“And how may I do that?” Taminy asked.
“I have a friend—the son of my mother’s First Maid. He’s sick. Very sick. I’ll believe you, if you can heal him.” He glared at her, daring her to accept his challenge.
She felt her exhaustion keenly, then—a weight pulling at her, holding her to the stone floors of Mertuile. Prove yourself, Taminy. Proof! Proof! For some there will never be enough proof. Are you one of those, Airleas Malcuim?
“All right,” she said. “Only let me get a coat. It’s chill in the corridors.”
Snug in a felt panel coat, Taminy followed the Riagan down half-lit hallways, up a long flight of stone stairs, to the level above the Royals. Into a darkened apartment he led, silent and secret, showing with gestures that he intended her to be as quiet. Finally, they stood in a small room in which a single candle burned. Odd, since the entire castle had the benefit of lightglobes. There were two in this room, both dark. On a bed beneath a narrow window, a small figure lay, covered with a mountain of blankets.
“That’s my friend,” murmured Airleas, his young face long and solemn. “He’s got a terrible disease.”
“Ooo-oh!” said the form on the bed, and shivered violently.
“If you’re so magical, heal him.” The imperious scion of the House Malcuim was back, peering at Taminy through glittering, slitted eyes.
She inclined her head. “Yes, sire.” At the bed, she paused to look down at its occupant. “Are you in much pain?” she asked.
“Oh, ye-es!”
She listened carefully to the small, tremulous voice. “Where is the pain?”
“Oh, everywhere!” said the pile of blankets.
Airleas uttered a chuff of exasperation. “Can’t you tell how much pain he’s in? Can’t you tell where it is? Isn’t that part of the Wicke Craft?”
She turned her head to look at him. “But Riagan, I’m not a Wicke.”
“So you keep saying. Very well, the Art then. Isn’t that called a Heal Tell?”
“Yes, it is. And the questions I ask are part of that Tell.”
She lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. The blanketed child shivered harder.
“See,” said Airleas. “He has a horrible ague.”
Taminy stretched out her hands and pulled back the blankets a bit. A ghost-pale face peeked out at her from the folds, its forehead misted with perspiration. Feverless perspiration.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
The eyes, dark and clear, blinked. “Beag ... mam.”
“Well, Beag, it’s not hard to see what’s wrong with you. You’ve piled on too many blankets. Take them off and you’ll recover quickly enough from this horrible ague.”
“W-what?” asked Beag, and Airleas said, “But he has a fever! See how he shakes?”
Taminy turned to face the Riagan squarely. “That’s fear, not fever. Your friend isn’t sick. Nor is he really your friend. He’s the child of your mother’s servant which, to your mind, makes him your servant. You pressed Beag into service to test me.”
Airleas looked like a landed fish, all eyes and mouth. Beag began to cry. Shrugging off his encumbering blankets he sat up and clutched at Taminy’s sleeve. “Oh, mam, I’m sorry! But he told me I must. He’s the Cwen’s son—what could I do?”
“Lie beneath a pile of blankets and quake, it would seem.” The female voice came to them from the doorway. It belonged to a shadow that, once in candlelight, became the Cwen Toireasa.
Beag whined and cowered. Airleas had the good grace to look contrite. Cwen Toireasa surveyed them both with bland bemusement.
“To bed with you, Airleas,” she told her son. “Taminy, you will accompany me ... please.” Both obeyed immediately.
The Cwen said nothing more to her as they navigated the resplendent halls and wound down the stairs to the level below. At the bottom of the stairs, Cwen Toireasa paused. “May we talk in your chambers? They would be more private.”
Taminy nodded. “As you wish, mistress.”
“My son,” said the Cwen, when they had closeted themselves in Taminy’s rooms, “trusts only the conviction of his own senses. I suppose he resembles me in that. Colfre is likely to believe what he has not seen and disbelieve what he has seen with his own eyes.” She moved to seat herself on a low settle by the hearth. Firelight and lightglobes set her golden hair aflame, making her seem more Eibhilin than human.
