Grumbling, bemused, they did as ordered. The crowd dispersed, some following the soldiers, some going about their own business, a few staying behind to comfort the still weeping mother and daughter.
Eventually, the two came to Ladhar’s side, their faces maps of gratitude with salt rivers marked in flour.
“How can I thank you, Osraed?” the girl mewed. She seemed unutterably fragile still, cowering at her mother’s side.
A fragile heretic.
What have I done? Ladhar shook himself. “I’ve not yet received a copy of Osraed Wyth’s work. May I keep this one?”
Daughter and mother exchanged glances. “Of course, Abbod. With the Meri’s blessing.”
He nodded, pulled up his hood and reined his horse toward Ochanshrine. He arrived there to find that his presence was required at Mertuile. Immediately, said a dour Caime Cadder.
At Mertuile, he and Cadder were taken directly to the throne room where Feich sat in state, surrounded by kinsmen and allies. There seemed to be an inordinate number of armed men about, but then the Regent had only this day survived an attempt on his life.
“Ah, dear Abbod! How kind of you to join us!”
Feich beamed from his borrowed throne, seeming very relaxed for a man who had come so close to death. Ladhar could only suppose he must have been drinking something stronger than the summer wine he served at state suppers.
“I’ve brought you here that I might ask a supreme favor. I have recently made an agreement with the Marschal, Shak Sorn Saba, to affect an alliance between ourselves and the Banarigh Lilias Saba of El-Deasach for the purpose of returning Cyneric Airleas to Creiddylad. Pursuant to that, we will be moving our forces south to El-Deasach and from there into the Gyldan-baenn east of Hrofceaster.”
Ladhar was astounded. “The Banarigh has consented to this?”
“She will consent when her Marschal petitions her to do so. He travels on that mission even as we speak, and has assured me of success. This means we will be traveling on a most crucial campaign immediately upon his return. We will need all the aid the Eibhilin realm has to offer. I intend to take the Osmaer Crystal with us.”
“The—! That’s unheard of!” The Abbod found he could only stand and quiver. “The Osmaer has only left Ochanshrine once in all history—for the coronation of Kieran the Dark at Cyne’s Cirke.”
“Ah, wrong. It also left once in the hands of Bearach Malcuim, Kieran’s son. He removed it clandestinely to Halig-liath, I recall, in an attempt to keep it from the hands of Buchan Claeg.”
Ladhar willed his face to remain immobile and his blood to lie still in his veins. “I had forgotten. For all that his intentions were good, it was still theft—possibly blasphemy.”
“Yet it contributed to the salvation of Caraid-land, did it not?”
“I wouldn’t deny it.”
“And I . . .” Feich spread his fingers upon his breast. “I, at least, am asking permission of the Osraed charged with the Crystal’s protection and care.”
His thoughts fevered, Ladhar considered his response. It must depend, he supposed, on how intent Feich was on having the Crystal with him. If he was set on it, he would simply take it, just as Bearach Spearman had . . . just as Ladhar had, himself.
The Abbod glanced at Feich’s face and recalled being buffeted by a wind of Feich’s calling. The Regent did nothing that was not driven by his full will. It would be futile to resist him. Besides, the real Stone of Ochan was several miles away in the hands of well-meaning, if misled souls whom Ladhar knew he could trust with it. Only the fraud would take the trail to El-Deasach. There was really no harm in granting Daimhin Feich his wish.
Ladhar made a display of his meditational pose, then nodded once, heavily. “Very well, Regent. Your point is well taken. I can concede that extraordinary circumstances require extraordinary remedies. Yes, of course you may take the Osmaer Crystal on your campaign.”
Feich inclined his head. “Thank you, Abbod. You honor me. Now . . . where is the Osmaer? It is not in its place at Ochanshrine.”
The pronouncement dropped into an oppressive silence. In the bottomless pit that opened up in his soul, Osraed Ladhar flailed for balance. Should he dissemble? Should he admit his subterfuge? Should he collapse to the floor and beg mercy?
“No,” he said finally. “You’re quite correct. Last night, I replaced the Osmaer with a stone of similar size and appearance.”
