Chapter 8
Shortly after dawn the next morning, éadha made her way over the lake bridge to the Keep courtyard. Her satchel was slung across her chest with Magret’s book and Ionáin’s amber tower inside, along with a change of clothes.
When she’d come down from her loft, her aunt and uncle had been standing in the middle of the kitchen, their faces full of wordless grief, and as she embraced them, her aunt had whispered in her ear, “Just…try to stay yourself. In that place.”
éadha’s heart had caught at her then, at the courage it took to say those few words. Catching her aunt’s hand, she’d replied, “It won’t change me, I promise you. And when I’m back everything will be better because Ionáin will be Lord and I’ll be his Keeper.”
For this was her great plan, conceived as she sat beneath the oak tree and called up a were-light with her own heart’s power.
To make a kind of truth of her accidental lie by following Ionáin to Lambay and supplying him with her heart’s strength.
To be his Keeper and in the process lend him her ability and with it her own life force so he wouldn’t have to draw on Fodder.
To have everyone, even Ionáin, go on believing he was gifted.
He’d save Ailm’s Keep by becoming its Channeller, and stop Huath from taking over.
And she’d never have to tell him how, in his moment of Reckoning, she’d made a lie of his life. She’d never have to face that.
As she reached the courtyard, she saw it was already full of horses and people.
Their party was fifteen in all—Ionáin, Huath, his guardsmen, Treasa, and several Keep men.
Magret was to ride with them as far as Erisen.
The Keep men would stay with them through the Blackstairs then turn back.
Although the winter snows had melted, the way was still difficult this early in the spring.
Packs of wolves and solitary bears roamed the foothills, hungry after the long winter, while dragons sometimes flew through the high passes.
In the middle of all the hubbub was Ionáin.
His parents were embracing him, his father stern-faced, his mother in tears.
He was in high spirits, laughing and joking, coaxing a smile out of his mother, reassuring his father before swinging up onto his horse and urging it into a canter.
Slipping into the crowd unnoticed, éadha was gripped by a sudden terror.
It was one thing to make tiny were-lights that sat in her palm, another thing entirely to send her power into Ionáin every day under the eyes of the Masters.
What if Ionáin was exposed or she was caught?
But even as she thought this, Ionáin’s horse came around, and he saw her standing there.
His face lit up. “Hey, sleepyhead. Good of you to join us,” he called, grinning.
And it was his old grin, the one that threw open every door in her heart.
It was as if he’d heard her question and sent his answer flashing back to her across the courtyard.
She wouldn’t fail. Their bond was too strong.
It was why she’d been able to send her power into him at his Reckoning.
That hadn’t changed. It would never change.
With a whoop Ionáin urged his horse into a gallop, on out of the yard. Huath nodded to the rest of the party to follow, calling back over his shoulder, “Don’t worry, sister, I’ll make sure he arrives safely.”
That first day they made good time, climbing steadily.
Luck was with them as the Steps were little damaged by the winter storms. They paused below the crest of the first peak for one last look back at Ailm’s Keep.
Only the North Tower could be seen, spearing above the surrounding forests.
To the east, the sea glittered in fleeting sunlight, choppy with white tops racing wave after wave to the shore before the hard spring winds.
They turned and descended into the stony valley below.
Ionáin rode with his uncle at the head of the party while éadha and Magret were near the back. Bringing up the rear was a windowless, ironbound wagon, its wooden wheels juddering along the steep paths.
“Huath’s Fodder wagon,” said Magret quietly, seeing éadha glance back at it.
“Bringing those people you saw back to Erisen. They won’t take those wretches out while young Ionáin is here.
Too much of a shock. You’ll see when you get to First House.
For the Masters it’s all about the Stages.
Corrupt them first, before they ever see the people they drain. ”
Magret had been gentle with her as they had walked together back to the Keep after her Reckoning.
“You did your best. Huath was just too strong. You did well to have him think you’re only a Keeper.
