The youth’s eyes gleamed. “Some distance?”
“Half-day’s ride, no more. The cannon determined their pace.”
Sorn grinned. “I suppose I shall just have to take charge of the train and see if I can speed it up a bit. Half-day’s journey, you say.”
“Perhaps less.”
“Then I shall be with the beautiful Iseabal tonight in my black tent. I will show her paradise,” he promised.
Daimhin chuckled. “That ought to provide her a welcome change. I imagine she’s weary of her tour of hell.”
“Surely, you belittle your own charm, friend Daimhin.”
“Charm? I made no attempt to show her any.”
The boy made a clucking sound with his tongue. “An oversight, my friend. One may often have by charm what he cannot take by force.”
The remark echoed in Daimhin Feich’s head long after Sorn Saba and his men had galloped away toward Creiddylad with a Feich escort. Even now he felt suspicion curl in the back of his mind.
Perhaps he had let the young Deasach fool him. Perhaps the boy had hidden fey powers of his own and had manipulated Feich into letting the girl go. Perhaps the boy would now draw from her the power he had been denied . . . and perhaps he was just overly full of suspicion. Sorn Saba’s philosophical comment might have been just that—the romantic rumination of a lusty young man. Still, Daimhin Feich could not help but hear words behind the words and wondered if the Deasach fancied himself able to charm from Iseabal-a-Nairnecirke something more than willing surrender to his lovemaking.
When they camped tonight, he decided, he would ask Coinich Mor if there was any way he could know for certain.
oOo
For two days Iseabal had slept, rocked in the luxurious confines of her gaudy little wagon. She had wakened hungry once and been given some corn cakes and honey with hot tea. Some part of her registered that the food was delicious and nourishing, but she didn’t care. She was exhausted of mind and body, drained of spirit. On the second evening, early, she woke again, sensing the stillness of the wagon and the bustle of activity around it. She gathered her senses, pulled them back from some half-lucid dream in which she walked the woods and hills of home, unfettered and cleansed.
The wagon rocked gently and someone parted the rearward curtains and entered. It was not the solid Feich matron who had been tending her; the silhouette was too slender and decidedly male.
She tensed, jerking upright on her fleece-covered mattress.
The figure raised a hand. “Please, don’t take fright. It’s only me—Sorn.”
She relaxed, but only slightly. The young Deasach had visited her once at Mertuile. She had been terrified of him at first, but the warm voice had soothed her and she had sat with him at the fireside, drinking mulled cider and talking. He had told wonderful stories of his boyhood in the court of his father, of his sister’s coronation upon the loss of their parents in a storm at sea, of his falcon and pet lynx. She, in turn, had spoken of Nairne and her family, of Taminy and Aine. He had seemed pleased to listen. The cider had the potency of wine and she carried no memory beyond the warm fire and Sorn’s watchful black eyes.
“Poor child,” he said now. He’d called her that before, too, though he was not more than a year or two older than she. “Poor child, you look spent. Shall I leave you to sleep?”
“I only just woke,” she said. “I’ve slept for days, I think.”
“Then you must be hungry, yes?” At her nod, “I’ll have dinner set out for you in my tent. First, you must refresh yourself. A bath, yes? A hot bath. Scented with the petals of desert roses. Would you like that?”
“I would, thank you. Is . . . is Daimhin Feich . . . ?”
Sorn came closer to the edge of her pallet, his long, slender fingers prying hers from the fleece covering she unwittingly wrung.
“No, no, dear Iseabal. I have saved you from Feich. He will trouble you no more—I swear it.”
She didn’t believe him for a moment. Surely there was nowhere in the universe where Daimhin Feich was not. He was even in her dreams, turning them to nightmares. She had all but suffocated her aidan in fear of his loathsome touch—in fear that he could truly turn it to his own use.
“You try to trick me. He’s here.”
He gripped her hands more tightly. “No! I promise you, he is not. Listen, Iseabal—I made a bargaining with Feich. The aid of the Deasach I made in part dependent on his granting me your care. You are in my keeping now, Iseabal. Feich is set on other aims. If you touch my mind, you’ll see I tell the truth. Trust me, Iseabal. Am I not speaking truly?”
