“That would not be possible, sir. Only the Chosen have Weaving stones and every one is registered. To possess one, I would have to steal it, and I am no thief.”
Feich frowned. “Then how can you help me?”
Caime Cadder’s resolve almost buckled, then, for he knew he was about to cross over a sacred line. “Perhaps you have wondered where rune crystals are found?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“There is a cave below Ochanshrine,” said Cadder. “The cave in which Ochan originally saw the Meri. He took the Osmaer Crystal from that cave. Every crystal bestowed upon a Pilgrim since that day was cut from the same chamber.”
Daimhin Feich’s eyes lit once again. “The Cave of Ochan! I had thought it merely a legend. There is some truth to the tale, then.”
Cadder bit back a caustic reply. “The legend is entirely true. Ochan’s Crystal exists; his cave exists. And it is the only source of Weaving stones.”
“Then you will get me one.”
“I? No, Regent, I cannot. To do so would be to . . . to violate my oath of service to the Osraed. However, I can tell you how to get into the cave without being observed.”
“And in doing this, you will not be violating your oath of service?”
Feich’s evident amusement nearly cost Cadder his poise. He bit down hard on his wretched pride, on his revulsion at giving a Weaving stone into such hands as Daimhin Feich’s.
“I have no Gift, sir. No . . . talent for the Divine Art. It is clear that you do. At the very least, you have sensed the danger posed by the Wicke of Halig-liath. You recognize her as the source of an immense and palpable Evil—a dark Power. I, personally, believe such a thing is hinted at in our Scripture, yet the wise among us seem not to recognize those references. Therefore they do not recognize the threat.”
“The wise among us . . . You mean Osraed Ladhar, I suppose.”
Cadder put a hand to his breast. Within, his heart clenched with sorrow. “My master regards Taminy-a-Cuinn as a heretical trickster. He refuses to grant her more power than that.”
Daimhin Feich’s expression darkened. “Perhaps she does not invade his dreams, Minister. She does mine.”
“And mine,” Cadder told him. “That is why I am willing to act so . . . incautiously. I understand—that is, it was given to me to understand—what forces she is capable of marshaling if she is allowed to get her hands on the Crystal she has so blasphemously made her namesake.”
The bright Feich eyes pinioned him where he sat. “Do you believe that is her intention? To wrest the Stone of Ochan from its Shrine?”
“Isn’t it obvious? She has named herself for it. She has laid hands on it, to my personal humiliation and injury. And in my vision—last night, it was—I saw her hovering over it like a bird of prey. Most horribly of all, she has the Malcuim heir in her clutches. Caraid-land cannot be whole as long as Airleas Malcuim and the Osmaer Crystal are separated. He must be set before it to be Cyne. She knows this. She knows they must be reunited. And she must believe that when they are, she will be the ultimate victor, for she will have the Stone and the Cyne in her embrace.”
Daimhin Feich’s eyes did not waver from Cadder’s face. “Is it that important, do you think, that a Malcuim be set before the Stone or, indeed, that anyone be set before it?”
“How can you ask that? The coronation of a Cyne is no mere symbolic rite, Regent. The power that unifies Caraid-land flows through the Crystal. It has always been, and must always be, bound to the Malcuim line. So it was ordained when the Meri sent Ochan-a-Coille to the first Malcuim. He did not go to the Claeg or to the Feich or to the Madaidh or to any other House. The Stone will seek a Malcuim to guard it and The Malcuim is in the hands of Evil.”
His eyes fell to the clenched fist he had raised between himself and Feich. He lowered it. “The Evil must be stopped.”
Feich nodded, eyes narrowed. “Indeed, Minister, she must. You fear you may have erred in coming to me. Fear no longer. Your vision is true. Your instinct has served you well. As you perceive, I too, am visited by aislinn visions. And, as you so perceptively note, I have a small Gift for the Art. I can only believe that it has been bestowed upon me for the protection of Caraid-land. But if I am to fight this Evil we both recognize, I must be armed. Tell me, Minister, how I am to obtain my crystal.”
oOo
Saefren Claeg settled himself into a low sling chair next to his uncle. After so many nights spent on the on the hard, freezing ground of the trail—a trail made dangerous by the fall of early snow—to be bathed and curried and taking a soft seat next to a roaring fire was a luxury to be savored, though his enjoyment of their comfortable room in Halig-liath’s visitor’s quarters was dampened a bit by the cool pressure of Uncle Iobert’s eyes.
