Feich hesitated, then moved closer to her on the bench, a urgency bristling from him. “Yes. Yes, Taminy. I do want that. You say, yourself, that the Osraed have forgotten their purpose. So they have. They’ve become enamored of temporal leadership and have failed to give spiritual guidance to the people of Caraid-land. Only when they are forced to concentrate on the spiritual will they cease to be distracted by the material. Colfre wants what you want, Taminy—for the Osraed to return to their spiritual duties. For them to look to you for their charter. The Cyne’s ends and the Meri’s ends are the same. Both will be served if your innocence is proved.”
He moved closer still, taking on the expression of an instructive confidant. “When you are called before the Hall tomorrow, you must present a demure, child-like picture. The way you dress, the way you stand, the expression on your face, the tone of your voice when you speak—all will contribute to this picture. Convince the Assembly that you are that, and all the Osraed accusations will appear as so much dirty smoke.”
He paused, eyes downcast, seemingly uncomfortable. When he lifted them again, they were overflowing with concern. He took her hand in his gently, firmly. “The Assembly must not see the Taminy-a-Cuinn who proudly announced herself to the Osraed Body-”
“That was not pride.” Her voice was firm, if not sharp.
He floundered momentarily. “Well ... well, then it was purpose. But that Taminy-a-Cuinn must not speak to the Hall.”
He looked deeply into her eyes now, his grip on her hand tightening. “Do you wish to be of service to Caraid-land, Taminy? Does your purpose have a place in it for that?”
Shivers of alien alarm raised the hair on her neck and arms, but she kept her eyes on his and made her voice steady and certain. “The good of Caraid-land is my ultimate purpose, Durweard Feich. For what other reason could I or my Mistress care what the Osraed do or do not? The Osraed were to serve this people and most have forgotten how. Worse, they strive to drag the newly Chosen into forgetfulness with them.”
“Then serve Cyne Colfre and you will surely serve the people.”
She pulled her hand from his and rose from the bench. “By remaining silent and making no claims?”
“Your actions speak more loudly and convincingly than any words, lady. The sweetness of your conduct, the mildness of your demeanor ...Do you understand?”
She nodded, feeling his eyes along her back, flushing again at his regard. “I do understand, Durweard Feich.”
“Surely, you can call me Daimhin, dear Taminy, when I have acknowledged my fondness for you.”
She flushed more deeply and another unfamiliar tingle rippled through her. “Yes, Daimhin, I understand.”
He rose and moved around to stand before her, capturing her hands again, holding them to his lips and kissing the tips of her fingers. In contact with its source, the tingle sharpened. He was vibrating with something akin to exhilaration, his eyes over-bright and dizzying, swarming with an energy that all but took her breath away.
He left her alone in the garden, then, to contemplate their conversation—alone, as she had been all week, except for her crowd-drawing tours with Colfre and her several visits with Toireasa and Airleas. The Riagan had apologized to her the night after his escapade, no doubt at the urging of his mother, and had stayed to ask her questions about the Meri—what She looked like and how She spoke and what it felt like to touch a person who was made of Light. She did not ask how he came to know of her claims, but merely answered his questions as best she could.
Bevol and Skeet she had not seen except in glimpses. They were not allowed to speak except in dreams where distance and walls made no difference. But, though that comforted her, it was not the same as seeing them face to face. Not the same as feeling Bevol’s strong arms, protective, about her when her sense of isolation became too keen.
Taminy-Osmaer, of divine intent, was yet human and young. Loneliness sapped her in a way the constant parades and healings did not. Indeed, the daily “miracles” she had been called upon to perform revitalized her. Though she was uncomfortable with the parading and posturing, uneasy that the adoring crowds now connected her with the Cyne, it gave her the chance to Weave Healing and she was grateful. It also gave her the chance to make friends among the people of Creiddylad and its provinces. Friends she must share with Colfre for the time being.
The agitation Daimhin Feich had created in her passed as she roamed among the roses, reminding herself of the garden at Gled Manor. She was absorbed in their perfume when she heard the sounds of approach and paused, wondering if it was time for yet another parade of miracles. The Assembly members arrived day by day, and along with them more common folk who flocked to the city as if it were a site of Pilgrimage. It was not Ochanshrine they came to see, it was Taminy, the Wicke of Mertuile. And she, at her Cyne’s bidding would perform for them, causing them to believe what they had only heard in rumor.
