowly turned from her, taking in the temple’s gleaming interior. The sun had lifted higher, peering through broken clouds; shafts of light lathed the white stone with a brilliance that made Orla shade her eyes. When she turned back, she saw that Magaidh had already gone to the entrance of the temple.

  “We should go,” Magaidh said. “Remember what I’ve said, and hold your head up when we walk into that meeting. Let the ceanndraoi and all of them hear your voice.”

  * * *

  When Orla and Magaidh pushed open the doors of the Gathering Hall, the muffled voices inside went abruptly silent. There was a loud rustling as those assembled in the crescent of chairs turned to stare at them. The ghostly, dim presences of the anamacha were arrayed behind their draoi, seeming to glow in the twilight of the hall. The àrds sat uncomfortably on hard wooden seats, wrapped in the colors of their respective clans. Ceanndraoi Greum Red-Hand stood alongside Magaidh’s husband, Ceannàrd Mac Tsagairt, in the hollow of the crescent. He turned to glare at the intrusion, leaning on his walking staff as his red cloak swirled around him. His own anamacha glided closer as if expecting to be called to him.

  “Sorry I’m late, Ceanndraoi,” Magaidh said into the quiet. “I went to fetch Draoi Orla, as I suddenly realized you’d forgotten to invite her to hear what you have to say. I found her at the Moonshadow’s Temple. The view there, I have to say, is wonderful, and the temple itself exquisite. Quite impressive. You really should visit it again to marvel at it, as many of the other draoi have. Wouldn’t you agree, Ceanndraoi?”

  Orla felt Magaidh link her arm through hers, shepherding her toward the empty chairs at the crown of the moon-horn. Greum’s scowl carved shadowy furrows in his face as he watched them approach and sit, though Comhnall Mac Tsagairt ventured a small smile under his white beard. “Please continue, Ceanndraoi,” Magaidh said to Greum, waving a hand toward him. “We didn’t mean to interrupt. What were you saying?”

  Orla thought for a moment that the man was going to refuse to respond. Around his beard, his face had gone nearly as red as his hand. Finally he stopped staring and turned back to the others. “I was saying that I’ve had word from my contacts in the south, and I’ve come to the decision that we can’t wait here. We can’t permit what happened before to happen again. Sitting here and waiting for the Mundoa to make the first move, I’ll admit, was a mistake that nearly cost us Onglse and the north last time.” He glanced toward Orla and Magaidh. “In that, Draoi Voada was correct.”

  “You mean Ceanndraoi Voada?” Magaidh interjected, her voice disarmingly pleasant and neutral.

  Ceanndraoi Greum didn’t have a chance to reply, as Comhnall spoke up first, with his own warning glance at his wife and a barely perceptible shake of his head. “As ceannàrd of the assembled clans, I agree with Greum Red-Hand,” he said. “Emperor Pashtuk has left Albann Deas and returned to Rumeli, but the whispers we’ve heard from our people in Savur say that before the emperor left, he ordered troop ships sent to Albann. We believe that Great-Voice Utka has ordered Commander Savas to do what he failed to do before: take Onglse. The simple fact is that we’ve lost too many good warriors and too many draoi to properly defend Onglse against another full-scale invasion.”

  “It wasn’t our warriors and draoi here who kept Savas from overrunning Onglse and taking Bàn Cill, Ceannàrd,” one of the àrds insisted when Comhnall paused to take a breath. “As Ceanndraoi Greum has noted, his strategy last time was a mistake. If Ceanndraoi Voada”—the man put decided emphasis on the title, and with that Orla realized that Greum certainly didn’t have the support of the entire r
oom—“along with my brave cousin Ceannàrd Maol Iosa hadn’t left Onglse to gather warriors and draoi and attack the south, Commander Savas would have taken the island. Then, despite everything you say, the Mundoa would have pushed north. We’d have lost nearly all our draoi and far too many warriors in that futile struggle. We’d be fighting them from the mountain fastnesses even now, and the Mundoa would control many of our towns and much of our land.”

  Magaidh leaned toward Orla, whispering in her ear. “That’s Àrd Eideard Iosa, a nephew of Maol Iosa, who claimed the title of clan àrd after Maol’s death. Comhnall believes that Eideard would love to have Maol Iosa’s old title as ceannàrd as well.”