Feich seemed taken aback, affording Ladhar a tiny victory.
“You admit your treachery?”
“Treachery, lord? Protecting the Osmaer from Taminists is hardly treachery.”
“Protecting it?” Feich aimed a furrowed glance at Caime Cadder, who stared at the toes of his shoes. “How so?”
“It came to my attention that the Taminists were planning to make an attempt on the Crystal. An attempt to remove it from Ochanshrine and spirit it up to Halig-liath.”
“Indeed? How did that ‘come to your attention?’”
“I was favored with an aislinn in which two people approached me and tried to lay hands on the Stone. I immediately replaced it with a crystal left to me by Osraed Bevol. Later, as my aislinn foretold, I was approached in the Shrine by . . . by the Taminist Osraed Fhada and Lealbhallain, who tried to coerce me to give up the Stone.”
“This false Osmaer . . . it was still there when I tried to Weave this morning?”
Ladhar nodded. “I thought it safest that the Osmaer remain hidden until you had dealt with the Taminist threat.”
“Then, where is the Osmaer hidden, Abbod? You may speak of it here, we’re among allies.”
“It’s hidden in a place known only to me. For safety’s sake. I was unsure whom I could trust.”
Feich looked past Ladhar to the man at eternally at his shoulder. “Is that so, Minister Cadder? Is the Osmaer’s hiding place unknown to you?”
“It is, lord Regent.”
Feich rose from the throne and meandered off the dais to approach Ladhar.
“You possess greater foresight than I gave you credit for, Abbod. I suppose I must thank you for taking the Osmaer out of harm’s way. And you know, Abbod, I would thank you . . . if I half believed your story. Unfortunately for you, I don’t.”
Ladhar was once again consigned to the bottomless pit. From its depths, all he could do was stand and tremble as Feich went on.
“You see, Abbod, your faithful lieutenant, the able Minister Cadder, observed you switching the Stone. He saw you carry it to your private chambers, which he later searched to find the exact hiding place. He found it, knowing your habits. But when he checked the hiding place again, it was gone. Naturally, he suspected, when he discovered you’d left Ochanshrine today, that you’d taken the Osmaer with you.” Feich brought his face close to Ladhar’s, searching him eye to eye. “Where did you go, Abbod? Did you take the Crystal to your Osraed friends at Carehouse? Or did you have another destination?”
“The Osraed at Carehouse are Taminists,” said Ladhar stiffly. “I am not a Taminist, nor shall I ever be one. They are not friends, but adversaries.”
“Yet it seems you may have given them the Stone of Ochan.”
Ladhar was not used to lying. Except, he now saw, to himself. Whatever had made him believe allegiance to Daimhin Feich was in any way allegiance to Caraid-land or, more importantly, to the Meri? His distrust and hatred of Taminy had blinded him, as it had apparently blinded Caime Cadder.
“Whatever I did,” he said at last, “I did for Caraid-land.”
“Ah, patriotism. A noble sentiment, but hard to believe of a Taminist.” Feich turned away.
“I am not a Taminist! I am a loyal lover of the Meri.”
“Then I’ll give you abundant opportunity to consort with your beloved. Take him.” He flicked a glance at the hovering guards, who moved immediately to take Ladhar in hand.
The Abbod offered no resistance. He had none left in him.
“Take his cloak,” Feich ordered. “He won’t need it where he�
�s going.”
The Feich kinsmen did as commanded, stripping Ladhar of the warm covering. Something slipped from its folds and fell to the floor. It was the book Ladhar had taken from the little Taminist girl. Cadder plucked it from the tiles to scan the cover page. With a glance full of loathing, he offered it to Daimhin Feich who looked the pages over himself, a slow smile illumining his sharp features.
“Why Abbod, how unlike you to be so careless. Surely, you realize that carrying Taminist literature is an offense punishable by death. Thank you for so thoughtfully providing us with concrete evidence of your apostasy. You got this from Fhada, did you?”
“No, not from Fhada.”
Feich shrugged. “No matter. We now have ample reason to search Carehouse and, if necessary, burn it to the ground. I’m sure your successor will offer no resistance to the idea.”
