“I believe I said no man could know what the Cyne claimed to know.”
“Oh, aye. Which, in my brother’s frail brain means that since the Cyne claimed to know it, he’s no mere man.”
“You don’t agree.”
Buach made a rude noise. “If the Cyne’s divine, I’m the Gwenwyvar. I say with my Gran’da. You busted him.”
While Buach’s new admiration was preferable to his sullen disinterest, his words did little to reassure Leal. He didn’t know which extreme was worse—to have it thought he’d humiliated the Cyne, or to have it thought he’d accorded him divinity. He prayed those were just extremes and turned to the reading of his letters.
The letters were full of the chatter of Nairne, telling him what his family thought he’d want to know about the furor Osraed Wyth’s announcement had caused, about the Cirkemaster’s daughter having the Gift and being a candidate for Prenticeship, about how the Hillwild Ren, Catahn, had come up with an entire classroom full of candidates, which included his own daughter, the Renic Desary.
It was the longest letter, the one from Orna, that brought him the most disturbing tale. Osraed Bevol’s choice of wards had once again plunged Halig-liath into controversy. Orna described in detail the gossip resulting from Ealad-hach’s attempted test of Taminy-a-Gled, adding her own opinion that the old man must be daft to suspect such a brave and obviously gifted cailin of being Wicke. He was not to tell Ma or Da, she confided, but she had sought Taminy’s company herself and heard and seen some truly wonderful things. She enumerated.
Leal must have groaned or gasped for he felt Buach’s eyes suddenly on him.
“Trouble at home, Osraed?”
“Oh ... you could say. One of the Osraed has accused a local girl of being Wicke.”
“Oh, aye!” The Aelder’s sallow face lit with enthusiasm. “That’s the news come in on the galleys, too. All over the waterfront, that. It’s true then, it’s in one of your letters?”
Leal nodded and Buach grinned. “There was an official packet for the Abbod, too, and one for the Cyne. The boatman thought they must be about the acceptance of girls at Halig-liath. Did your letters mention that, too?”
“The Ren Catahn’s daughter is a candidate, according to my father.”
“God-the-Spirit, a Hillwild Renic at the Academy! These are interesting times ...” He glanced coyly into Leal’s face. “So what do you think, Osraed ... of girls at the Holy Fortress?”
“I think it’s a great thing.” He thought of Meredydd, then. Meredydd, who had wanted, above all else, to be Osraed; who had wanted, failing that, to come heal the wounds of Creiddylad’s poor. He supposed, in some way, he was here in her stead.
“A great thing,” he repeated and cleared his plate from the table.
oOo
Cyne Colfre sat in his favorite place, breeze rippling his dark hair and teasing the corners of the paper spread before him on the stone table. His eyes caressed the inked lines of the sketches lovingly; they were his, he had put them there himself with an architect’s delicate skill. The design was his own and he fancied it carried such distinction that, generations hence, architects and students of art would look at it and say, “Ah, now that was Colfrian. Classic Golden Cusp. A fine work.” They would see the power and grace in those lines and marvel that such a thing, such an aerie, could stand ...When it ought to soar. He smiled, not looking up even when he heard the footfall on the pavilion’s stone walkway. He knew the stride.
“So,” he said, without glancing up, “how is our Abbod today?”
“Our Abbod is in quite a state.” Daimhin Feich gave a cursory bow and seated himself on one of the stone benches.
“Our Abbod is always in a state, what with one thing and another. What’s the excuse of the day?”
“You won’t like it.”
The Cyne glanced up from his drawings. “The boy again?”
“‘The boy’ has sent a letter to the Apex at Halig-liath. An urgent letter.”
Colfre’s expression was wary. “Not a progress report, I gather.”
“The Abbod thinks not. It was sent out with a special seal rune—something even the Abbod was loathe to tinker with. The letter was directed to the eyes of the Apex Osraed only.”
“I thought the Abbod spoke to the boy.”
“He did, but I gathered from his report that the conversation was far from satisfactory.”
“He said he rattled him.”
“He said what he thought you wanted to hear. He also said the boy seemed ambivalent. On further prodding, I got him to admit that our littlest Osraed has gotten Fhada inflamed again. According to Ladhar, he was openly hostile during that last visit.”