  “I’ve already admitted my mistake, Àrd Iosa,” Greum said loudly. “Isn’t that enough for you?”

  “I only want you to realize that now is not then, Ceanndraoi,” Eideard answered. “I question whether repeating Ceanndraoi’s Voada’s strategy will work a second time. She and my uncle were successful because their move was unexpected and caught the Mundoa entirely by surprise. When Savas realized what had happened and abandoned the attempt to take Onglse, he was able to fight to a bloody draw the army Maol Iosa and Voada Paorach had taken south.” Eideard crossed his arms. “Won’t Savas actually be expecting you to do exactly as you’re proposing, Ceanndraoi, Ceannàrd? And with a new full army at his back, won’t he smash us decisively?”

  Everyone in the room tried to speak at once, many of them rising from their seats to argue with their neighbors. The resulting cacophony caused Orla to glance at Magaidh in confusion. She could discern little in the barrage of shouts and curses, and even Greum’s booming voice was lost. Clenched fists were raised, fingers were pointed, and àrds and draoi alike quarreled amongst themselves. Finally Greum’s pounding of his walking stick on the tiles quieted the room enough that he could make himself heard over the ruckus.

  “Enough of this!” he shouted, and those in the room began to take their seats again, still muttering. Greum’s voice took on a scolding, angry tone. “Àrd Iosa, are you proposing that we stay here and wait for Savas’ army to come across the River Meadham again? As I’ve said, we’ve fewer draoi and warriors now than we had then. If there’s defeat waiting for us in Albann Deas, then that same defeat waits here for us as well. Or do you have some better plan to offer?”

  “I don’t,” Eideard answered just as forcefully, standing again. His head turned, and Orla found herself looking directly into the man’s piercing stare. “But we do have the Moonshadow with us once more. Perhaps Draoi Orla would give her opinion.”

  Orla took a gasping breath as her hands lifted involuntarily and she began to shake her head. Those in the room craned their necks to find her, and Magaidh pressed close to her as if to shield her. But Greum had already reacted.

  “No!” He barked out that single word, as percussive as a thunderclap in the hall. “Draoi Orla and the Moonshadow have no voice in this. I am ceanndraoi, and Comhnall Mac Tsagairt is ceannàrd, and we have already made our decision. This is not a debate.”

  “If you’ve no intention of listening to anyone else, Ceanndraoi,” Eideard persisted, “then I, for one, see no use in staying here any longer. You’ve not convinced me that your strategy is anything but folly, and I tell you that Clan Iosa won’t be part of it. Perhaps if the Moonshadow’s draoi can persuade me otherwise, we might join you. But until then . . .”

  Eideard gathered his cloak around him. He stalked toward the door of the meeting hall with several of his lieutenants and a hand of the other àrds following him. “Iosa!” Greum shouted after him, slamming the end of his stick on the tiles once more, but the àrd paid no attention. As he passed near Orla and Magaidh, Orla could see Eideard’s earth-brown eyes under the ridge of his brow, the battle scars that marked his face, and the frown that twisted his mouth. He nodded to Orla as he passed, his long, braided hair—nearly the same color as his eyes but touched with strands of red—falling in errant strands over his forehead. She wanted to speak to him, to tell him that she wasn’t Voada, that she was afraid to call up the Moonshadow or her mother in her anamacha, and that she knew nothing of war except for her time in the encampments. But he was already past and striding down the corridor of Bàn Cill before she could find the words.

  Magaidh touched her shoulder, and Orla looked back to the hall. Greum was staring at her, his lips pressed together until they vanished under his beard and his eyes narrowed to slits.

  “Come with me,” Magaidh whispered to Orla. “Let’s go back to your rooms. We don’t need to be here any longer either.”

  Orla could only agree.

  * * *

  Magaidh and Sorcha were with Orla when Ceanndraoi Greum and Ceannàrd Comhnall came to her rooms following the meeting. Sorcha rose from where she was sitting at the small dining table with the other two women. She curtsied to both of the men and wordlessly left the apartment, shutting the outer door firmly behind her. No one spoke until the door thudded into the jamb and Orla went to swivel the wooden privacy bar into its brackets. The two men watched her as she returned to her seat; Comhnall had taken Sorcha’s seat next to Magaidh, but Greum Red-Hand remained standing, leaning on his walking stick and ignoring the other chair at the table.

