As if by silent consensus, the two walked faster.
oOo
Taminy felt the approach long before the door opened, sensed the war between curiosity and courtesy and a peculiar bristling resentment. Several times resolve wavered, but at last it won out and there was a tentative knock at her chamber door. The door opened before she could respond, though, and she turned her head to see a boy standing there, regarding her with an expression that was at once eager and sullen. He was about eleven, she guessed, and had thick, dark hair and tawny eyes that appraised her boldly. Resentment smoldered in those eyes. She rose to meet it, coming to stand demurely in the center of the chamber.
“You must be Airleas,” she said.
“Riagan Airleas ...And you must be Colfre’s Wicke.”
“I’m no one’s Wicke.”
“You’re pretty,” he said, and did not mean it as a compliment.
“You’re angry. Can you tell me why? I haven’t done anything.”
He smiled—or rather smirked—his mouth curling wryly. “You don’t have to do anything. Colfre will do it all.”
“You don’t call him ‘father.’”
“Why should I? He’s less a father to me than Daimhin is.”
“I see.”
“I doubt it.” He stepped into the room. “Are you a Wicke?”
“I already told you—no.”
“You said you weren’t anyone’s Wicke. There’s a difference. So, you aren’t a Wicke. You can’t do inyx?”
His disappointment was so obvious, Taminy couldn’t repress a smile. “I didn’t say that. I can Weave.”
“But that makes you-”
“No. There’s a difference.”
“Show me.” He folded his arms across his chest, eyes narrowed.
Taminy laughed, delighted by his audacity.
The boy lifted one foot, then lowered it, unwilling to give in to a display of temper. “Why is that funny?”
Taminy sobered with an effort. “Sorry, Riagan Airleas. What would you like me to do?”
His arms unfolded into an uncertain gesture. “I don’t know. What can you do?” Then: “Make a-a catamount appear ... there.” He pointed at the carpet between them.
“A catamount? Oh, I think that would be dangerous.”
“Oh, well ... a buck deer, then.”
“On this lovely carpet?”
“You can send it away again, right after.”
“I’ve never Woven a buck deer. I don’t usually use the Art that way.”
“Then how do you use it?”
“For healing, for seeing the unseeable, for warding against ill.”
He considered that. “Can you show me what my father’s doing?”
“That could be almost as dangerous as the catamount.”
He glared at her, mouth open to retort, but she stilled him with a gesture. “Look,” she said and stepped onto the carpet, her toes just touching the outer edge of a great, round medallion pattern woven into its center. She held her hand out, palm down, and closed her eyes.
Colfre. She sought him. Found him one floor below. Her eyes opened and she began to sing, using words from a tongue more ancient than most Caraidin knew. “Chi mi ...Chi mi ...Chi mi na Colfre. Chi mi, clares, nam Malcuim Cyne.”
Beneath her palm, motes of light rose and fell as if the dust were illumined, moving in sourceless sunlight. The boy’s golden eyes seemed to reflect those motes, following their slow coils in fascination. The motes took on color, solidity, form. In three breaths, no more, they could both see the white-clad figure gamboling in a haze of light, surrounded by a riot of color—face, sweat polished, eyes gleaming.
“The murals.” Airleas stepped back from the aislinn, his fascination collapsing into feigned boredom. “You can make it go away now.”
“Airleas, what are you doing in here? Make what go away?”
The woman in the doorway was beautiful. Petite, she had hair the color of honey and eyes of liquid blue. Those eyes were now focused on the image suspended between Taminy’s palm and the carpet. “So, you are Gifted. I hadn’t believed it.”
Taminy withdrew her hand, dissolving the aislinn, and bowed her head respectfully, but the Cwen Toireasa took no notice.
“You shouldn’t be here, Airleas,” she told the boy. “Please go down to dinner now.”
“It won’t be ready, yet.”
“Please, Airleas.”
“Yes, mother.” The Riagan gave Taminy one last glance, then obeyed, slipping out past the Cwen, who continued to regard her with a cool, blue gaze. “My husband tells me you were falsely accused of being Wicke.”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Yet, you perform this ... display before my son.” She gestured at the empty air above the carpet.
