He paused to savor the memory, quivering with anticipation of the night to come. He was thankful to be astride his horse where no shrewd eye could divine the tenor of his thoughts.
Last night, in his tent, after she had been with the Deasach boy, the power he drew was such that, for a measure of moments, Coinich Mor had ceased to be Coinich Mor. She had been Taminy, the chaste, the pure, burning like a golden flame in his arms. No mere imagination, this, it was an aislinn vision of such strength that it had taken his breath away. He had stilled and stared, unable to believe what he had done, what he had Woven. The pale hair, the sea green eyes, the silken skin. He had savored every moment of the vision, knowing he embraced prophecy.
A thought had occurred to him then: if such power could be drawn from a minor Wicke like Coinich Mor, if it could be channeled through an imperfect red crystal, what could be possible with Taminy under his control and the Osmaer Crystal in his hands?
He glanced back at the Dearg Wicke and caught her watching him, her face devoid of expression. When their eyes met, she smiled briefly, passion—or something like it—leaping in her yellow eyes. He turned front again, breathing deeply of the autumn air and feeling fit and fine and powerful. His eyes encountered another pair in their travels; the Abbod also watched him, gaze burning.
Someday, old man, Feich thought, and nodded to the Osraed with a smile. Ladhar turned away, leaving him with a sudden realization: He fears me. Years of Osraed schooling in the Divine Art, the Osmaer Crystal at the heart of his domain, and yet he fears me.
The thought was electrifying.
Daimhin Feich set about anticipating his future, impatient to reach Nairne where he would lay hands on it.
oOo
Dreams, dark and chaotic, once again denied Taminy sleep. She woke and prayed, communing with Comfort in its pure form. Comfort came, but with it comprehension; a predator circled, growing in strength, cleverness and acquisitiveness. He didn’t know where she was; still, he reached for her. Tonight she’d felt his breath on her again—hot, insistent—making her skin creep and her heart pound. She threw out a Wardweave, concentrating on the person of Daimhin Feich. She knew where he was, knew where to direct the Weave, but its web fell without effect; his Touch still lay upon her soul, fading only gradually.
She continued her prayers until the oppressive presence was gone, then calm, if weary, she rose to take up her pen and write, pouring words onto the pages stacked upon her little writing table. In a few hours Wyth would arrive to collect them, add them to the volume he painstakingly compiled against the future.
An uncertain future, Taminy thought. She leaned back in her chair and rubbed weary fingers, Weaving warmth into them. She glanced at the window. The Sun wove too, applying a pale wash to the panes—blushing silver gleamed on a coat of crystalline frost.
Pages stacked where Wyth would find them, Taminy dressed in warm, sturdy breeches, boots and sweater, pulled on a quilted jacket—product of Gram Long’s loving skill—and left the fortress. The lookout marked her passage with a bow. Perched high above her on the gate-top, he reminded her of a morning bird bobbing in silent song.
Once she had cleared the shadow of Hrofceaster’s walls, and headed down the trail to Airdnasheen, the silence was broken by the calls of jays and daws, crows and ravens. Taminy wondered why winter’s birds had such grating voices. She had never thought to ponder that during her time in the Meri’s Realm. That sojourn had taught her why men thought women beings apart, and why the Deasach had darker skin and different ways than their northern kin.
She knew that beyond these lands were others Deasach and Caraidin alike would find strange, exotic, dangerous, even repellent. She understood that beyond this world were others, peopled with men and women that the citizens of this world would not be ready to meet for a thousand thousand years. Yet the voice of a crow was a mystery she had never plumbed.
She took a narrow, snow-brushed turn-off just outside the village and made her way to the grotto of Airleas’s latest defeat. There was solace here and solitude and hours before anyone would seek her out.
Ah, but not so. Even as she slid into the aislinn state wherein the Gwyr-Meri, and even dear Bevol, were more real to her than the rocks she sheltered against, she felt eyes on her. She ignored them and slipped completely into the Realm of Light.
