“Then she has done none of these things Ealad-hach writes of?”
“Yes. Yes, she has done those things. And, yes, she has made those claims, but-”
“But? Osraed Eadmund, this girl is obviously a heretic. The proof of that seems to have come unforced from her own mouth. Moreover, she is a heretic who apparently has a mastery of the Wickish Craft. A heretic who has drawn the attention—no, more than that, the support—of our Cyne. Ealad-hach suggests it was her will that brought Colfre to her defense at Halig-liath. If that is true, then she cannot fail to be a danger ... to all of Caraid-land.”
“What if she tells the truth?”
“What?”
Eadmund stopped to watch the fire’s unsteady crawl across the curved ceiling. “I said, what if she tells the truth?”
“That the Meri regenerates in this ... unimaginable fashion? Unthinkable!”
“So Osraed Ealad-hach found it.”
Ladhar was silent. Eadmund’s ears picked up the soft crackle of flame—like muted applause, far distant. It was a silly thought; there was nothing to applaud here.
“And you,” the Abbod asked, “do not?”
“I am at a loss to know what to think. But what Ealad-hach proposes we should do-”
“May be entirely necessary. Osraed Eadmund ...” Ladhar’s voice lost its sharp edge entirely. He leaned forward in this chair. “Eadmund, I recognize that you are a compassionate man. That is a quality we dare not belittle or undervalue. But you must realize what is at stake, here. The souls of untold thousands of people, of our Cyne, of-”
“I understand what is at stake,” Eadmund murmured. “We are at stake. We Osraed.”
“Precisely.” Ladhar shuffled the pages of the letter and folded them back into their leather packet. “I am to hold an audience with this girl. Tomorrow morning. At the Cyne’s request. I will decide, then, what is to be done.”
Eadmund nodded. “I’m exhausted, Osraed Ladhar. Will there be a room for me in the Abbis?”
The Abbod rose, his gaze steady and solemn. “Dear Brother, there is always a room for you here.”
oOo
It was a quiet room. She could hear no owls, no nightbirds, no chittering bats. But if she stood in the open doorway to the balcony, she could hear the pounding of the Sea far below Mertuile’s perch. That comforted.
The night breeze carried laughter and song up from the outer ward. They arrived on Taminy’s balcony as if thrown by the handful, like rose petals—sweet, unreachable. She could smell the roses, too; their perfume lifted from the Cyne’s gardens and mingled with the scents of Sea and city.
She shivered because the breeze carried the chill of the Sea and because she was alone—cut off from Bevol and Skeet. She could sense them, below and away, separated from her by Mertuile’s stony bulk. The distant laughter seasoned the aloneness, made its taste sharper, more pungent. Taminy left the balcony and closed the glass-paned doors. The laughter was gone, but she could still feel the rhythm of the Sea.
She went to the little trunk she had brought up from Halig-liath and took from it a carved and inlaid box. It was a small box, just big enough for Ileane to nestle in its velvet nest. Taminy took the crystal out and gazed at it, while it, like a pet intent on pleasing its mistress, displayed its Eibhilin finery and played with the light. Ileane was all she had of her past. All that was physical. Oh, well, there was this body, too, but the soul that animated it had changed considerably since it last walked and talked and felt.
The crystal shimmered, bathing her face in its glow, warming her palm with its vibration—a little stone dog, wagging its tail.
You don’t need that, you know.
Joy. Sudden and complete, it washed over her. She was flooded with it, drowned in it. “I know,” she said and took her eyes from the crystal. A cloud of golden light roiled in the center of the huge bedchamber. Formless, ever-moving, never-ending mist. A Mist like the Sun.
You were lonely.
“No longer.”
And will be again.
“I know.”
But there’s much you don’t know and would like to. Questions you want to ask, but won’t.
Taminy smiled. “A conceit, I suppose, to say I am content with the Will of God ... and Yours.”
Even the content may be curious.
“Yes ...What happens now?”
The Mist curled about itself in silence, shedding little bits of its splendor over the rich carpet, leaving gleaming trails to fade against the pale ceiling.
