Taminy shook herself. I shouldn’t listen to this. Only Catahn’s words should tell me tales of his life.
“Why should I hear this?” she asked.
“He takes you into his home. He calls you ‘Mistress’ and ‘Lady.’ Should you not be aware of the flaws of those who serve you?”
“Catahn is no more my servant Eyslk is, mam.”
“Oh no, of course. He’s your friend. Your bosom companion. But he would be more, if you bid him. So, I warn you what sort of man you’ve Woven to your side.”
“You mistake me, mam. I Weave no inyx to ensure Catahn’s loyalty. He is where he desires to be.”
The other woman laughed aloud at that. “I think not. But beware, or he will be.”
Eyslk all but fell through the door then, spilling tea and cakes onto the floor in her haste. “Mama! Mama! You’re-you’re—! I heard you laugh! Oh, Taminy, you’ve healed her! Oh, let me tell Step-da!” Then she was gone again, leaving the upset tea things on the floor.
Taminy rose. “You don’t need my help, mam, so I’d best leave. If you ever do need me, call, and I’ll come.”
“What will you tell my family?”
“That you’ve healed. The rest is up to you.”
She turned to leave just as Garradh-an-Caerleul and his sons rushed in. They beamed at her, then gave their full attention to Deardru. Taminy slipped quietly into the hallway and was surprised to find Eyslk waiting for her in the parlor. The girl’s face was an agony of indecision and anxiety matched and amplified by her unabashed chaos of spirit.
“Mistress Taminy,” she whispered. “I-I heard—oh, more than I ought!” Her eyes went to tears. “Oh, please, I can’t imagine why Mama’d do such a thing as this, or say such things about Uncle. I’ve always known they didn’t get on, but—oh, Taminy, I’m so sorry!”
She put a hand on the girl’s shoulder, blocking her own distress from flowing between them. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Eyslk. You couldn’t have known what your mother meant to do.”
“Couldn’t I? She’s my mother. And I’m supposed to have the aidan. How could I not know?”
“Having the aidan and learning to use it are two different things, Eyslk. One of the most important things you must learn is that strong emotions like fear and worry and anger can make the aidan capricious and harder to discipline.”
“So we must avoid strong emotion?”
Taminy smiled, taking a tighter hold on her own inner processes. “No, we must learn to control both the emotion and the aidan so that they become a help to each other and not a hindrance. Now, then, will I see you tomorrow up at Hrofceaster?”
Eyslk managed a weak smile and nodded. “If you’ll have me, Mistress.”
Taminy shook her gently. “Of course I’ll have you, Eyslk. Tomorrow. I’ll teach you how to start the fire without your precious flints.”
The smile was genuine this time. Taminy carried it with her on the walk back up to Hrofceaster, as if with that warm amulet she might ward off the unsettling effects of Deardru-an-Caerluel’s accusations.
Chapter 7
You truly cannot guide whom you desire; but the Spirit guides whom It will and It, alone, knows who will yield to guidance.
—from the Testament of Osraed Bevol
The place was dark, and fog clung to him like a shroud of damp gauze, choking every pore. He was walking, but realized he had no idea where he was going or why. He wallowed for a moment in weightless, placeless confusion. Was he moving toward a goal or fleeing an enemy? Was he awake or dreaming?
In the instant the question was asked, it was answered, and now, consciously dreaming, Caime Cadder struggled for awareness of his surroundings. He was not often visited by dreams; when they came, he took them as welcome affirmations of his worthiness to serve the Osraed—or as chastisement from his divine Mistress. He didn’t know which this would be, and so waited—anticipating, dreading—for the aislinn world to reveal itself.
A point of light pricked the darkness and, before his straining eyes, the fog lightened, struggling from black to gray. He glanced quickly around; on all other sides, the clinging veil of darkness pressed against him. He edged forward, the light his goal. Ages or moments later he attained its precincts, entering a circle of gleaming mist that seemed to lock behind him, closing in the light and its source. He saw that source now, at the center of the circle—the Osmaer Crystal on its burnished pedestal.