He sat beside her, silent for a moment and, at last, she put out a tiny feeler of the aidan. Feich . . . was ahead of them on the shore rode, riding post haste to El-Deasach.
She made herself relax. “Feich will reach El-Deasach before we do.”
He nodded. “By days, perhaps. By the time we reach my sister’s capitol, he will be so busy with his great plans he will not even notice you.” He put a hand to her face. “He will not lay hands on you again.”
She put her hand over his in a wave of gratitude. “Thank you. I’m in your debt.”
“He terrifies you so?”
She shuddered. Terror was such a weak word when it came to Feich and his appetites. She had only just ceased to feel bruised and torn.
Sorn was reading her face in the twilight leaking through the curtains behind him. He shook his head. “A monster, that one. I will try to help you exorcise his demon. You are an open wound. I promise you this: in my hands, you will heal.”
She was bathed in scented water, dressed in a soft billowing gown of pale saffron silk with a warm felt overcoat of cinnamon, and taken to a black tent at the heart of the camp. It was a large tent. It was clearly intended for more than one person, yet Sorn Saba was its only occupant. Upon a carpet of thick fleeces, lay a single, low pallet, its mattress thick and soft.
It was there they sat before a large, brass brazier and ate spicy Deasach food and drank spicy Deasach karfa. The tent was golden with lamplight and ornamentation—a mask and odd dancing figurines. The warmed air smelled pleasantly of food and spice and incense from the coals. They spoke, at length, of many things. She asked about the golden mask and figurines and Sorn told her of ancient ritual and belief. This was his father’s death mask, and these, his family’s patron spirit, Jamla, known for her grace and passion on the battlefield, in the dance, in love. Sorn had added this last, glancing at her shyly.
Fruit was brought and wine, which Iseabal refused; the waljan did not drink intoxicants, she explained, but the karfa was lovely—wonderful. He ordered that a fresh pot be brought. The evening passed gently, pleasantly—but the honeyed fruit and hot karfa seemed to take its toll on Isha’s reserves of energy. Heavy-eyed and heavy-headed she heard less and less of what Sorn said, understood her own answers not at all.
He, solicitous, massaged her hands, her neck and shoulders, speaking to her softly all the while in that sweet, warm, patient voice. His mother used to massage his aching muscles, he told her.
She could name no point at which she realized her senses were no longer hers to command, when she knew the fruit and the karfa—possibly all the food—had been laced with intoxicants, though none as potent as Sorn’s voice, gently ordering her body to comply with his. She knew only that in the end, what Sorn Saba required from her was no different than what Feich demanded. It was less painfully gotten, that was all.
Sometime in the black of night, she came back to herself and was lost immediately to confusion. Chaos broke like ocean waves beyond the black walls of the tent, bearing a flotsam of curses, cries and the metallic clash of swords.
Beside her, Sorn jerked to awareness, scrambling for clothing. His hand fell heavily on her shoulder.
“Light!” he whispered urgently. “Make light! Now!” He shook her.
Shivering with fear, she cupped her hand and brought an inyx to mind; a tiny ball of light formed in the palm of her hand. In it
s glow, Sorn’s eyes were huge and wild.
He had risen, pulled on his leggings and was scrabbling about his saddle for a weapon when the tent flap parted admitting a swarm of light and two men dressed in cloaks of deep crimson with edging of patterned yellow. One stood with sword drawn, the other carried a light-globe atop a wooden staff.
Iseabal stared, trying to comprehend who these Weavers of light might be.
Sorn came up from a crouch, a sword in one hand and what looked like a tiny cannon in the other. The leader of the marauders raised his free hand.
“Put down the weapon, boy. We’ve come only for the girl.”
Far from pacifying Sorn Saba, the words inflamed him. His face twisted in a leer of rage, he fired the little cannon. It discharged with a roar and a flash of fire, shattering the light-globe and plunging the tent into darkness.
Iseabal screamed as Sorn leapt upon her, pressing her to his side. She felt cold metal at her throat.
“Hex them!” he cried. “Set a spell on them!”
