He suspected it was near dawn, but it hardly mattered. Regardless of the time, Fhada must be told of the aislinn. Leal scrambled to find his boots and coat and hurried to the elder Osraed’s room. It took several moments of tapping before a groggy Fhada let him in.
“Taminy-Osmaer has left Halig-liath,” he blurted, before he’d even cleared the door.
“She—what? How-how do you know this?”
“I had a dream. An aislinn. She’s gone to the Gyldans.”
“Hush!” Fhada pulled Leal completely into the chamber and shut the door firmly behind him. “Are you certain?”
Leal nodded emphatically—flopping unruly red hair into his eyes—and rubbed his coated arms against a frenetic chill. The aislinn still held him, rattling his teeth and quivering his innards.
“I saw the Crystal Rose high over the mountains. Then Taminy, herself, appeared to me and told me she was sending Aine-mac-Lorimer to Creiddylad to teach us.”
“To teach us what?” asked Fhada.
Leal scraped the suddenly empty insides of his mind. “I . . . I’m not sure . . . No, wait. Yes! So we might speak with her as clearly as we speak to each other now.”
The older Osraed peered at him in the mellow light of his single light-bowl, then threw back his head and laughed. “My dear Leal, I hope it’s somewhat clearer than that!”
oOo
Leal came down to breakfast to find an unusually somber Osraed Fhada sitting in the small refectory, staring from the window. His tea mug, clutched in both hands, was quickly losing the heat of its contents to the chilly room.
“Your tea’s getting cold,” Leal told him when he sat down with his breakfast some minutes later.
Fhada’s eyes dropped to the cup; Leal wasn’t sure he actually saw it. “Daimhin Feich paid a visit to Ochanshrine yesterday,” he said.
Leal set down his spoon. “And?”
“According to Osraed Eadmund, he entered the Shrine and displayed some interest in the Stone.”
“Interest?” Leal shrugged. “He’s an unbeliever. What interest could he possibly have in it, other than as a means of coronation?”
“He didn’t mention a coronation, at least not in Eadmund’s hearing. He did express concern that the Crystal seemed . . . lifeless, dark. He evidently regards it as a powerful talisman, regardless of his disbelief in its spiritual significance.”
“But that . . .” Leal shook his head. “That’s good . . . isn’t it?”
Fhada made wry face. “I’m not sure. Whether he believes in the Stone may not be so critical as that he knows we believe in it. Eadmund said the Abbod seemed distressed over Feich’s interest in the Stone. Perhaps he also sees the threat inherent in the situation.”
“You mean that Feich might contrive to use our belief against us—the way he did with Cyne Colfre? The Stone could . . . could become his hostage.” Lealbhallain found it suddenly difficult to breathe. “Eadmund said Osraed Ladhar seemed distressed . . . surely he can be counted on to protect the Stone.”
“Can he? Can we be sure of that?”
Fhada left his stool and moved to dispose of his cold tea. He poured himself another cup from the eternally steaming pot on the stove.
“Ladhar went with Feich to Halig-liath in pursuit of Taminy. He’s a politically astute man. He knows what his presence at Feich’s side implies: that the Osraed are acknowledging Feich’s right to be where he is—ensconced in Mertuile. Leading what’s left of the Cyne’s forces. Placing the Chalice on his battle standard.”
Leal glanced down at his cooling porridge. It no longer seemed appetizing. “I must believe that what binds Ladhar to Feich is a shared hatred of Taminy. A-a desire for order. If Ladhar is not acting out of loyalty to the Covenant—as he perceives it—” If. That hardly bore thinking about. “Might Osraed Eadmund be able to determine where the Abbod’s loyalties lie?”
Fhada shook his head. “I can’t ask the Taminist brethren at Ochanshrine to place their lives in jeopardy. Their very presence there puts them in enough danger. Ladhar already views Eadmund as a weak brother. If he hadn’t been a member of the Osraed Council, and if the Osraed at Ochanshrine weren’t suddenly so loathe to look each other in the eye, he wouldn’t have lasted this long. The others are too junior to draw any interest. In pressing for such information, they could very likely reveal their loyalties.”
