Taminy gazed at the child wonderingly, running aislinn fingers through the warm, silken flow of her thoughts—pure, they were, and unvarnished and untrained. And I am feeling them. And that is the most wonderful thing of all.
“I only hope,” Gwynet went on, “tha’ my eyes can see the aislinn things.”
Taminy, caught off guard, laughed aloud. “How much proof of your own Gift do you need, Gwynet-a-Gled? You drew fire through a crystal with no tutoring. You found your own way to the use of the herbs and medicaments. And you knew by instinct what I had forgotten.”
She leaned out from her rock and extended one hand into the gentle tumble of water cascading over its stony ledge. It came back cupped around a tiny pool of water that sparkled in the slanting sunlight like a palmful of jewels. Droplets fell, crystal-bright, from between her curving fingers.
“I learned it from the Gwenwyvar, who bid me take a handful of water from her pool and said that if a crystal could not be had, pure water might be used to focus the Weave.”
“Water!” marveled Gwynet, scooping of a handful of her own. “Then when I was praying peace to my dewdrops ...”
“You were weaving inyx, even then.”
Taminy gazed across the glittering liquid in her hand and tried to conjure the sensation, the aura, of the Weave. She watched the tiny points of light dance, out of focus, and emptied her mind of anything else. In a heartbeat she was wrapped in a sparkling veil, shrouded in a teeming world of radiance. The Sun was warmer here and brighter and the gurgle of water became song. Her heart beat faster, buoyed by the ease with which she had come here. Perhaps the sundered pool could someday reunite with the Sea.
“What do they see?” Gwynet’s voice floated, disembodied, into Taminy’s aislinn state. “People like Prentice Brys, I mean. When the Gwenwyvar comes up from her pool, what do they see?”
“Perhaps they see nothing,” said Taminy. “Or perhaps they see only a wisp of cloud or a clot of steam. And when she speaks ...” She hesitated, feeling something kiss the fringes of her perception: Curiosity. Suspicion. “... perhaps they hear only the wind. The Meri gives a call, Gwynet. As you called the fire to your crystal, the Meri breathes a call into the world. It is a whisper—a sweet, still song like a breeze from the Sea. It summons those who hear it. It draws them to the Water of Life and bids them drink.”
In a sudden flutter of wings, a blue-black bird dropped from the trees to settle on the rim of Taminy’s cupped hand and sip the water there.
Indecision—she felt it, sharp and clear, on the periphery of her awareness. Indecision and thirst. “You see, even the creatures feel the summons and, as they have no taught fears, they come.”
A second bird, this one a bright red, fluttered down to join the first. Wonder washed over the indecision.
Taminy withdrew from her gem-scattered veil and turned her head. Her eyes touched the fringe of brush and fern that ringed the glen Nairne-side and, from the place where her gaze lit, appeared a girl of perhaps seventeen or eighteen—timid, wary, but drawn.
The birds fled Taminy’s fingertips and sailed skyward, and the girl’s eyes followed them out of sight. Finally, she brought her gaze back to Taminy, seated on her rock.
“Are you ... are you a Wicke?” she asked and Taminy felt as much anticipation as fear in the words.
She smiled. “No. Are you?”
“But you ... you called me.”
“Does that make me a Wicke? You came.”
The gray eyes widened. “I’m the Cirkemaster’s daughter, Iseabal.”
“Yes, I know. I’m Taminy. I’m Gwynet’s tutor.” She gestured at the little girl, who was regarding Iseabal with open-mouthed astonishment.
The Cirkemaster’s girl glanced back and forth between them, picking the leaves from her skirt. “I’m intruding,” she said and licked her lips. “I beg pardon.”
“Not at all. Please, don’t go.” Taminy slid down from her perch onto the grass behind Gwynet, then lowered herself to a mossy rock.
Across the pool, Iseabal vacillated. “May I ... may I stay and listen?”
Well, Iseabal, thought Taminy, perhaps you are to be dedicated to God, after all. Aloud she said, “Of course you may stay and listen. Come, Iseabal, and sit with us.”