The deep pool wore diamonds in this Realm and the air was warm and sweet and laced with pine perfume. The leaden gleam of dawn on frosted stone was transmuted into Eibhilin gold. Coin was never as dear nor flame as bright as this Light. Taminy basked in it, fed upon it, took instruction from it. There was not, in all the world at that moment, as glorious a place as the Gwyr’s grotto.
Time had no place in this placeless realm and so Taminy had no way of knowing how long she had visited there when the sounds of approach tugged at her physical senses. She read astonishment there, and a little fear mingled with a stronger imperative—she was the thing sought.
Folded behind the Eibhilin veil, she waited. Would fear be overcome? She rose—a matter less of motion than of will—and moved to the center of the jeweled pool.
Above, on the slippery, rock-strewn descent, fear trembled more mightily. Yet, the visitor came on again, ignoring fear. At the edge of the water, movement ceased. Taminy turned her attention to the figure wavering on the rocky shore, his breath issuing in a cloud from his open mouth.
Come, Airleas, she told him, wordlessly.
Head up, eyes wide, he dropped to his knees and began to pray.
COME, Airleas, she repeated, and lifted a hand to him, knowing that in his eyes it appeared as if it might singe him.
He stood and took a hesitant step to the very edge of the water. There, he lowered his eyes to regard it with dismay.
Come, Airleas.
He hesitated. Could she mean for him to swim to her in the icy pool? He considered that. Accepted it. Began to step into the water. Hesitating, he raised his eyes to her again.
She read the bemusement in them, the sudden comprehension and excitement. He eyed the glittering wavelets speculatively. She beckoned. Excitement rippled through the golden atmosphere of the vale, uncertainty close on its heels. Surely, he could not—yet, she did beckon . . .
Wielding determination, Airleas stepped from the shore and walked the liquid trail to Taminy’s side. Wonder poured from him as she took his hand and continued the walk, leading him to a jut of rock just beyond the fall’s bright veil of perpetual mist.
They sat upon the rock in a blanket of soft, radiant and silent warmth, Airleas gazing open-mouthed around the pocket of enchantment.
Finally, Taminy spoke, though not aloud: You came to find me?
“I . . .” Airleas’s voice was swallowed in the bright haze. He abandoned its use. Osraed Wyth sent me to collect your pages this morning.
He’s busy early today.
I was to take them to him directly—he was in a great hurry to begin work.
He always is.
But—forgive me, Mistress—I disobeyed . . . a little.
A little?
I paused to read them. Just to see what you’d written.
And what had I written that brought you here?
He turned toward her, face bathed in Eibhilin radiance. The Heart of the Covenant.
She nodded. And that is?
He licked his lips, squirming in puppy-ish anxiety.
Worship the Spirit in this way: If your devotion ends in fire, alter it not. Even so, if your rewards are glory and peace. This alone, is the devotion fitting for the people of the Covenant. This worship, alone, is worthy of the Spirit of this All. Your adoration born of fear is unseemly. Worship begotten by desire for reward makes God’s creation His equal. This is the Heart of the Covenant: That you love That Essence for Its own sake, fearless of destruction, with no desire for even Eibhilin riches.
Taminy smiled. You memorized it perfectly.
Is that it? Really? The Heart of the Covenant?
She nodded.
I wanted . . . want to be Cyne.
And so?
Is that wrong?
Why do you want to be Cyne?
It’s my place. My duty. I’m The Malcuim.
And the riches a Cyne possesses?
They’re nice, but . . . Do you know what I really want?
She did, as it happened, but let him provide his own answer.
Loyalty. Respect. Mother says people loved my grandfather. I’d like people to love me the way they loved him. I’d like to be as good a Cyne as Ciarda was.
And were you thinking that if you worshipped God and devoted yourself to me—to the Meri—you’d be made Cyne?
Shame flooded the Eibhilin place. I did think that, Mistress, but no longer.
So now you’ve no reason for your devotion.
His eyes widened and words leapt from his mouth. “But, Mistress . . . you’re my reason for devotion!”
And?
He hesitated. And perhaps, if I’m devoted to God, He’ll make me worthy to be Cyne.
Perhaps.