  “Ceanndraoi?” Orla said, gesturing to the chair. “Would you like some wine? I’ve another mug Sorcha could bring for us.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Greum said. “I’ll be blunt, Draoi Orla. Did you and Àrd Eideard plan that little scene earlier?”

  Orla was already shaking her head before Greum finished his question. “No, Ceanndraoi. I didn’t even know who Àrd Eideard was before this afternoon. Truthfully.”

  “And that’s as I told you, Ceanndraoi,” Comhnall interjected. He placed his hand on Magaidh’s; Orla saw the two exchange knowing smiles, as if they each knew what the other was thinking. “Magaidh would have said something to me had that been arranged. Eideard is ambitious. He’d like the title I carry.” With his free hand, Comhnall touched the torc of the ceannàrd.

  Greum sniffed. The expression on his face made Orla wonder if he believed either of them. His angry gaze went from Comhnall to Orla. “I’ve warned you about the Moonshadow and your mother’s shade within your anamacha. You’ve not engaged with either of them?”

  Again Orla shook her head. “No, Ceanndraoi.” She could feel her anamacha moving close behind her, the coldness of them penetrating her cloak.

  “That temple you created—how could you have possibly done that without the Moonshadow herself?”

  “She didn’t use the Moonshadow, Ceanndraoi,” Magaidh interrupted. “She’s already told you that, and I was there with her in Magh da Chèo. It wasn’t the Moonshadow that she used or Voada either. Only Iomhar.”

  “Bah,” Greum spat. His stick lifted and struck the tiles again. “Iomhar alone? That’s simply not possible.”

  “Are you now calling both of us liars, Ceanndraoi?” Magaidh asked. “Because if you are, perhaps the ceannàrd and I will take Draoi Orla with us back to Clan Mac Tsagairt and let you fight the Mundoa without us and without the clans who would follow the ceannàrd. Why, given what happened today, Clan Iosa would undoubtedly join us . . .”

  As Magaidh was speaking, Orla felt the anamacha enter her, and the storm clouds of Magh da Chèo overlaid her sight. A single shade stood before her, the others within the anamacha holding back. She knew the ghost’s face. It was her mother’s voice, clear and bold as she remembered it, and the shade spread her arms as if to hug her. Orla nearly sobbed at the emotions that wracked her, and if she recalled Greum’s admonition not to listen to her mother’s presence, she ignored it now. She embraced the ghost, spreading her own arms and feeling the presence fill her.

  “. . . and their allies as well,” Magaidh was saying, her voice hard to hear against the roar of the anamacha’s world.

  “Listen to me,�
�� Orla said loudly. Her voice was overlaid with that of Voada, filling it with an authority that wrenched around the heads of everyone in the room to stare at her. She knew that Greum and Magaidh at least would see that she was with her anamacha. Voada’s voice whispered to her as she spoke. “Ceanndraoi, my mother was doing what was best for the Cateni when she took the title of ceanndraoi and went south with Ceannàrd Iosa. She nearly succeeded in ridding Albann of the Mundoa, but in the end she couldn’t contain the Moonshadow. But I can,” she told them, her voice rising. “With my mam’s help, with her experience, I can. With Draoi Magaidh’s help, with Sorcha’s help, I can. And I’ll also tell you that my mother believes that Eideard’s right: the strategy you’re proposing now would be a mistake.”

  Greum scoffed. “Brave words from a half child still struggling to control her anamacha. Is that you talking, Draoi Orla, or is that Voada?”

  “It’s both of us,” Orla answered, “as you already know.”

  “So you wish to be named ceanndraoi, and Eideard Iosa would be ceannàrd?” Greum sniffed again, hammering the butt of his staff on the floor. “Well, neither of those things is going to happen. I am ceanndraoi, Comhnall is ceannàrd, and we will follow the plans I’ve given to the àrds and the draoi, and those who fail to follow can be damned by Elia for their cowardice. So, Draoi Magaidh, Ceannàrd Comhnall, Draoi Orla, are you cowards like Eideard Iosa, or will you join us when Savas makes his move?—and he will move, and soon. All the signs point to it. War is coming whether we want it or not. Will you fight, or will you cower in the mountains of the north and hope that the Mundoa can’t find you? Those are your choices. Those are your only choices.”