A shy smile preceded the girl from the hedge of brush and trees as she came lightly, with lifted skirts, across the bridge of stone at the head of the pool and over into Taminy’s verdant classroom.
oOo
The Council session had been relatively sedate. Osraed Wyth had appeared long enough to announce his intention of compiling a Book of the Covenant, and confirmed that he would lead a class on the Covenant for first year Prentices. There was no mention of Meredydd’s fate or her guilt or innocence as a Wicke. The subject of formally opening Halig-liath to girls had been broached and a reluctant discussion begun when a dispatch from Creiddlylad curtailed it.
Bevol was first to read it, his face opaquely denying the other Osraed access to his thoughts.
“Well,” asked Ealad-hach. “What is it?”
“The General Assembly has been postponed again due to ongoing diplomatic overtures to the Deasach. Oh, and there is also the matter of a new wing the Cyne is adding to the Castle to house his collection of historical and artistic objects. He’s overseeing that project personally, of course.”
“This is the third time he has postponed the summer Assembly,” observed Faer-wald. “If he waits much longer, we’ll be into the harvest. Forecasts indicate a wet, cold autumn is to be expected—with early snows. That could make travel very difficult for the members.”
“Well, travel we must,” said Bevol, “unless we yield to the idea that this summer’s agenda will have to be carried over to the next spring session.”
“But we have a full agenda,” objected Eadmund who, with Bevol, represented Halig-liath in the Assembly Hall. “After Tell Fest, Ren Catahn Hillwild presented us with an entire list of issues the Hillwild wish to address in the Hall. I assure you, they are not minor ones. Add to that what the villages bring and we could be in session from now until next Solstice. How does Cyne Colfre propose to put these issues off?”
“He does not propose to put them off,” said Bevol, eyes still on the dispatch. “He includes a list of items he has gathered for the agenda and proposes to poll the Assembly by post to obtain permission for some of these matters—the ‘more mundane among them,’ as he puts it—to be fielded by the Privy Council.”
“The Privy Council?” repeated Faer-wald. “But that’s hardly appropriate. The Privy isn’t an elected body; it’s not representative. It’s purpose is to advise the Cyne in personal diplomacy and the civic affairs of Creiddylad.”
“Might we hear the Cyne’s agenda?” asked Calach.
Bevol passed the dispatch back to the Chamber Prentice and bid him read it aloud. This he did, while the Osraed scribbled their notes and furrowed their brows and pulled at beards and lips.
When the reading was finished, Bevol shook his head. “He’s asking for a blank slate. He’s asking us to leave the selection of items for the Privy Council’s agenda to their discretion.”
“That is unacceptable,” murmured Calach. “We must know what issues the Privy Council is to act upon. Most of those items are of regional or even national interest.”
“Perhaps we need to remind the Cyne that the Covenant requires the Hall to sit with the Crown on all national issues.” suggested Osraed Kynan.
“I say we must go further.” said Tynedale. “We should indicate those issues which may not be decided by the Privy Council.”
“That,” said Bevol, “would be most of them.”
Ealad-hach made a sound eloquent with frustration. “The Cyne is no ignoramus. He knows what things may be dealt with by his Privy Council and what things must go to the Hall.”
“I am sure he knows,” said Tynedale. “But if we do not seek to document the limits set on that institution, it may begin to exceed them and assume duties c
ovenanted to the Hall.”
“Covenanted. Yes, exactly,” said Ealad-hach. “The Covenant stipulates that national and wide regional issues are to be decided by representative government. Colfre knows the Covenant. Surely we can trust him to abide by it.”
Bevol lifted an eyebrow. “The way we can trust him not to interfere with the celebrations of the Cirke? He has participated, unbidden, in the Waningfeast rite. The Farewelling has not been missed by a Cyne since the last year of the reign of Siolta the Lawgiver, yet Colfre has seen fit to pass it two Seasons running. And the Grand Tell has been waived for the first time in history. Even in the Season of Siolta’s murder, Cyneric Thearl and the Cwen Mother saw the newly Chosen at Mertuile despite their grief. Yet this year, with no more reason than a delicate diplomacy, our Osraed remain at home and the Osmaer sits in her place at Ochanshrine.” Bevol’s voice was gentle, empty of anger, but filled with a passion intended to persuade. “Brothers, if it were one thing or another—only the sipping of wine from the Star Chalice, only the raising of the Privy Council to handle matters reserved to the Hall—then I would not suggest that perhaps we must offer our Cyne closer guidance.”