Leal nodded. “And leave us with no contacts inside the Abbis. We must get to Ladhar, Fhada. There must be some way to get to him.”
Fhada smiled wryly. “I’m too well known there. You might walk up to the gates in your ritual robes and hope to pass without comment, except for that Kiss.” He glanced pointedly at the bright golden star on Lealbhallain’s brow. “Even drabbed, the color would give you away.”
“Still, Siusan’s theatrical cosmetics do a good enough job at most times. As long as no one challenged me . . .”
“Good enough to go about in the street, perhaps. But to enter Ochanshrine? Eadmund says they’re checking visitors very carefully at the gate. However . . . if we were to, say, bump into the Abbod while he was about in Creiddylad . . .”
Leal sat up straight. “That’s it, then. Eadmund can let us know when he leaves.”
“We won’t see Eadmund for three days.”
“Then we must call to him in some way.”
Fhada raised his brows. “Infiltrate his dreams?”
“Why not?”
Fhada came back to the table and sat down next to Leal, eyes intent on the boy’s face. “Do you think you could?”
“Together I know we could. We were able to weave a connection to Osraed Bevol.”
Fhada shook his head. “Bevol was a giant among Osraed. His Gift was as bright and strong as the day it was given. He had knowledge neither we nor Eadmund possess.”
“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately, Osraed? Your Kiss is as bright as a moon. And Eadmund is also a believer.”
Fhada made a wry face, causing Leal to wriggle forward on his stool. “Look, Fhada, if we didn’t have the capacity to Speakweave, Taminy wouldn’t be sending us someone to help us discipline ourselves to do it. No amount of discipline can make up for a nonexistent Gift. We may be weak, but we’re not impotent.”
“Alright, alright. Supposing we could reach Eadmund and either summon him here, or indicate what we want him to do. How does he tell us what we need to know: when Ladhar leaves, where he plans to go?”
Leal was fairly hopping up and down on his stool. “He can come here, he can Weave a reply, he can . . . run up a flag or send pigeons. It doesn’t matter how he gets us the information; that’s up to him. He’s a believer, Fhada, in the Meri—in Taminy. I think—no, I know—that bestows real power.”
Fhada’s brow furrowed.
“Have you forgotten how it was in the Great Hall that day? Have you forgotten the-the blazing light, the sheer power of these?” Leal opened his left hand, and the gytha in his palm gleamed.
“But that was all her doing, Leal. We had no part in that.”
Leal clutched his friend’s sleeve, leaf-green eyes gleaming no less brightly than his gytha. “No, you’re wrong, Fhada. We did have a part in it. We were channels. Imperfect, but usable. That’s what she’s trying to teach us, don’t you see? That we really do have the Gift, and that there’s more to it than we dared dream. We may need training to use it fully but, Fhada, it’s there to use.”
Fhada looked down at the hand on his sleeve. After a moment, he met Leal’s eyes. “Well,” he said, “I don’t suppose it would hurt to try.”
oOo
It was dark yet, and a chill, damp wind twisted the Claeg banner around and around its standard, making the standard-bearer curse and his horse dance nervously over the flagstones of Hrofceaster’s main courtyard.
It was going to be a gray day—colorless—and that suited Aine-mac-Lorimer just fine. A bright flower or a ray of sunlight would have thrown her into a fury; she wanted the weather to agree with her mood. Only that
agreement kept the fury under control.
Damn Wyth Arundel, anyway! Not even offering a word of regret or argument at her leaving. Not that he should be expected to argue with Taminy, but he might have uttered a gasp of protest, a moan of disappointment. But no.
“You’ll want them to leave with the Claeg, then,” he’d said. Like she was a piece of mail, a bit of baggage, a-a nothing! And she’d been stupid enough to think he looked wistful when Taminy first made the announcement—no, the request. A request she had no choice but to honor. Taminy’s requests were like that.
Catching the rebellious tenor of her thoughts, Aine blanched.
Not that she begrudged Taminy anything. She’d go to the ends of the earth for her. Die for her, if necessary. It was just so humiliating to think that Wyth thought so little of her . . .
