Taminy

by Bohnhoff, Maya Kaathryn

  Feich shook his handsome head. “I’m a dense individual, Minister Cadder. Dense and suspicious. Taminy-a-Cuinn wastes her efforts on me. But the Cyne—that’s another matter.”

  Cadder came several paces nearer the younger man, still examining him. “You sound so casual—so unconcerned. Have you no reaction to her miracles?”

  “I suppose I am amazed by them—when they first occur.”

  “And do believe their source to be divine?”

  Feich smiled. “No.”

  “Then have you no fear for the soul of your Cyne?”

  “I can’t say that I fear for his soul, Minister. I’m not certain he possesses one. Why should I waste my fear?” He ignored Feanag’s hiss of disbelief and continued. “I do, however, fear for his life and his throne and his people. Yes, I do fear for Colfre. I don’t like to see him manipulated by a shrewd magician.”

  “A magician? Is that what you think of Taminy-a-Cuinn?”

  Cadder’s scorn was palpable. “Believe me, what she did with the Osmaer Crystal was no mere magic.”

  “Ah, but I didn’t see that. I have only a second-hand tell. I never believe hearsay. Besides, I was not thinking of her so much as that peculiar Osraed of hers.”

  “Bevol?”

  “Aye, Bevol. Now, there’s a grand manipulator.”

  Cadder moved even closer to Feich, his body and face speaking the language of conspiracy. “You disliked what you saw of him today in the Hall?”

  “I did. Heartily. But I can hardly disregard the desires of my Cyne and pursue my own opinions. I can advise Colfre; I cannot command him.”

  “And if you could, would you ... put and end to this manipulation of the throne?”

  Feich nodded, his face completely sober. “Most assuredly.”

  Cadder studied that face for a moment then glanced at his tight-lipped peer. “Then, you would be pleased to see the Wicke destroyed?”

  Feich blinked. “The Wicke? Why destroy her?” His emphasis fell gently on the last word.

  “She’s evil. She’s the manipulator of our Cyne, whom you-”

  Feich was laughing. “Open your eyes, Cleirach. It isn’t Taminy who is evil. It isn’t Taminy who manipulates. I doubt she even authors those so-called miracles that so impress our unlettered brethren. She’s a toy, gentlemen. As Colfre is a toy. As the Cwen and the Riagan and, yes, your dear Abbod are toys.” He held up a finger. “The player, gentlemen—the player is Bevol.” Feich paused, glancing from one Cleirach to the other, then said, “I must be going. This is hardly the time for frivolous conversation. I adjure you, Ministers, do return to your Pillars and attempt to sway them to the right way. We tread a dangerous path.”

  He slipped out as he had come in—swift and quiet—leaving a silence behind him that was as tightly woven as any inyx.

  The Cleirach Feanag swallowed noisily, straining silence’s fabric. “Is he right? Is Osraed Bevol that powerful—that evil?”

  Cadder’s hooded eyes forfeited nothing of his thoughts. “It makes a certain sense. Think, Feanag. The power she’s displayed are those of a consummate Weaver, not a child barely old enough to be out of Prenticeship. Not a female. Even a Wicke shouldn’t be able to field such power. But an Osraed ...”

  “An Osraed mighty and learned enough to be at Apex,” added Feanag.

  “Yes. I believe he may be right.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We do what the Durweard suggests; we attempt to sway our peers.” He clapped his associate on the shoulder then, and hurried him from the room.

  In a seaward window embrasure, the curtains kicked as at a swift breeze. But it was not a breeze that descended, on four feet, to the floor.

  Airleas, his face pale, turned to his companion, quivering a little in fear-dappled rage. “What does it mean, Skeet? What was Daimhin saying?”

  The older boy’s mouth was set in a grim line. “Nothing but what he wanted those two to understand.”

  oOo

  Daimhin Feich watched his Cyne for several seconds from the shadowed doorway before making his way out onto the bridge to the Blue Pavilion. He knew Colfre well—better than anyone else did, including Cwen Toireasa. They had been raised almost as brothers, for Colfre’s father, Ciarda, had been an egalitarian monarch, loathe to separate his son from the children of the noble Houses. Because of his father’s duties as Chancellor, Daimhin’s family had lived at court; the two boys had chased through the same gardens, eaten at the same table, and played the same games.