“What will you do with me?”
Feich’s smile deepened. “Oh, I have a special place for treacherous Osraed. You may find it a bit lonely there, though not for long. I intend to fill it with Taminists. I think Osraed Fhada and Lealbhallain will be the first to join you there.”
“There” was a place Ladhar had prayed never to see outside of his nightmares. The chamber was deeper than it was wide, darker than Ladhar’s dreams, and smelled foully of brine and death. The only access was from a long flight of rheum-covered steps that tumbled from a narrow door. The only natural light that entered the dungeon floated phantom-like from mere slits of windows far up the western-facing wall. It shimmered on the seething carpet of icy sea water and glistened dully on the ever sodden walls with their covering of slime.
Up to his ankles in chill salt water, Ladhar experienced a cold of body and soul he’d never known. With the closing of the door, he suspected his life had also closed, for he could do nothing now but drown when the rising tide caught him in exhausted sleep, or perish from exposure.
A thought of Bevol deepened the chill and sent his eyes skittering across the eddying carpet to search for the other Osraed’s remains.
Enough! he chided himself. There would be enough time for terrible searches and self-recrimination and futile analyses of what had brought him to this pass. There was something he might accomplish even here, Meri willing. They had stripped him of his rune crystal and his keystone pendant but, short of killing him outright, or rendering him unconscious, they couldn’t tear from him what little Art he still possessed.
His lips curled. He should probably thank God that Feich was such a sadistic bastard, else he’d be dead already. Ignoring the cold that was beyond cold, Ladhar sat in the waters beneath Mertuile and attempted what he expected to be his last Weave.
oOo
They felt it simultaneously—a crawling of the scalp, a prickling of the skin, a swift-blossoming sensation of dread. In the midst of preparation for the evening meal, they paused in their various tasks and stared at one another, mouths open to say—what? What could be said?
Aine set down the stack of plates she had been laying out on a half-laid table and met Osraed Fhada’s troubled gaze.
“Who?” She merely mouthed the word, afraid any sound might break the tenuous connection with the unknown.
Fhada only shook his head, while behind him Leal lowered himself to a refectory bench, a large bowl of fruit in his arms.
Aine could feel the gazes of others, too, who had noticed their sudden inactivity. She succeeded in blocking them out and fumbled along the aislinn thread, willing it to thicken, to strengthen.
They were in danger—immanent danger.
“Feich,” she murmured. “He’ll attack us. Tonight. Soon.”
“It’s Ladhar. He has Ladhar,” added Leal.
Fhada’s body jerked as if struck by lightning. “Ladhar knows we have the Stone.”
“That’s it!” breathed Aine. “That’s what Feich is after.”
“How soon?”
Aine looked up. Across the table from her, Saefren Claeg, dressed for travel, awaited an answer. His face was storm dark, his expression grim.
“Soon,” she answered him. “Within the hour.”
Saefren glanced about at the roomful of people: children arriving for their meal, Prentices helping with the laying out, men and women from any number of former lives who now spent their time here for safety, for support, for community. Believers all.
“Then we have to move quickly. We have to evacuate these people.”
“Evacuate?” Aine echoed. “To where?”
“Outside Creiddylad. To my uncle’s camp. They’d be safe there. The House Chieftains will protect them.”
“Yes.” Fhada was nodding. “Yes. That’s exactly what we must do.”
Time. That was what they needed most. Unfortunately, they had none. Though they left the refectory in a state of chaos and turned at once to packing up Carehouse’s inmates for a trek out of Creiddylad, they were caught short. Warned by a cry from the gate top, they had only enough time to hide the resident children in what had once been a storage cellar before Feich’s men were at their gate.
Saefren drew his sword.
“Do you really think you can defend this place with that?” Aine asked. “Put it away.”
“How would you defend it?”
Aine took a quick count of their assets—the handful of waljan gathered in the refectory by the cellar door.
“Put it away,” she repeated.
oOo
Daimhin Feich led the party himself. A part of him would like to have brought the Deasach cannon along and blown Carehouse’s barred gates to chill hell, but he did not want to draw attention from the hills. So instead, he demanded that the gate be opened and, when that did not happen, he called Coinich Mor to his side.
