Heir of Stone (The Cloudmages #3) by S. L. Farrell Read Free Book Online Page B

Sevei. You’ll go with him, and I’ll meet you tonight for supper—with this Dillon Ó’Baoill of yours. We’ll leave Inishfeirm within the week.”
    “Is Greada going with us also?”
    “No,” Jenna answered shortly, without elaboration. Sevei wasn’t surprised at that: Sevei’s great-da Kyle MacEagan and Jenna seemed to have a placid if passionless marriage and were rarely together except for court occasions. Though Sevei loved her great-da and enjoyed his company, he lived most of the year attending to his duties in his clan’s ancestral keep in Dún Madadh, in his townland of Be an Mhuilinn rather than in the capital of Dún Kiil.
    Jenna came around the desk and Sevei went to her, hugging the smaller woman and kissing her cheeks. “It’s good to see you again, Gram,” she said.
    “And you, Sevei. You’ve become a young woman without my realizing it.” Jenna’s arms tightened around Sevei again for a moment before loosening. Sevei saw her glance again at Máister Kirwan. “That makes this visit all the more important,” she said. “We’ll talk later.”
    Máister Kirwan had come over to Jenna; she took his arm as she walked to the door. Outside, Mahon MacBreen, the captain of the Banrion’s personal gardai, waited for her. He nodded to Máister Kirwan as Jenna transferred her arm to his. “I’ll talk with you later, also, Mundy,” Jenna said. “Perhaps I can convince you to come to Dún Laoghaire with us.”
    With that, she turned to walk slowly down the ancient stone corridor of the White Keep. Acolytes passing in the hall stepped aside to let her pass, their heads bowed respectfully, then chattered in bright excitement as they moved on.
    Máister Kirwan still held the door open. He inclined his head to Sevei. “Come with me,” he said.

    Sevei followed Máister Kirwan through the twisting hallways. The stones under their feet had been polished to a slick patina by countless soles, a visible double groove eroded in the thick granite flags. They walked in silence, their footsteps echoing hollowly. The acolytes rarely came here; the few bráthairs and siúrs they passed nodded to Máister Kirwan and went silently about their business. The White Keep had been built in slow stages over centuries, and Máister Kirwan now led Sevei to the most ancient section of the rambling building which held the Order’s library, with its history of Talamh an Ghlas and the clochs na thintrí, the stones of power. But he didn’t take the stairs leading up to the library; he continued on into the dark bowels of the building.
    Máister Kirwan brought her to a closed door. He put his hand on the door and whispered a ward-word she couldn’t hear; the door swung open with a groan of hinges. He lifted his hand and spoke a phrase of slow magic—in response, witchfire pots burst into flame down the passage beyond, illuminating a long staircase winding downward. Cold air spilled out from the doorway, bearing the scent of must and dampness. “Where are we going, Máister?” Sevei asked, her voice a whisper.
    “Just stay close,” he answered; he led the way down, the door closing sharply behind them, the bolt of the lock clanging into its hole without being touched. Sevei followed Máister Kirwan down the stairs, which ended near another door. Máister Kirwan again put his hand on the door, and a disembodied voice spoke as if coming from the thick planks of iron-banded oak. “Máister Kirwan . . .” The door’s lock clicked and it opened.
    The chamber inside was small and dark. Máister Kirwan took a few steps inside, and witchfire brightened. She could see that the room’s furnishings were few and plain: a small table with a few chairs pulled up to it, the witchfire guttering in a glazed pottery bowl in the center. “Come in,” he told Sevei, his face seemingly amused in the ruddy glow of the witchfire. “You needn’t hang out there in the damp.” Sevei stepped inside; the door shut behind her,