“I am, as you said, Gifted. That does not make me Wicke.”
The Cwen smiled tightly. “That would disappoint my husband. He’s half Hillwild, you know. He quite fancies Wicke. More than that, I believe he sometimes fancies he is one. “She turned to go, but paused just outside the door. “It doesn’t do to disappoint Colfre Malcuim. But perhaps you already know that.”
“I don’t understand you, mistress.”
The Cwen laughed. The sound was humorless and flat. “Please, girl, don’t pretend with me. You insult both of us.”
She disappeared down the corridor, leaving Taminy to puzzle over her antipathy.
oOo
The mid-day meal was a tense experience and Colfre was glad to at last be able to lead Taminy away from the table and show her his domain. She was interested, he thought, but not as impressed as a young village girl should have been.
He showed her the Goscelin mural; she behaved as if she’d seen it before. He supposed he should have expected that. He took her to the Blue Pavilion; she said only, “It’s very beautiful.” He told her the design was his; she complimented him on his cleverness and artistry. That pleased him, but throughout their tour, he felt as if a barrier existed around her—a shroud of cool light that held her aloof. At last, he took her for a walk along the top of the inner curtain and began to speak to her of the future.
“In a week’s time,” he said, “the General Assembly will meet. Do you understand why?”
“You want them to find me innocent of heresy.”
“I want? Is that what this is about, do you think?”
“Isn’t it?” She stopped walking and leaned against the parapet, gazing down into the outer ward.
He wasn’t certain whether he should find her insolent or disturbing. “What I want is to see justice done. The Assembly will decide whether the Osraed over-stepped their bounds. If it were up to me, alone, I would proclaim your innocence from the Throne and that would be that. But I think you understand that this is something that must be decided by the Hall and the Throne together.”
“Oh, I do understand. But what of the Osraed?” She was looking at him now, green eyes opaque.
“They’re represented in the Hall ...Does that worry you? They make up only a fourth of its membership.”
“That doesn’t worry me, no.”
He didn’t miss the inflection. “But something does.” Which means you are not all-powerful. She declined to answer, so he continued, “Your claim is ...startling, to say the least. I guarantee it will shock the Assembly.”
“It doesn’t seem to shock you.”
He opened his mouth to admit it bemused him considerably, then thought better of it. “No. It doesn’t shock me. But then, we are in a Cusp. In these times, one must expect the unexpected. The Osraed were caught unprepared. They refused to see you for what you are—to their detriment. Perhaps they now realize their mistake. But recognizing their own error in judgment doesn’t mean they will accept you. Chances are, they’ll now martial their forces against you, attempt to try you again in the Hall. That is why strategy is important.”
She looked at him aslant, then began strolling the parapet again, moving toward the suspended walkway that lin
ked the inner and out walls of the castle. “Strategy,” she repeated.
“Indeed.” He fell into step beside her. “And I believe your strategy should be silence. Say nothing. Let the Osraed accuse if they will. Let my testimony and Daimhin Feich’s pass without comment, and say nothing.”
“And how will that exonerate me?”
“The Hall is a representative body, Taminy. It is expressive of popular sentiment. Especially where the Eiric and Ministers are concerned. By the time the Hall convenes, the people of Creiddylad and its environs will know you on sight and by deed. Beyond Creiddylad, you will be known by reputation. And you will need to utter no words of defense, because the members of the Hall will read your defense in the faces of their people. And their Cyne.”
They had crossed over the outer ward now, and stood on the broad walk near the gatehouse that overlooked the Cyne’s Market.
“All that,” Taminy said, “in a week.”
Colfre smiled at her. How sweet she was, how little she understood the dynamics of statesmanship. He directed her gaze over the parapet to the Market grounds below. There, people had seen them and stopped to stare and point. A small crowd began to cluster in the shadow of Mertuile.
“Look, Taminy. Already, people are drawn to gaze at you. Where you go, they will gather, because of what they’ve seen and heard. Your story has been spread far and wide, my dear. The people know of you. Soon they will come to care about you.” I have seen to it, he wanted to add, but did not, preferring his own manipulations to be at least a little obscured.