Like the Gwenwyvar, Taminy thought. She seated herself across from the Cwen and asked, “What do you believe, mistress?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll tell you what I don’t believe. I don’t believe you’re merely a madwoman or a zealot. Zealots and madwomen don’t perform miracles. I was in the crowd today, along the Cyne’s Way,” she explained. “I saw what you did for the boy. I followed you on to Ochanshrine, too.”
Taminy’s surprise must have shown in her face, for the Cwen smiled and said, “You find that shocking? I don’t trust my husband, Taminy-a-Cuinn. Or perhaps I should say, I trust him to follow his desires. He follows them all over Creiddylad and beyond. Sometimes he even exports them to the Abbis. I thought he was doing that this morning. It seems I was wrong.”
Taminy said nothing, for she could think of nothing to say. She understood Toireasa’s antipathy now, and that comprehension made her uncomfortable.
“I don’t know if you are my husband’s lover.” Toireasa continued. “I do know that you’re more than that. I might believe you,” she added, “if you told me you were not his lover.”
Taminy flushed. “I am not, mistress. I beg you to believe me. The Cyne has befriended me for reasons that have nothing to do with his affections.”
Cwen Toireasa laughed. “How charmingly you put it! No, cailin. Colfre’s affections are never involved in his plots and projects; only his passions are involved. And he has many of those. I think I know which one caused him to ‘befriend’ you—his passion to govern ... . No, that’s naive of me. Not to govern, to rule. And to rule by popularity. Colfre Malcuim fancies himself to be carved from the same wood as Buidhe Harpere or Liusadhe or, God help us, the Malcuim, himself.” She shook her head. “The artist warrior. He would like to see himself as a bit of each of them. A strange admixture—gentle artistry, passionate zeal, a little blood-lust for spice—but pure Malcuim—golden-haired, visionary eyes the color of the sea.”
Taminy smiled, knowing the Cwen was right. She could well imagine Cyne Colfre arrayed before a mirror that reflected fantasy instead of reality: a harp, a crown, a sword. That last, that was the danger in Colfre and it was nothing to smile over. Taminy sobered.
“Yes, it is funny, isn’t it? That’s why he married me, you know, in the hope of producing a golden Malcuim heir. But Airleas is darker than his father, which I, unable to produce another child, am not allowed to forget.”
A chill glided down Taminy’s back like a silken runnel of ice water. “Does he show Airleas that he ... ?”
“Hoped for something else? Something other than a Hillwild throwback? Oh, yes. Not viciously, you understand, and not so much verbally as in those tiny, subtle ways that wound. Colfre did a family portrait of us once. He gave Airleas Thearl Malcuim’s pale copper hair.”
Taminy remembered that hair—how bright it had been in the sunny courtyard at Farewelling. “The Ambre Cyne, they called him,” she murmured, “his hair was so bright. Poor Airleas.”
“Colfre is not a forgiving man. He can’t forgive his mother for being Hillwild or his father for marrying her; he can’t forgive me for giving him a son who’s more his than mine; and he can’t forgive Airleas for just being Airleas. He named him, you know—Airleas, ‘a pledge’—to remind me that somehow my pledge to him was broken.” She looked down at her hands, clutched together in her lap. “To me, my son is a pledge that someday, when Colfre is gone, he will be Cyne. A better Cyne than his father ever dreamed of being.” Her mouth twisted wryly and she raised her eyes to Taminy’s. “No, Colfre has never dreamed of being a good Cyne, merely a popular and powerful one.
”
Taminy felt a wave of deep compassion for the Cwen of all Caraid-land and wondered at the confidences she’d revealed. “Why are you sharing all this with me, mistress?”
The Cwen studied her a long time before answering. “I don’t know who or what you are, Taminy-a-Cuinn, but I know you can perform miracles. I hadn’t believed in miracles until now. I suppose I dare hope you’ll Weave a miracle for me.” Toireasa rose then, shook out her skirts, and moved across the medallion carpet to the door.
“Perhaps I will Weave for you,” Taminy told her. “Or perhaps you’ll perform a miracle of your own.”
Toireasa’s smile was ironic. “Oh, I have already tried,” she said, and let herself out.
CHAPTER 17
To what house can a lover go but the house of his Beloved? Where can he find rest, but in the arms of his heart’s desire? A lover lives in reunion and dies in separation. His spirit is impatient and his soul lacks peace. A host of lives he would offer up to travel in the way of his Love or to lay his head at Her feet.