They hadn’t spoken since their lengthy consultation with the Gilleas. The upshot of that consultation had been that the Gilleas elders would accompany The Claeg to Creiddylad, there to petition Daimhin Feich to willingly return Airleas Malcuim to the Throne—on Taminy-Osmaer’s terms. First though, there were other stops to make to deliver the Osmaer’s messages and gather House support.
“So,” Saefren said, finally breaking the silence. “Tomorrow we make for the Jura holdings. Do you think Mortain Jura will also be won?”
“The Jura are mystics. What do you think?”
“That perhaps Lady Aine Red will not even have to inyx up so much as a spark. The talisman itself may be enough.”
Now, he felt the full force of his uncle’s gaze. “Do you still not understand? The scroll is no more than a tanned skin, naked until written to by Art. The shard of crystal is just that—a piece of rock—lifeless unless touched by the aidan. Aine-mac-Lorimer is the talisman, Nephew. Without her, the other things are so much hide and stone.”
Saefren found himself with nothing to say to that. Unlike the House Jura, the Claeg was not a House of mystics. The Claeg had been farmers, warriors, landlords, and occasionally courtiers. They had never produced an Osraed, and few, if any, Prentices or cleirachs. They were practical people—strong of bone and will— pragmatic, above all things. Now here was The Claeg, himself, speaking mildly of the touch of the aidan and of a flesh-and-blood girl who was also a magical talisman for an even greater magic—also incarnate in a young, self-possessed cailin.
Saefren had seen the magic—the Weaving, as the initiates preferred to call it. He could not deny its existence, nor, strictly speaking, could he doubt its source. That Airleas Malcuim on the Throne of Caraid-land with Taminy-Osmaer at his side was preferable to being lorded over by a Feich was obvious. That Taminy, though possessed of great power, was a good, gentle girl was also obvious. But was she Osmaer? Was she allied with the Meri? Or was she literally self-possessed—seduced by her own abilities into believing herself more than she was?
Uncle Iobert would say such a strong Gift could only be wielded by one aligned with the Spirit of the Universe, but Saefren had heard scripture quoted to support the idea that there was another force in the world—a force as evil as the Meri and the Spirit were good. Saefren would never call himself a scholar, but it seemed to him that the very fact the Corah sometimes referred to this world as the World of Light and Shadow surely alluded to its dual nature.
So then, if the Meri was the Light, what was the Shadow?
oOo
It was cold in the cave, and wet and dark. Daimhin Feich found all those things exceptionally depressing. Especially so in the middle of a cloudy night; there would be no walking out into the warmth and light of the sun. Soaked to the knees, Daimhin, his cousin Ruadh and two kinsmen waded through the surf into a narrow slit in the cliff face, and negotiated a close, dark passage where their torches and lamps smudged the hemming ceiling with soot and stained their eyes with glare.
Without warning, the walls and ceiling flew away and what had seemed like blinding light was all but swallowed in a chamber so large it dwarfed the throne room of Mertuile.
Blinking, shive
ring, Daimhin Feich tried to take it in—tried to see what the chamber contained. When his eyes had adjusted to the balance of light and shadow, they began to register the peculiar shapes that surrounded them, the tiny points of light scattered throughout the gloom like stars in the night sky.
In a moment, the shapes began to resolve and Feich found himself in the midst of an eternally frozen congregation in an underground Cirke. He swung his lamp to dispel the impression; the forms were mere stone—but they were covered with jewels.
Heart tripping over itself, Feich splashed through a shallow pool onto a gravelly shore. It took him a long moment of groping toward the nearest misshapen pillar before he realized that even the sands beneath his feet glittered. Stunned, he stooped to scoop up a handful of jeweled grains. Though the largest were only the size of pebbles, the sight of them amazed him beyond words.
Not so, his young cousin. “I thought you were here for something a bit larger than that,” he said sharply. His voice shattered on the crystalline walls and fell to fragments in the rush of surf.