He was not surprised, but awed. He fell to his knees, worshipful. A bounty, this was. Only in his dream was he allowed to face the Osmaer without Ladhar or some other Osraed as intermediary and guardian. He resented that and despised the resentment. It only served to remind him that it was through his own poverty of spirit that he was not, himself, Osraed.
Now the resentment was quelled. Neither Ladhar nor his lieutenants were in sight. Caime Cadder was alone with Ochan’s fabulous and holy Relic. Without their censuring presence, he dared approach it. He could feel—yes, feel, with every fiber—its warm, life-giving emanations.
But no, it did not emanate, it channeled, reflected, refracted. It was the Meri who fed Her healing rays through the earthy substance, who brought light to its cold facets. Staring into those facets, longing, adoring, Caime Cadder became only gradually aware of another presence in the chamber of mist.
He glanced up past the Crystal, his eyes drawn to an amorphous cloud of luminance behind it. Cadder licked dreamer’s lips, aislinn eyes bright. For a moment he let himself hope that this night he would be granted his heart’s desire—that what he had denied himself on his Pilgrimage, the Meri would grant him in this corridor to the Eibhilin world.
A glance, he prayed. A glance, only.
The paeri form resolved itself gracefully, taking on a female shape.
Cadder shivered, uncertain. Perhaps he should avert his eyes; perhaps he should genuflect. He only knew that this time he would not turn and run. He would not. But as the image struggled to clarity, it seemed to the bemused cleirach that it was too human. He could now make out features. He could now—
His entire being froze, hopes unraveling into chaos. In less than a heartbeat, he fell from bliss to terror and stood face to face with his nemesis. The aislinn Taminy-a-Cuinn smiled at him—he quivered with dread and disgust. She held out her gleaming arms to him—he flinched away, but he would not run. He must not. This scene played on an aislinn stage and his Mistress’ eyes watched his spirit’s every move.
Evil. Oh, evil!
Yet between him and that, the Stone. Yes, the Stone would protect him. He smiled into the Golden Wicke’s face and stepped closer, bringing the Osmaer within arm’s reach.
As if to mock his certitude, the Wicke reached out her white hands and laid them upon the Crystal. In response, the facets exploded with light.
If he had been corporeal, Cadder would have shrieked aloud. But he was mute and the shrill sound of his cries reverberated only in his mind. Fool, he was, to believe the Stone could Weave its own protection. He’d seen the Wicke lay hands on it in the Shrine, to his personal pain and humiliation. Now, he recognized this nightmare as the Eibhilin shadow of that waking one. He had failed then. He could only view this dream as a second chance to succeed.
He could see now what he had been meant to see before—that this Wicke was indeed an Evil Being of such great power that she could manipulate even the Stone of Ochan. It was no wonder that Daimhin Feich trembled in fear of her. How was Ladhar so dense that he did not?
Why am I receiving this vision?
It came to Caime Cadder forcefully as he stared into the Wicke’s green eyes that he must be in a position to protect the Stone. Protect it he must. His aislinn self reached out to pry the Evil’s hands from the Great Crystal. Her flesh was warm, soft. The surprise of that hit him with the same force as the blinding wash of radiance that blew him back into the realm of Form and Shadow.
Waking, quaking, Caime Cadder lay and considered his dream. He had been shown two things: Feich was
right about the immensity of Evil’s power and Ladhar was a fool.
oOo
It seemed as if they had been on the road for weeks when at last the ramparts of Halig-liath came into view through the forest canopy. One moment they were riding in the chill, fragrant gloom of the deep pines, the next the boughs thinned to let through a cascade of sunlight and a view of Halig-liath gleaming atop its palisade.
Aine was inordinately thrilled to see it. Somehow she had expected it to have been washed away in the great tide of war she had once dreamed, or reduced to a ruin by Daimhin Feich and his allies. But no, Taminy had been right; Feich had not yet budged from Creiddylad and Halig-liath still stood guard over Nairne’s beautiful river bend.
“Happy to be home?”