“Damned Osraed pups! Every time we’re sent a new one we must go through the same nonsense. Every one of them comes to Creiddylad full of ideas and voices and impertinences. Every one of them wants to dabble in government.”
“Well, the Cyne has traditionally had an Osraed as close advisor. Malcuim well-established it, and every Cyne since has upheld the practice ... because the Meri desires Her emissaries and institutions to have a voice in governing Caraid-land. You’ve been somewhat remiss in that area ... at least, where Halig-liath is concerned.”
“Damn Halig-liath. I need no advisor. And I will not beg permission for every move from some ... bedazzled schoolboy.”
Feich seemed amused. “May I remind you that this bedazzled schoolboy has the Meri’s Kiss planted indelibly on his brow?”
Colfre shook a finger at him. “Not indelibly, Daimhin. Not at all indelibly. When I was a boy, Osraed Ladhar’s Kiss was as bright as the moon. The years have dimmed it. They will dim this Osraed Lealbhallain’s as well.”
“May be, but he could raise a lot of dust in those years, my lord.”
“Ungrateful wretch. I’m feeding his orphans—can he begrudge me the right to determine what ceremonies are played out in my own Cirke?”
“Ah, now that seems to be the point of contention, sire. The orphans are more particularly yours, while the Cirke, for all it was built by your ancestor, is still God’s. Osraed Lealbhallain thinks you’ve got it backwards.”
“And what would he do if I cut Care House off again? I’m sure I could find some excuse to leave them to their own devices.”
Feich shook his head. “A bad idea, sire. Passion is not something we want to arouse in our Osraed.”
Colfre stood abruptly. “I’m sick of dealing with them, Daimhin. Sick of cat-footing around them, avoiding them, placating them, trying to ease them out of government ...”
“Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re trying to ease them out of their covenanted and traditional role in the Court of the Caraidin Cynes. I don’t doubt they drag their feet. The Chiefs, Eiric and Ministers of your General Assembly haven’t been terribly pleased with the scarcity of meetings, either.”
“They’re represented on the Privy Council—they can be mollified.”
Feich brushed some lint from his leggings. “Some of them can. I’m not too certain about the Claeg.”
“Hang the Claeg. Heh! That would’ve been done centuries ago, but for the Osraed’s merciful intervention. The Claeg are passive now, at any rate. Surely you can’t expect any trouble from them? They’ve got a man on the Privy, anyway.”
“Who only attends to nag about how often the Assembly is not meeting. Besides, the Osraed have men on the Privy, as you so colorfully put it. Osraed Ladhar, for one.”
“You think they’ll be satisfied with that? No. But they will have to be. This Cusp is a sign, Daimhin. A sign that their power is waning and the power of the Cyne is waxing. I will be rid of them. Those damn burn-brows will not tell me what my Privy Council may or may not adjudicate on, or dare to assign top Cleirachs to some verminous tribe of Hillwild. Let them sit in their fortress and mutter inyx and gaze at the stars. Let me rule Caraid-land as I was destined to.”
“What will you do? You will no doubt be embroiled with the Osraed Body shortly.”
“The Cusp, Daimhin, will do it for me. I know what this Cusp means—better than they do, I sometimes think. They’ll be at their weakest now, chasing Wicke, seeing signs and portents in everything. An opportunity will present itself, Daimhin. My opportunity. And when it comes, I shall take it.”
CHAPTER 12
Men shall be hindered from loving Me and spirits shall be shaken when they utter My Name, for minds cannot comprehend Me, nor hearts hold Me.
— The Corah
Book I, Verse 50
The gossip had not stopped, though now it took on a different tone—a variety of tones, in fact, as the citizens of Nairne struggled to make sense of the reported results of Ealad-hach’s test of Taminy-a-Gled. There was not a soul who didn’t know about it, who hadn’t compared their version of the tell with their neighbor’s, swapping details until no one could recall what they had from whom.
Several embellished versions were carried quayside and given into the keeping of the galley crews. They could take their pick of the litter and did, carrying, each his favorite version—or a combination of versions—down river to Tuine and Creiddylad.