She was going to go to futile tears in a moment and prayed for something to save her from that. Something turned out to be the strong sensation that someone was watching her.
She raised her eyes. Standing not ten feet away was a young man in Claeg colors holding a large, fractious horse by its bridle. He was regarding her with the most brazen, bald, humiliating directness. Though he was obviously some years her senior, she returned the look with equal brass, her face flaming.
He smiled. It was a harsh smile, not at all friendly or welcoming. “That’s quite a shade of red, cailin,” he said. “You’ll be hard put to hide in Creiddylad.”
He meant her hair, of course, although her face was by now a near match for it. Furious, Aine strode right up to him and peered into his eyes. They were peculiar eyes—as colorless as the morning, if not quite as chill. Camouflage. He thought he could hide behind them.
Odd thought. She tossed it aside and said, “I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself, sir. And I’ll have you know I’ll do no hiding in Creiddylad.”
“Oh, brave words, little one. I’ll remind you of them when you’re quaking beneath your bed some night.”
“I don’t quake,” Aine said, which was a lie, because she was quaking now, albeit with indignation. “And I don’t hide. And I wouldn’t have you within twenty miles of my bed!”
It took Aine only a second to realize how that must have sounded to her adversary. Though the realization came only because she could suddenly read the trickle of wry humor that oozed from him. Her face felt absolutely scalded.
The young man made an odd clicking sound with his tongue. It put her in mind of a fox smacking its chops over a fat young hen.
“My, my!” he murmured. “An outraged virgin. My first. No need to worry, Firepot, I value experience above sport.”
“Sport!” Aine clenched her fists hard enough to drive her nails into her palms. “You’re beyond luck that I don’t know an inyx for making a man’s tongue drop out of his head. But I do know who to give tell of your cheek. I’ll tell The Claeg.”
“Oh? And what will you tell him?”
“That one of his men was rude, insulting, mocking—”
“Cavalier? Insolent?” He was chuckling openly now.
“You won’t laugh when he bastes you for it.”
“Ouch! That sounds rough. I’ve never been basted.”
“Well, then, it’ll be a new experience for you. I hear you value experience.” She turned on her heel (gracefully too, she thought) and marched to where Iobert Claeg was preparing to mount his horse.
She hadn’t a chance to reach him before the whole column mounted and began to swing into line. She was ushered to her own horse, where Taminy and Iseabal and a knot of well-wishers waited to exchange good-byes. Then she was whisked into tearful embraces, loaded with small gifts to put in her pack, patted on the back, kissed on the cheek.
Eventually, she fetched up before Taminy, who took her hands and met her eyes and made the rest of the universe disappear entirely.
“This is not good-bye, Aine,” she said. “Don’t ever believe it is. And when you’re in Creiddylad, don’t ever believe there’s a thing you can’t do. Promise me, Aine. Promise me never to say, ‘I can’t.’”
Of all the things she could have asked. “I . . . of course, I promise.”
Taminy smiled and all of Aine’s anguish and anger at leaving evaporated like dew in the sun. “I love you,” Taminy said, and Aine poured herself into her Mistress’s arms.
“I love you,” she murmured close to her ear and, “Take care of Wyth.”
Taminy laughed softly. “Wyth thinks he’s supposed to take care of me.”
In mere moments Aine was mounted and riding next to Iseabal behind Iobert Claeg. They’d just cleared the gates and begun the short descent into Airdnasheen when she remembered that there were words she must have with the Claeg Chieftain. She gave her horse the heel and came level with him.
“Pardon, sir, but may I speak to you for a moment?”
The cloud-belly eyes moved to assess her. She seemed to please them, for the great man smiled at her and nodded for her to continue.
“As we prepared to leave, one of your men offered me the direst insult.”
The Claeg’s glower was like the sudden assault of a gale force wind. “What insult?”
“Well sir, he—” Now that she’d gotten this far, she was suddenly at a loss. What exactly had he said? “First, he ridiculed the color of my hair which, as you can see, is a rather . . . forceful shade of red.”