The Cyne was not alone when he entered the little garden; the Ren Catahn and Desary Hillwild were with him. Daimhin Feich trailed behind, his expression guarded. But Catahn’s face held no such wariness, and his daughter’s was eloquent with relief and joy. Together, they came to Taminy and fell to their knees at her feet. Both raised hands and she clasped them, palm to palm, fingers entwined. Her earlier uncertainty fled at their touch.
“My Lady,” murmured Catahn, his head bowed, “you are safe.”
“I am in the company of friends,” she said, and could now be sure of it.
Catahn raised dark amber eyes to her face. “We are yours, Lady. What do you desire of us?”
Over the Hillwild’s head, she could see Cyne Colfre’s astonishment turn to glee. He glanced aslant at Feich, who merely raised his brows. She felt a prickle of anger. These people were pawns to Colfre—ciphers he would move about to obtain the sums he wanted. She pushed the anger down and smiled.
“I have no desire that your coming here hasn’t fulfilled. Only stay with me a while.”
“Lady,” said Desary, “I would stay with you forever. Take me as your lady’s maid and companion. Let me serve you.”
Taminy looked from one dark face to the other, feeling their devotion as a warm, living cloak about her. Such devotion awed her to the soul. “I don’t want a servant, Desary, but I would dearly love a companion and friend.” She raised her eyes to Colfre. “Cyne Colfre, with your permission ... ?”
Colfre made a sweeping, gallant gesture, smiling his magnanimity at the three of them. “Of course. She shall have the chamber adjoining yours. And surely my kinsman, Catahn, can be persuaded to join us at table for the midday meal?”
Catahn rose and gifted the Cyne with a formal nod of his head. “I am persuaded, sire,” he said and returned his gaze to Taminy.
“Delightful!” Colfre seemed ready to clap his hands. “We’ll leave you to visit. Someone will fetch you for dinner.” He turned to his Durweard. “Daimhin, to our business?”
Feich nodded, eyes wandering to the trio on the lush grass of his lord’s garden. Then he followed the Cyne from sight.
“Lady-”
Catahn was halfway to his knees again when Taminy arrested him, laughing. “Please, sir, don’t bow and scrape to me. I meant what I said,” she added, putting an arm around Desary’s shoulders. “I don’t want servants; I want friends.”
Catahn straightened, looking wild and dangerous among the Cyne’s well-bred roses. “My Lady,” he said, “you have them.”
oOo
“Was that wise, my lord?”
The Daimhin Feich and his Cyne walked briskly through the corridors of Mertuile en route to the chambers of the Privy Council.
“What do you mean, Daimhin? Was what wise?”
“Leaving them alone together.”
“What—will they now begin to hatch plots against me?”
“Catahn has been openly disrespectful to the Throne.”
Colfre laughed. “You mean he’s been disrespectful to me. His kin got along fine with my dear, gentle,
malleable father.”
“Sire, the Hillwild have always been rebellious.”
Colfre shrugged. “When it suits them.”
Daimhin felt irritation tickle his breast bone. “Sire, you do not give this the serious attention it deserves.”
Colfre stopped walking and faced his Durweard upon the inlaid tiles of the castle’s lower entrance hall, oblivious to the servants and courtiers who came and went about them, bowing without breaking stride.
“Daimhin, you amaze me. Didn’t you see what happened in that garden just now? The mighty Ren Catahn humbled himself before that girl and swore allegiance to her.”
“I saw, my lord.”
“Then perhaps you didn’t hear properly. ‘We are yours,’ he said. If he is hers, that makes him mine. He has pledged his allegiance to Colfre Malcuim with those impassioned words.” He began walking again, missing the look his Durweard passed him.
Daimhin matched his stride. “I wouldn’t be too certain of that, sire. You’re right, the Hillwild is impassioned. But, I have learned not to trust passion. It tends to be fickle.”
