oOo
“My Lord, the Osraed Lealbhallain to see you.” Durweard Feich’s voice and face were both devoid of expression as he addressed his Cyne. They were in the throne room this morning, receiving visitors and petitioners.
Leal counted himself as just one more of those, or would have if Cyne Colfre had not, upon seeing him, leapt to his feet exclaiming, “My dear Osraed Lealbhallain! How good of you to visit me! Come, sit ...Refreshment,” he ordered the ether, and servants scattered.
Visiting courtiers, Eiric by the cut of their clothing, muttered and looked annoyed at the intrusion. Colfre waved them away from the throne. Leal sat where he was bidden, in a chair on the Cyne’s dais recently vacated by a rotund gentleman with a beet red face.
“How may I serve you?” Colfre asked, dipping his head.
Leal was taken aback. He was certain he had offended the Cyne at their first meeting—offended and disturbed him. He had expected nothing more than cool indifference. He chose his words carefully. “Sire, the Care House is in great need of supplies, staff and renovation. I have observed how fond you are of such projects and as Care House has always been associated with Mertuile and lies in her shadow, I thought you should know that it stands in need of your loving attention.”
Watching the Cyne’s face, Leal caught his sideways glance at the hovering Durweard. He also caught, as one catches a distant tune, a shift in the interest of the courtiers, who stood in a knot just within earshot. His spine tingled.
The Cyne smiled, amber eyes exuding warmth. “You read me well, young Osraed. But I regret that I am already over-extended in the area of renovations. No doubt Osraed Fhada has informed you that I am overseeing the renovation of the Abbis at Ochanshrine as well as the alterations to the Cyne’s Cirke.”
Leal nodded. “And the work here at Mertuile, which is a wonder to behold.”
The Cyne inclined his head, accepting the compliment.
“Which is why,” Leal continued, “I suggest that the funds to mend the Care House and its inmates be placed directly in the hands of Osraed Fhada. He’s a competent man and knows, better than anyone, what needs to be done there.”
“Did Fhada ask you to make this request?”
“No, sire. This is my recommendation.” He stressed the last word.
The Cyne made a rueful noise and shook his head. “I regret, Osraed, that, with the improvements being made to the Abbis and the Cirke, the funds are also rather over-extended.”
Leal glanced down at his folded hands. His prayer crystal rested between them. “Sire, may I then recommend that you disengage some funds from these other projects and allot them to the Care House? There are lives involved there—the lives of children, largely. Surely, those lives are more important than ornamentation.”
Again, Leal felt a subtle shift of energies in the room; the courtiers and servants laid their eyes upon the Cyne and waited for his reply. Colfre glanced again at Feich and bowed his head.
“In the life of every Cyne, Osraed Lealbhallain, comes a time when he needs the wise counsel of the Chosen in order to make a decision. Apparently, my time has come. I have been remiss. Rest assured that a remedy is forthcoming. If you will tender a list of your needs to Daimhin Feich, he will see to them.”
Leal did not recall having asked the Cyne to fill a shopping list. He did not say this, but instead asked, “And the Osraed’s funds?”
“Have been managed well by our Chancellor. We see no compelling reason to change. Surely, Osraed Fhada could do without having to juggle finances along with his other, more important duties. After all, he will soon have renovations to oversee.”
Lealbhallain regarded his Cyne’s smiling face for a moment, then inclined his head slightly. It was not the time for a shoving match. Not the time to over-reach himself. “You have exceeded my expectations, sire. I’ll inform Osraed Fhada of your generous response.”
He rose and left, then, and did not miss the look Colfre exchanged with Daimhin Feich, though he didn’t see it.
oOo
“I dreamed last night, Bevol,” she said, and the dark circles beneath her eyes gave mute testimony that the dreams had not been pleasant. Her breakfast sat, half-uneaten, on her plate.
“What did you dream?”
“Flashes of fire and a great tumult. I dreamed of a collision of paths, a confusion of lives. I dreamed of our future, fast approaching.”
Bevol nodded, his eyes seeming to focus on something outside the dining nook window, but she knew he saw nothing external. “To be expected, I suppose. It worries you?”
Taminy slipped a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “May I tell you what really worries me?”
