“I’ll go with you,” said Aine.
“No, you won’t. It makes no sense—am I right, Osraed Fhada?”
Fhada nodded. “I have to agree with Saefren, Aine. It makes more sense for him to go. He isn’t the subject of a Regency decree. You are. Besides, dear girl, we need you here.”
Aine subsided, but Leal knew it was not out of acquiescence. There was rebellion in her hazel eyes and mutiny in the set of her jaw.
oOo
An hour after the failed attempt on his life, Daimhin Feich sat in his salon quivering between terror and rage. His mind was a roil of impulses. He wanted to strangle Coinich Mor; he wanted to seize the Osmaer Crystal and throw every smug Osraed in the dungeon; he wanted to drown the Taminists there now with his own hands. Most of all, he wanted to squeeze from his young hostage every last ounce of power she had to offer.
It was difficult to restrain himself from that last action, but he had no doubt that if he went to her now, in this chaotic frame of mind, he’d leave nothing of her but a dried out husk, and he had only Coinich Mor with which to replace her.
Then, too, there was the matter of the traitorous Houses. He could do nothing about that now. They were camped just beyond Creiddylad, in position to trap his forces with their backs to the Sea if they forced a battle.
Damn, but he hated this feeling of impotence! When he could face her again without wanting to thrash her witless, he’d consult Coinich Mor about possible Weaves he might apply to this wretched situation.
Someone rattled the door and he growled permission for them to enter. It was Sorn Saba who appeared around the ornate slab of wood, bowing slightly as he entered. The momentary obeisance blended smoothly into an arrogant straightening of the Deasach’s lithe body.
“Daimhin, if I might share words with you?”
Feich waved a half-empty wine cup at the seat across from him at the hearth. The youth perched himself at the edge of it and fixed his host with a gleaming, black gaze.
“You seem besieged by trouble, my friend,” he observed. “Your little Cyne stolen, your arch enemy at large, and now your subjects press toward rebellion.”
Brat. Feich forced his face to reflect a composure he was far from feeling. “They aren’t precisely my subjects.”
“They may as well be; the return of Cyneric Airleas at any time soon would seem to be impossible.”
“You needn’t remind me, Shak Saba. I am well aware of my problems.”
“Please, friend Daimhin! Let us not return to formality. I only wonder why, in such dire circumstance, you promise your people that you will return their Cyneric to them. It seems to me you are not in a position to do this.”
“Your point . . . Sorn.”
The Deasach shrugged. “Only that you would appear to be in need of some help. The kind of help my dear sister, Lilias, could provide.”
“Such as?”
“Men, arms. A force at your command that is well-versed in mountain combat.”
Feich laughed. “For whatever good that would do. The passes are snowbound.”
“Ah! The northeastern passes, yes. But it is much milder on the southeastern side of the range.”
Feich sat forward in his chair. “You’re suggesting . . . that your sister would allow us to cross Deasach land to reach Hrofceaster? She would lend me both support and passage?”
Sorn Saba glanced down at his hands, clasped between his knees. “If you were to offer some tribute to her and if I were to advise her that a military alliance with you would be beneficial and appropriate under the circumstances.”
“The circumstances being . . . ?”
“That a powerful Enemy of the Caraidin throne holds the heir to that throne hostage. That that enemy is an ally of the Hillwild, who are our enemies. That this enemy is strong in magic and beauty.” He grinned. “A natural adversary for my very vain sister.”
“You would advise your sister to aid me?”
The boy looked up at him through dark, glittering eyes and Feich thought, Ah, this is it. We come to the point.
“I could be persuaded,” Sorn said.
“And what could persuade you?”
“The Nairnian sorceress.”
“What? Taminy?”
“No, no. Iseabal. Iseabal of the blue eyes. I want her.”
“You want her.” Feich only just kept himself from laughing. “Whatever for? Surely you would find an experienced woman like Coinich Mor more arousing than a village cailin.”
The boy had the grace to blush. “I’ve known a score of women like Coinich Mor—experienced, as you say, and gluttonous when it comes to young men. Iseabal is . . . innocent, exotic, beautiful, magical. I find her . . . fascinating.”