Colfre chuckled. “Poor Daimhin. A man who doesn’t trust his passions? Such a sterile existence. Passion is life, my friend. To feel the blood singing in your ears because of a fast horse or a beautiful woman or a victory in battle. I paint my passion. I glory in it. As you should glory in yours.”
“Now, sire, I said I didn’t trust passion. That doesn’t mean I won’t indulge myself from time to time. But in this case, my lord, I must surely be expected to keep a cool head and a steady heart. I am your Durweard, after all.”
“Cool and steady—not dead, Daimhin. If you are to convince the lady Taminy that you’re heart over head for her, you can’t be nearly so methodical as you sound at this moment.”
Feich smiled wryly. “Please, my lord. I fancy I know how to display properly to a young woman. Even this young woman, as peculiar as she is.”
“Peculiar? I’ve heard her called exceptional, magical, rare, even dangerous, but never ‘peculiar.’”
“She is, though. While most girls her age are thinking of the dances they will attend and the dresses they will buy, she thinks of Caraid-land and its spiritual malaise. Her passion is for your people, Cyne Colfre. Her longing is to heal your urchins and re-educate your Osraed.”
“What? Can you expect me to believe there is no midge of womanly desire in her? Have we some sort of unnatural saint on our hands?”
The tickle in Daimhin Feich’s breast moved southward; he could no longer attribute it to irritation. “Unnatural ... yes, she is that, in her way. I do sense a certain ... breathlessness in her when we touch, but it’s an alien thing. One moment I believe she’s like one of your roses; easily bruised. The next moment, I’m just as convinced the whole thing is a facade and ... and I shall soon encounter thorns. Whichever—she is as you said: She does things no seventeen year old girl should do. She thinks things no seventeen year old girl should think.”
Colfre smiled, as if enjoying his Durweard’s unease. “Are you admitting to me, Daimhin Feich, that you can’t spark some desire in that young breast? Are you making excuses already?”
“She’s a zealot, sire. Zealots tend to be single-minded in their purpose.”
“A zealot? Is that all she is?” asked Colfre, echoing Daimhin’s inner-most thoughts. “What was it you called her—’a fire-slinging hellion?’ I’ve never seen mere zeal sling that kind of fire.”
“All right, then, she’s a Gifted zealot or a Wicke, just as the Osraed suspect. But, she has her own purposes, sire. Her own agenda.”
“Of course she does. And it’s up to us to bring those purposes into alignment with our own.” Colfre put a hand on his Durweard’s shoulder. “Daimhin, she’s a woman. Or, if you please, a zealot in a woman’s body. Given the right temptation, that body will betray her. She vibrates the air she moves through. Or can’t you feel that?”
Daimhin laughed. “Oh, I feel it.”
“Well, then. She can’t be unaware of that. Nor can she be immune to its effects if we are not.”
Daimhin shook his head, puzzled. “That doesn’t necessarily follow ... . My lord, can this be the same girl about which you expressed such religious concern only days ago?”
They had reached the council chamber and stopped before its closed doors. Colfre turned to face his Durweard. “Daimhin, tell me, do you believe Taminy-a-Cuinn is divine?”
Feich blinked. “You’re serious.”
“My question is a serious one, yes.”
“Then, no. I don’t believe it.”
“Then do you believe she is the human expression of the Meri’s powers as latent in the Osmaer?”
“I’m not sure what that means, so I can hardly claim belief in it. I’m not a religious man, as you well know.”
“Well, then, do you believe she is a being who—how can I put it—could in any way threaten your existence?”
“Politically, perhaps.”
“Spiritually?”
“No, I don’t believe that either. I’m not even sure what ‘spiritually’ means—if it means anything at all.”
“Well then, you have nothing to fear from her. You have no reason not to view her as a desirable, obtainable, politically important young woman over whom you find it expedient to gain control. I must trust you to use your own judgment and not to violate my best interests. I can have no effect on your beliefs, Daimhin. Nor can you have any effect on mine.”
Feich grimaced. “Meaning,” he said, “that if I were to ... engender her wrath instead of her love and she did turn out to be divine or at least divinely powerful, you could stand clear beneath the awning of your own piety and bemoan my fate.” He shook his head. “Oh, sire, I wouldn’t be so certain. It seems to me you lose out no matter what happens.”