“He will not like it,” said Ealad-hach.
“Hardly germane,” countered Tynedale. “I hold with Bevol. I believe we must reply to this dispatch immediately and seek to define the limits of the Privy Council lest they seek to define their own ... and ours.”
Bevol called for a vote in which only Ealad-hach gave a negative tell. It was decided, then. A response would be drawn and sent to Creiddylad with the new Osraed Lealbhallain on the mid-week packet.
CHAPTER 6
The Spirit is found in the soul when sought with truth and self-sacrifice, as fire is found in wood, water in hidden springs, cream in milk, and oil in the lamp.
This Spirit is hidden in all things, as cream is hidden in milk. It is the source of self-knowledge and self-sacrifice.
This is the Spirit of all, which men call God.
— Osraed Haefer Hillwild
Commentary and Observations
His mother and sisters cried and covered him with hugs and kisses. He returned them with fervor, realizing again how complete a change he was making in his life. He’d felt it first while packing—that sense of something slipping away. When he had closed the door to his room that morning, he recognized the symbology of that ordinary act. It was not a happy recognition.
The new Osraed, secure in his faith and purpose, was eager and prepared; the boy, leaving the security of his home village for an unfamiliar city, was anxious and sorrowful. And now, standing on the docks with his family around him, Lealbhallain-mac-Mercer knew what it meant to be torn.
“Well, son.” His father’s eyes said that he, too, was caught between gladness and loss, “I guess I need not tell you how proud I am this day. That a son of mine be found acceptable to the Meri ...” He gazed again at the stellate mark on Leal’s forehead and shook his head in wonder.
“Does it matter that I’ll not be taking on the trade?” asked Leal ingenuously.
Giolla Mercer laughed. “Ah, the girls will do fine by the trade. You’ve something more important to do with your years than tending a shop, however fine a shop it might be. You’ve done well, Leal. But you don’t need me to tell you that.”
Leal laid a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Oh, you’re wrong, da. I do need you to tell me.”
They left him then, amid more tears and smiles and exhortations to be warm and well-fed and happy and to listen well to the Meri. He could promise them that much, at least. He watched them out of sight, his eyes lingering on the corner where sat Iain Spenser’s public house, then turned to where the Osraed Bevol and Eadmund awaited him.
Bevol handed him a small leather portfolio, hand-tooled and gilded and fastened with a gold clasp. Leal took it delicately, somewhat in awe of being asked to take a missal to the Cyne.
“Now remember,” said Bevol, “that you do not need to wait for an answer to this, but do give it directly into the hands of the Cyne and do tell the Abbod, Osraed Ladhar, what it is you have delivered. And give him this.” The elder Osraed produced a second, less ornate envelope and handed that to Leal as well. “This will explain to our Brothers of the Jewel what the Cyne’s message contains.”
The message resting in his hand, Leal felt an odd tingling run up his spine and, for a moment, he looked at the other Osraed though a haze of shimmering motes. He opened his mouth and said, “There are Osraed in Creiddylad who will be displeased by this. They have lost the Touch and the breeze of inspiration no longer blows unhindered through their souls.”
Bevol, his eyes closed as if he savored the river’s perfume, nodded. “Yes. A hard truth, though. We like to believe the connection can never be lost.”
“What are you saying? How does Osraed Lealbhallain know of matters involving the Osraed of Creiddylad?”
Leal’s eyes returned to focus on Osraed Eadmund’s face. The older man was glancing from him to Bevol in startled bemusement.
He hadn’t felt the Touch, Leal realized, but Bevol had. He was stunned. Despite the evidence of history, it had never really occurred to him that receptivity to the Meri’s Eibhilin Light was something that could be lost. Perhaps once, long ago, it might have happened but surely not in this age...
He shivered.
Bevol didn’t respond to Eadmund’s questions. His eyes holding Leal’s, he said simply, “We have the lesson of history. Pray the Meri we are not destined to repeat that lesson.”