Aine jerked her head around, startled. Where Iseabal had been not a moment ago rode Saefren Claeg. She swept him with her eyes and her aidan, but found his thoughts as hard to read as his colorless eyes.
She shrugged, too tired just now to be prickly. “I’ll only be here as long as your uncle is willing to stay. Besides, it doesn’t much feel like home anymore.”
Saefren returned the shrug, his eyes now on the sun-washed fortress. “You don’t have to go on to Creiddylad, surely. At least not right away. Why not visit awhile, then take the river packet down?”
Aine glared at him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she retorted, then grasped tight hold of her temper and shook it. “I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to suffer my bad company all the way to Creiddylad.”
“It’s been months since you’ve seen your family, girl. Don’t you want to stay?”
“Taminy wants me to go to Creiddylad—with you. Now.”
“So you’ll obey. Without question or thought. Have you no sense of family, Aine-mac-Lorimer?”
Fire blazed in her head, making her face hot and prickly. “I have every sense of family, Saefren Claeg. Only my family’s gotten much bigger suddenly. My family in Nairne is safe and happy. My family in Creiddylad needs me more.”
Saefren shook his head. “You lot boggle me.”
“Us lot?”
“Taminists. Do you know, my uncle firmly expects to find The Gilleas awaiting us in Nairne with his chief Elders?”
“I know. Taminy said he’d be here.” She glanced back up through the trees at Halig-liath, framed now by the golds and reds of autumn. “He’s up there.”
She was both surprised and pleased by that freshly caught knowledge, annoyed when Saefren’s chuckle of derision snuffed her pleasure.
“Like I said, you lot boggle me. Pretend all you like, Lady Firepot. But you’ll soon find that all the make-believe in the world won’t make it so. Your Lady’s talismans are empty and so’s Halig-liath, I’ll wager.”
Aine looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”
He leaned toward her, making her wish she dared reach out and yank him out of his saddle. “I’ve glimpsed the ‘messages’ Taminy-Osmaer’s dispatched for the noble Houses. There’s nothing in them.”
Face flushing hot and cold, Aine faced front. What could he mean—nothing in them? In a moment, indignity had settled on her and she prayed time would speed so Saefren-the-Smug could sooner learn how wrong he was.
oOo
They entered Nairne along the up-river road from Lin-liath, banners snapping. It seemed the whole town had come out to meet them. The redhead’s parents appeared and literally dragged her from her mount in their exuberance. Wasted on her, Saefren thought, though she returned tear for tear and smile for smile.
The dark-haired beauty, Iseabal, was already shedding tears of her own and begging to know if her own parents were at home. Finally, she got word from some scrub-faced boy that her da was up at Halig-liath and turned her horse cross-river. Iobert bid his men accompany her, and so they left the Lorimer tribe by the wayside, still making much over their big, fire-breathing daughter.
Once across the river, they caught a cross-road that ran east up the flank of the holy hill and west past the village Cirke. Above the autumnal glory of its surrounding grove of trees, the Cirke spire showed its stellate crown. The Cirkemaster’s girl laid her pretty eyes longingly on the place, on the woman who had appeared behind a gate in the low wall.
The girl raised her hand and waved, reining her horse toward the Cirke grove. The woman turned away and disappeared beneath the trees.
His eyes on Iseabal’s pale, tragic face, Iobert Claeg turned the column eastward and led up the long ridge to Halig-liath.
The gates were wide open—a thing Saefren thought peculiar and fool-hardy under the circumstances. In the huge central courtyard, a bevy of Osraed and Prentices met them. Foremost among these was the Cirkemaster, Saxan, and the rotund, bird-eyed Tynedale.
Iobert Claeg had no sooner delivered the Cirkemaster’s tearful daughter into his arms than he asked the man where he might find The Gilleas.
Saefren felt his face burn warm with embarrassment. He glanced away, making a point of ordering the horses fed and watered. When he looked after his uncle again, the Claeg Chieftain was already halfway to the main rotunda of the Osraed academy in the company of Tynedale, Saxan and Iseabal. He trailed them to the Academy’s small sanctuary where they were met by a handful of men in the purple and white of the House Gilleas.
