They paused to afford him smiles and courtly bows, then took up their dialogue again, loud as before.
It was like Creiddylad in miniature, Leal thought, as they passed beneath an open portcullis into the inner ward—a village unto itself. Of course, there were times in its history when the great Castle of Malcuim the Uniter had been forced to self-sufficiency. Times when the countryside teemed with rebellion or the streets of Creiddylad with betrayal.
Within the inner walls, Mertuile bested Lealbhallain’s imagination. The rough stones of the outer ward gave way to carefully laid tiles and brick. And before him, across the narrower inner yard, the facade of the Castle itself glistened with native stone, while thick, faceted panes of glass flashed sunlight from every window embrasure. Banners bearing the clasped-hand insignia of the House of Malcuim snapped crisply in the sea breeze, saluting him, he imagined.
The only denizens of this inner circle seemed to be fine-liveried guardsmen, all of whom watched the approach of the young Osraed with apparent interest. Leal’s escort took him past these guards and up a broad flight of imposing steps, replete with stone bannisters that mimicked silkies. At the top of these they passed through immensely thick wooden doors into a circular anteroom. Here, Leal’s resistance to being overwhelmed faltered and he succumbed to awe, gawping at the chamber like a rural schoolboy—which was really, he thought wryly, what he was, after all.
Fortunately for his Osraed dignity, the guard had also stopped and bid him wait a moment. The man disappeared through the center most of three doors that opened from the chamber, affording Leal the time to admire the multi-hued tiles, gold leaf and polished stone that graced the walls; the elaborate, pennanted chandelier that hung from a gilded dome whose up-side down bowl spilled sunlight onto the mosaic of the Malcuim crest worked into the tiles beneath his feet.
He was gazing up into the second floor gallery, trying to recognize the motif worked into the bannister, when the guard returned.
“I’m to take you to the Cyne’s Durweard,” he said and led the way back from whence he’d come.
Through vaulted corridors they moved, up a flight of pale stairs and into a room so full of sunlight, Leal thought it must surely have just replenished itself from that extraordinary vestibule. In several rapid blinks he got his bearings and saw, seated in a throne-like chair near a row of tall windows, a youngish man in splendid dress. The man smiled in greeting and rose to bow deeply before him.
“Good Osraed, I am Daimhin Feich, Cyne’s Durweard.” Feich gestured to a chair of only slightly less grandeur set at angles to his own. “Pray be seated and tell me of your mission here. The sergeant tells me you bear a message from Halig-liath.”
Leal nodded, seated himself, and drew the Durweard’s attention to the leather portfolio he carried. “I am the Osraed Lealbhallain,” he said. “I have been commissioned this Season by the Meri and sent to Creiddylad.”
“Yes, of course,” said Feich. “And your message?” He gestured at the folio.
“This missal is for Cyne Colfre from the Osraed of Halig-liath. It concerns the time of the next General Assembly, and its agenda.”
“Ah.” The Durweard nodded and extended his hand. “In that case, I shall take it to him immediately.”
Leal laid the folio in his lap and folded his hands over it. “I’m sorry, Durweard Feich,” he said, and wondered why he was not shaking at his own impertinence, “but I must deliver this to the Cyne with my own hands and witness that he opens it. Those were my instructions. And—” His tongue seemed quite willing and able to continue of its own accord. “And I have messages for the Cyne from another Source as well.”
Daimhin Feich raised a jet black brow and speared Leal with uncommonly pale eyes. “Oh? And what source might that be?”
“The Source of Sources.”
“The Source of Sources,” repeated the Durweard. “Meaning the Meri, I suppose.”
“Aye.”
“The Cyne is pursuing his muses just now,” Feich said. “He dislikes very much being disturbed when he is so involved. I assure you, Osraed, any message from you, I would personally deliver-”
“Durweard, I am newly Chosen. I have been commissioned by the Osraed Bevol and Eadmund and by the Meri, Herself, to deliver these messages to our Cyne. Neither commission can be denied or circumvented. I must see Cyne Colfre—face to face.” He amazed himself with that—with the fierceness of his confidence, with the edge that put to his voice, with the certitude of his words. Sweating, because despite that, he knew he looked like a carrot-topped, freckled mouse of a boy, he watched the Durweard Feich and waited for his response.
