Crystal Rose

by Bohnhoff, Maya Kaathryn

  oOo

  Aine could not claim to be pleased that Saefren Claeg was to be her escort to Carehouse. His open disdain of her—and of Taminy—produced in her the most dreadful, sinking feeling. It also inspired her to flashes of equally dreadful anger. But, as they rode beneath the port city’s open main archway and negotiated the evening streets, Saefren did not speak to her, disdainfully or otherwise.

  Finally, she could take no more of the taciturn silence and asked, “Do you know where you’re going?”

  He swept her with his colorless glance. “My uncle wouldn’t have sent me if I didn’t.”

  “Then you’ve been to Carehouse before?”

  “Aye. Once or twice. And been past it often enough. There’re some haunts in the neighborhood I’ve been fond of.”

  “Oh? What sort of haunts?”

  His gaze came back to her, bearing a touch of derision. “I doubt Uncle’d be pleased with me if I discussed them with you. They’re not the sort of places a cailin would find . . . agreeable.”

  She knew what he meant, of course; she wasn’t completely naive. Even a town the size of Tuine had “haunts,” as he called them. She suspected her brothers knew those quite well judging from after-dark conversations she’d overheard. She was pleased not to have blushed or paled or done something else to give Saefren Claeg more to with which to mock her.

  “So what’s it like, this Carehouse?” she asked.

  “It’s a big, old stone place with miles of dusty, dark and damp corridors, tiny, cheerless rooms and rat-infested attics. It’s like a little fortress . . . or a prison. Walled courtyard, parapets. Looks like it might have been an asylum once upon a time.”

  “An asylum?” she echoed.

  “Where they keep crazy people. If that’s the case, I can’t think all that much has changed.”

  “They’re not crazy,” she said, her voice deliberately soft. “No more than your uncle is. They just . . . know something you don’t.”

  He pursed his lips. “My uncle . . . I’ll tell you what I think of my uncle. I think he may be under some sort of enchantment.”

  Aine couldn’t help but stare at him, nor could she keep the laughter from bubbling out of her mouth. “Enchantment! What—by Taminy-Osmaer?”

  Saefren jerked his head around. “Hush, you! Keep your voice down! All that’s holy, you crazy girl! Yelling that name in these streets could cost you your life!”

  “Well, then you’d be rid of me. Though I wouldn’t like to be you facing your Uncle Iobert if that happened.”

  She could feel his discomfiture clearly—the rankling annoyance, his anxiety over his uncle, his suspicion, something else, nervous and twitchy. She was pleased with that insight—as pleased as she’d been when she’d caught his disparaging assessment of her as a mere saddle-maker’s daughter. Though this time there were no words or thoughts attached, the roil of emotion was as vivid as one of her worrisome dreams.

  “With my luck,” he was saying, “I’d probably be killed right along with you.”

  They took a circuitous route to Carehouse, wending their way through narrow back streets and dimly lit alleys, beneath little footbridges that crossed from building to ancient building. She saw what she fancied were some of Saefren’s haunts; inns that were little more than a hole in some sooty wall beckoned the passerby with a flood of light and music that tumbled from the front door and rolled across the street to tug on ears and eyes.

  Sometimes the smell of cooking food tumbled out along with the rest of the overflow, making Aine realize how hungry she was. Often patrons fought their way in against the tide of light and noise, alone or with one of the many women who offered their own enticements from patio and walkway.

  Occasionally, Saefren would turn his head to gaze at a doorway or the form within it, and Aine suspected that after he dropped her off, he might find his way back to his haunts.

  When he spoke, he disabused her of that suspicion. “Funny,” he said. “When I was younger, I thought this place was full of intrigue and adventure and mystery. Now it only seems . . . dark and poor and sad.”

  They spoke no more after that and soon arrived at their destination. Aine pulled up her horse just outside Carehouse’s huge, thick gates and stared up at the stone walls. Saefren was right; it did seem a fortress. She shivered at the unbidden thought that someday it might have to be just that.

  She turned to the man beside her. “You can leave me here.”

