me that you don't know.'
'You're an arrogant young lady.'
'And you're a crotchety old man who is used to easily cowing the boys who are sent to you because you look sour and mean. Your appearance and reputation aren't going to frighten me, Moister Cleurach. A year ago I might have been as terrified as any of them, but not now. Here's one thing I've learned in that time: when someone refuses to answer me, they either don't know the answer to my question or they're deliberately with-holding it for reasons of their own. Which is it for you, Moister?'
They glared at each other for a few breaths, then Moister Cleurach snorted. 'The Holders of Lamh Shabhala evidently have their obstinate streak in common,' he said. 'As well, evidently, as a tendency to view the world in dualities. One thing I hope you learn here is that things are more complicated than that. You're seeing conspiracies when the truth is more innocent and banal.'
He shook his head, rapping his fingernails on the table a few times before continuing. 'Here's your answer: Severii O'Coulghan was not Tadhg. Though he did serve as Moister here, which was his da's dying wish, the truth is that he didn't share Tadhg's sweeping vision for the Order. The clochs went dead late in his Holding, and Lamh Shabhala finally died a year or two afterward. Had Tadhg been the Holder then, he would certainly have given Lamh Shabhala to the Order as the ultimate prize of its collection. Then, when the mage-lights returned, we would have seen them shining here over Inishfeirm and known that the time of the Filleadh was approaching. We would have had Lamh Shabhala to protect us if raiders came to plunder the clochs. Severii had the cloch, though, not Tadhg. Rather than treasuring the cloch for the Order, he gave Lamh Shabhala as a gift to his lover.' Moister Cleurach gave a sniff of derision. 'Lamh Shabhala is not the most beautiful or most striking of jewels, as you know,' he continued. 'If anything, it's rather
plain. And love, as you may also know, is an emotion that can fade and die like the mage-lights. Severii’s lover one day abruptly left the island never to be seen again. With him went Lamh Shabhala.'
Jenna’s face must have shown confusion. 'Him?'
Moister Cleurach shrugged. 'Life is complicated,' he replied simply and continued his tale. 'No doubt Lamh Shabhala was eventually given away or lost or misplaced as something not particularly valuable. When Severii was asked by the librarian for a description of Lamh Shabhala, so that it could be painted and written down in our books. .' Moister Cleurach went to one of the shelves and pulled down one of the bound volumes.
'The Book of Lamh Shabhala,' he said, placing it before Jenna. He opened the stiff leather cover, the smell of dust and old paper wafting over Jenna. His bony forefinger pointed to an illustration on the first page: a cloch held in someone’s hand: caged in silver wire; whorled with emerald-green and mottled gold; the size of a duck’s egg and glinting as if transparent and full of hidden depths. Jenna could see hints of the actual stone in the representation, but this was Lamh Shabhala magnified and made far more jewel like than the reality.
'Obviously, that’s not Lamh Shabhala,' Moister Cleurach said. 'Perhaps Severii deliberately lied to the artisan-wanting to make the loss of the cloch and his lover all the more poignant. Or it’s possible that the artisan, knowing that this was Lamh Shabhala, the greatest of the clochs, could not see it as… well. . plain, and Severii obviously never contradicted that image. So when a rather ordinary-looking stone reputed to be Lamh Shabhala did come back to the Order, you can understand why my prede-cessors doubted the identification when they looked here. That’s also why, when your great-da stole it, Moister Dahlga could believe that it was a false cloch that had been lost, not Lamh Shabhala.'
'1 do understand,' Jenna said. 'And is what’s written in this book also false?'
'In this book is written all that Tadhg and Severii told us of Lamh Shabhala, and all that we have learned since. Some of it is undoubtedly untrue or exaggerated or rumor; other portions are certainly true. You’ll help us revise this at the same time you’re learning from it.'
'I have another question,' Jenna said, and Moister Cleurach sighed audibly, though he said nothing, waiting. 'Sometimes, when I've used Lamh Shabhala, I've heard the voices of all of its Holders. Some of them have spoken of a test, 'Scrudu,' they call it. What is that?'
