It was a striking face, and one he knew, for he had dreamed it, just as he had dreamed Taminy’s. It was the face of a nightmare, the face of another Wicke from another time. He struggled for a name; it eluded him, lost in the rolls of a history that was nearly two centuries old.
No. He gathered himself, closed his eyes, licked his lips. It wasn’t possible. No more than Taminy-a-Cuinn possible.
Hand shaking, he pulled back the curtain a second time and peered across the room. He relaxed. No, of course it wasn’t the same girl. This was no cailin; this was a mature woman—not aged, but much older than the Wicke of his dream. The skin was sun-browned and wrinkling, the hair iron gray, not black. Still, the eyes were that fierce, the smile that unreadable.
A hand clamped on his shoulder, making him jump and choke.
Osraed Eadmund blinked at him apologetically. “I’m sorry, Osraed, but Calach is here; we can begin.”
Ealad-hach nodded, patting his portfolio, adjusting his prayer chain, and cursing whatever foul demon had tricked his eyes into seeing some long-dead Wicke girl.
oOo
Walking to the little wooden stand she would inhabit during the inquiry, Taminy had felt the hush in the chamber as a physical presence. She knew the feeling well. On more than one occasion her appearance in a room had caused all conversations to cease, breaths to be drawn, eyes to be narrowed balefully, suspiciously, speculatively. When the hair on her neck rose and her spine tingled and her knees threatened treason, she remembered that not all of those eyes were hostile.
Seated now, alone in her box, with Wyth and Bevol at floor-level below her, she dared to glance down the room into the public gallery. She saw Iseabal and Aine and, above them in the second tier, Catahn and Desary Hillwild. She could close her eyes and still see the Hillwild there, see them with a sense clearer and sharper than sight. Aidan, the Hillwild called it—”little fire”—and it made flames of both the Ren and his daughter. But, above them, in the third tier, was a Sun.
She was older, her hair shot through with gray, but Taminy knew her, would have known her if two hundred years had passed since their last meeting instead of a century. They exchanged a long look and Taminy recalled another Exchange—a seaside Exchange of flesh for Eibhilin glory.
She was still lost in that gaze when Osraed Calach began to read the charges. There were three: promoting Wicke Craft, perversion of the Divine Art, and heresy. The charge that she had willfully harmed Aine-mac-Lorimer had fallen by the wayside.
Witnesses came forward then, to point fingers and make claims. People she barely knew swore they had seen her walking upon the air or conversing with strange animals in the wood. Some she did know claimed she was misleading their children, teaching them strange home magics and stranger philosophies, suggesting that the Meri might visit other shores or the Gwenwyvar appear in the pools of the Gyldan-baenn as the Gwyr.
Taminy listened attentively to all, trying not to react to the shrill accusations, trying not to cry out against the lies or beg to correct the half-truths. Presumably, she would have a turn, a time when Bevol and Wyth would produce those who would speak kindly of her.
Ealad-hach, oddly, did not pursue the stories his witnesses told. He merely let them pass, one after the other, until their tales were exhausted. It was then that he called down Osraed Saxan and bid him describe Aine-mac-Lorimer’s accident and Taminy’s subsequent appearance and performance of the Infusion Weave. Just that, nothing more; he asked no questions. And so, Osraed Torridon followed the Cirkemaster to the witness box amid speculative murmurs.
“Osraed,” Ealad-hach said, his voice smooth as the velvet of his chamber robes, “does our brother Saxan do this episode justice?”
Torridon nodded, lank, just-greying locks brushing his shoulders. “Yes. It happened, incredibly, just as he said.”
“The girl, Taminy, re-animated Aine-mac-Lorimer with an Infusion Weave you had neither heard nor seen before.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me, Osraed, why did you not perform such an Infusion on the girl?”
Torridon blushed. “I ... couldn’t do it.”
“You couldn’t do it?”
“No. The damage to the girl’s neck and throat was severe—the Heal Tell revealed that. I tried a Healweave. It simply didn’t work.”
“Yet this girl not only repaired the damage you say was so severe, she restored life to the body?”
“Yes.”