They used no battering rams on the barred gate, but only two crystals, a simple inyx and time. The heavy bar finally heaved itself from its place and the metal bolt slipped from its bolt hole. Guards moved forward to swing the gates open, allowing Daimhin Feich, Coinich Mor and Caime Cadder to ride through.
The large courtyard was empty. Feich had expected that. He stationed several guards in the courtyard and entered the huge stone building flanked by his Wicke, his cleirach and his kinsmen. The hall was eerily quiet. Feich swore that, above the scuffing of their shoes and the soft whisper of their breath, he could hear pigeons fluttering in the eaves, wind passing over the ridge pole, fire licking up the hearth in an adjacent room.
He glanced back over his shoulder at the men arrayed behind him. “Spread out. Search. Shout out when you find them. Gather them in the courtyard for the trip back to Mertuile.”
With Coinich Mor, Cadder and two Feich cousins at his side, he moved softly through Carehouse. They had peeked into several rooms—empty, all—when he was touched by unease.
It was too quiet. They had come without warning. Even if some lookout had spotted their approach, there was no way to hide all the people he knew by report lived within Carehouse’s aging walls. Yet, the place seemed deserted and the refectory offered abundant proof of hasty flight. The dozen or so tables were half laid, a stack of plates had been left where someone had halted in setting them out, tableware had been abandoned in similar disarray on the end of the same table. Bowls of food sat untouched on a worn sideboard and the hearth fire blazed as if freshly stoked. In the adjoining kitchen, cook fires boiled a forsaken stew.
Touring the large chamber Daimhin Feich frowned, a creeping sensation prickling the back of his neck. He gestured vaguely at the hearth. “Fire in the hearth, but no candles or lamps. Yet, it’s near sunset.”
“They’d use light-globes,” said Cadder. “There are none lit. They’re not here.”
“No, they want us to believe they’re not here,” Feich said. “This old place must be full of bolt holes and hiding places.” He moved toward a small, rounded door on the rear wall of the room. “Where does this go—Cadder?”
He looked to the cleirach who hurried to unlatch the door and push it open.
“If I recall
, it’s an access to the cellars.”
Feich smiled. “Yes, of course. The cellars. What better hiding place? A dead end.”
He afforded a chuckle at that obvious wordplay and slipped into the dark corridor. He had Coinich Mor hold his hand, feeding her enough power to use her yellow crystal to light the way. It clearly awed his kinsmen to realize that their cousin had such command of the Art—the Divine Art, he reminded himself.
Ironic. He had never, in his wildest dreams, thought of himself as Divine. Taminy was Divine. He knew that—could admit it. But he—he knew only that he was something beyond the frail and human. What was he, if not Divine—he who pursued the Divine and sought to co-opt it?
Later, he would find an answer to that. Right now, he was faced with another doorway, its thick, oaken barrier an opaque face that pretended at disuse. Feich, disbelieving, bade one of his kinsmen open the door. It swung away into a gloom so intense even Coinich Mor’s crystal made little impression upon it. He had the cleirach fetch a lamp and lit it himself without flint. His kinsmen’s eyes gleamed.
A short but steep flight of stairs descended into the gloom. After a moment of hesitation, Feich sent one of his men down with the lamp. He followed, beckoning the second Feich guard to bring up the rear of the party. They were cautious, quiet.
It hardly mattered. The dank chamber seemed as empty as the refectory, and the creeping feeling did not abate. They searched methodically among the kegs, crates and clay pots of goods. They even broke open random containers in case the Taminists had been that clever. They hadn’t been; the crates contained only jars of preserved fruits and vegetables, the pots only flour and grain, the kegs only cider.
Cursing Osraed Fhada and Abbod Ladhar, cursing Taminy, Feich led his party back up to the ground floor, hoping the other searchers had had better luck than he. They hadn’t, and though they searched even the private rooms, not one Taminist was found.
Furious, defeated, humiliated, Daimhin Feich retired to the courtyard and thence to Mertuile, taking his brooding cleirach, his smiling Wicke and his puzzled kinsmen with him.
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