Isha was right, of course, but patience was something Aine had yet to master. Still, if Isha, having just visited hell, could be so patient . . .
With three pairs of eyes on her, Aine felt foolish. “Sorry,” she said, and put her horse in motion down the lowland track toward the Vale of Orian.
oOo
There was a place, a quiet stream-side grove below the pool where the Gwyr was said to live, that Catahn Hageswode considered his own. Here, he had celebrated his Crask-an-duine—a late summer passage for him, beneath a full moon, sung of by cricket bards. The grass had been green and sweet-smelling, blending its perfume with the fragrance of the pines, and the grove had sparkled with the light of tiny candles.
Snow lay upon the sweet grass now, and ice sparkled from needle and branch. It was transformed—gleaming now, rather than verdant. Catahn, sitting on the same rock he had sat upon for that summer rite, tried not to find the place bleak or barren, but bleak, he felt. Bleak, ineffectual . . . evil.
In making Taminy’s nightmares his own, in intercepting Feich’s touch, he had uncovered his own weaknesses, laying them horribly bare to a self-condemning eye. Physical eyes closed, the sensations were an instant away—the silken slip of her hair between his fingers, the sweet, spicy fragrance of her skin, the warmth of her body. Her nightmares embraced his wildest, fondest, most impossible dreams.
He opened his eyes, letting the snow glare burn them to tears. The grove blurred. He was not Daimhin Feich, he told himself. He loved her. Did that not count for something? Did that not lessen his sin?
“Here is a troubled man.”
Catahn jerked and brought his eyes up. Deardru-an-Caerluel stood before him at the center of the grove, a bright spot of blue on a field of white.
“I had meant to be alone here.”
She put back the hood of her azure cloak, letting dark hair spill about her shoulders. “I recall you often came here not to be alone. Geatan told me she thought Desary was conceived in this spot.” She glanced down at the snow about her feet. “Perhaps right where I stand. I always wished it had been me rolling in the summer grass with you.”
Catahn rose and moved to leave, but she stepped forward, hands raised to stop him. “Stay, Catahn. I’m not here to seduce you.”
“I would not be seduced.”
“No. Most likely not. At least, not with her here.” She looked at him shrewdly. “Of course, one day she will leave. She will return to Creiddylad with her boy-Cyne and teach him how to govern.”
“Perhaps. And perhaps I will go with them.”
“You? At court? What a picture that paints! Who will lead the Hillwild in your stead? Your heir is one of her acolytes. Raenulf is dead.”
“If you are not here to seduce me, then what is your purpose?”
“Eyslk has spoken to me often about how Taminy readies our Cyneric for his own Crask-an-duine.” She smiled. “Our daughter very much wants me to like her goddess.”
“Eyslk does not worship Taminy.”
“Do you?”
“Your point, Deardru.”
“Her reports disturb me. She tells of Airleas Malcuim’s strong aidan. Of how Taminy schools him in its use. I’ve seen this myself. I’ve seen the child walk upon the water of the Gwyr’s pool as if it were solid ground. I’ve overheard her lessons with him.”
Catahn frowned. “Airleas is a boy who must quickly become a man. More than that, he must become Cyne—a Cyne with powers he must know how to—”
“Catahn, are you that passion-blind? She doesn’t school a mere Cyne. She schools an Osric.”
Catahn had to allow he’d never considered that. It made sense. With his strong Gift, Airleas Malcuim would be unique among the Cynes of Caraid-land. His appearance now, at the time of an equally unique Cusp was all part of a Plan, surely.
“I think you may be right. What disturbs you?”
She stared at him. “I tell you she would give us an Osric, and you accept it? No, wait. You needn’t answer. You accept whatever she desires. But this? Catahn, think what this means. An absolute ruler. One who will determine law through revelation, one who will govern with another whispering in his ear.”
“Cynes ears have always been whispered into. Only now the Whisperer will have the best interests of all Caraidin at heart.”
“Including the Hillwild, you think? What faith you have. So, the Hillwild are now to be under the yoke of a lowlander?”
“We have long existed in willing cooperation with the Malcuim and the Hall. I would remind you that there is Hillwild blood in Airleas Malcuim’s veins—else he would likely not have his Gift.”