“Exotic,” Feich repeated. “A village cailin. A Cirkemaster’s daughter.”
“Oh, not to you, surely. You’re used to your fair women with their light eyes and snowy flesh. But what is common to you is alien to me. Frankly, I find Iseabal’s very lack of experience in matters of passion as exciting, in its own way, as Coinich Mor’s skill. But it’s more than that, Daimhin. There is something indefinable about her, something intriguing. She seems so gentle. Yet, she has the steel to contradict even you, though you hold over her the power of life and death.”
“Ah, and it would have nothing to do with the fact that magic drips from her fingertips.”
The Deasach’s eyes grew brighter still. “You can almost see it. Yes, there is that. She is a jewel. A jewel I would like to own.”
Arrogant whelp. “Out of the question. I need her.”
“As hostage? So be it. What difference in whose tent she sleeps? Consider her your hostage and me her . . . special guardian.”
“I need access to her. She . . . provides me with power, you see.”
The boy’s brow knit. “Power? I don’t understand.”
“You wouldn’t—not being Gifted with the aidan. You say she is magical. You’re right. She is, but only one with the Gift, one who can Weave inyx, could possibly make use of her magic. I can channel that power. She would be useless to you.”
Sorn smiled. “Oh, not useless, Daimhin. A woman needn’t be dripping with the aidan, as you call it, to be of value. Yet, you are right in saying I have no need of her power. If you do, then of course you may use her as you wish.”
“I’m sorry, Sorn. I can’t let you take her.”
“Then I can give my sister no good reason to let you take your troops across Deasach land or send Deasach forces with you into the Gyldan-baenn.” He began to rise.
Feich raised a detaining hand. “Wait. Perhaps we can compromise. You may visit her tonight, if you wish.”
“Not enough.”
“Then you may visit her at your whim until we depart for El-Deasach. You may even take her to your tent on occasion.”
“Again—not enough. Look, my friend Regent, if my sister agrees to aid you, what need will you have for this girl? Surely it is Coinich Mor who aids you with your Weaving.”
Feich sat up on a jolt of suspicion. “What do you know of that?”
“What I see. What little she tells me.” Catching Feich’s sudden scowl, he added, “You made a great impression on her. ‘A man of consuming passion,’ she called you. ‘A man of raw power.’ Surely, with such a woman at your side, you have no need of young Iseabal. Let me have her. If you still need her on your campaign to Hrofceaster, then of course, she shall come . . . but in my custody. Tell me—what difference does it make?”
“This is the only bribe you’ll accept?”
“Ah, please—a gift.”
“This is the only gift you’ll accept from me? Is there nothing else I can give you, do for you?”
“Nothing.”
“If it’s village cailin you want, I can give you a dozen—each colored just like this one. Or each a different shade, if you prefer.”
“They would not be magical heretics. They would not be sorceresses. They would just be young girls. In that way, even Coinich Mor i
s exotic. I find I like magical women. Perhaps, when we find this Osmaer of yours . . .”
The hair rose up on the back of Feich’s neck. “Precisely. Taminy-Osmaer is mine.”
Sorn favored him with a gleaming smile. “See? Now what does any man—even a man like yourself—need with three sorceresses?”
Feich snorted. “What, indeed. All right, friend Sorn. You may be Iseabal’s ‘guardian.’ Consider her your personal responsibility. I ask only that I be allowed to consort with her at will.”
“Of course.” The boy rose and made an exaggerated bow. “You are a most gracious host, Daimhin.”
“Yes, aren’t I?”
Daimhin saw the Deasach out, torn between anger at the boy’s arrogance, and admiration of his sheer gall. He’d have made a good Feich, he thought, and determined to visit the Nairnian immediately, before her ‘guardian’ could lay hands on her. He would have to hurry to get another chance at the Stone of Ochan before they departed for El-Deasach. Yes, and he must give immediate orders to Ruadh about the preparation of their men.
He had not made it to the door when it rattled and opened, revealing a flushed, nervous Caime Cadder.