Taminy heard the various embellishments with chagrin and wry bemusement; the unadorned truth seemed startling enough without bringing in Eibhilin voices and lightnings and thunders. Most bemusing of all was the windfall effect of Ealad-hach’s attentions. Taminy was suddenly the cynosure of Nairne’s youth, especially her young females, while mothers who had previously suspected her now seemed to think her a fine and fit tutor for their girls.
She mused on that now, feeling the slant rays of late summer’s afternoon sun on her skin, hearing the chatter of her companions and the passage of their bodies through the wild wheat that grew between Nairne and the Bebhinn Wood. In the eyes of that village, Ealad-hach’s attempt to condemn her had, instead, removed the shadow of suspicion. Whatever the differences in the accounts of the Cirke-dag incident, there was one overwhelming agreement: Taminy had woven with Lin-a-Ruminea’s crystal, seated on the Cirke altar stone. And she had done it before credible witnesses. If that did not prove her to be other than a Wicke, nothing could.
Acceptance was not universal. Iseabal’s mother still was cool toward her and Terris wouldn’t look her in the eye. But today, incredibly, her entourage included Doireann Spenser and Phelan Backstere. There were other new faces, as well; Wyvis and Rennie had brought friends and Orna-mac-Mercer now found the woodland more interesting than the business that would someday be hers.
As to the parents, if they knew where their young spent some long afternoons, they expressed no great distress. All knew that if Taminy’s methods were unorthodox, her teaching must be straight from the Books—Osraed Bevol said so, and that was nowadays acceptable.
“My little brother is Osraed,” Orna had said. “My da said he’d not be surprised if we shared a talent. And, well, if I’ve got a midge of the Gift, I’d like to know.”
She had a midge of the Gift, as it happened. It hadn’t had the refinement of her brother’s, nor native strength of Iseabal’s, but then she’d never been encouraged to develop it. She would be good at the Heal Tell, Taminy thought, and might show a talent for natural divination. The farmers hereabouts wouldn’t fault that.
Phelan, now ... well, what he had was an eyeful of curiosity. If Taminy-a-Gled was not Wicke, then what was she? He devoured everything she did and said, partly, she realized, because he was spying for Ealad-hach.
Doireann, too, was a kettle bubbling with anticipation—and something else. Something quick and nervous Taminy could not quite put a name to.
She could see the Cirke spire now, just peeking above the top of the next grassy hill. The mellow sun washed the high cupola with rose-gold, staining the blue slate roof purple. In a matter of minutes, the Divine Artist would dip His brush again and mute the vivid hues even further.
“I think the light of your Weave must have shot right up through the tower.”
Taminy glanced away from the Cirke to meet Doireann’s shy smile. “Oh, I doubt that.”
The other girl fell into step with her as they drew toward the crest of the long, low rise, her hands clasped behind her back, her eyes bright and cheeks rosy from the uphill walk. “Whatever was Osraed Ealad-hach thinking to confront you in the Cirke? Could he really have thought you a Wicke?”
“Quite a few people thought me a Wicke, Doiry.”
“Aye. Like Aine.” Doireann swished her skirts back and forth. “I still can’t believe she brought that horrible runebag in to the Sanctuary ...Did you know she had it?”
Taminy laughed. “I knew somebody had something! That smell was enough to curl up my hair.”
“Or straighten mine,” Doireann agreed, grimacing. “But did you know Ealad-hach meant to test you?”
Taminy recalled a dream—the fiery collision of wills, heart-stopping and unavoidable. “I knew something was coming. Some confrontation. I thought it would be Ealad-hach simply because he seems to hate me so.”
“Oh, you terrify him! I mean, I think you do. And that snouty Brys-a-Lach and” —she smiled— “that silly Terris. But I’m not afraid.”
Taminy studied the shining face. Not quite true, she thought but said, “I’m glad of that.”
“Tell me, Taminy ...” Doireann hovered closer to her side. “ ... can you read a body’s mind?”
The thought pulled a shroud over Taminy’s head. Fog. Or woolen wadding. That’s what I live in, here.