The glower lightened and he eyed that feature respectfully; long streamers of it had escaped Aine’s cowl and jigged about her head.
“Oh, aye,” he agreed. “That it is.”
“Then, he accused me of cowardice—implying that I was going to Creiddylad to hide. Sir, I am no coward.”
The Claeg nodded, his face smoothing further. “No. Apparently not.”
“And finally, he . . . I hardly know how to put it into words, sir. He impugned my-my maidenhood and made ribald comments about-about experience and . . . and sport.”
The storm was back. “Sport? Who spoke to you like this? Point him out to me! By the Meri’s Kiss, if we have to go through every man in this column—”
Aine turned in her saddle, peering over her left shoulder at the double rows of horsemen. It hadn’t occurred to her that she’d have to sort through every man here. She met Iseabal’s startled eyes for a moment.
What are you doing? The thought was as clear as if the other girl had spoken it.
Aine turned back round and swung her gaze over to the right. Seated on the horse flanking hers was the man with the colorless eyes. The wry grin that passed for a smile was still smugly in place.
“Why it’s him!” said Aine and pointed as dramatically as she could.
When she looked back at Iobert Claeg, his face was a-flicker with warring emotions: Fury, exasperation, resignation.
“Cailin, what you say about this fellow doesn’t surprise me. He is rude, unpleasant, stubborn, impudent, vulgar and mouthy. But since he is also my nephew, I suppose I must forgive him those things. I only hope you can find it in your heart to do the same.”
Aine whirled on the elder Claeg. “Your nephew?”
“Aye. That’s Saefren Claeg, my field Marschal.”
“But he-he called me a firepot!”
Saefren Claeg’s grin dug further in to Aine’s ego. “Well, Uncle did say I was mouthy. When you know me better, you’ll appreciate that that’s one of my better qualities.”
Aine’s anger turned cold in her breast. “I’ve no doubt I would, if I was to get to know you better—which I won’t.” She turned her horse back and made her way several mounted pairs deep in the column, her face burning so hot even the icy wind couldn’t cool it.
Iseabal joined her a moment later, eyes enormous. “What was that all about? Did Saefren Claeg really say those terrible things to you?”
“Of course he did, Isha.” She raised her hand, baring the gytha on the palm. “Do you imagine I’d lie? Only I can’t believe The Claeg, defending him like that!”
“Now, Aine, he didn�
��t actually defend him. He merely asked you to forgive him. Besides, look—” She nodded toward the head of the column where Iobert and Saefren Claeg rode side by side.
The Chieftain’s face looked like the dark side of hell and he was apparently giving his kinsman a severe tongue lashing.
Although the younger man’s mouth popped open once or twice, it formed no words and finally he spurred his horse and trotted ahead.
Aine smiled.
Well, Saefren Claeg. Now you do know what it feels like to be basted.
oOo
The tiny, lightless world reeled and jigged and creaked like a boat with a drunken helmsman. Within, in a cocoon of wool and fur, Airleas rattled back and forth, up and down; rolled this way and that. Fleece tickled his nose; the tiny burrs in it itched.
A late clipping, indeed. The entire fabric of early autumn was imbedded in it. At least he was warm—too warm. The only part of him that was not over-heated by now was his sense of adventure. That had been replaced by fatigue from the constant swaying and bouncing and trying to lie still in a world that refused to be still.
How long, he wondered, must he lie here in beneath this freight of pathetic Hillwild produce before it would be safe to emerge? How far must they go before turning back became impossible? He had no way of knowing how long he’d already been here; he’d certainly have to count in something other than conventional time: five thousand bumps, four hundred jostles and fifty-seven full-on bounces.
Oh, at least that long.
Of course it would be best to wait until nightfall before he took a chance on showing himself. He imagined slipping from the narrow covered wagon into scattered firelight, his soft-shod feet silent as a catamount’s on the chill rock of Baenn-an-ratha, his eyes scanning the huddled groups of men hard at their eating and drinking and storytelling. He’d smell the food cooking, and hungry, would sneak along the line of horses—closer, closer to one of the firelit groups.
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