Eye to eye, they sat—boy and man—measuring each other, until the man finally lowered his eyes and rose. “Of course, you must, Osraed Lealbhallain. I shall endeavor to make my lord understand your imperative.”
“Please.” Leal inclined his head.
In the Durweard’s absence, he quaked and prayed, wondering at the words that had come out of his mouth, marveling at their Origin.
What message, Mistress? he begged silently—and was swiftly rewarded with a tingling tide of response. He sponged perspiration from his lip with the fine sleeve of his tunic. The Cyne would not be pleased.
Durweard Feich reappeared almost immediately, bowing deeply as he beckoned Leal to follow him. “Please, Osraed. The Cyne will see you at once.”
Leal was moved to wry humor at the thought that a Cyne’s Durweard (a scion of the House Feich, no less) should bow and scrape to a small town Mercer’s teenage son. He then smote himself mentally for the pride in that observation—Feich was bowing to something entirely other than Lealbhallain-mac-Mercer, late of Nairne.
Leal had dared to imagine his first meeting with Cyne Colfre Malcuim. It would take place in the throne room. The room that had seen weddings and war councils, celebrations and treachery, royal pardons and condemnations. The room that should have seen, for the six hundred fifth consecutive year, the celebration of new Osraed. But the chamber in which Osraed Lealbhallain first met his Cyne was a long, narrow, obviously unfinished room with canvas-draped floor and walls. The Cyne, or so Leal assumed it must be, stood before a multi-hued wall, gazing up at it in rapt concentration. He was wearing a gray smock and carried a paint tray and brush.
As he drew nearer the paint-bedaubed wall, Leal realized he was looking at a mural laid out in lurid hues. He scanned it, eyes picking out familiar shapes, a thread of narration, a flow. When they fell on the section the Cyne now studied, Leal felt a surge of recognition. At the same moment, the Cyne acknowledged his presence.
“Ah! Dear Osraed Lealbhallain! You are too kind to visit me while I am in such disarray.” Cyne Colfre gestured at the chamber and his own apparel. “But my time is so often occupied with administrative affairs, I quite bury myself in my passion when I get the opportunity.”
“I understand, sire,” Leal murmured, trying to draw his eyes away from the mural. They clung to the image of a white-shouldered woman clutching a child to her half-naked body as she fled down a dark, tortuous cliffside stair toward a river filled with dangerous-looking water.
“What do you think of my mural, Osraed Lealbhallain?”
Leal’s face felt suddenly cold and clammy. “It’s ... it’s the tale of Cwen Goscelin and the kidnap of Cyneric Thearl, isn’t it?”
The Cyne laughed. “Well, of course it is, b- Osraed! And more. See there?” He pointed his brush to the upper left corner of the mural. “The uprising of the Hillwild under Haefer Hageswode, his wild appearance at Solstice Fest ...”
The Cyne’s brush tip swept across the scene and Leal felt a blush rising from his neck to cover his face. Haefer Hageswode, Ren of the Hillwild during the reign of Cyne Siolta, was depicted not merely wild and half-clad during his legendary meeting with the Cyne at Cyne’s Cirke, but was wearing only bright splashes of paint and an ornate necklace.
The brush continued on its way. “ ... his incarceration at Halig-liath, the murder of Cyne Sio
lta by the Hageswode’s nephew, the battle for the Regency. Yes, it’s all there. Yet, I must admit you are correct—the courageous acts of my kinswoman, Goscelin, are the capstone of the piece ...If I dare mix my metaphors freely.” The Cyne turned dark, zealot eyes on Leal again. “What do you think of it, Osraed?”
“It overwhelms me, sire,” Leal answered in all honesty. “Your sense of history ... and color ... is very vivid.”
The Cyne, smiling, inclined his head. “Your praise warms me, Master Lealbhallain. But, please, forgive my zealous ramblings. My muses” —he returned his gaze to the mural— “consume me at times.” He continued for a moment to gaze at the lurid chain of scenes as if that were literally true, then turned smartly to his Durweard, who still hovered at Leal’s elbow. “Refreshment, Daimhin. Have it brought out to the Blue Pavilion.”