They speak of Cusps—the Cyne, the Osraed. Yet, so few understand the nature of a Cusp. In this time, as in no other, the entire Creation stands at a crossroads. Every soul has been called. Some have heard a Voice, others an inarticulate cry, others only an annoying whisper. They have been called to a peak, a forking of paths, a choosing. Some of these souls understand that, but even they may fail to see the nature of the choice, or who must make it. If it were My choice, it would be one thing. If it were yours, perhaps only a slight variation. But it is not My choice, or yours, Sister. Nor is it strictly the Cyne’s nor his Durweard’s nor his Cwen’s. It lies not with the Council, or the Body, or the Hall. The Abbod Ladhar cannot make it, nor can the Osraed Bevol, nor any other single human being. For the Cusp is choices upon choices, woven through and into and over each other until a pattern emerges and a new fabric is created. I am the Weaver. And all these souls provide the thread. I add My own thread to the weaving, now, and I guide the shuttle, ever mindful of the patterns.
Taminy nodded. Patterns. She saw them and knew that the dominant pattern was Colfre’s. At this moment.
Colfre will not succeed ... in the end. But I cannot promise he will not succeed in the beginning. The destiny of Caraid-land lies in a handful of threads. I will Weave Mine, also. We will Weave it, ever mindful of the Pattern.
The bright cloud faded then, leaving behind its after-image like an echo of sweet music. Taminy curled up upon the great bed, knees to chin, arms hugging her legs, and rocked to a Duan only she could hear. The pattern of Caraid-land was uncertain, but she was not. The Cyne’s castle was a place devoid of contentment, but she was content. She was more than content; wrapped in the ghost-fragrance of the Meri’s presence, she was happy.
She slept then, and in her dreams she stood before a great, world-filling Tapestry and in her hand she held a golden shuttle which she plied with a Weaver’s care, ever mindful of the Pattern.
CHAPTER 16
Light the lamp of affection in every gathering; delight every heart; cheer every soul. Care for the outlander as for your own and show the stranger the same compassion and tenderness you give to your beloved companions. If someone cause you pain, give him healing medicine. If he give you thorns, shower him with sweet herbs and roses.
— Utterances of Osraed Lealbhallain
Haesel the Sweep worked the Merchants’ Rows most mornings, coming out just at sunrise to make her rounds and collect her pocketful of coins. This morning she had plied her broom and brushes along the Cyne’s Way because she had heard that, this morning, the Cyne’s Wicke would go to Ochanshrine. The Cyne’s Way merchants had heard it too, and wanted their shops gleaming and sootless for the Passing. Haesel could see the outer gates of Mertuile clearly from here, and would know the moment they opened. The royal entourage would pass this way, would turn at this corner to go north to the crossing of the Halig-tyne at Saltbridge. It would slow here and turn, and then ...
Haesel glanced over at the front stoop of the shop which walkway she now swept. Huddled against it was what might be taken as a pile of discarded clothing; it was not that, it was Losgann, her son. He was six years of age and had neither walked nor stood fully upright for half that time. But today the Cyne’s Wicke would be abroad and Haesel would see to it that she stopped here. The Sweep would beg, she would grovel, she would throw herself before the carriage if she had to, but the Wicke would stop and the Wicke would see Losgann.
“Mama?” His voice was transpa
rent as the dawn sky.
“Yes, Losgann?”
“Mama, I’m awful thirsty. Is there water?”
“I’ll ask it of the shopkeep,” she said and did, though the man docked her payment for it. She gave Losgann the whole cup, though she was thirsty herself, and went back to sweeping and waiting.
It was mid-morning, and Haesel was scrubbing the cobbled steps of another shop, when the gates of Mertuile opened and the Cyne’s retinue exited. She straightened, muscles complaining, and stretched, watching the gleaming carriage with its hedge of mounted soldiers make its way through the Cyne’s Market to the Cyne’s Way. It was a sparse hedge today—only four men—and they rode behind the carriage as a rearguard. Even at this distance, Haesel could distinguish the Wicke; she was a spot of sunlight, golden amid the more sedate blues of royalty.
The Sweep returned to her work, one eye on Losgann, sitting, now, in the shadow of the steps where early patrons would not see him. He was wondering, she knew, why he was not in his classroom at Care House. She had tried to make it seem a grand outing.