Movement ceased and a voice out of the dark said, “Iseabal, I am Rodri Madaidh. I mean no harm to you. Here is my proof.”
From the place where the voice rose a light appeared in the shape of a star—a gytha—on the palm of this stranger’s hand.
Seeing it, Iseabal sobbed in relief—but her relief was short-lived. Sorn’s sword bit into her neck and his body shook with fear and rage. His intention was clear.
She raised her marked palm to his face. A flash of Eibhilin fire flared from it. Sorn cried out and flinched, and Iseabal twisted away from him, purple flames dancing before her eyes. His sword lashed the darkness where she had been, and in a sudden flurry of motion, blade met blade.
Sobbing, Iseabal cringed by the tent wall, listening to the sounds of a battle that was over almost as soon as it had begun. When another light-globe was at last brought into the tent, Sorn Saba lay dead upon its carpeted floor, his blood soaking the fleeces.
Iseabal could only sit and stare at his body until Rodri Madaidh came to her side, his bloodied sword sheathed. He placed a cloak about her and knelt at her side.
“I’m sorry, child,” he said. “I hadn’t meant to kill him.”
“I thought he was a friend,” Iseabal murmured irrelevantly.
The Madaidh encircled her trembling shoulders with his arm and brought her to her feet.
“Even the aidan can be lied to,” he observed, “as it also can lie. Now, we must be away from here. Your Mistress is anxious for your return.”
Chapter 19
Beware, beware that you never seek revenge, even against those who cry for your life’s blood. Beware, again, that you offend not anyone, even if he is wicked or wishes you harm. Never look upon the souls, turn your eyes to their Creator. Never look down at the dust; look upward, instead, and see the brilliance of the Sun, which causes even the darkest earth to gleam with light.
—Utterances of the Osraed Gartain, #27
The city of Kansbar glittered like a jewel between beach and sandy hills. It was a city of light—polished stone of red, white, gray and gold gleamed from the facade of every major building. With evening, the streets warmed with illumination cast from bowls of liquid fire ensconced on the walls of buildings or hanging from metal posts.
Daimhin Feich had been entranced by its beauty for the first several hours he and his entourage gazed upon it from a balcony in the palace of Deasach’s ruling family, but, as he awaited the presence of Lilias Saba, the beauty cloyed and he felt only impatience.
He and Ruadh and their contingent of elders had been ushered to a room of such alien opulence as to make Mertuile, sumptuous as it was, pale in comparison. There they had been stabled for hours, fed on strange dishes by elegant servants, waiting for the Banarigh Lilias to greet them.
When Feich was certain he must begin making rude demands or go mad, her castellan arrived to usher them into the throne room—if it could be called that, for there was no throne, only a dais with a billowing couch and an extravagance of pillows, all wildly colored. There was no one on the colorful cloud, and Feich found he once more had time to admire the chamber and take in its opulence.
It struck him then, as he eyed banners and streamers and garlands of rich-hued silk against snow white and sand walls, that this was exactly the sort of tactic he would use to deal with those he wished to impress with both his riches and his arrogance. The thought aroused equal parts irritation and amusement and he laughed aloud, drawing odd looks from his own party and the palace guards as well.
The Banarigh entered then, and Daimhin Feich’s hilarity died in his throat. In this room of dancing color, she was a dark, mysterious jewel—a jet, an onyx. The gown she wore was the black of a starling’s wing, shimmering from emerald to amethyst with her every move, making it appear that her waist-length hair carried the same shifting colors. As she mounted the dais and sat upon her couch, Feich realized that, through some artful use of dye, it did.
She was smiling at him, acknowledging the bold caress of his eyes. Her full lips parted in a gesture that suggested thirst and she said, in a voice like dark, red wine, “You are Daimhin Feich.”
All others were excluded from that gaze and Feich gladly let them fade. “I am, and I have no need to assure myself that you are the Raven. Your portrait—I carry it with me—cannot but insult you. It lies in saying you are merely beautiful.”
She laughed—a deep, throaty ripple of sound that heated Feich’s ears. “Flatterer.”