“Of course, anwyl.”
She smiled at the endearment. It comforted. “I am distressed by my own feelings.” She pressed interlaced hands to her breast. “People look at me strangely and whisper. I hear my name on the lips of people I don’t even know. People who smiled at me two days ago, now frown and look away. Brys-a-Lach ...”
She paused, dropping her hands to her lap. Her head tilted, sending a curtain of flax to cover her eyes. “He asked me to have tea with him last Cirke-dag. All this week, he’s avoided speaking to me, though he’s watched me like a sheep dog. And Terris-mac-Webber won’t even acknowledge me when I enter his Grandmother’s shop. And neither Doiry nor Aine will even so much as glance at me.” Her words ran out, leaving her feeling stranded. She put back her hair again.
“It’s true, y’know, Maister,” said Skeet, looking up from his meal. “There’s more gossip in th’air than dust these days, an’ more gossips than birds.”
“And what are these gossips saying?”
Skeet made a face. “That this cailin of Bevol’s is just like the last one—fey and dangerous.”
Bevol’s eyes touched Taminy’s in a caress. “And is this so unexpected?”
“No, of course not,” she said.
“I’m sorry you must endure this again.”
“It’s not the enduring that pains me. It’s that I’m so hurt by it. When I’m alone sometimes, I feel ... so very human. So unwanted by the people around me.”
“You are human, anwyl. Your experience in the Meri’s Sea did not change that. But, make no mistake, you are wanted desperately.” Bevol clasped his hands around his mug. “Do you doubt that Iseabal wants you? Or Gwynet or Wyvis or Rennie or Skeet or Wyth or myself? But most of all, Taminy, the Meri wants you.”
“Yes. And because of that, I cannot afford to be human and frail and hurt. I try to pretend I’m not bothered by it, but I am. And I feel weak. I feel unworthy.”
Bevol reached across the table and took her hand. “What you have described to me, anwyl, is a strength, as well as a weakness.”
“But it’s so selfish, this fear of mine. This hurt.”
“Is it? Look at your fear, Taminy. Ask it its name. When those souls reject you, scorn you, shun you, what are they really rejecting, hmm? You know the answer to that. So ask this: Is it your own loneliness you dread, or the loneliness of those souls who will not suffer themselves to embrace you—to embrace Her?”
She pondered that. He was right, in part, she realized. She could not lay claim to being lonely or unloved. Not in any real sense. And on the deepest level of her being she could feel the Meri’s breath fan her soul. A breeze. A Touch. More and more often she felt connected to the Source of her fitful Gift, but the connection was capricious, uncertain—and in those gaps of uncertainty, yawned a gulf of loneliness. And now, a fiery collision approached. Was she ready for it? Could she withstand it?
Watching her pensive face, Bevol said, “You don’t have to go to worship Cirke-dag if it will distress you.”
“Aye,” said Skeet. “The gossip-mongery will gather there in all force with their sharp eyes and sharp tongues.”
Taminy shook her head. “I have no reason to hide from them. I will not hide from them. And I can’t hide from what my dreams reveal.”
Bevol patted her hand.
“Collisions can take many forms.”
She managed a smile. “Oh, aye. That I know.”
She tried not to think of collisions as the week moved by. Eyes still poked at her, tongues still wagged. Twice she walked into the Backstere’s only to have silence fall among the animated patrons. Once a young woman carried her child from the place, shielding its eyes from her. Niall Backstere, himself, clucked and shook his head and confided to her in quiet tones, as he wrapped her a loaf of bread, that he didn’t understand what made some folk so gullible as to believe every tale they heard. Somehow she knew that the moment the door closed behind her, he would be in the midst of it all, absorbing every rumor. Still, he did nothing to keep Cluanie from her company, so it seemed he did not believe the gossip he help spread.
Mistress Lusach, the Apothecary, pooh-poohed the whole situation, saying it was the natural thing to happen in a small town when one member, especially a new member, stood out from the ordinary folk so startlingly.
“It’s jealousy, Tam, dear,” she said. “You do what they can’t or won’t or don’t dare and it sets them off. For all that the Osraed have given their cailin permission to Weave, well, you can’t put aside six hundred and some years of ‘we know what’s right and we know what’s wrong’ with the flick of a tongue—even a holy one.”