Letting go of his hand, Taminy got to her feet and moved back across the glittering liquid path. To Airleas’s eyes, she knew, she seemed as a feather or a cloud or the Gwyr Herself, suspended there above the water. On the opposite shore, she turned to where he now stood on the rocks, uncertainty eddying around him. The Eibhilin world receded until the pool was only a pool—an icy one, at that—and the veil was one of mist and ice crystals, not light. The damp chill of the grotto clung to cheeks and hands and Airleas shivered.
“Don’t forget, you’ve a sword lesson after breakfast,” she reminded him, raising her voice above the riot of the falls.
“But . . . !” The boy glanced around anxiously. “But how am I to cross the stream?”
Taminy pushed cold hands into the pockets of her jacket. “I can think of several ways. The choice is yours.”
She left him to puzzle that out for himself and began the long, steep ascent to the trail. She was nearing the end of the climb when the sharp regard of another watcher pricked her aidan. She paused, catching a flash of consternation before it was shielded.
Deardru. When a moment more of hesitation failed to draw the Hillwild woman out, Taminy continued on her way back up to Hrofceaster.
oOo
Daimhin Feich brought his troops into Nairne with banners flying. He put the Malcuim standard at the forefront, making sure that his own was tactfully buried among the other Houses’.
Likewise, he chose Mortain Jura and Iobert Claeg as his riding companions, placing his own allies and their House Elders just behind.
As he expected, the sight of Taminy’s Claeg ally had a pacific effect on the people of Nairne. They displayed curiosity, but neither fear nor hostility. Even when armed kinsmen took up positions in their streets, they seemed unperturbed, although Feich thought an old crone standing outside a Weaver’s shop had sneered at him.
Wicke, he thought, were everywhere.
The Teallach had joined them, as agreed, just outside the village, increasing their numbers gratifyingly. As Ruadh had suggested, he had the quay fully guarded by Teallach and Graegam men. Thinking it a sensible move, he took any female “warriors” (he could not entertain the thought without smiling) up the long tree-covered ridge to Halig-liath. The ascent seemed to take forever; the Deasach cannon, impressive as it was, reduced their speed to an aching crawl.
It would be worth it, Feich thought, just to see the look of astonishment on the faces of those damned turn-coat Osraed when they saw the thing.
Daimhin Feich was hard pressed to control his own astonishment when they took the last wooded turn in the cobbled road and the gates of Halig-liath came into view. Those gates, once barred against him, were now wide open.
oOo
They were not surprised to see Daimhin Feich and his entourage; Taminy’s warning, passed through Iseabal, had given them plenty of time to prepare. Still, the sight of all those mounted and armed men and women—and that cannon . . . Even forewarning couldn’t eliminate all surprise or sense of awe.
Osraed Saxan-a-Nairnecirke could admit that awe only to himself. When he and the Osraed Tynedale and Calach faced Daimhin Feich and the other Chieftains, they kept it well hidden.
No need for fear, Saxan told himself, Taminy and Airleas are safe. He repeated that numerous times as he watched a furious Daimhin Feich pace and posture in the Osraed council chamber.
“What do you mean—they’re not here? Where have you hidden them?” The Regent whirled on Saxan, violence in his eyes. “Are they in the village? I swear I will tear down every hovel if I have to. Interrogate every—”
“They are not,” Osraed Tynedale interrupted calmly, “in the village.”
Feich heard that somehow, through his own rantings, and pinned the portly Osraed to his chair with a fierce, spear-sharp gaze. “Then where are they? If you dare lie to me, so help me, I’ll—”
“I wouldn’t think of lying,” Tynedale returned with dignity. “I am waljan—Chosen. They are in the Gyldan-baenn, Regent, and have been there for several months.”
Saxan’s attention was on the faces of the assembled Chieftains and Elders as Feich reacted to this news. Claeg and his apparent allies were mildly amused. The Dearg was dark with anger, The Teallach plainly disgusted.
Reading Feich was more difficult. Oh, there was surprise and anger, to be sure, but it hardly required a Gift to read that. Beyond the obvious—or beneath it, for Feich struck Saxan as a pool of murky depth—lay currents of thought and emotion that challenged the Osraed’s nascent abilities. Very disconcerting.