Saefren didn’t know The Gilleas on sight, but his uncle obviously did. He greeted the white-hair in the group and fell to conversing with him in quiet tones.
Bemused, Saefren approached. The damn Wicke had been right. Well, of course, she’d gotten The Gilleas here, but that didn’t mean the summons had come by supernatural means. There were always pigeons.
Uncle had the satchel out now, and withdrew the Gilleas scroll, placing it in the House Chieftain’s hands. “From Taminy-Osmaer,” he said, and stood back to watch The Gilleas open the scroll.
Saefren folded his arms across his chest, eyes on the old man’s face. The twine loosened and fell away, the scroll opened and the shard of crystal rolled out into The Gilleas’s palm. The white brows furrowed as he scanned the scroll. Saefren was vaguely aware of hurried footsteps behind him in the aisle, but did not pull his eyes from the Gilleas Chieftain’s face.
Dark eyes glittered in the light of scattered globes as the old man raised them to Iobert Claeg. “What is this?” he asked, holding the talisman in outstretched hands. The surface of the scroll was as blank as it had been when Saefren had seen it last.
There was a soft intake of breath at his shoulder and a moment later, someone slid past him. It was flame-haired Aine. In a twinkling, she stood face to face with the Gilleas Chieftain and lifted the little shard of stone from his hand. The moment she touched it, the shard’s entire nature changed. Before it had been stone, now it was fire. Before it had been lifeless, now it blazed with kinetic light.
The village cailin held the living flame in her hand and passed it back and forth over the empty scroll—and the scroll was no longer empty. Words appeared there in characters of light. Saefren Claeg could not see what they said, for they seemed to say nothing, but he knew his eyes were as wide as everyone else’s.
Now, Morcar Gilleas’s face bore an expression of complete amazement. His eyes scanned the scroll again, this time filling themselves with the bright words. And when they had read, those eyes glittered with dew. Clutching the scroll to his breast, the old man fell to one knee and kissed Aine-mac-Lorimer’s hand.
The girl withdrew it immediately, the little crystal she held leaking glory through her fingers. “Oh, no sir!” she cried. “You mustn’t bow to me. I’m only Taminy’s student.”
Morcar remained on his knee. “If you are but a student, then your Mistress must be great, indeed. These are her words? This is her fire?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Chieftain rose, his gaze going to the faces of his Elders. The fire of the little shard had leapt to his eyes, and his teeth shown in a fierce grin. “It is just as I remember—just as I told you. She is Osmaer—living link to the Meri. Her
voice, Her face. We, the Gilleas—Disciples of the Meri—are now her disciples.”
oOo
Caime Cadder did not tremble as he made his way to Mertuile the next morning. He did not quake as he followed his Dearg escort to the throne room. Only there, in the presence of Daimhin Feich and his smirking, irreligious minions, did he realize the import of what he intended to do. At the point of quailing, he reminded himself that he had been given the dream. Only he could act on it.
“And what may I do for you today, Minister Cadder?” asked Daimhin Feich, his mouth drawn into that irritating half-grin.
He believes himself superior, Cadder thought. Well, he is superior—a superior idiot.
He lifted his head and said, softly so as not to be overheard by every gaping toady, “Actually, Regent Feich, I have come to discuss what I might do for you.”
Feich’s brows ascended. “Really? And what might you do for me?”
The emphasis in that sentence was enough to make Cadder bristle, but he hid his hackles and leaned closer to the throne in which the usurper sat. “You intimated to Abbod Ladhar that you desire a Weaving stone . . .”
Feich’s expression altered satisfactorily and Cadder leaned away again to watch.
“Let us move our conversation to a more private place,” Feich said, and rose.
The courtiers were left behind; even the ubiquitous young cousin remained outside the confines of the small but sumptuous salon he led his visitor to. Once there, he turned to the cleirach, his pale eyes alight with curiosity.
“You have brought me a rune crystal?”
Cadder nearly laughed. Was the man so daft as to think a mere cleirach might lay hands on a Weaving crystal?
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