“How so?”
“Well, consider the opportunity—if she is not divine, you’ll have no joy of her. I will. If she is divine, she has already peeked into the darkest recesses of your heart and will know that I’m only an amoral agent doing your bidding.”
Colfre flushed to the roots of his hair. “You don’t have to do anything,” he murmured, glancing about as if suddenly aware of their surroundings. “I did not command you to seduce her, if that’s what you’re about. All I’ve asked of you, Durweard Feich, is that you help me obtain the girl’s friendship and endorsement.”
“Is her endorsement that important?”
“My friend, it is critical. Why do you doubt it?”
“Perhaps because I’m not sure that controlling her will be as easy as you think.”
“I don’t care how easy it is—or is not. She is our best and only tool for completely breaking the Osraed grip on Caraid-land. I can’t put off the Hall’s business indefinitely—not without an impelling reason that the people will support. Whether the Hall comes apart over this issue or whether they condone her or whether they condemn her, I will win the control the Throne should have—should always have had—if she stands with me. The majority of Osraed in the Hall are Tradists. They have always been my allies, but in this matter ...” He shook his head. “The damned fools resist change and prattle about covenants and divine will. Osraed Ealad-hach will arrive in Creiddylad tonight. Tomorrow, he’ll bring charges against Taminy. Every Tradist eye in the Hall will be on him. They will take him seriously simply because he has lead them for so long.”
“You fear he’ll rally them?”
“I’ve given him no time for that, but he may confuse them, divide them against me. Then again, he may make such a fool of himself that none of them will want to associate themselves with his views. We’re going to fill the public galleries with Taminy’s worshippers, Daimhin. That is the crowd poor old Ealad-hach will play to. If he gets support from his cronies, louder voices will drown it out.” Colfre smiled and inclined his head toward the double doors of the council chamber. His Durweard moved swiftly to open them.
The Cyne’s Privy Council consisted of
eight members representing, equally, the noble Houses, the landed Eiric and merchants, the Ministers, and the Osraed. As tradition dictated, Daimhin Feich represented his own House there, in addition to being the Cyne’s closest advisor. If the rest of them were not Colfre’s hand-picked men, they were at least men who had never shown any sharp disagreement with his policies.
Except, of course, for Iobert Claeg.
There had always been a Claeg on the Privy Council, dating from the time it was a Hall-appointed device to keep the Cyne’s behavior in check. They were a disagreeable lot, an historically rebellious lot, and Daimhin Feich believed the Claeg Chief was the only man on the Council who was not at least somewhat intimidated by Colfre Malcuim. His eyes sought Iobert Claeg as Colfre addressed the Council. He was a fierce looking man, nearing middle age, with steel in his soul that made eyes, voice—everything about him—bristle like an armory. He continued to bristle throughout Colfre’s talk of Taminy’s sweetness and the kindness inherent in her miracles, of the fact that she harbored no animosity toward those who had accused her of Wickery and heresy. Finding the Claeg Chief unreadable, he turned his attention to Cyne Colfre’s words.
“You, gentlemen,” the Cyne was saying, “will now put Taminy’s case before your peers in the Hall. You will share with them the written record of what I found in Nairne’s Osraed court. In a day’s time, they will be called upon to decide if Taminy-a-Cuinn is heretic or victim of fundamentalist prejudice. Let them know that their Cyne believes she is the latter—an innocent victim.”
“How-?” began Ladhar and stopped, his face coloring. “And if they ask how an innocent can perpetrate such acts, show such signs as she does?”
“Perpetrate?” Colfre repeated. “We are speaking of miracles, Abbod. I’ve seen them. You’ve seen them. The people of Creiddylad have seen them.” He smiled broadly. “They love her, Osraed Ladhar, because she has befriended them. How can such a friend be suspected of heresy? Simply tell the Osraed of the Hall how very much she is loved.”
Ladhar was silent after that, and all remaining questions came from Iobert Claeg. Between them, Daimhin and his Cyne answered them one by one, not expecting for a moment that the Claeg Chieftain believed any of it.
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