Daimhin let the gem-sand slide through his fingers like a rain of solid rainbows. “Nervous, Ruadh?”
“This is a holy place.”
How matter-of-fact he sounds. How anxious.
Daimhin looked around at the glittering chamber. Legends were strong here—ancestral fears hard to set aside . . . for some.
“You think so?”
Ruadh didn’t answer, but his feet made uneasy sounds in the crystal gravel.
Daimhin raised his eyes and lamp to the pillar before him.
Even this close, his eyes tried to tell him this lump of rock was a cowled and cloaked penitent, frozen in the act of bending the knee to . . . He turned his head, following the direction of the stone worshiper’s devotion, and saw the largest structure of all—the gleaming altar of this stygian sanctuary. Seeming at once liquid and solid, it appeared to have been caught in the act of pouring from a long crevice in the wall. It, like every other structure in this place wore a mantle of pure crystal.
He moved across the jeweled strand until he was within arm’s length of the great mass. That other prospectors had been here before him was obvious from the gaps and holes in the altar drape. Still, it was awe inspiring, the individual stones ranging in color from dark blues and violets to bright gold.
Color. He hadn’t even imagined the colors. He had figured to march in, chip out the first stone that came to hand (or two, perhaps, to be safe), and leave this dank hole as quickly as possible. Now he realized that color was critical. The color had meaning. He wanted the color of power. The color of passion. His eyes scanned the altar mass until, in shadow beneath a fluted ledge, his lamp light fell upon what he sought.
Summoning his silent cousin to hold the lamp, he took from his belt pouch a silver chisel and a small silver hammer brought him by the superstitious Cadder, and set to chipping. The lamp quivered in Ruadh’s hand, scattering quaking brilliance over the glittering form. Still, Daimhin Feich chipped at the root of his crystal until at last it succumbed and tumbled into his open hand—big, heavily faceted and the color of fresh blood.
Chapter 8
Beg forgiveness and pardon from the Spirit alone. Confession of your transgressions before men is unworthy; it has no relation to Divine forgiveness. Confession before others results only in humiliation, and the Spirit—beloved is She—does not desire the humiliation of Her lovers.
—Utterances of Taminy-Osmaer
Book of the Covenant
The chamber was dark except for the four points of flame that danced atop candles set at the corners of an invisible square. The place reeked of incense; sweet, pungent, musky; its smoke lay in loose coils about the candle sticks. In the midst of it all, Daimhin Feich sat cross-legged, the blood-red crystal cupped in his hands. His eyes watered and stung. That was the sole result of his efforts so far.
Cadder had spoken of “communing with the stone.” He’d tried that; he’d only given himself a headache. He knew Taminy was rumored to have conjured in the old tongue, but Cadder assured him no Osraed had ever used it. Just as well; he knew not one word. He knew singing was part of the ritual of Weaving. Knowing no duans, he put his plea for the stone’s acknowledgment into clumsy words, then constructed a simple melody. Mellifluous as his voice was, the stone remained unimpressed.
He opened his eyes now, sniffling and hacking a little, and glanced around. Was the room wrong? He had assumed darkness was beneficial, if not necessary. If nothing else, it helped him concentrate. Should he not sit on a carpet? Were special words needed—what the Osraed called inyx? If so, was there somewhere at Ochanshrine a book of such incantations?
Frustration roiled in him like a wind-bedeviled cloud. Damn Cadder! He clearly knew more than he was telling. Offers of reward had not helped, perhaps a subtle threat would pry some artful information from those zealot lips.
That in mind, Feich rose stiffly, moved the candlesticks back to the fireplace mantle, doused the wretched incense and opened a window, letting in cold night air. Then he gathered up two of his personal guards (one was a Dearg, now, so as to send a strong political message), and went over to Ochanshrine.
Caime Cadder, he knew, was wont to worship at night when the holy Osraed were tucked away in their private chambers or dining in the Abbis refectory. Accordingly, he went to the Shrine proper and was not disappointed; Cadder was there in the bottom-most tier of seats, eyes rolled back into his head, lips moving soundlessly, hands folded obsequiously in his lap.