History. That had not been Lealbhallain’s strongest subject, but he knew the lesson Bevol referred to. Only once in the history of the Osraed had the Light guttered among the Meri’s Chosen. Once, during the reign of Cyne Liusadhe. Once, over two hundred years before.
We like to forget that, Leal reflected, watching the river glide beneath the keel of the westbound barge. We tell ourselves it cannot happen again. Perhaps we blind ourselves. Perhaps it is happening already.
He was cold, though the breeze from the water was not particularly chill. The boy in him wanted to protest that he would not allow it to happen. He would go to Creiddylad and wake the Osraed that slumbered there. He, Lealbhallain, would wake the dead if necessary. But the boy gave way quickly to the man who calmly determined to deliver his message and pursue his mission among Creiddylad’s poor as the Meri directed, and to never, never lose sight of Her Light.
oOo
Standing on Cirkebridge, Taminy let her gaze float upriver toward the quay. Along the broad, slow-moving channel, warm stone took the Sun’s light and radiated it into the balmy air. Old stone, new stone; a piebald coat of aging, mellow and new, crisp patchwork. The art of mason and stonecutter reflected dreamily in Halig-tyne’s slow, liquid ramble—from the intricately carved balustrade to the rise of brick and beam storefront, the river mirrored all without prejudice.
Taminy’s eyes welcomed the watery images. They were more familiar than the sharper, clearer lines of the orderly storefronts. She felt like a child waking from a recurring dream.
Oh, yes. I’ve had this dream before, of walls that run upright and corners that meet sharply and sunlight that falls straight down.
Upstream at Cornerquay, the new Mercer’s Bridge cast its rippling, shadowy twin into the flood. Taminy could just see a sparse, bobbing forest of masts off to the right where the river curled lovingly at the feet of the palisades like a hearth cat. Her eyes made the cliff-climb effortlessly. Flying, hawk-like up the ageless expanse of rock, they crested just above the walls of Halig-liath, fluttered with the banners, came to rest on the gleaming tile roof of the central rotunda.
How I loved you, she thought, though I was not welcome. Her mouth made a wry twist. Or perhaps because I was not welcome.
She still loved Halig-liath. She loved all of Nairne, pain and joy. A hundred years has changed you not at all.
Ah, not so. All of Caraid-land is changed.
The thought came from close by and far away. Tamin
y paused her own contemplations to consider it, not needing to ask from whence it came. It was true, of course. She could feel it. From the Osraed in their chambers, from the villagers drifting past her on the bridge, from the Cirkemaster, from his daughter.
She closed her eyes. Yes, even from the river, crawling beneath the bridge, vibrating the stone beneath her feet.
“Taminy!”
Eyes open, she turned her head to see Gwynet’s bright head bobbing toward her from Cirkeside, wending her way around a cluster of chatting women, a pony cart, a puff of sheep. She paused at the sheep to pat noses and caress wool, and smiled at the young shepherd as they swept past her like low-lying clouds.
“Am I late?” she asked, breathless. “I don’t mean to be, but Master Tynedale had a raft of books to carry.”
“Hmmm. And a story to tell, too, I’ll wager,” Taminy said, tapping the girl’s sun-pinked nose. She turned and began to walk toward Greenside.
Gwynet fell into step beside her—two to her one. “Oh, and he did! All about how Ruanaidhe’s Leap got to be called tha’.”
Taminy’s brows ascended in mock dismay. “Oh, well, there’s naught like a fine tale of murder and suicide to fill a child’s head.”
“It was powerful sad,” said Gwynet. “Poor Cwen Goscelin—to have to watch her dear husband murdered right afore her eyes. And poor little Riagan Thearl—to lose his da so.”
And what of your da, child, Taminy thought, whom you never knew? Poor you—but you’d never think it.
“Cyne Siolta was a very good Cyne wasn’t he?”
“Yes, I believe he was.”
“Aye. Master Tynedale says so too.” Her feet dragged as she spoke. “He says he was one of the very best Cynes ever.... Why would Ruanaidhe want to kill him?”
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