Feich bowed and left them.
Cyne Colfre, laying aside his paints and stripping off his smock, bid Lealbhallain follow him. He led the way to the far end of the chamber and through a pair of incredibly delicate doors with narrow panels of alternating clear and colored glass. They seemed somehow out of place set deep into the thick walls of the ancient Malcuim fortress. But once through the doors, Leal felt he had been transported to a different realm. A slender bridge of gleaming white stone stretched for several meters across a ground-floor garden, joining the second story chamber to a splendid pavilion with a silver roof.
A blue pavilion, indeed, Leal thought, as they moved out onto the bridge. Everything about it that wasn’t white or silver was a deep, brilliant azure—pennants, appointments, the pillows and pads on the circle of stone couches. Leal was losing himself in the heady scent of late-blooming flowers and evergreen shrubs when he realized that the Cyne was looking at him, expectant of his commentary.
“Most beautiful,” he said, inadequately, turning slowly within the pavilion’s airy enclosure. Through every sculpted arch was a different view, each remarkable in its own way, whether of courtyard, castle, city rooftops or-
“As you can see, I had the seaward wall lowered and notched so as to obtain an ocean vista. I designed it myself, you know.”
Leal glanced at his Cyne, amazed. “Truly? Sire, your talents are remarkable. This pavilion is-is ... glorious.”
“And there are three more just like it. One for each point of the compass. Each decorated in a different color.”
Colfre gestured for Leal to be seated, then deposited himself on the most luxurious couch of all—a stone creation in the shape of a recumbent horse. It glistened as if wet. No sooner were they seated than a pair of servants appeared with a silver pitcher and cups, a set of covered dishes, and an ornate folding wooden table.
“I’m designing a high pavilion for the royal suite now,” the Cyne continued as the servants laid out a tray full of delicacies and drink. “I’m planning to extend the buttressing away from the side of the western tower and build a little chamber atop it. I’ve been giving thought to having a suspension bridge connect it to the castle, although I daresay that could be quite off-putting to the Cwen and probably not the safest of conveyances. A drawbridge, now, that would be ideal. A Cyne’s duties do lend fantasy of splendid isolation a great deal of appeal.”
The Cyne dismissed the servants then, while Leal tasted a type of fruit he’d never seen before. It was sweet, but tangy, and had deep red flesh.
“Like that, do you?” Colfre asked.
Leal nodded. “I’ve seen naught like it.”
“Well, no, you wouldn’t have. It grows beyond the Suder-Gyldans. In the Sutherlands. Aye, but you’ll be seeing more of it before long. Now, tell me, Osraed, what service your Cyne might render to you.”
Leal held out the folio, its gold clasp and inlay flashing brightly in the Sun. “I bring a message from the Osraed Bevol and Eadmund regarding the holding of the General Assembly. I am told it is in response to your last dispatch.”
Cyne Colfre took the folio and turned it over in his hands. He hesitated for a moment, then tripped the clasp, opening the tooled cover to view the contents. Frowning, he leafed through the several pages of dense script, scanned the first page. Finally, he glanced up at Leal. “Are you to wait for a response to this?”
“No, sire. I am not returning to Halig-liath. My mission is here, in Creiddylad.”
The Cyne seemed interested in that. “Oh? Doing what, precisely?”
Leal drew himself a little straighter on his couch; he hoped he looked taller. “I am to examine the state of the poor in Creiddylad and to do what may be done to change their lot for the better.”
The Cyne’s brows rose steeply. “We have already a number of Osraed working under that same charter. I would not presume to question the Meri’s wisdom but-”
“Are there yet poor in Creiddylad?”
“Aye. There are always poor in Creiddylad.”
“Then the charter is not yet fulfilled. I assume I am to help see that it is.”
The Cyne smiled—indulgently, thought Leal. “Quite a great undertaking for so young an Osraed.”
“The Osraed Ochan was no older than I, sire. At Cyne Malcuim’s side, he helped transform Caraid-land into a nation. I won’t be alone. I’ll have assistance from the Meri, from the Osraed already here, and from yourself, of course.”