Take comfort in that, and if you work at your craft, you may be able to shield the Fodder a little from the really savage Channellers. ”
Now that éadha was marked for the Masters, Magret spoke little else to her.
As they rode through the mountains side by side, éadha ached to question her.
Maybe she’d understand this new strength, how she’d been able to send it into Ionáin.
But that’d mean telling her Ionáin was powerless, and that secret couldn’t be spoken out loud to any living soul, not if she was to keep him safe. So she stayed silent.
That night they camped under a rocky overhang deep in the mountains. It was bitterly cold. éadha lay beside Magret and under cover of her blanket tried to return the little book of drawings Magret had given her in the forest. But Magret wouldn’t take it.
Propping herself up on her wiry forearms, her short white hair just catching the firelight, she whispered, “Your need is far greater than mine, child. Don’t underestimate the danger you face bringing your gift to that place, the very heart of their power.
Their whole system rests on controlling every Channeller and every Keeper.
If they ever find out you’re hiding a Channeller gift from them, there’s no saying what they’ll do to you.
” She paused, her expression darkening as she gripped éadha’s forearm with one hard hand.
“And even if they don’t, it’ll still take every bit of your strength to resist the lure of their seduction.
Keep the book with you, and when next we ride together, give it to me then. ”
Clouds blanketed the mountains as they set off in the morning, the only sounds the occasional clink of sword against sheath and the rumbling of wagon wheels over stony ground.
At about midmorning they reached the highest point of the Steps, and Lord Huath called a brief halt.
Magret sent éadha to refill their water bottles, pointing her toward a ridge.
The clouds had lifted off the Blackstairs as they rode, and retreated to the sky. Now éadha scrambled up over the ridge to where a lake lay utterly still, a shard of sky fallen into the mountain. She crouched down by the water’s edge, unwilling to disturb its perfect smoothness.
With a quick glance to make sure no one was watching, she closed her eyes and pulled gently on the thread she could feel all the time now, running from belly to heart, using it to call up a miniature were-light in her hand and feeling a start of joy at seeing her power respond.
It was quicker than when she’d channeled strength from others because now she was drawing only on her own strength.
Staring at the dancing flame, she itched to try it out properly.
Could she make a fireball or lift off the ground and fly, like a Channeller?
But she knew it was far too risky with Huath so close by, and so instead, turning her hand palm down, she held the little light out over the water to see its reflection, smiling as the mirrored flames bowed to each other.
The next moment her were-light flickered and was almost snuffed out by a downdraft of air.
A shadow passed above her head. Long and sinuous, the dragon spread its wings to their fullest extent as it glided low across the lake, bending its neck to drink from the icy waters as it flew then raising its head again, drops glittering on its scales.
Its wings beat the water once as it climbed from the surface, sending waves racing to éadha’s feet where she crouched at the water’s edge, watching its flight in disbelief.
She’d never seen a dragon this close. When they crossed the sky above Ailm’s Keep, they always flew far above them all, so high they seemed no bigger than eagles.
But the dragon gliding away from her above the surface of the lake was fifty feet or more in length, more again from wing tip to wing tip, and as it flew, the reflected sunlight seemed to ripple across its scales like a silver flame.
She rose to her feet, the tiny were-light still dancing on the palm of her hand.
She knew from all the stories she should feel petrified, but all she could think, with a kind of savage joy, was she’d never seen anything more glorious.
And deep inside, her power surged, as if it was urging her to fly up after it, alongside it, like she used to in her dreams.
As she watched, the dragon reached the far end of the lake.
But instead of flying on out across the mountains, with a single tilt of its wings, it curved about and came flying swift as thought to where éadha stood.
With impossible grace it reared up to its full length, holding itself steady in the air to stare down at the tiny figure below it, the were-light still cupped in her hand.
For a long, stretched moment there was silence as the dragon stared at the girl and the girl stared up at the dragon.
“Mahera,” the dragon hissed then as its wings beat down, once, twice, flashing, almost transparent in the sunlight.