Once all minds, all hearts, all souls had been open to her gaze and she would read them and rejoice or lament—mostly lament. Hearts held lamentable things in these days when Her Kiss faded from a man’s brow like a bad dye, or tarnished like silver in sea air. Days when men turned their minds to how the Divine might profit them and the Cyne stretched his standard out over the Cirke. It should be a relief not to know the thoughts behind the words and the smiles and the psalms of praise—not to fully sense the machinations behind the manner.
It was not a relief.
Can I read minds? About as well as I can read a book through a wad of fleece. She opened her mouth to say it when there was a shout up ahead at the top of the hill. Iseabal stood there, and Rennie and Wyvis, pointing down the opposite slope. She could hear the dull thunder of a horse at full gallop before she crested the hill. She waited there, at the top, till the flame-haired rider met them, pulling her mount to a hurried stop.
“Hello, Aine,” Taminy said and offered a smile.
Aine glanced about at the group of curious faces and reddened. Her eyes fastened on Taminy. “I’d speak with you,” she said. “Alone.”
Taminy looked up at her, reading, sensing ... or trying to. Confusion, she got. Anger. Fear, yes, that too. “Of course, Aine,” she answered, and looked to the others. “Why don’t you all go ahead home? We’ll come along after.”
There was hesitation. “Are you sure, Taminy?” Phelan asked, while Doireann fixed Aine with a dour stare and the others scuffled in the wheat.
“Aine hasn’t been your friend,” observed Iseabal. “Shall I stay?”
“No, it’s all right. It is.”
“Aye, well,” muttered Phelan, “she might have another of those runebags about her.”
Aine’s face flamed, a near match for her hair and the sunset. She dismounted, turning her face away as the others drew off, sending back suspicious, darting looks. She was alone with Taminy then, eyes cast down, fingers toying with her reins, flapping them against the leg of her riding breeches. Taminy waited for the welter of hot emotions to settle; they teased through her woolly wadding veil like the scent of spices through the steam of cooking.
Aine raised her eyes. “I wanted you to know ...” She struggled. “That runebag. It wasn’t me. I didn’t bring it into the Cirke. I didn’t put it in my pocket. I’d never touch such a hideous thing, let alone make it.” The reins slapped her boot-top. “Besides, if I’d cured it, it would’ve been done right ...I’m telling the truth.”
Was she?
Taminy sifted again through the rush of emotion the other girl had released into the words—face-singeing indignity, gut-curling fear, humiliation and anger, anger, anger. Was it directed at her? If so, why this painful apology?
“If not you,” she said, “then who? Who’d put such a horrid thing in your pocket? And why?”
Aine’s face knotted in anguished frustration. “I don’t know! It could’ve been any of them—Scandy or Phelan or Terris. They were all in arm’s reach.”
“Not Terris,” Taminy said, half-smiling. “He’d die before he’d touch anything that smelled of Wickery. Although ... I’d have thought, so would you.”
“I would. I didn’t make the runebag. I can’t say I like the thought of my friends getting themselves sucked into these mystical doings of yours, but I’d never do something so foolish and-and sneaky. It’s not my way. I hate sneaks.”
“What about Terris?” Taminy asked, recalling, vividly, Aine’s over-hearing his protestations of nascent affection. “Would you do it for him?”
The other girl shook her head emphatically, sending fragments of sunset tumbling about her shoulders. “I’m not all that sweet on Terris and I’m not that daft and I don’t know how to put together such a noxious mess.”
But someone did. “Who threw the runebag at the pool that day?”
“Well, Doiry did, but-” Aine’s face paled. “No, it couldn’t be Doiry. I mean, she’s such a mouse and all and ...Oh, no, Taminy, she’d’ve had to kill the mole and the snake and-” —she shuddered— “-it’s too grotesque. There’s a big difference between that little flower sachet she took to the pool and that horrid ... fetish.”
“Who then?”
“Phelan?”
Phelan. That made sense, Taminy had to allow. She knew he was Ealad-hach’s ally—or at least Brys-a-Lach’s, which amounted to the same thing. He was an Aelder Prentice only by the skin of his teeth, and would most likely end up being Backstere after his father, but he had the training and access to the lore.
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