The Cyne’s smile deepened, his teeth showing white and even, his eyes glinting. They were Hillwild eyes, Leal realized, not brown, as they first appeared, but a peculiar shade of amber.
“Of course.” Cyne Colfre tucked the folio under his arm and stood, indicating the interview was at an end.
Leal came swiftly to his feet, shivering with a rush of adrenaline. “I have another message for you, sire.”
“Oh? From whom?”
“From the Meri.”
A peculiar parade of expressions moved across the Cyne’s face: surprise, bemusement, amusement, unease. Unease won out.
“From ... the Meri,” he repeated. “For me.”
“Aye, sire.”
The Cyne let himself back down to his couch. “Pray, deliver your message.”
Something in the way he said it ...He doesn’t believe! Leal felt a chill shake his bowels. He wanted to sit, himself, certain his legs must begin to tremble, but he remained standing. To look less a child, he thought. To seem more a man.
A frisson of indescribable warmth welled in Leal’s brain, coursing down, spreading throughout his body. He opened his mouth and spoke. “You must first know that the Meri has changed Aspect. The Emerald Meri has given way to the Gold.”
Cyne Colfre’s face paled visibly beneath his neatly trimmed beard. “Changed Aspect? You ... you saw this? You’re certain of this?”
“The Meri came to me golden. Ask any of the Osraed here at court or at Ochanshrine. They will tell you She radiated emerald hues. She has changed, Cyne Colfre. I have seen it and the Osraed Wyth has seen it. Caraid-land enters another Cusp.”
The Cyne came to his feet and began to pace the perimeters of his grand pavilion. “A Cusp? Now? What can it mean?” He turned to Leal, his expression wary and fierce. “Explain this to me, Osraed. Tell me what this means.”
“The history of Caraid-land gives tell of that, Cyne. Do you recall the last such time?”
The Cyne made a nervous gesture. “I have studied history, of course. It was over a hundred years ago.”
His disbelief wavers. “It took place not long after the events you describe in your mural, during the reign of Thearl the Stern. Do you recall the circumstances?”
Relief spread across Colfre’s face like a slow stain. “Well, of course. There was an insurrection. The House Claeg and its Hillwild allies moved against the Throne. But we’re in no such circumstance now. The Hillwild have long been pacified—by the Kiss, my mother and grandmother were Hillwild. And as to the House Claeg, it is also reconciled to us ...You are not suggesting that there is danger to be expected from those quarters?”
“The Meri wishes you to know that She is wounded by disunity
and deceit wherever they arise and whatever form they take.”
“What? What does that mean? What disunity? What deceit?”
Osraed Lealbhallain gazed into the reddening face of his Cyne, his legs finally giving in to the urge to shake. “I come only to deliver the message, Cyne, as the Meri bids me. Learn the lesson of history and of your ancestors. Guard, Cyne Colfre, against disunity and deceit.”
“From what quarter, Osraed? From where will this deceit come? The Claeg? The Feich? The Hillwild? I am opening relations with the Deasach. Will the deceit arise there? And as to disunity ...”
Lealbhallain could feel the Cyne’s concern, now, rippling from him like heat drafts from sun-warmed stone. “I have only to deliver the message, sire,” he repeated.
“But didn’t they tell you where these problems would arise?”
“They, sire?”
“The ones who gave you this warning to deliver. The Osraed Bevol and Eadmund, surely.” Colfre’s disbelief struggled to reassert itself.
Leal quashed it. “I told you, sire. This message is from the Meri.” He raised fingers to the bright mark on his forehead, drawing the Cyne’s unwilling eyes to it. He felt the other man recoil, sensed his conflicting desire to reach out and touch the star, to assure himself that it was not merely painted there. “It’s hot to the touch, sire. Do you wish to test it?”
Colfre took a deep breath, clenching his hands into fists. “No, I believe you, Osraed.”
Yes, he did believe, Leal reflected as he left the Cyne’s company. But it was an uneasy belief, ebbing and flowing; hot then cool, then hot again. It disturbed the new Osraed that his Cyne was so ambivalent. He had thought that of all Caraid-land’s citizens, the Cyne must surely be firmly established in the Meri’s Covenant. How, otherwise, could he effectively uphold it? How, otherwise, could he hope to hold his realm together?
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