Doubly so when Feich reined in his temper and turned to the Osraed with sudden, calm diplomacy. “You must forgive my outburst, Osraed. I am understandably anxious about Airleas Malcuim’s welfare, and eager to see him returned to Creiddylad. I should have realized that the Wicke would flee with him—that she would take advantage of her Hillwild connections. They are at Hrofceaster?”
Tynedale inclined his head and Saxan said, “Yes, Regent Feich. They are indeed at Hrofceaster.”
“Then I suppose that is where I must go to retrieve them.”
“Begging pardon, Regent,” said Saxan, “but the passes up to Baenn-an-ratha are closed.”
“Closed.”
“Impassable. The snows are early this year and quite fierce. Several parties of travelers have been forced to turn back already.”
Feich’s jaw bunched. “Indeed. Well, perhaps they did not have my tenacity.” He collected his party and departed.
Saxan found himself yet unable to read Feich, but before leaving the room, Iobert Claeg sent him a glance with a subtext: Daimhin Feich would be discouraged from attempting any advance into the Gyldan-baenn.
“What do you think he’ll do?” the Osraed Calach asked when the huge carved doors of the council chamber had swung shut.
“What can he do?” Saxan returned. “Taminy and Airleas are safely out of his reach until the Spring thaw. Surely by then there will be a web of such strength woven between Taminy and the people that he will be unable to break it.”
Calach and Tynedale exchanged glances.
“Reasonable words, Saxan,” said Tynedale. “Still, I can’t help but wonder, exactly how tenacious is our Regent Feich?”
Saxan shifted uneasily. All three of them had reason to know that Daimhin Feich was very tenacious indeed.
oOo
Feich’s temper struggled to free itself from the icy control he’d imposed upon it. Would the damned inn-keep never leave? Were he not providing food and drink, Feich would have shouted him from the room. Eventually, the wine and tea were poured, the supper laid, and the inn-keep was asking if he could do any more for the Chieftains and their noble kinsman. At a glare from Feich, he bobbed nervously and quit the chamber, drawing the thick door closed behind him.
As the weight of his companions’ regard fell upon him, Feich reined his temper in further, leaning back in his chair with studied calm.
>
“Now, we may talk. Plan. Ruadh, how long would it take a force the size of this one to make Airdnasheen—given the slow going?”
Ruadh frowned. “From here or from Creiddylad?”
“From here, of course. It would be a waste of time to return to Creiddylad. We can surely provision ourselves locally.”
“You heard the Osraed, cousin Daimhin; the trail is impassable. That western approach is difficult in fine weather. In snow—”
“Are you so dim you don’t see that the Osraed of Halig-liath will say whatever they must to protect their Wickish mistress? The passes—”
“Are closed, Daimhin Feich. Even as Osraed Saxan said.”
Feich turned the full force of his gaze on Iobert Claeg, who looked back at him with veiled . . . amusement! He read it as clearly as if the man had laughed aloud. A wave of mixed pleasure and annoyance washed through him.
“And how is it you are so certain of this?”
“We came down from Hrofceaster not a month past. The trail was barely passable then. Since then it has snowed a good deal more—according to the report from Claeg.”
“For what reason were you up at Hrofceaster not a month past, Iobert?”
“That, Regent, is a matter of House business. Our lands brush the hem of the Gyldan-baenn. It is in our best interest to have certain treaties and agreements with the Ren Catahn.”
“Agreements that include treason against our ruling House?”
The clink of cutlery, soft as it had been, ceased altogether.
Iobert Claeg leaned back in his chair and regarded Feich with sudden and frustrating opacity. “I will take it that this latest set-back has left you emotionally distraught, Regent, and ignore the challenge in that question. The Claeg have not always been faithful to the House of Malcuim—”
“To say the least.”
“Neither have the Feich,” Iobert reminded him. “But I swear upon my House’s honor that we are loyal to Airleas Malcuim in all things. I give my personal pledge that I will defend him with my life.”
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