  He shook his head, his thick chestnut hair frosted gold by the lamps above the gate. “I promised Uncle I’d see you safe inside and that I’ll do. Besides, I’d like to meet these Osraed of yours. See if they’re all so blindingly virtuous as that last bunch.”

  He reached up and pulled the bell rope.

  A young face appeared to peer at them from a slit above the gate. “Who goes?” asked an equally young voice.

  In answer, Aine merely raised her left hand so that the youthful guard could see the palm. She heard the muffled gasp of recognition just before the face disappeared. In a moment, the gate swung open just far enough to admit them in single file.

  Inside, Aine slid from her horse and found herself enveloped in a strong embrace.

  “Oh, Aine! How good to see you! Are you tired? Are you hungry? Come inside and sit! Who’s this?”

  The embrace loosed a bit and Aine found herself staring eye to eye at Lealbhallain-mac-Mercer.

  Now, this is all wrong, she thought, because the last time she’d stood face to face with Leal, she had been looking down at him.

  “You’ve grown,” she told him, as if he mightn’t have noticed.

  He grinned at her, freckles dancing in the glow of the lightglobes that bobbed along the front of the huge stone building they stood before.

  “I noticed. Probably never be as tall as Fhada, though. He’s waiting to meet you, with the others. I felt you coming. I was waiting. I didn’t even need to hear Ferret shout but that I knew you were here.” His eyes moved to Saefren, then. “And you are?”

  “Saefren Claeg. My Uncle Iobert and a troop of Claeg, Gilleas, Graegam and Jura are camped outside the city this moment, preparing to meet with Daimhin Feich.”

  Leal blinked startled green eyes. “Meet? You don’t mean . . . ?”

  “I don’t mean a battle, no. The Chieftains plan to petition the Regent to return Airleas to Mertuile and set him before the Stone.”

  Leal grimaced. “Good luck to them.”

  “They’ll need more than luck, I fancy.” Saefren seemed unable to keep his eyes from Leal’s Kiss. The golden star shown from his forehead with enough force to cast shadow. “The others were green,” he said. “Yours is gold like Osraed Wyth’s.”

  “I’m Osraed by the Golden Meri, after the Cusp.”

  “And waljan, like the others?”

  Leal raised his hand. The gytha also cast shadows.

  “How does it happen?” Saefren asked.

  Leal shrugged, smiling. “She touches you and you begin to burn.” He glanced down at his palm. “They can be inconvenient when you’re trying to stay hidden.”

  “Oh, but you can cloak them,” said Aine. “That’s part of what I’ve come to teach you. You won’t have to use green paint anymore.”

  Leal laughed, taking the girl’s elbow and guiding her toward the house. “How did you know about that?”

  “Taminy told me. She was worried about you, Leal. About all of you here in Creiddylad.”

  The youth’s face darkened. “Well, she’d have reason to be. It’s not been easy. No way to tell who’s friend and who’s foe.”

  As the door to the huge stone barracks opened before him, Leal turned back to face Saefren. “Come in, friend, and welcome. We’ve laid on a feast for this lady, and you’re more than welcome to our hospitality.”

  Saefren started to protest, but Leal cut him off. “I’ll hear no argument, Saefren Claeg. We owe you much for getting Aine to us safely.”

  With a guarded glance at Aine, Saefren inc
lined his head in acquiescence and followed them into the house.

  oOo

  The Dearg’s Hillwild was legend’s own Wicke. Fey yellow-amber eyes gazed cat-like from under a thick mane of unruly black hair, full lips pouted arrogance beneath a long, aquiline nose. Her skin was the color of the foothill’s clay and her body echoed their contours; she was voluptuous as the earth itself.

  Feich had no doubt she’d borne her Dearg husband many fine, strong sons and earthy daughters. She was neither young nor old, neither homely nor fair, but there was about her the quivering vitality that exists in fire. Her entire being was wary; he could almost hear the aislinn growl. There was more—a haughtiness that lay behind the eyes like laughter behind a closed door.

  It was the Hillwild in her, Feich thought, and was not altogether surprised when she did not bow to him. It didn’t anger him. He admired it.