Moister Cleurach sighed. His fingers brushed the parchment where the false image of Lamh Shabhala was painted. 'The Scrudu… ' he breathed. 'Not all Holders need to know that.'
'That's not an answer, Moister.'
He glared at her, but continued. 'Right now, Lamh Shabhala is like a Cloch Mor, more powerful and with more abilities than any of those, aye, but still a Cloch Mor. Many Holders have been content with that, and spent their years with the cloch that way. No one will think less of you if you do the same.'
'Finish your answer, Moister. Please.'
He snorted in irritation. 'A few, a few Holders have found the full depths of Lamh Shabhala’s power. To do so, they must first pass the trial they call the Scrudu. I will tell you this, Holder Aoire: most who try fail'
'And if they fail?'
'If they're lucky, they die,' Moister Cleurach replied. His stare was unblinking and cold. 'If you believe that to be overdramatic, I assure you it's not.'
'Is this Scrudu in your book?'
'It's mentioned, but neither Tadhg or Severii ever risked the challenge. But the process, the way to begin and what happens then. .' He shrugged. 'They-the voices in the stone-will tell you later if you're foolish enough to make the attempt. I would advise you to first learn something about being a cloudmage.'
Jenna started to speak, but Moister Cleurach closed the book sharply, surprising her so much that her mouth snapped shut again. Dust rose from the pages, so heavy that Jenna had to turn her head and sneeze. 'You've used up your quota of questions for a month, Holder Aoire. If you have no interest in the lore we have to give you, you're welcome to leave. If not, then henceforth you'll learn when I'm ready to teach and not before. Is
that quite clear?'
He glared at her, his head turned sideways, looking so stern that Jenna suddenly felt compelled to laugh. 'Aye,' she told him, as his face softened slightly in response to her laughter. 'I suppose I can work on my pa- tience.'
Moister Cleurach might be old, but he was hardly decrepit. If anything, his stamina was greater than Jenna's. The schedule over the next weeks quickly fell into routine: every morning, O'Deoradhain would wake her by knocking on the door of her small cell, located near Moister Cleurach’s own rooms. She broke her fast with O'Deoradhain in the same dining hall as the other acolytes and Brathairs. O'Deoradhain then escorted her to the library, where she and Moister Cleurach worked until sundown.
Moister Cleurach had given over his other duties and students; Jenna's instruction was now his only task. She learned about the clochs na thintri. their history, their behavior, their quirks, how previous Holders had dealt with handling their power. She was shown meditations that helped her deal with the pain of her interaction with the mage-lights, she was guided through the bright landscape she saw when she looked at the world through Lamh Shabhala’s eyes. She and Moister Cleurach pored over the texts left by previous Holders of Lamh Shabhala, and Jenna realized that I had only touched on the surface of the cloch's abilities. As Moister Cleurach had said, some of what was stated in the book was false, but much more of it illuminated pathways within the cloch that Jenna had not even guessed at. The Moister pushed her and prodded her, never letting her rest, taking her past what she thought were her physical and mental limits, never accepting less than her best effort.
'Was he this way with you?' she asked O'Deoradhain after a particu-larly grueling day. 'After all, he expected you to hold Lamh Shabhala had you found it. Did he drive you like this?' They were standing on a balcony of one of the White Keep's towers, overlooking the crags and cliffs atop which the cloister perched. The houses and buildings of the village were a collection of dots far below already in deepening shadow. Only the upper rim of the sun was still visible, the clouds above burning molten gold and rose, the waves of the sea tipped with shimmering orange. A sparkling column of wind sprites lifted from the cliffs halfway down the mountain, and several seals had hauled out of the sea, roaring and honk-ing where the waves crashed foaming onto black rocks.
'Consider it a good sign,' O’Deoradhain grinned. 'He’s hardest on the ones he feels have the most potential. The time to worry is when he’s easy on you.'
'You still haven’t answered my question. Was he this hard on you?'
O’Deoradhain smiled again. 'That would be telling, wouldn’t it?' Jenna laughed and his smile grew broader. 'I knew you could do that,' he said.
'Do what?'
'Laugh. Enjoy yourself.'