Feich’s lip curled. Perhaps that had been his failing with the smoky red stone—he had not made himself look ridiculous enough. Leaving his guards to hover nearby, he moved to sit next to the cleirach, pinning him with a gaze as chill as the water in the belly of Ochan’s sea cave.
As if he felt that chill, Caime Cadder shivered and opened his eyes. He all but leapt from his seat when he saw who sat beside him.
“Regent Feich! What-whatever are you—?”
“I have it,” Feich said, patting a velvet pouch at his waist. “But I can’t use it. You must show me how.”
oOo
“I have something to show you,” Catahn had said. The air around him shimmered and danced with anticipation and Taminy, looking up at him from Wyth’s manuscript, smiled.
“Show me? Show me what?”
“If you’d come with me . . . ?” Diffidently, he’d held out his hand. Taminy had taken it and allowed him to lead her from the room.
They had passed through the heart of Hrofceaster and out again into a courtyard snug in the windless lee of the crags. It had been showered with sunshine the moment they stepped from the shelter of the fortress and she had been delighted with the play of light on the water of a spring-fed fountain—water cascading from the mountain face that rose steeply to form the rearward wall of the court. Twisted pines sat here and there in huge wooden pots amid hand-hewn benches; wild vine roses twined up walls that glittered with mica and quartz. A few brave blooms even dared the wintry day.
“It looks poor now, I know,” Catahn had said. “But in spring—”
She hadn’t let him finish the apology, but leapt to throw her arms around his neck and kiss his bearded cheek. “It’s beautiful,” she told him. “The most beautiful gift I’ve ever known. Thank you, Catahn.”
A second kiss deepened the stain of red that hid beneath his beard. He had barely spoken to her as they sat together watching the Sun shift the shadows across the little court.
She sat now, blanketed, on one of the wooden benches in a small pool of sunshine—soon to disappear as the Sun traveled over the ramparts of Catahn’s fortress. The roses were without bloom and nearly leafless, the conifers shivered in a chill breeze, but the Sun yet gave warmth and strewed diamonds in the spring’s icy flow. The Ren’s gift was beautiful and dear.
She had been in commune with Iseabal, ensconced now at Halig-liath, and mulled over what the girl’s aislinn messages told her. The Gilleas had come to Nairne at
her summons, had met with The Claeg and had been delivered his talisman. None had been more astonished than Aine-mac-Lorimer to discover that she was, in spirit, the key to that talisman.
Taminy afforded a smile for that. Her message had been well-received; The Gilleas had enlisted himself in her Cause and would travel with The Claeg to Creiddylad, but not before they visited the Jura, the Graegam, the Madaidh and the Skarf. With the strength of those Houses they would press Airleas’s Regent to return Colfre’s heir to the throne of Caraid-land.
She prayed for them every success, but knew that, ultimately, the Chieftains themselves must decide the fate of their Houses. She could only speak to their spirits, seek access to their souls. If they barred those doors in her face . . .
She looked up, sensing approach long before the heavy pinewood door in Hrofceaster’s flank creaked to announce her visitor. She frowned. Odd, this visit, and unexpected.
“Such a marvel!” Deardru-an-Caerluel stopped in the middle of Taminy’s courtyard before the fountain pool, her eyes on the cascade of water from the riven rock of Baenn-an-ratha. “A garden in the heart of Catahn’s fortress. Eyslk told me of it, but I could not believe. I’d to see it with my own eyes before that.” Those eyes moved to Taminy’s face. “A gift from the Ren, she said.”
Taminy nodded, smiling now, but still attempting to probe gentle fingers of sense into the older woman’s mood. “He wanted me to have a bit of home. I’m looking forward to seeing the roses bloom again.”
“He wants you . . . to make this your home, Lady. Those roses will not bloom until late spring.”
Unease fluttered in Taminy’s heart. Deardru was overfull of something that clearly distressed her. “Speak plainly, mam. Why have you come?”
The full lips twisted upward. “Your magic doesn’t inform you? You’re not the Wicke Eyslk believes you, then.”
“I’m not a Wicke, nor does Eyslk believe me to be one. She knows what I am.”
The Mistress-an-Caerluel turned to face her full on. “And you know what Catahn is. Yet you let him stay close to you.”
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