— from The Song of Ochan
“Why must you go, Saxan? Why must you? You aren’t a pillar of the Hall. You’ve no voice there, no duty.” Ardis-a-Nairnecirke flailed at her husband with haphazard words, her posture defensive. She didn’t want him to take the downriver road to the capitol. She was afraid, as she had never been before, that he would come back changed, or not at all. It wasn’t brigands she feared, or accident; it was this fever running through Caraid-land, a fever that no longer confined itself to Nairne.
“Who’ll give lessons on Cirke-dag?” she pleaded. “Who’ll say the blessing and lead the lays?”
Saxan did not even look up from his packing. “Ardis,” he said, “I’ve a competent second in Aelder Culash.”
“That doesn’t answer me why.”
“I’ve told you why. I can’t just wait to hear. I want to be there. I’m entitled to be there. And, yes, I feel a duty to be there.”
“Duty? To whom, Saxan? For God’s love, it’s out of your hands now.”
He straightened from his satchel and looked at her. Finally, she thought. But his eyes had the glaze of someone who does not see what he looks at.
“Out of my hands,” he repeated. “Yes, I suppose it is. But it’s not out of my conscience ... or my heart.” His eyes focused on her face, at last. “Don’t you feel it, Ardis? Didn’t you feel it the first time you saw her?”
Ardis twitched, a chill passing, ghostly, down her spine. Aingeal kisses, her mother called that. When she was a little girl, she’d turn quickly on her heel and kiss the air, hoping to catch the Eibhilin messenger and return its kiss.
Ardis shook her head. “I felt something, God help me. I don’t know what.”
Saxan nodded, intent on her now. “But it isn’t evil, is it Ardis? Wouldn’t we know if it was evil?”
“Would we?”
“I’ve begged to know. An aislinn. A sign. An inkling. Anything. I feel something from Taminy-a-Cuinn, but I’d be the worst kind of liar—and a fool—if I pretended it was evil.”
“If an aingeal fans your neck, spin about and kiss it back.”
“What?”
“An old rhyme. My mother taught it to me ... about those little tickles of-of something that make you shiver.”
Saxan smiled and nodded. “I remember that yes. I guess that’s what I’m doing—trying to return the aingeal’s kiss ... or, perhaps, the Meri’s kiss.”
The chill Ardis experienced then was cold and unpleasant. “You don’t believe her Tell, surely? Not you. By the Kiss, I’ve always believed you to be one of the most steadfast men the Meri had ever chosen.”
He only looked at her, shouldering his pack. “I hope I am that. I must be that. And I must know about Taminy-a-Cuinn. Do you understand, Ardis? I must know.”
She wanted to weep, but knew it would only add to the burden he already carried. “I understand.”
He held out his free arm to her. “Then come kiss me good-bye ... Aingeal.”
She did, and found the affection comforting. They moved out into the upstairs hallway then, and Ardis called out to Iseabal to come bid her father a good journey. The girl appeared from behind her bedroom door too quickly and came, hang-dog, down the hall, her cheeks burnished rose. Ardis didn’t confront her with her eavesdropping, but merely watched her hug her father’s spare frame and scurry back to her room.
“She’ll feel better by and by,” said Saxan and kissed Ardis long and deep. “And so,” he promised, “will you.”
But watching him head off toward the river road, Ardis felt the promise to be empty. As empty as her house was without him.
oOo
“Aine! Aine-mac-Lorimer!”
“Here!” The redhead rose from behind a low shrub, brushing leaves from her breeches. “Did you have trouble getting away?”
“A little.” Iseabal came the rest of the way into the river glade. Her skirts were tied up into her sash to ease riding astride, and her dark hair was bound into a fat plait that hung over one shoulder. “I told mother I was going to the Sanctuary to pray for father. That way I knew she wouldn’t go looking for me.” She shifted uneasily. “It didn’t feel good to lie.”
“So pray on the way to Creiddylad. Where’s your horse?”
Iseabal gestured over her shoulder. “Tied to a tree back there. “Where’s Phelan?”
“He went back for Wyvis and Rennie.”
“I thought they weren’t coming.”