Deardru shook her head, face eloquent with disgust. “You’d sell your soul for her. No, not only your soul, but your daughters’ souls and the soul of every Hillwild, living or dead. Well, you may be willing to surrender your honor to a pretty Wicke and a lowland boy, but I am not.” She put up her hood and turned away with a flourish of her cloak.
“What do you think you can do, Deardru?” Catahn asked, pausing her. “You’re a gifted woman, surely, but she is the Osmaer.”
“Oh, and what is that?”
“Something you should respect, if you weren’t so blinded by . . .” He found himself unable to say it.
Deardru’s eyes flashed wry anger at him. “By jealousy? Why not revenge? You took my husband from me, my daughter, my home, my pride. I offered you love and you rejected it. I would have given you more children—”
“Deardru,” said Catahn wearily. “I never loved you. I loved only Geatan.”
“Oh, yes? And yet, you bring her here with your worshipful lust—”
Catahn thought his face must peel away in the sudden blast of inner heat. “Don’t—” he began, but Deardru was already laughing at him.
“Yes, you give yourself away. Does your tender virgin know how you burn for her? Well, of course she does. She’s Osmaer.”
She walked away from him, back toward the village, her cloak sending up a sparkling wake.
Catahn stood where she left him, a hulk of darkness—shadow stretched across the field of gleaming white. He was all shadow. All.
In the midst of his despair, he sensed Taminy’s call but could not bring himself to answer it.
oOo
Ice crystals, flung by a biting wind, tattooed Daimhin Feich’s face with random patterns of red. They stung without his notice. Through the veil of snow, bright pinpoints of light glinted against the sky-eating flank of Baenn-an-ratha.
Airdnasheen.
Feich turned triumphant eyes to Lilias Saba. “There. The holt of the Hillwild—Catahn. We have but to send our troops up to encircle it.”
Lilias smiled, nodding. “Then I will soon avenge my brother’s death. Do you think that girl, Iseabal, will be here?”
“Doubtful. I can’t imagine the Madaidh would have consented to bring her here. If they tried, they’d still be struggling through the foothills.”
“Then I shall have to take my revenge upon her Mistress.”
Feich glanced at her sharply. “Taminy is my affair.”
“My brother’s blood—”
“And my dead Cyne’s. And the honor of Caraid-land’s ruling House. And my own honor. All these cry for retribution as well.” Seeing a hard look cross her face, he smiled and softened his voice. “Trust me, Lilias. The revenge I exact will satisfy all. Now . . . we will deploy our men to the west, along the mountain’s flank and to the east through the gap.” He gestured sweepingly.
To Feich’s left, his cousin Ruadh nodded agreement. “My thoughts as well. The gap ought to take us around to their main access. Though, it will likely be a difficult climb.”
“See to it, then. I want the siege troops to be in place by morning.”
Ruadh gaped at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“Never more so.”
“Daimhin, those maneuvers will be dangerous in daylight. In this dark and wind, this blowing snow—”
“You’re afraid.”
“Afraid? Yes, I’m afraid! Of losing men and horses to these God-forsaken crags. You’re mad if you think I’d send our men up there now.”
Daimhin twitched in irritation. “Then send Dearg to secure the positions and our kinsmen may follow them up after.”
“No. Not even Dearg will I sacrifice to your . . . obsession.”
“I am your superior, Ruadh,” Feich reminded him blandly. “I speak with the authority of my father, The Feich.”
“You’re not The Feich, Daimhin. You’re only his lieutenant. As Marschal of the Feich forces, it’s up to me to decide as to their deployment. The Feich’s Marschal is telling you, Regent, that to do as you plan would undermine the military success of this campaign you seem so attached to pursuing.”
“I’m not sure military success is even necessary.”
“Then why in the name of all that’s holy are we here? Why have you dragged hundreds of men into this Spirit-blasted wilderness? Why did you not simply wage your war from Creiddylad?”
“You mistake me. I didn’t mean—”
“Are all Feich this argumentative?” Lilias’s voice was tinted with laughter.
The two men ceased their debate and turned to her, faces blank.