Taminy leaned out over the wall, her long hair a streaming white-gold banner in the Sea breeze, her cheeks flushed to rose by its briskness. She raised a hand and waved to the people below. They, in turn, waved back, some removing hats and fanning them overhead.
Colfre stood back and watched, pleased, thinking that she began to understand his intention. “Tomorrow,” he told her, “you will meet a rather important local Osraed. His name is Ladhar and he is the Abbod of Ochanshrine. More than that, he represents the Osraed in the Hall and on my Privy Council. He would be a formidable ally.”
Taminy turned to look at him. “He will be shocked by me, Cyne Colfre.”
He smiled, taken, again, by her beauty. “Not if you do nothing to shock him.”
oOo
Eadmund reached Ochanshrine in the early evening. For the first time in his life, he crossed that sacred threshold and did not feel refreshed. The letter he carried weighed upon him, making his steps unsteady. He wanted to be rid of it more, almost, than he wanted anything else, but there was a ritual he must keep before he handed his burden over to Abbod Ladhar.
The Shrine was nearly empty at this time of day; the Cleirachs and Osraed were at their evening meal. One lone Aelder Prentice sat in the last row of low, padded benches in the circular amphitheater, staring soulfully down at the room’s centerpiece. Eadmund smiled in a wash of empathy, turning his own eyes to the Thing around which Ochanshrine was built.
It sat upon a pedestal of fine, hard, dark wood. Gold filigree and sea shell was inlaid among cleverly carved sea motifs, suggesting an ocean treasure trove. If a paean could be sung in wood, that pedestal was it. If a benediction could be said in solid stone, the Osmaer Crystal was that benediction. Twice as large as a man’s fist, it glittered beneath an evening shower of lightglobe radiance, its perfect facets presenting their flawless planes to the glow of manmade light and returning a rainbow to the unadorned beams. Colorless, it was, clear and pure, waiting for some attuned soul to call forth its Eibhilin colors.
Eadmund approached it hopefully, full of need, full of desire. He thought he heard someone call his name, but ignored them and gave the Osmaer his all. He was trembling by the time his feet trod upon the thick, verdant carpet that underlaid the pedestal.
It had been a decade since he had seen the Meri—since She had pressed burning lips to his brow and branded him to his very soul. This relic was as close as he could come, now, to meeting Her face to Face. He relived his Pilgrimage every time he came here, relived it and savored it and wished, with all his heart, that he had been assigned to Ochanshrine instead of Halig-liath. For Osraed Eadmund, in his own soul, valued devotion above justice, contemplation above administration. He did what he did at Halig-liath, served as he did both Council and Hall, because he had to, not because he desired it. He would gladly relinquish all temporal power to Ealad-hach or Faer-wald or Kynan, who seemed to delight in it. He would gladly have given the letter he carried into some zealot’s hands or told Ealad-hach to deliver it himself. But he had been asked to carry it by an elder, by a member of the Triumvirate, by a Brother. It had become duty. Eadmund took duty seriously.
He turned to the Crystal for release, now. He supplicated the Force behind it for wisdom and steadfastness. He looked to the Stone of Ochan and the Stone answered.
A light. A very tiny light, at first, that blossomed to bathe the supplicant’s face with warmth and radiance. Eadmund’s eyes, wide, reflected that radiance in awe. He had not excited that response in the Crystal since the year of his Grand Tell. Tears started and the Crystal swam in them, warm, aglow.
“Osraed Eadmund!”
Startled, he straightened and glanced about. Across the circular Shrine, at the top of the shallow bowl formed by its terraced floors, Osraed Ladhar stood just inside the western doors, accompanied by a Cleirach of Eadmund’s acquaintance.
While Eadmund stared stupidly, still in the thrall of the Stone, Ladhar dismissed his companion and trundled down the sloping aisle. “My God, Eadmund! What are you doing? You should have come to me immediately. What in the name of all things holy is happening in Nairne? I have heard nothing but wild rumor since the Body was called. Who is this girl Colfre has brought to Creiddylad? Is she really Wicke?”