That much was true, Taminy knew. Terris-mac-Webber still wouldn’t speak to her when she entered the shop, but his Grandmother would, and bluntly too.
“You know what’s gnawing at ’im?” she asked, when Taminy’s appearance to purchase some thread sent Terris scuttling for the back room. “It’s the stories they’re telling of you.”
“Who? Who’s telling stories?”
“Oh, all the young cailin. Terris is a catch, don’t you know, and I doubt they want someone doing the catching who hasn’t lived here all her life.”
Taminy nodded and said nothing.
“They’re saying you’ve strange powers. Well, I could’ve told ’em that, couldn’t I?” Her thin lips cracked into a smile. “Some has it you’re a Hillwild Renic in disguise. Legend says they’re all fey, every one of ’em. I wouldn’t know, never having met one. Their men are rare beauties, though.” The smile deepened.
“Are they saying I’m Wicke?” Taminy asked.
Marnie-o-Loom screwed her wizened face into a map with a thousand tiny canyons. “No one’s used the dread word, to my knowledge—least, not in any seriousness. Though Cluanie Backstere has it you’re half paerie.” She tilted an eyebrow at Taminy. “But what is a Wicke if girls be going to the Fortress?”
She had turned to leave when the old woman spoke again. “I owe you thanks, cailin. For the medicaments. My hands” —she held them up, fingers straight— “My hands thank you.”
When Taminy smiled at her, she sobered. “Be careful, cailin. When the old meaning of Wicke fails us, we’ll be quick and sure to come up with a new one.”
But she could not be careful. She could only be what she was bidden to be.
By the end of the week, she was becoming accustomed to the ambivalent behavior of her neighbors. Besides which, in the furor over Wyth’s call for female Prentices, a young woman who dabbled in the Art and taught undisciplined children how to make themselves useful was often eclipsed by debate over that mystery. Already, the Hillwild had produced a handful of candidates, and Nairnian parents fretted over what effect those half-wild females would have on their boys.
Taminy found she was still welcome at Cirke-manse, though the Mistress there was disinclined to inhabit the same room. She and Iseabal wove closer bonds along with their inyx, while Osraed Saxan looked on, alternately pleased and fretful. She hadn’t seen Aine or Doireann face to face since that day at the pool, so it was a great surprise when the two of them followed her into the Apothecary’s one afternoon to inquire if she’d be going out to the pool that Cirke-dag as had become her custom.
She looked at Doireann, who had asked the question in a sweet voice, and reached out questing tendrils of sense, guiltily seeking cleverness or dissimulation. All she felt from the other girl was a shimmer of anticipation. Glancing at Aine, she met a glowering mental roadblock.
She nodded slowly, not quite sure what to make of the question. “Most likely, I’ll go,” she said.
“Well, Aine and I,” —here Doireann glanced at the other girl for support— “Aine and I would very much like to come along. After all, we may all be at Halig-liath soon and we’ve got to start somewhere.” She smiled. “And some of our friends are going. It would be a raw shame to miss out on all the fun and let them get ahead of us.”
“You’re certainly welcome to come. But, Aine,” —she tilted her eyes at the red-head— “I thought you’d no desire to go to Halig-liath.”
Aine’s jaw set. “A person can change her mind.” She toyed with the laces of her vest. “What do you think you’ll be doing? I mean, what are you teaching?”
“Oh, yes!” breathed Doireann. “Do tell us! Shall we learn to cast inyx?”
Taminy recoiled slightly from the sheer intensity of their energies. She offered a shy smile. “I thought we’d try some simple Wardweaves. They’re not difficult and they teach discipline. Besides, they often come in good use for protection.”
Aine nodded, lifting her chin. “Fine, then. We’ll see you Cirke-dag. Come on, now, Doiry.”
Doireann pouted. “I wanted to hear more about Wardweaves.”
“You’ll hear more than enough on Cirke-dag, I imagine. Now, come on.” She grasped the smaller girl’s arm and pulled her from the shop.
Taminy glanced across the Apothecary counter at the shop-mistress and her son. They gazed back, brows in matching furrows.