“Oh, but you don’t want to miss the passing of the Wicke!” she had told him when he pouted and said he would miss his friends. “Why, there’ll be a festival on the Cyne’s Way this morning—vendors and tricksters and musicians—you’ll see.”
And there were musicians. She could hear them now, and her street corner was beginning to fill with people; a couple wheeled out a cider trolly, a man had set up a brazier and laid out chunks of skewered meat on its blazing coals.
Losgann lifted his head, sniffing after the cooking meat, and Haesel felt in her pocket, counting the coins there. She palmed a pair of claefers and held them out to her son. “Here, Losgann, go buy yourself a nice bit of meat.”
He snatched the coins, then paused, looking up at her with dark eyes. “Are you sure, mama?”
She whisked her hand at him. “Go. Go! Can’t let a nice festival pass by without we join in.” She smiled, but the smile slipped from her lips as she watched his painful, stooped and rolling hobble away from her toward the brazier-man.
She could close her eyes and see a morning three years ago—a morning not unlike this one, with its burnished sky and fresh sea breeze. She had had a flower cart then, a brightly painted little trolley decorated with hearts and dancing couples and pictures of young men giving gay posies to their favorite cailin. She had felt almost in control of her life then, for the first time since Losgann’s father—another woman’s husband, she learned too late—had abandoned them finally.
That morning, with her beautiful cart full of even more beautiful blooms, with Losgann playing at her skirts with a little flying bird-toy she had bought him, she had felt whole and happy. Gentlemen bought her flowers for their ladies and ladies bought them to pretend they were from gentlemen.
Haesel hadn’t heard the commotion in the street, hadn’t sensed the odd confluence of wind and wildness that sent Losgann’s toy bird into the street and a jagger’s dray into a frenzy—she was helping a young lady choose a bouquet to match her fine new dress—but she heard the shrill scream of a child and the raw cursing of a man. That was when she had turned and seen Losgann lying in the street with the great, wild horse prancing too near his head, fighting the man who struggled to hold it.
The jagger brought the boy to her, crumpled and torn, like the little bird she had held in her hands during the endless drive to the doctor. The jagger was kind, but there was little he could do once he had delivered them there. As it happened, there was equally little the doctor could do.
Haesel turned her head, glancing through a blur of tears up the Cyne’s Way where the royal retinue had disappeared behind street-hugging buildings. The flower cart was gone; she couldn’t work and care for Losgann. Yet, money was needed to pay for the doctor—the doctor whose skills could not mend the shattered bones in the boy’s leg and pelvis.
“Mama?”
She turned at the tug on her skirts. Losgann smiled up at her, panting a little and holding out a wooden skewer with a fist-sized chunk of meat on it. He clutched a second one in his other hand.
“Look! He gave me two! One for me and one for you.”
It was an unexpected and welcome kindness. Haesel was famished. She glanced over at the vendor, who touched the brim of his hat and smiled. “Did you-?”
“I said thank you, mama.” Losgann rolled his eyes and bit into his chunk of seared meat.
The corner was becoming more and more populous. Before the crowd grew too thick, Haesel tucked her bucket, broom and brushes under the steps of the shop she’d been cleaning and called Losgann to her. She wiped his hands and face with her apron, telling him, when he complained, that the Cyne mustn’t see her son with charcoal smeared across his face. Her heart beat faster now. She could sense the crowd’s anticipation turning uphill. When she could hear the sound of horse hooves on the cobbles, she wended her way to the edge of the crowd.
“Oh, lift me, mama!” begged Losgann. “Lift me so I can see!”
She did lift him, high up in her arms so his head was above hers. “Do you see her, Losgann? Do you see the Wicke Lady?”
“Yes! Oh, mama, she’s pretty ... and very young.”
Haesel’s eyes followed his and she bit at her lip. The girl in the carriage was young. Too young, one would have thought, to be a powerful Wicke. Her resolve trembled. But no, she must take this chance.
The carriage drew close; the Cyne on his high seat waved and smiled while, beside him, the young Wicke sat and gazed at the crowd. They were in the intersection now, and the driver turned the horses northward.
Haesel moved swiftly. She was in the road squarely before the horses before Losgann could utter a surprised squeak.