  Daimhin Feich looked at Colfre now and wondered if that was still true or if the game had changed ... or if they had. And when? Could he trace Colfre’s erratic behavior to his meeting with Taminy-a-Cuinn, or had it begun when he first conceived of himself as the first Osric of Caraid-land? And at what point had Colfre Malcuim begun to have secrets?

  Daimhin crossed the bridge, drawing a smile from his sovereign. And what is going on in the royal head now, my lord? He did not return the smile. “Sire, the Pillars of the Hall seem to believe they have come to some decision.”

  Something like fear flickered momentarily in Colfre’s light eyes but the smile barely faltered. “They’ve reached agreement? I suppose I can’t be surprised.”

  “Agreement? I think not. But I’m told they’ve come to terms.”

  Colfre shrugged, not quite able to make the gesture nonchalant. “With?”

  “They won’t discuss that with us, sire. Why break centuries of tradition because of one unprecedented event? They’ll announce in chambers.”

  Colfre said nothing, merely nodding his head like an old woman, again and again.

  Frustrated with his silence, Daimhin asked, “What if they condemn her?”

  “Does it matter? The people will condemn them, I will do likewise, and she ... she will do whatever she does.”

  “And if they endorse her?”

  “Then she will endorse me.”

  “And the Osraed?”

  “And the Osraed, and the Osraed. What do I care for the Osraed?” Colfre leaned forward on his bench, fist clenched before his face. “I have them, Daimhin. Either way, I will remove them from power.”

  “You believe Taminy will confirm you as Osric?”

  “Of course she will.”

  “If Bevol desires it.”

  “Whether or not Bevol desires it.”

  Daimhin studied his lord for a moment, uncertain he wanted to ask about this sudden certainty. But he did ask. “And what fills you with such certainty?”

  Colfre’s smile widened to a white gleam in the slight duskiness. “I have dreamed.”

  Daimhin was sure his face must look at least as blank as his mind had become. “Sire?”

  Colfre rose to face him, his face alight with a strange, eager, sweating wonder. “Last night I dreamed. I dreamed I was walking in my gardens and saw a rose growing there that surpassed all others in beauty. Its petals were clear, transparent and golden. I went to pick it from the bush, but a raven flew down and tried to pluck the flower from me. Before I could chase the wretched creature away, the rose burst into flame. And I ... I was transformed into a dove—my namesake. I spread my wings and flew above Mertuile. Then I woke. I didn’t realize what it meant until the Assembly met this morning. I was afraid at first. I’m not ashamed to admit it. But then, I realized it was supposed to happen that way. The Rose burst into flame today, Daimhin. I will soon soar in the updraft of those flames. I have but to let Taminy-Osmaer work her will, and I will be Osric of Caraid-land.”

  Daimhin did not need to ask if he truly believed that—the answer was written plainly in Colfre’s face. Whether he really believed it or not, he wanted to and therefore would.

  Colfre rubbed his palms together. “Shall we hear their decision?”

  “Sire, in view of what you’ve told me, I think it might be a good idea if we waited until morning.”

  “Why so?”

  “We should formulate how we will respond in each eventuality. And we should disc
uss the options with Taminy.”

  “I told you, Daimhin, we don’t need to do that. She’ll know what to do. We’ve only ourselves to worry about.”

  Daimhin bit back his frustration. “Of course. Then we shall plan only for what we need to say and how to say it. There is, too, a third possibility—by far the most likely. And that is that the Pillars will agree within their respective groups, but not as a whole.”

  “So much the better. Divided, they look like a directionless rabble. It will be obvious that the Spirit does not guide them.”

  Daimhin nodded. “I see, lord. Yes, of course, we must prepare for that eventuality also.”

  “We will be prepared for any eventuality, Daimhin.”

  Daimhin Feich nodded again and managed a conspiratorial smile. He left his Cyne’s presence knowing that if they were to be prepared for any eventuality, he would have to see to it.

  oOo

  Bevol folded his stole onto the foot of the bed and coiled his prayer chain atop it. The crystal caught fire from the bedside lightglobe, winking into the semi-darkness of the chamber. “I’ll take a walk before I retire, Pov,” he said.