Mistress Lusach shook her head. “Odd pair, that. Like sunrise and shadow.”
Taminy had to agree. They were an odd pair and an ambivalent one.
oOo
The birds were strangely silent this morning. Osraed Ealad-hach construed that as a sign. Outside his chamber window, the air hung still and damp with sun-hazed river rheum. He had spent the night in his aislinn chamber in meditation and prayer. No visions had come, save one of a piercing white light that had all but blinded him. Still, he knew what he must do.
Before him on the table he had the things he needed: a mirror and a crystal. The mirror was for the Weave he would perform to record the Wicke’s doings by the pool. The crystal was protection. It had belonged to the Osraed Lin-a-Ruminea—one hundred years ago, the courageous advisor of Cyne Thearl, who had been on the Throne during the last Cusp. There was a rightness to that that brought comfort to him. Of comfort, too, was the thought that he had, among the youth of Nairne, spies and allies. He had lost Wyth Arundel, but there was still Brys-a-Lach, a young man who fulfilled where Wyth had disappointed. And when next Solstice came, he had no doubt Brys’s Pilgrimage would end in his acceptance by the Meri.
Ealad-hach breakfasted in the Refectory at Halig-liath, his appetite better than it had been for months, then he took a carriage down into Nairne to the Cirke. He rarely attended worship at Nairne Cirke, preferring, instead, the less crowded, more intimate atmosphere of the small sanctum at Halig-liath. So it was that his presence caused a stir among the worshippers. It was unavoidable that the object of his presence should see him and send him an unreadable glance from those great green eyes.
He shivered at the sudden familiarity of that look, of those eyes. He met them and felt a pang of pure sadness engulf him. He blinked and it vanished and the girl looked aside.
He sat along the wall of the Sanctuary where he could see her face in profile. Brys-a-Lach sat beside him. Taminy did not look at them from her place facing the altar. In the company of Bevol, Gwynet and the boy Skeet, with Iseabal-a-Nairnecirke tight at her side, she was well-guarded. That was all very well. She could flank herself with demons if she would—it would not stop him from pursuing his duty.
Osraed Saxan had selected Scriptural passages that spoke of callings and duties. This, he said, in light of th
e recent mandate from the Meri (here, a nod to Osraed Wyth, seated in the midst of the worshippers) to bring girls to Halig-liath. He had selected several Prentices to read or recite from the Holy Books, but a mild furor arose when the final reader stood, for Saxan had given to his daughter, Iseabal, the task of reading a dissertation on Occupation revealed by the Meri through the Osraed Gartain.
Iseabal, black hair curried to the gleam of hard coal, waited out the murmurs that her journey to the altar caused and, when the congregation had quieted, she read in a clear, unwavering voice: “That one who puts forth his best effort in the line of duty, then gives his work to the Spirit of All, attains perfection in service. This service is the great sacrifice of life which each soul must offer to the Source of Life. It is better by far for one to perform his duty in the world, no matter how lowly or faulty, than to perform the duty of another. That one who does the work indicated by his own nature errs not, but follows the guidance of the Spirit. Natural inclination toward a calling when yoked to the ability for its performance is worthy to be performed and, indeed, becomes duty. Let all remember that ...” Iseabal blinked and cleared her throat, glancing across at Taminy. “That every calling, every duty, every life, has its pain and its joy, its hindrances and its helps, its sorrow and its triumphs.”
Iseabal returned to her seat and her father assumed, again, his position at the altar stone. “Osraed Wyth ...” He picked the younger man out of the rows of upturned faces. “If you would be so kind as to share with us a bit of the Meri’s wisdom from your own Pilgrimage, we would be grateful. I fear my secondhand comments could hardly be adequate.”
Wyth rose, tentatively, it seemed, and Ealad-hach’s spirit roiled. He wanted to cry out, “Blasphemy!” He wanted to shake the Sanctuary with the thunder of reason—shake it until he’d toppled every stone and awakened them all to what was being played out in Nairne. But a calmer voice prevailed. Soon, it said, soon they would see. There were still Wicke in the world and they had now been given permission to masquerade as something else. He glanced down his row and caught the Osraed Faer-wald’s eye. He was not alone.
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