“You argue needlessly. My corsairs know these mountains well by night or day. They will secure the siege positions, and Hrofceaster will wake to find herself in the embrace of the Deasach.”
Chapter 21
From the North, the South, the East, and the West,
let the Glory of the Spirit turn on this village sustenance, welfare and ease.
Let the might of the Spirit free us from our enemies,
extinguishing all fear, averting all anger.
Above and beneath, behind and before, free us from our
enemies, O Glory of God.
—Traditional Hillwild prayer
Few were the denizens of Airdnasheen who were ignorant of the night-time approach of the enemy. Those who slept unaware were warned by their more gifted neighbors. Their reaction was not panicked, but swift.
By morning a legion of eyes was focused on the escarpment upon which the Hillwild village sat, prying at the gray walls of her guardian fortress. In daylight, the owners of those eyes could be seen; beneath red, raven-crested banners, men in black flocked and fluttered. By late morning, they had been joined by reinforcements wearing the colors of the Dearg and Feich.
At mid-day, a handful of horsemen rode to the gates of Hrofceaster beneath brilliant banners, while on the tallest standard among them, the Star Chalice winked fire.
“Sacrilege,” murmured Airleas, watching the approach from the windows of the fortress’ Great Hall. He turned angry eyes to those watching with him—Catahn, Taminy, his mother, the Cwen.
“Feich commits sacrilege. The Star Chalice should not leave Creiddylad.”
“The Chalice is a symbol,” Taminy told him. “Its removal from Creiddylad is not so spiritually significant as Daimhin Feich’s intent in removing it.”
Cwen Toireasa gasped and pointed. “Look, Taminy! Below the Chalice—the casket there. Can Feich possibly have the Osmaer?”
Taminy shook her head. “No. The Stone of Ochan is not in his hands, but it’s clear he wants all watchers to believe it is.”
“He sends a courier,” observed Catahn, watching a messenger slip through the well-guarded gates to scurry across the forecourt and disappear into the building below their vantage point.
“I want to hold parley with him,” Airleas said. “I’m Cyneric. It’s me he’s come for. I should stand at the parley. I should speak on my own behalf.”
Catahn started to object, but Taminy halted him, a firm hand on his arm. “He’s right, Catahn. He should speak for himself. After all, it’s his throne that’s in question. All four of us should go. We’ll take Osraed Wyth as scribe.”
Catahn capitulated immediately and, when the courier arrived with his message that Feich requested a meeting outside the gates of Hrofceaster, he sent back an affirmative reply. The four donned coats and cloaks, neither hastily nor lazily, and went down to the forecourt where a nervous Osraed Wyth awaited them, scribe and pad in hand.
The gates of the fortress opened, and their party moved to stand in the open arch, face to face with the adversary. Taminy could not help but be reminded of their last meeting at Halig-liath. This would not be negotiation, Taminy knew. This would be an attempt to manipulate.
Still astride his horse, flanked by the Dearg, the Deasach Cwen and Caime Cadder, Feich beckoned them forward. “Will you not come out on neutral ground?”
“We do not move beyond this gateway,” said Catahn.
“Will you not dismount and meet us?” asked Airleas. “You need not fear deceit from us . . . as you well know.”
Feich stared at the boy with obvious surprise, then smiled and dismounted. His party, save for the four standard bearers, followed suit. He did not waste time on diplomacy, but came directly to the point. “You know why I’m here. Airleas Malcuim must be returned to Creiddylad. As his Regent, I insist that he return with me.”
“As his Regent?” echoed Taminy. “But you are not his sole Regent. The Chieftains of two noble Houses are co-Regents with you according to an agreement which you signed and which the Abbod Ladhar witnessed. An agreement this man drafted.” Her eyes moved to the cleirach at Daimhin Feich’s side.
Caime Cadder started, eyes wide. “How can she—?”
“How can she know?” Feich finished for him. “You amaze me, Cadder. You know what she is, yet you doubt her powers. Unwise of you. In answer to your question, Mistress—yes, there was a compact drawn. But the other signatories—including the Abbod—proved to be traitors. Heretics. Much like yourself, Mistress. Much like this Cwen of yours.”