“Stop, please! Stop, please! I beg you! Lady Taminy—my son. Look at my son!”
The Cyne stood up in the carriage and gestured for her to move aside.
“Mama!” Losgann wailed.
“No, sire. Please! Let the Lady see my son.”
Men on horses attempted to surround her and drive her back. Desperate, she squeezed herself between the lead horses of the Cyne’s team. Losgann shrilled again as Haesel twisted, trying to see the Wicke. The girl was looking at her and she had her hand on the Cyne’s arm and her lips were moving, though Haesel couldn’t hear what she said because of the crowd noise and the hammering of her own heart. She felt someone grasp her arm and found herself staring up into the face of a Cyne’s-man.
“Please!” she begged, but was wrenched from between the horses. Losgann began to sob.
“Here!” a man’s voice shouted. “Bring her here.”
Wonder. She was brought round the carriage to stand with the Cyne and his Wicke gazing down at her. She dared not look into the Cyne’s face, but the Lady Taminy’s welcomed her to look. Her heart stumbled madly over itself.
“What is it, woman?” the Cyne asked. “What do you want?”
“It’s my son, lord. Losgann.” She shifted the crying child higher on her shoulder. “Three years back, he was run down by a dray and his leg crushed. Twist it is, mam.” She turned her plea to Taminy. “So twist, he can scarcely walk and he’s never free of the pain. If you could but try—if you could but snatch the pain away ...”
The girl turned her great green eyes on the Cyne. “I’d like to help him, sire.”
Cyne Colfre hesitated, eying up the crowd—hushed now, and intent. Then a smile broke across his face; it seemed to Haesel the most beautiful smile she had ever seen and it made her heart pound all the harder. He nodded, and the Lady Taminy reached out her arms for Losgann. Haesel released him, her mouth open to comfort his fear at being given up into the care of a stranger, but it seemed he had no fear. His tears had evaporated and his eyes smiled at the beautiful lady who took him up into her lap.
Haesel held her breath and prayed and watched as the Wicke girl felt along her son’s twisted leg from hip to ankle. Her pretty brow furrowed and Haesel all but swallowed the hope that clogged her th
roat. But the girl’s expression cleared and she laid her hands firmly on Losgann’s leg and began to sing in a clear, loud voice, words that Haesel didn’t understand, but trembled at. They were icy words, hot words, words that chilled and comforted. They made Haesel’s heart trip over itself and stagger and freeze in her breast.
Then, a billow of blue light, like nothing Haesel had ever seen, rolled down out of nowhere and crowned the Wicke girl’s head and tumbled down her arms and washed all over and around Losgann, whose mouth and eyes were wide open, carp-like. So were the Cyne’s, Haesel noticed, and if it had occurred to her, she might have laughed. But she could only stare at the Wicke and her son bathed in azure light and pray harder and remember to breathe.
Haesel wasn’t certain how much time had passed before the light faded. She still stared, along with the silent crowd until she heard her son’s voice. “Oh!” he said. “Oh! Oh, mama! Mama, my leg!”
He kissed the Lady Taminy and gave her a tremendous hug before scrambling down from the carriage and into his mother’s arms. Then, he walked all around her, his body upright, limping only the tiniest bit. His left leg was straight. Straight!
“He’ll need to exercise it,” the Lady Taminy said, her voice like balm. “Some of the muscles have grown weak.”
Haesel turned to her with every ounce of her joy and gratitude pouring from her eyes. “Oh, mam. Oh, mistress! How may I thank you? How may I repay you?”
The girl reached out her hand and Haesel took it, squeezing it between her palms. “You are thanking me now. And your joy repays me a hundred-fold.” She released Haesel’s hand and straightened, and the crowd roared with approval.
And it was done. While Losgann capered for the crowd, Haesel watched the Cyne’s carriage pull off down toward the Saltbridge Crossing, feeling as if a part of herself trailed after it. She didn’t try to stop the tears that covered her cheeks, but merely thanked God silently and wondered at the Wicke’s touch, still tingling in her palm. They called Wicke “Dark Sisters” in most places, but Haesel knew that the Cyne’s Wicke was full of light.
Taminy Page 34