“She did something, then, that was beyond your Gift as an Osraed.”
“Again, yes.”
“And what sort of being could accomplish that?”
Torridon wriggled in his robes, glancing aslant at Taminy. “I couldn’t say ...We are told the Gwenwyvar has such powers.”
“The Gwenwyvar?” Ealad-hach had clearly not expected such a reply, but recovered himself immediately. “The Gwenwyvar, brother, is seen only on Pilgrimage by especially perceptive Prentices. Are you suggesting that she has abandoned her woodland environs and put on flesh?”
Torridon blanched. “I said, I don’t know what sort of being she is. I know only that she possesses a Gift I do not.”
“Thank you, Osraed Torridon, for you bring up a most critical point. I will now inform you, and the Body, what this cailin claims, for it is more strange, more outrageous, than even you suggest.”
“I do not suggest-” Torridon began, but Ealad-hach, rising from his place at the Council table, waved him a dismissal. The old Traditionalist came to stand before Taminy, putting her even more on display, while she, feeling a strange awakening at the core, ever aware of the tingling web of support that touched her from a handful of souls, watched in silence.
“This girl you see before you, esteemed Osraed, claims to be none other than ...” He paused, rubbing his fingers together as if he held her soul between them. “Well ...” —he looked from one of the twin Osraed galleries to the other— “let us hear it from her own lips.” He turned on her, eyes hawk keen. “Who are you, girl? What is your name?”
“Taminy, sir.”
“Just Taminy? Oh, surely not. What is your family name, cailin?”
“Cuinn.”
“Ah, and your father’s name was-?”
“Coluim-a-Cuinn.” She had to admire the way he dragged it out, the way he prolonged the moment so that the realization would gather like a storm surge. Already she could see the slow dawn of recognition in the eyes of those Osraed who knew Nairne’s history well; Osraed Saxan’s face was near pale as the whites of his eyes.
“And what was his profession?”
“He was Osraed.”
“And?” He cycled one hand as if to hurry her along.
“And Cirkemaster-”
“Of?”
“Of Nairnecirke, sir. He was Cirkemaster of Nairne.”
Confusion tumbled through the room. Saxan was Cirkemaster of Nairne, and before him had been Osraed Bonar. What was this strange child intimating?
“And in what year did he last hold that position?”
How you relish this, she thought. How you enjoy this moment of revelation. “He retired to Ochanshrine ...” —she swept the galleries with her eyes and found she relished the moment almost as much as Ealad-hach did— “ ... in the Year of Pilgrimage four hundred ninety.”
The tide of amazement in the room crested on a unified gasp. Taminy could scent the various forms of incredulity that rode that crest. Ealad-hach rode it, too, throwing out his next words while the surge of astonishment was at its peak.
“Then, are you that Taminy-a-Cuinn, daughter of Osraed Coluim-a-Cuinn, who took an unlawful Pilgrimage to the Sea in that same year?”
“Yes, I am.” She thrilled to say those words before all these witnesses. They were vindication and challenge.
“But it was supposed,” continued Ealad-hach over the swell of noise in the room, “that Taminy-a-Cuinn drowned one hundred fifteen years ago. You don’t appear to have drowned.”
“I didn’t drown, Osraed.”
<
br /> “Then what did happen to you?”
“The Meri did not want me as a Teacher of Her Lord’s word. She wanted me as a vessel for Her own spirit. I entered the Sea and was transformed, absorbed, infused. The Emerald Meri was manifest in me.”
A hurricane might have been gentler than the storm those words loosed. Taminy rode out the human gale in silence, feeling momentarily small and alien. But within the small, the alien, lay a tiny seed of Eibhilin light, burning surely. The hurricane would not touch that.
When order was restored, Osraed Parthelan spoke out in evident disgust. “This inquiry is absurd. Could not the Council see what is perfectly obvious? This child is mad.”
Ealad-hach smiled at his brother Osraed. It was a smile that Taminy had come to mistrust. “That simple, is it? The child is mad? Explain to me, Osraed Parthelan, how madness gives one power to restore the dead to life.”
Parthelan blanched, glanced at Taminy and reseated himself anonymously amidst the Body.