Irritated, Feich stopped to glare at the cleirach. “It is not only impolite to enter a private room without permission, Minister, in this case it is also dangerous. You had better tell me something earth-shaking or I’ll have you flung off the western battlements.”
Cadder blanched, his eyes glistening. “Please, lord. I beg you—hear what I have to say before you throw me out. There is something you must know. The stone you tried to Weave with this morning was not the Osmaer. Osraed Ladhar has turned traitor and put another crystal in its place.”
Chapter 16
We sent down the Scripture as a blessing for the faithful, but it can only conduce to the downfall of the wicked—they who hear nothing in the Scriptures but words. Consider: The Sun’s blaze lights the entire sky, yet only its warmth reaches the blind.
—Utterances of Osraed Haefer Hageswode #36
Ladhar’s trek back through Creiddylad to Ochanshrine was uneventful, but disturbing nonetheless. There was an increased military presence in the streets, largely in the form of Feich and Dearg kinsmen and Malcuim regulars. Ladhar was puzzled by the seeming fickleness of the latter. While it was well known that a healthy contingent of minor Malcuim kinsmen had fled after Colfre’s death—no doubt assuming the Feich would soon be at their throats—just as many had stayed behind to lend support in finding their Cyneric. Now they hunted down Taminist Wicke in his name.
An irony.
Curious circumstances, the Abbod thought, that had brought a proud House to this pass. Colfre Malcuim had been an only child; there was no brother to make a claim to the Throne or lead the House to fight for his son’s return. The closest Malcuim relations were cousins—daughters of Colfre’s aunts and uncles mostly, a rare son among them—who had lives and concerns of their own, with little interest, it seemed, in grappling the man to whom had fallen, not unwanted, the protection of the Malcuim Throne.
Ladhar paused momentarily to watch a couple of Dearg kinsmen drag a young girl, kicking and screaming, from a tiny Backstere’s along a Cyne’s Way back street to present her to a waiting Feich.
An older woman—her mother, Ladhar assumed—followed them, protesting her daughter’s virtue at the top of her ample lungs.
“She’s a good girl, sirs! A good girl!” she cried, her broad accent marking her northern rural origins. “She never done a midge of Weaving. I swear’t. She’s a good girl!”
The Feich in charge—a tall, brawny man with mud-brown hair and beard—grabbed the girl’s wrist and thrust her hand toward her mother’s face.
“A good girl, is it? Then how do you explain this?”
There was a mark on the girl’s palm—a stellate smudge of rosy gold. The mother blanched. “Oh, sir! I know naught of that!”
“Or this?” A second Feich had appeared from the shop with what appeared to be a hand-bound booklet.
“I-I-I don’t know what—” the woman gabbled, and the younger Feich kinsman flung the little book open and read in a loud voice. “‘As a mother defends her only child from harm, let shielding thoughts for all be in your heart, and all-embracing love for the whole universe. Let your love be given without reserve, untouched by enmity, arousing no hatred.’”
“It . . . it’s just Scripture, sir.” The girl finally spoke on her own behalf. “It’s a book of Scripture given me by a friend.”
“A Taminist friend, I don’t doubt,” said the elder Feich.
“No, sir!” the Backstere wailed. “Please, sir, my daughter!”
She held her arms out for the girl, but the Dearg pulled her away.
“Give me the book,” said the brown-beard.
His kinsman tossed the little volume to him. He turned it over in his hands.
“‘Book of the New Covenant,’” he read. “I never heard of such Scripture as this. Whose this Osraed Wyth who signs his name to it?”
Ladhar quivered. Books. Dear God, they were already disseminating books, making converts, winning souls.
The Feich guardsman opened the little book and squinted at the page before him.
“Gibberish. You’re condemned by nonsense.” He read another passage in a sing-song voice calculated to show the gathering crowd how inane was the maundering of Taminists. “‘Do you not see that the Spirit causes night to follow day and day to follow night? And that this same Spirit holds the Sun and moon and seasons and all His creation to Laws which flow toward a set goal? And that this same Spirit is aware of all your doings? The promise and Covenant of the Spirit is truth, and whatever else you adore is only His creation. Let not the things you adore deceive you about the Spirit.’”