  “I’m Regent Feich, Moireach. And you are . . . ?”

  The woman’s mouth pulled up at the corners. “Moireach, I’m not. I’m Coinich Mor of Dearg. My husband’s a shepherd as well as an Elder and what land we’ve got’s owned by the House, not by us. Call me Coinich. That’ll be fine.”

  “Well, Coinich Mor of Dearg, do you know why I asked to see you?”

  The smile deepened. “You need my help.”

  “Is that what your nephew told you?”

  She chuckled. “My nephew barely knows his own name. Blessedly, he’s not hard to look at. No, my aidan told me.”

  “Really? What else did your aidan tell you?”

  “You have a crystal.”

  Her nephew might’ve told her that, too, but it hardly mattered. Let her show off if she wanted, he’d soon see if she could inspire his stone. He drew it from its belt pouch and held it out. It caught light from the chamber window and fired with a ruddy gleam.

  The Dearg woman’s cat-eyes widened and he half expected her to hiss at the thing. “Red,” she said. “The color of passion . . . and of blood.” She held out her hand and Feich let the crystal fall into it. Her eyes followed the fall. “You know, don’t you, that ‘red’ in the Old Tongue is ‘dearg?’”

  In the moment he opened his mouth to answer, the red stone came to sullen life in the Hillwild Wicke’s hands. It was a reluctant light—not so much a spark as an ember. But it was enough. Feich’s heart leapt up in his chest and bolted. It took effort to hold his excitement in check.

  “Impressive, Coinich Mor, but can you teach me to light the stone? To Weave with it?”

  She looked up at him, golden eyes almost saucy in their regard. “Oh, more than that, Regent Feich. More than that.”

  Chapter 10

  The faithful lover hunts only the object of his Pilgrimage, and has no passion but union with the Beloved. He shall not attain this object until he sacrifices all. That is, what he sees and hears and knows—all must be given up, so that he might enter the abode of the Spirit, which is the City of Light.

  This Pilgrimage demands labor and ardor; and if we taste of this glorious reunion, we shall gladly cast away the world.

  — Book of Pilgrimages

  Osraed Gartain

  They rode beneath the great arch when the light of morning was still slanting across the low hills. Shadows lay deep among the buildings of Creiddylad, yet already there were people on the street who looked up in amazement as the assembled ranks of the Four Allies rode through.

  Saefren could not help but feel a swell of pride and exhilaration. He rode between his uncle and the Jura Chieftain at the fore of the long column. The other Chieftains rode one rank back, their standard-bearers just behind them, carrying aloft the pride of the Houses.

  They drew people to them as they moved through the city. By the time they made the final climb up the long slope to Mertuile, they had a long train of citizens spread out in their wake, and when they halted in the great square that held the Cyne’s Market, those citizens eddied and pooled behind them, murmuring among themselves.

  Iobert sent Saefren to ask admittance for the Chieftains. He could see the unease and perplexity in the gatekeeper’s eyes as he spoke with him—the way they darted again and again to the mounted multitude. But Saefren’s words were mild; the chieftains wanted only an audience with the Cyneric’s Regent. The man hurried away to deliver his message, leaving Saefren to study the sun-warmed stone of the castle’s outer curtain and become mesmerized by the snap of banners in the sea breeze and the rhythmic drumming of surf against the base of Mertuile’s rocky scarp.

  The gatekeeper’s return was swift. The gates of Mertuile swung open and the four Chieftains entered with their respective aides-de-camp. As was custom, their standards were carried to the top of the southeast wall above the city gate and flown beside the three already there—the Malcuim, the Feich and the Dearg.

  Saefren thought it ironic to see the Malcuim banner still flying over Mertuile when there was no Malcuim in residence.

  Feich did not keep his guests waiting long, but that he kept them waiting at all was significant to Saefren. Feich was still playing the politics of the game, still assuming that his was a position of power or at least of control. While Saefren chafed at the delaying tactic, his uncle and the others seemed almost too relaxed.

  Feich appeared at last, placing himself brazenly in the Malcuim throne. Saefren gritted his teeth, glad he would not be called upon to speak; he doubted he could be civil. It was The Jura who presented the petition, and The Jura was ever the diplomat.