“Well, Osraed?” asked Ealad-hach, parading between the galleries. “What say you?”
Saxan rose, now, his face pallid. “You are asking us to condemn this child as a Wicke?”
“Child?” repeated Ealad-hach. “By her own testimony, she is something in the order of one hundred thirty-two years old. That same testimony condemns her as something considerably more potent and evil than a mere Wicke.”
“No!” Saxan protested. “I have never known her to do evil. Nor can I believe evil of her. She is strong in the Art—Gifted. She’s counseled my daughter in the use of her own Gift, and counseled her wisely. I’ve never heard her utter a word that was counter to Scripture.”
“What?” That was Parthelan again. “What of the words we’ve heard her utter at this inquiry? She claims identification with the Meri, Herself. She claims divinity!”
A roar went up from every corner of the room. It was beyond Taminy not to flinch. Wyth rose from his floor-level seat and edged toward her. She allowed herself a brief smile for that unnecessary and futile bit of protectiveness. Whatever dire thing might befall her would not happen in this room, before all these eyes.
“Proof!” shouted Parthelan. “Let her prove herself!”
“Proof! Proof!” The cry was picked up, one throat at a time, until the chamber rocked with it. “Proof! Proof!”
The Council pounded for order and Ealad-hach turned to Taminy with a self-congratulatory smile. Her witnesses were now useless. There would be no pretense of attack and defense. Her position was indefensible.
“You hear them, cailin. They demand proof. Proof that you are divine and not the embodiment of evil.”
The Moment.
Taminy came to her feet and gazed about the hall, affording each Osraed face a glance. She could see now, into each mind, could plumb each heart—this one fretted after what the girls in his parish would do once wind of this reached them; that one wondered why this must happen now, when things seemed so secure; another secretly blamed the Cusp and the Cyne and his rumored excess; others’ thoughts turned to banishment or, trembling, to something much more final.
Yet, a handful of hearts held neither punishment nor blame, but a willingness, however slight, to consider the possibility that she might be telling the truth. She could count them on the fingers of her hands.
“Have I claimed divinity?” she asked.
“Can you say you have not claimed it?” asked Osraed Faer-wald from his place amid the Council. “You claimed to be the Meri. If that is not a claim of divinity-”
“I said, the Emerald Meri was manifest in me. I was the vessel of that Manifestation, but not in this human form. She transformed me and, transformed, I became the channel by which She could communicate with all men. When my time ran its course, She released me and took another in my stead. Osraed Bevol brought me home.”
“To what purpose?”
“To a purpose I may not reveal, because I cannot.”
“You cannot?”
She smiled. “I am not granted all vision, Osraed.”
“Do not try to win me with that imp smile, Wicke. Do you say you are not divine?”
No,” she said, “I’m not saying that, either. I am ... Osmaer—Divinely Glorious. That is my station.”
“But the Osmaer,” objected Parthelan, “is our most holy relic. It was given to Ochan by the Meri, Herself, as a talisman—as a symbol of her purity and power.”
She looked directly at him, feeling him wither beneath her gaze. “Yes.”
Another ripple of outrage and astonishment circled the room and Parthelan sucked in a noisy breath. “Proof,” he said.
“Aye, proof!” said his left-hand neighbor.
“A miracle, Taminy!” shouted someone from the public boxes. “Give them a miracle!”
The cry repeated itself until Calach brought it to a ragged halt. Feet shuffled, seats creaked, lips whispered the words they had been shouting: “Miracle—give us a miracle.”
“Yes,” said Osraed Tynedale, “let us see the dark Weaving this girl is accused of performing.” He turned his eyes to Calach, who nodded. Tynedale raised his hand above his head. “Vote.”
The vote was not unanimous, but enough of the Body raised their hands to carry Tynedale’s demand. Wordlessly, Ealad-hach opened his belt pouch and dug about in it. A moment later, he produced a small, dried out flower head. He held it up to the light radiating from window and lightglobe.
“I have had this rose bud in my medicinal pouch for over a year. It is desiccated.” He handed it into Taminy’s palm. “Make it produce a bloom.”