Aine grinned. “Seems their mam found out about our adventure and thought they ought to go—not without her, though.”
Iseabal’s eyes felt as if they’d start from her head. “Mam Lusach is coming too? What about her shop?”
“She’ll find someone to run it for her. Don’t worry so.”
Iseabal gazed into her palm, rubbing the faint, stellate mark there with her thumb. “I can’t help but worry. I can feel her, calling me. She’s lonely, Aine. And she’s in danger.”
Aine sobered. “I know. I feel it too ...” She paused to study the mark in her own palm. “Have you ever stopped to wonder what we’re becoming?”
Iseabal shivered, but the chill was a delicious one. “I wonder every moment. But she’s the cause of it. Whatever we become, we shall be better than we ever were.”
“I never wanted the Gift,” Aine murmured, then raised her head sharply. “Someone’s coming.”
It was Phelan. He had brought the Apothecary, her children, and Orna-mac-Mercer. All carried faint, star-shaped marks in their palms and a deep loyalty to Taminy-a-Cuinn in their hearts.
oOo
“The Cyne has spoken to you about the Assembly, of course.” Daimhin Feich’s smile came with an offer of tea.
She accepted the tea and nodded. “Yes, he’s mentioned it several times.”
“He’s explained, then, that he wishes you to remain silent, and why.”
“Yes. He wants the Osraed to appear fanatical and ridiculous. And, of course, he wishes me to be found innocent of heresy.”
“Both true. For you are innocent and the Osraed are fanatical and ridiculous. But, there’s a bit more to it than that.”
Feich sat down next to Taminy on the stone bench she occupied in one of the castle’s many pocket gardens. For a moment, he said nothing, but let his eyes roam over her face and hair. Her blush only made him smile more deeply.
“How lovely you are—rose and gold. Like one of those.” He gestured at the roses that stood sentinel along the wall. Then, he lowered his eyes and chuckled. “Forgive me. I was going to say that the Cyne has grown very fond of you. I’ve grown fond of you in the brief time you’ve been with us. We only advise you to your own good. Which is to say, for the good of Caraid-land. Cyne Colfre and I are aware, if no one else is, that the two things are inextricably connected.”
“Yes, they are.” She let her eyes rise to his.
He did not break off his gaze. “The Osraed are corrupt.”
“Not all.”
“No, but as an institution-”
“As an institution they have lost sight of their purpose. I’m here to remind them of it.”
Feich stared at her. “I’ve never heard you speak like that before, of purposes—theirs or yours.”
“You’ve never discussed the Osraed with me before. Not directly.”
“So, you have a purpose: To remind the Osraed of their purpose.”
“That’s one of the reasons I’m here, yes.”
Feich’s brows rose. “There are more?”
She tilted her head to one side. “I see them, little by little.”
“The Meri shows you, does She?”
“Yes.”
“And what else does She show you?”
“Whatever She wishes me to see.”
He was silent for a moment, studying her. “I am very loyal to my Cyne,” he said at last. “Fiercely loyal. Perhaps I try to ... compensate for my forebears.” He smiled ruefully. “The House Feich is not well known for loyalty.”
That, Taminy knew, was an understatement. In the long history of Caraid-land, the Feich were known to be loyal only to the Feich. Whether that put them in league with the House Malcuim or against it seemed not to matter. Until now, this man would have her believe. She gazed into Daimhin Feich’s fox-eyes and tried to read the depth of his loyalty to Colfre Malcuim and his country. It was difficult, for the man’s inner workings were complex and ever-moving. One thing was certain; he wanted what Colfre wanted—to weaken the Osraed and to invest their powers in a new institution. Daimhin Feich would make Colfre Osric, ruler by Divine Right.
“I must tell you this,” Feich continued, flushing a little under her gaze, “so you understand my ... motivation. I believe you can aid my lord in attaining what he desires and deserves.”
“To be Osric.”
He blinked. “Who told you that?”
She smiled, knowing the smile unnerved him. “You did. Colfre did. Although not so much with public words as with private thoughts.”
He laughed. “You toy with me, lady. Unkind of you.”
“I have no desire to be unkind. Colfre wants to divest the Osraed of their administrative power and take it upon himself. You want to help him.”
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