Toireasa stirred. “I am not the traitor to Caraid-land, Durweard Feich. I will fight you to the death rather than let you take my son from me.”
“Regrettable, madam. But if those are your conditions . . .”
“I will not leave Hrofceaster as your prisoner,” said Airleas. “Nor as your ward. I will leave here only with Taminy, for I have chosen her as my Durweard.”
“You are a child, Airleas,” Feich told him. “A child who has been mesmerized and bewicked. You are my ward, like it or not, and I am your legally appointed Regent—by your father’s decree.”
“A decree witnessed by Abbod Ladhar. You called him a traitor and a heretic, just now.”
Feich’s lips compressed. “Taminy-a-Cuinn has no place in your government. She is a danger to the established order and to the spiritual life of your country.”
“I am Cyneric of Caraid-land and The Malcuim,” answered Airleas. “I’ll not have a murderer and a traitor as my Durweard. Take your men and weapons away, Daimhin Feich. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Feich’s face reddened to the tips of his ears. He looked to Taminy. “Mistress, do you expect me to believe that this child speaks for himself? You have thoroughly bewicked him.”
“Airleas speaks freely, sir. Since he is what you’ve come for, it’s only right he should speak on his own behalf.”
“No, Mistress. He is not all that I’ve come for. Caraid-land is divided. Torn. You are the cause of that division. As much as the people clamor for their Cyneric, they clamor for you. The Osraed are powerless, barricaded in their Shrine; the Assembly has not met; the Houses are in a roil; the streets of Creiddylad are not safe for anyone—”
“Most especially waljan,” murmured Catahn.
Feich did not so much as glance at him. “Mistress, we cannot speak of such important matters like this. Before Airleas can be considered, I must deal with you directly. If we could but speak in private?”
“Without your allies and standard bearers?”
“Yes.”
As Taminy inclined her head, Catahn objected sharply, laying a protective hand on her shoulder. “Lady, no! You’ll go nowhere with him alone. I must be with you.”
“Lady,” ec
hoed Feich, “I need to talk to you, not to your guard dog. Let us go aside—where we can be seen but not heard—and speak privately.”
Taminy looked to Catahn, who reluctantly nodded his agreement. “Away from all soldiers,” he insisted.
Feich returned the nod. “As you wish. Shall we go sit upon that rock?” He gestured toward a large flat boulder shaded sparely by the bare branches of several trees.
They spoke no words as they moved to the spot. Taminy brushed the snow from one end of the boulder and sat upon it, her cloak beneath her. Feich sat opposite and favored her with a long, appraising look, taking in her woolen breeches and leather jacket.
“You fill out boys’ clothing much too well to pass. You don’t dissuade me from finding you alluring, still. I admit, I recall our time together at Mertuile with some fondness . . . and frustration. You haunt my dreams, Lady Taminy.”
And you, mine, she thought, but did not speak it.
Did he know he had reached her? She thought he must, and must take perverse delight in the fact. But now, facing him, looking into his eyes, she could not be sure. As always, he seemed . . . shielded from her in some way she had yet to comprehend.
Here, now, face to face with him, she felt of his aidan and was puzzled by it. There was something . . . uneven about it.
“You bring me here to offer me flattery?” she asked. “I thought you meant to speak of important things.”
“These things are important to me. But let me be frank. I have resources and forces enough to hold Airdnasheen and lay siege to Hrofceaster indefinitely.”
“We have the resources to withstand such a siege.”
“Indeed? You have ample food? Water?”
“What do you think Hrofceaster is about, sir? It’s a fortress. A stronghold. Intended to withstand the siege of seasons year after year.”
“And Airdnasheen? Will it withstand the abuses of battle? The Feich and Dearg are civilized men. The Deasach corsairs are hardly that. Will you subject Catahn’s citizens to their outrages?”
“What citizens are those, sir? The mice and owls?”
He started, feeling her amusement as a tickling veil drawn across his face, and looked away down the slope toward the village. Though it was broad daylight, it lay as if asleep. Nothing stirred in its streets, no smoke curled from its chimneys, no livestock moved through its paddocks. Feich swiveled his head back to Taminy, who continued to regard him expressionlessly.
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