She looked at the bud. It was, indeed, desiccated—dry and lifeless. “Aine-mac-Lorimer’s body was this lifeless, or nearly so, when I began my Infusion Weave. Do you imagine reviving this flower could prove more difficult?”
Heads nodded and a hum of agreement filled the room.
Ealad-hach’s lips drew back in a snarl. “You are afraid to accept this challenge, cailin?”
Taminy’s sigh was spirit deep. “No, Osraed. I am not afraid.”
She held the wrinkled thing out on the flat of her hand—low, so everyone in the room might see. There was a great shuffling and creaking as necks craned and bodies shifted forward in chairs. Before the eyes of all, a faint glow embraced the bud and, wrapped in that glow, it went from mucky brown to vivid green. Without water or soil, the thing grew and put forth a stem and leaves. It branched to produce a second bud, and the first bud, finally fat and full, gave birth to a flower of delicate white with deep gold in the velvet folds of its petals.
The room gave up a long, slow sigh, drawn from hundreds of throats; the scent of that rose was as delicate and beautiful as the rose itself.
Ealad-hach’s throat was silent and his face as pale as Taminy’s bloom. She held it out to him. “Shall I cause the second bud to blossom, as well?”
He struck the rose from her hand. “Fraud!” he called her. “Wicke!”
“Am I both?”
The old Osraed threw himself at her, hands grasping the rail of her box and shaking it. “Yes, damn you, both! You prove nothing by this display!”
Wyth was there in an instant, defending her. “You demanded it of her, Osraed Ealad-hach! You gave her the test, you can hardly blame her for completing it. If she had refused, you would have called her a fraud for that!”
Ealad-hach shrugged away from the younger man, striding between the galleries toward the public tiers. “This is a mere parlor trick! No Weaving is at work here, only cheap sleight of hand.”
Wyth bent to pick up the flower where it had fallen to the stone floor. Holding it aloft, he followed Ealad-hach into the center of the chamber. “Look! Is this a fraud? This rose is real! And it came from the dry, dead bud Osraed Ealad-hach placed in Taminy’s hand!” He held the flower out to Osraed Saxan. “Is this not a real flower? Is this not, as Ealad-hach said, a rose?”
Saxan took the thing into his cupped hands and beheld it, his face paling. “Yes,” he said, loudly
so as to be heard above the babble of sound. “It is quite real. More than that, it drips with Eibhilin energies—see, it still glows from her touch. There is no fraud here.” He turned to Ealad-hach. “Give up this charade, Osraed, and let us concern ourselves with this girl’s claim ... which you now struggle not to address.”
Osraed Parthelan reached over and snatched the flower from Saxan’s hands. He dropped it just as quickly. “By God, Saxan’s right! This girl’s plainly Wicke. Meredydd-a-Lagan might have performed such a trick as that.”
“And why not?” Taminy asked, drawing all eyes back to herself. She leaned forward on the box rail, quiet in her passion, her hands outstretched and imploring. “Why not, when we are Sisters? She is as I was. A supplicant at the Shore of the Meri, she was called into the Sea of Life, embraced in the arms of glory. It was she who replaced me as the Meri’s mantle. It was she whom your Prentices this Season sought, she whom only Wyth Arundel and Leal-mac-Mercer found. She who visits you with aislinn and allows you to Weave. She is my Golden Sister. And when her time is complete, she will come forth again as another takes her place. It has been this way since the beginning. Yet, those the Meri calls to embody Her spirit, you deny even the right to seek Her presence!”
The crowd howled.
“Drown her!” someone cried.
“No, burn her!”
“No! Listen to her!” The voice that roared from the public boxes belonged to the Ren Catahn. He stood, dwarfing those around him. “Night after night I have dreamed, and my daughter, also. We have seen this lady in those dreams. She is evil’s blight. She is the fruit of this time, of this age, of this Cusp. She is Osmaer. Our aidan—our Gift—tells us this in a pure, clear voice. Don’t listen to this dried up old Osraed. Listen to Taminy-Osmaer.”
“But we must have proof!” cried Osraed Faer-wald, when Ealad-hach could only stand in mute, blushing rage.
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