  “Yes, Maister.” Skeet bobbed to his feet.

  Bevol smiled. “Alone.”

  The boy’s lips compressed. “Then you’ll be taking your crystal, surely.”

  “No need.”

  Dark eyes flitted to the window and back. “Maister ...”

  “Pov-Skeet, you’ve acquitted yourself well these years. My Weard and companion, worthy protégé ... son. Strange, the way the Meri answers prayer. Childless, I have had more sons and daughters than most two men. You” —he pointed at Skeet’s nose— “were a particular surprise.” There was no answering grin. He didn’t expect one. “You’ve made safe those papers, have you?”

  “Aye.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t like to think someone could sneak in here and snatch them while I’m out strolling. This castle isn’t a friendly place. Still, you know who your friends are.”

  Skeet didn’t reply, but merely looked at him with unreadable eyes. He sighed and held out his arms. The boy flew into them and clung, reminding Bevol—if he needed reminding—that there really was a boy, after all, beneath Skeet’s peculiar poise.

  Anomalies—I am surrounded by them.

  “Be safe, Maister.” The voice was muffled against Bevol’s robe.

  He chuckled. “I am always safe, Skeet. Always.”

  He closed the door behind him, but did not, for a moment, imagine that it would create a barrier to Skeet. Those eyes would be on him, regardless of walls or doors or circumstances.

  He eschewed the floral gardens this evening and made his way leisurely along the battlements on the seaward side of the castle. He was in no hurry; the sea air was to be savored. The sky was still red to the West and he was no more than a silhouette against it—a shadow drifting toward absorption by the coming night.

  He sensed before he heard the approach of others. They came along the walk from the shadows of one great tower, stealthily, they imagined.

  “Good-evening, gentlemen,” he greeted them, and couldn’t help but chuckle at the surprise in their half-masked faces. “Will you join me in my walk?”

  CHAPTER 19

  Has My patience made you bold and my mercy made you careless? In search of fire, you follow your passions along treacherous paths. You eschew the Sun in favor of a manmade flame. Do you think Me unaware?

  — The Book of Pilgrimages

  (Osraed Aodaghan)

  The house was neither spare nor lavish, its neighborhood neither poor nor rich. Both were unremarkable, but Iseabal was thrilled, nonetheless, by the thought that, here, she would meet others who believed in Taminy-Osmaer. They went to the front door, which surprised Iseabal. Somehow she thought they ought to be sneaking through darkened alley-ways to secret chambers.

  When the door was opened to them, their escort, Haesel, held up her left hand, exposing the palm to the master of the house. A greeting was given and, one by one, the Nairnians passed through the portal, each showing his or her palm to the doorkeep.

  That turned out to be a portly, greying gentleman with a ruff of wiry beard and a distinct twinkle in his eyes. He told them his name was Grimnis. Iseabal liked him on sight.

  The others were in a large candle-lit inner room. They seemed unsurprised that Haesel Sweep had brought new faces with her, but only looked up with friendly curiosity when she and the master of the house led them in. Of great surprise to Iseabal was that the leader of the group, or at least its present focus, was an Osraed. The man was younger than her father, but similar in build and carriage. He greeted them cordially, seeming especially pleased to see another Osraed, then introduced them around the group.

  There were eighteen of them, all told—old, young, rich, poor and in-between—and Iseabal felt as if she knew each and every one of them and had for a very long time. It was an odd feeling; though her eyes told her their faces were unfamiliar, her spirit informed her otherwise.

  The tall, spare Osraed, Fhada, explained that they awaited a decision; the Hall would confirm that it believed Taminy to be Osmaer, or it would reject her.

  “And if they reject her?” asked Saxan. “What will you do then?”

  Fhada smiled. “We don’t know. But we’re sure to receive guidance. Each of us, from the moment She spoke to us, has received guidance. If not for that, we would never have been able to find each other.”

  A commotion from the hallway preceded the arrival of the Osraed Lealbhallain. Iseabal and her companions had little chance to react to his unexpected presence, for everyone else in the room at once clamored for him to speak.