  “We bring you greetings,” he said, his elegant voice filling the large room, “from the Houses Claeg, Gilleas, Graegam and Jura.”

  Feich gave his head a token nod. “Your greetings are accepted, Mortain Jura. To what do I owe the honor of your overwhelming presence?”

  The Jura smiled, teeth white and even in his fair face. “As you can see, many of our people wished to travel with us to Creiddylad to show their support of our petition.”

  Feich’s brows rose. “Petition?”

  “Regent, we have come to enjoin you to return Airleas Malcuim to the Throne of Caraid-land.”

  Feich spread his hands. “What would you have me do, gentlemen? What powers have I in the matter?”

  “You can guarantee the Cyneric’s safety and his independence of coercion.”

  “How can I do that?”

  “We propose,” said The Jura, his voice taking on a subtle edge, “that Airleas be brought to Mertuile under an escort made up from among these Houses.” His hand swept the group arrayed about him. “Once here, he will be set before the Stone at Ochanshrine and given his rightful place on the Throne.”

  Feich smiled. “Airleas is a boy. I would yet have to serve as Regent.”

  “We have no argument with that, save to propose that his Regents shall be three—yourself, as you were appointed by Colfre and approved by the Abbod Ladhar, Iobert Claeg and myself.”

  Feich was clearly amused. “You realize, of course, that the last time a Claeg and a Feich shared Regency the results were disastrous.”

  “Surely, Regent, we are capable of learning from history.” The Jura’s smile did not reach his eyes.

  Daimhin Feich’s gaze moved to the Claeg Chieftain. “Are we, Iobert Claeg, capable of learning from history? Or shall we only repeat it?”

  “I can only speak for myself, Regent,” replied Iobert, laying a slight and condescending stress on the title. “I want what is best for my people—by that, I mean all Caraidin. It is not best that the Throne of Caraid-land remain empty.”

  Saefren swore Daimhin Feich actually flinched, but he did not rise from the throne he occupied. Instead, he leaned back in it with studied calm and folded his hands upon his stomach.

  “For this you bring your assembled forces to Creiddylad—to make this benign proposal?”

  The Jura shrugged, smiling. “Forces? Regent, the people outside your gates are merely well-wishers of Cyneric Airleas. They are here voluntarily to show support for the young Malcuim’s return and call for his continued s
uccess. I assure you, Daimhin Feich, that any fighting force we sought to assemble would be much more formidable.”

  Feich’s jaw tightened. He rose from the throne at last, straightening his tunic with sharp, jerky motions. “A triune Regency? Why should I accept this proposal? I am Airleas Malcuim’s Regent by royal decree.”

  “To show good will. To satisfy the people of Caraid-land.”

  “You are not a popular man,” added Iobert Claeg. “By demonstrating a willingness to work with other Houses . . .”

  “I work with the Dearg and the Teallach—”

  “Such as the Jura and the Claeg,” Iobert persisted.

  “Surely, you can see the advantage of that,” added Mortain Jura. “As you say, you are Regent. It behoves you to choose your allies carefully.”

  Feich’s pale eyes flickered between the two Chieftains’ faces. “You are undoubtedly right. It behoves all of us to choose our allies carefully.”

  Fencing. That’s what they were doing—fencing. The subject of Taminy was broached without her name ever being mentioned. Saefren’s hand worked the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword.

  You know each other’s thoughts. Why won’t you speak them?

  “What of Cwen Toireasa?” Feich asked. “You’ve not mentioned her.”

  “The boy needs his mother,” The Jura observed.

  “The woman is a Taminist.”

  “She is also a Malcuim. Mother of the House Chieftain. Respect is due her, regardless of how little real influence she has at court.”

  “She’ll have neither respect nor influence if she comes here,” Feich promised. “She is a traitor to her husband’s House and his memory. A heretic. Perhaps even a Wicke. Yet you wish me to install her at Mertuile?”

  “Airleas needs his family about him.”

  “Airleas needs discipline. If he needs family, we will import cousins from Creiddylad or Storm.”