Eadmund’s eyes moved only momentarily to the Abbod’s flushed face before going back to the Osmaer. Then he gasped in dismay; the Crystal’s Eibhilin glow was fading. He puzzled, reaching out a hand as if to steady the light, but it did no good. By the time Ladhar reached him, Ochan’s fantastic Crystal was no more than a beautiful rock, lit only from without.
The Abbod dropped a meaty hand to his shoulder and shook him. “Come, Eadmund! Are you ill?”
Eadmund managed to control his tongue. “No, merely weary. I ... I have a letter for you ... from Osraed Ealad-hach.”
“Come, then—to my chambers. We can talk there.” The elder Osraed prodded him into motion, leading him to his private chambers on the first floor of the Abbis.
“Tell me about Nairne,” Ladhar said before Eadmund had even settled into a seat by the hearth. “What’s happening at Halig-liath?”
Eadmund allowed his body to slump into the chair’s padded depths. He wanted sleep suddenly, hungrily, but must be content to sit beside this fitful little fire and entertain questions he had no answers to. “What is happening at Halig-liath?” he repeated. “I can’t begin to tell you ...There is a fork in our path, Abbod. A fork caused, I assume, by this Cusp. And somehow, this girl, Taminy, is forcing us to confront it.”
“This girl ... the one the Cyne has brought to Creiddylad?”
Eadmund nodded. “And Bevol with her, since he was her sponsor and defender.” He felt the letter, again, as a guilty weight, but was loathe to produce it. “The Cyne arrived at Halig-liath as the Osraed Body questioned her regarding a charge of heresy-”
“Yes, yes. I know that. Or at least I knew there was an inquiry. I thought it ... a local matter, easily handled by those closer at hand-”
“You’ve no need to defend your absence, Abbod. Your duties here are important. It was not, after all, a universal call.”
“I was defending nothing,” said Ladhar with some vinegar.
Eadmund blushed. “I meant no disrespect, Osraed. However, it is now more than a local matter. The Cyne felt ... feels ... that the Osraed Body over-stepped its bounds and that the girl was being unjustly accused and unfairly treated.”
“That dec
ision hardly rests with him.”
“Of course not. Which is why he has brought her to Creiddylad to stand before the Hall.”
Ladhar frowned, his broad brow becoming a field thick with furrows. “To what end, I wonder? To what purpose does he import Nairne’s problems to Creiddylad when she has so many of her own?” His eyes moved sharply to Eadmund’s face. “You said you had a letter.”
“Ah, yes. I ... I do.” He took it out reluctantly and gave it into Ladhar’s hands. “Understand,” he said, “that Ealad-hach is, himself, the girl’s main accuser.” A weak thing to say, he reflected, as he watched the Abbod’s eyes devour the epistle.
Ealad-hach’s attack on Taminy-a-Cuinn had been nearly single-handed ... in the beginning. But Eadmund could not bring himself to speak ill of his elder and, in truth, he understood little of what was happening. Perhaps Ealad-hach possessed insights denied the rest of them.
He glanced at Ladhar. The Abbod’s face was mottled red, his expression, fierce enough to terrify. Eadmund decided the struggling fire was a preferable subject for his gaze and watched it play restlessly among the perfumed coals.
“You know the contents of this letter?” Ladhar had finished reading and raised his eyes to spear Eadmund to the back of his chair.
The younger man cleared his throat. “I do.”
“And you are in agreement with it?”
Ladhar’s scrutiny was more than he could stand. Eadmund got up and paced away across the room, trying to look ruminative while sweating inside. “I ... I am unable to arouse in myself the hatred our brother obviously feels toward this girl.”
“Hatred or lack of it is not the issue, Osraed. The issue is the danger the girl poses to Caraid-land.”
“I find it difficult to believe she is dangerous. She’s a girl. A seventeen year old girl-”
“Who claims to be inextricably linked to the Meri. Who spouts unheard of doctrine; who performs acts of Craft-”
Eadmund’s arms moved in a convulsive gesture of desperation. “Perhaps she is merely confused.”
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