  He did speak, blinking in disbelief at the familiar faces he saw. What he said was, “There’s been no decision. Osraed Bevol has disappeared.”

  oOo

  “I’m very sorry about your friend.” Cwen Toireasa trailed elegant fingers over the marble balustrade. Her eyes, shadowed with concern, searched the grain her fingertips traced as if the answer were there. “With your Gift, can’t you tell what’s happened to him?”

  Taminy shook her head, not quite rousing herself from her own contemplation of the glen in which they strolled—a place with a tiny stream and a fish-filled pond that reminded her of her forest glen at home. But this glade was enclosed within tall gray walls; only the air here was free.

  “It’s as if a door closed, cutting off all light and sound. He’s gone.”

  The Cwen’s face paled. “Do you think he’s dead?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never felt another person’s death before—not really. Before, when I was ... the Vessel, death only made people clearer—stronger.”

  Toireasa gazed at her with wonder. “Death is not an end?”

  “Not to the Meri. Not to the Spirit.” She watched her fingers twist the sash at her waist. “My parents died while I was in the Sea. I felt them each grow in brilliance at the moment they fled their bodies. I felt them touch on me with joy. I was joined to them, linked—indissolubly, I thought. Until I stepped out of the Sea. Then they were muted to whispers and I was alone. Except for Osraed Bevol and Skeet and Gwynet. Now, there’s only Skeet, and the Cyne won’t let me see him.”

  The Cwen laid a hand on Taminy’s shoulder. “Do you know who has done this? Is it ... my husband who’s caused Osraed Bevol to disappear?”

  Taminy shook her head. “I don’t know, mistress. I sense hostility beyond the walls of Mertuile ... and within them. I don’t think any one man is responsible.”

  The Cwen nodded. “I’ll arrange for you to see Skeet. Colfre need not know—nor Daimhin Feich.” She glanced across the glade to where servants prepared refreshment beneath the carefully supported boughs of a gnarled conifer. “Tea’s ready now,” she said, and turned.

  There was a shout from somewhere above them—a commotion high up on the inner wall. Distracted, Taminy turned, shielding her eyes against the Sun. There was movement amid the bright light, venom amid the
movement. Something whistled through the air and Cwen Toireasa screamed. Taminy’s world tumbled suddenly end over end as someone hit her, knocking her to the ground. Sound warped into a cascade of shouts and screams. Then she was being dragged bodily toward the castle.

  She had Woven a Ward without thinking about it. Now she strengthened the shield, making her assailant gasp and let loose of her.

  “My lady!”

  In the lee of Mertuile’s sheltering haunch, she turned and found herself face to face with Daimhin Feich.

  “My lady, are you all right?” His eyes were over-bright and his flesh ashy, though color burned in his cheeks.

  “What happened?” she asked. “Why did you-?”

  Cwen Toireasa was between them then, grasping her shoulders. “Someone shot at us from the inner curtain. A bowman. Are you all right, Taminy? He didn’t-” Her eyes fell to Taminy’s skirts, widening in her blanched face.

  Following them, Taminy saw at once the cause of her fright. A crossbow bolt was lodged in the heavy fabric over her right thigh, its murderous barb shot clean through and out again like a giant’s sewing needle.

  Daimhin Feich gave a strangled cough. “Cyne’s grace, Taminy! You were near hit.”

  He took her arm again, shepherding her up onto the broad stone verandah that adjoined this side of the garden. There he seated her on a padded bench, dropping down beside her, his eyes drowning her in anguish.

  Taminy glanced over his shoulder at Toireasa. She could not have read the other woman’s face, but the feelings behind it darted this way and that around a central core of steely conviction. “I’m going to speak to the Captain of the Guard,” she said. “I want to know how this could happen.”

  Bending to remove the bolt from Taminy’s skirt, Daimhin Feich barely seemed to note the Cwen’s departure. Taminy gazed down on his dark, gleaming hair and found herself courting the most peculiar array of emotions. As if he sensed her regard, the Cyne’s Durweard raised his head and caught her in his eyes, dizzying her. Her heart pounded against sudden restriction and heat rose in her cheeks.

  She did not comprehend what she felt, could not say, “This is good,” or “This is bad.” She could only stare at the man, mute and perplexed.