He clapped the book shut and glared at his little audience.
“Taminist ravings! Of course the Spirit causes day and night. Of course He orders the seasons. Any child knows that, but you lap it up like it was news! You stand condemned by your own demon scripture, girl, for you are deceived about the Spirit. Deceived by Taminy-a-Cuinn. Do you deny that you are a follower of this woman?”
Whatever the girl said was completely lost in the renewed wailings of her mother, who pled her case with clasped hands and bended knees. “Oh, please, sir! You’re wrong! I know you must be wrong. It’s Scripture, sir! It is! Given us by Osraed. My girl is a good girl! Not prone to wickedness at all, sir!”
The elder Feich, enjoying his role as inquisitor, smiled.
“Well, mam, I reckon we’ll learn how good your daughter is soon enough. If she’s very good, she might not have to die. She might only have to lose that wicked hand.”
He grasped the girl’s wrist again and extended her arm. The book dropped, unheeded, to the cobbles as he drew his short sword.
The crowd roiled noisily as the Feich rested the sharpened edge of the gleaming blade on the girl’s wrist.
“Your call, mam. Let’s see how well you shield your child from harm. She dies a Taminist with both hands or she lives to prove her virtue with one.”
Ladhar’s legs tightened on the barrel of his horse, prodding the animal to carry him forward through the knot of onlookers. Sweat beaded his brow though the air was cold enough to cloud with his breath. He broke into the inner circle of watchers and let down his hood.
“Is there a problem, friend Feich?”
The elder kinsman blinked up at him, nonplussed. “No, Abbod. Merely following the Regent’s order to ferret out these Taminist Wicke.”
“Did you intend to execute this one in the street without trial?”
“No, sir. Only trying to determine guilt or innocence.”
“Ah. Surely a job for a tribunal.”
“She’s guilty!” cried someone in the gathering.
“She’s not!” The Backstere now took the opportunity to throw her ample self before Ladhar’s horse. “Lord Osraed, I beg you! My daughter is no Wicke!”
“Aye,” snarled th
e Feich, “and I’m no Feich either, I suppose. We found Taminist writings.”
“They’re Scripture!” keened the woman.
Ladhar held out his hand. “Give me the book.”
After a moment of hesitation, the younger of the Feich obeyed. Ladhar lifted the leather cover. It was a crude binding, but adequate to hold the pages. They were linen, and the first, embossed with the Sign of the Meri, was signed by Osraed Wyth, dated not a month past at Hrofceaster.
“You see, Osraed?” the Feich gloated.
Ladhar flicked a razor glance at him. “Where did you get this?” he asked the quaking girl.
“From a young Osraed. I knew him to be Osraed from the bright kiss on his brow. Like-like your own, sir, but golden.”
“I see. He told you this book was Scripture.”
“Aye sir. The Book of the New Covenant. New, since the Meri has changed Aspect. It is Scripture, sir, isn’t it?”
The Feich uttered a grating laugh. “Pretending ignorance won’t save you—”
“Yes. It is Scripture.”
Around Ladhar, the street and its denizens, the air and its steaming chill, stilled as if time had ground to a halt.
The Feich gaped at him. “What did you say, lord Abbod?”
“I said, it is Scripture. Compiled by our newest Osraed.”
“But the girl’s a Taminist! She’s got the mark of the Wicke in her palm!”
“Does she, indeed? Let me see it.”
Ladhar’s eyes fixed on the girl’s hand as the men tumbled her roughly forward. The Feich brute stepped forward to pry back her fingers, exposing her palm. After a moment, Ladhar moved his eyes to that worthy’s face.
“I see no mark.”
The girl’s palm was blank, a thing which seemed to surprise even her.
The Feich gaped. “I-I don’t . . . It was there moments ago, I swear it.”
“Well, it’s not there now. Release the child.”
They hesitated. Ladhar lifted his head and roared, “Release her! She is no more Taminist than I am! You have made a mistake. See that you don’t make the same error twice. Our Regent will be none too happy if you harass and maim his law-abiding citizens. Now, go about your business. While you loiter here, the real threat to Creiddylad escapes your notice.”
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