“I would love to flatter you more, Raven, but we have come on an errand of great urgency.”
She held up one bronze hand. “Do you need these others to speak of your urgency, Regent Feich?”
He glanced at the Dearg Chieftain, the Malcuim Elder and Ruadh. “No. Not at all.”
“Then come. Let us speak privately.”
She rose from her couch-throne and moved before him to a set of marvelous doors inset with panes of smooth, filmy crystal. None of the guards about the dais moved a muscle.
She turned back at the glazed doors and looked to her castellan. “See to the comfort of my guests and their men. House the Elders in the palace, along with such private servants as they may require.”
The man bowed smartly and moved to usher Feich’s associates from the chamber.
Raven-Lilias was also moving again, through the doors into the corridor beyond. Feich followed, restraining an eagerness that made his innards tremble.
The corridor into which he passed was extraordinary. Stone, cut to the thickness of a man’s arm, formed arches of iridescent white that crossed and recrossed overhead as if woven by a giant’s hands. Between the graceful arcs, through cunningly shaped glass, the night sky shone, alive with stars. The outer wall of the corridor was made of the same transparent stuff, and through it Feich could see the streets of Kansbar sloping away to the moonlit sea. Along the length of this incredible, gleaming tunnel, plants of verdant green, bearing huge, scented flowers, draped or billowed or grew stately from polished brass containers.
Lilias the Raven began to walk along the way, beckoning Feich to follow. “Now, speak to me, Daimhin Feich.”
Her accent was thicker than her brother’s—a thing of great charm to her companion, who smiled at her and begged her to call him Daimhin. She agreed with a slight inclination of her head, a shimmering rainbow ripple of hair.
“You know I have need of your aid,” he said.
She nodded. “You need men of war and safe passage. Explain this to me. Sorn has little grasp of statehood. He spoke of sorcery, of the kidnap of your Cyne.”
“Then your brother told you about the Wicke, Taminy.”
“Yes. An evil woman, from his account, who holds your Cyneric against his will . . . And I should grant you my help—why?”
Taken aback, Feich frowned. He hadn’t expected to have to justify himself on the most basic of issues. “Taminy is also a grave danger to you, Raven, and to El-Deasach. She will not stop at Caraid-land. If she comes
to power—”
“Oh, yes, yes. All this I see. But this is all politics. Why shall I, Lilias, aid you, Daimhin?”
He stopped and turned to her. “Raven, may I—?”
“Lilias, may I . . .”
“Lilias . . . may I be honest with you?”
“I would prefer this.”
“You are, without doubt, the most exotic, the most beautiful woman I have ever met. I feel . . . forgive me . . . a great attraction to you. An affinity. A connection. I can only pray you feel a similar bond, and hope you will aid me because of that.”
She smiled, enigmatic, and said, “You, too, march beneath the banner of the Raven. There is a sign in that, I think. I feel.”
“My family name in the old tongue means Raven.”
“Clearly a sign.” Her smile broadened and she moved ahead of him a little, crooking her finger.
To the end of the hallway they traveled, side by side, and entered a round chamber with a ceiling as transparent as the air. Stars like chips of crystal studded the vault of sky beyond. Beneath the bowl of stars, lit subtly and draped in silks, was a nest of pillows.
Lilias stepped from her shoes and into the nest, turning to face Feich. Then, with a gesture subtle and elegant, she let fall her starling gown.
Suddenly inflamed, Feich was scarcely able to take her in. “Lilias . . .” he murmured, rooted to the polished floor.
She laughed at him. “Why do you hesitate?”
He needed no further invitation. An odd negotiation this, but one he approved.
“Ah . . .” she whispered against his kiss, “you answer well, Daimhin of the Raven. I wonder, will the rest of your tribute be as sweet as this?”
“If I answer so well, do you need more tribute than this?”
She laughed, churning his blood. “Not I, but I think you may not wish to make love to my Council. There must be fruit in this for them, as well.”
“Their tribute arrives with your brother—a day, maybe a bit more. Can they wait?”
“They can. I cannot.” She turned black eyes up to his. “My tribute, lord—now.”
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