Taminy

by Bohnhoff, Maya Kaathryn

  Disturbing, too, was the message he had delivered. He returned to his lodgings in the abbis at Ochanshrine, striving to banish his misgivings and concentrate on the task now at hand.

  CHAPTER 8

  My Children! The prime purpose of Religion is to defend the interests and foster the unity of all people. Make it not a vehicle for discord.

  — Utterances of Osraed Gartain

  Verse 1

  “Where were you yesterday?”

  Iseabal stopped, half across the Mercer’s Bridge, and glanced back over her shoulder. Aine-mac-Lorimer was hard on her heels. A little further behind, Doireann Spenser hurried to catch up.

  “What do you mean?” Iseabal asked and turned toward them, shifting her shopping basket from one arm to the other.

  “You didn’t go to the Bebhinn,” accused Doireann, dark eyes reproachful.

  “Well, no, but ...How do you know that and why should you care? I thought Taminy’s doings were all silliness to you two.”

  “Aye, they are,” Aine said. “But we wanted to see what it was she did that made you go all wiggly in the head.”

  “Aye,” breathed Doireann. “What did she do?”

  Iseabal was suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation. If I tell them, I’ve as good as told the whole town. She glanced away across the bridge. “I have to go. Mother is waiting for these things.”

  “We’ll walk with you,” said Aine, and put action to word. “Now, give tell, Isha. Where did you off to, if not the Bebhinn?”

  Iseabal pecked at a loose twist of reed on the handle of her basket. “She invited me to supper.”

  “You went to her house? Did you see her room?” Doireann’s eyes were huge. “Were there magical things there?”

  Aine snorted volubly. “Doiry, you’re such a child sometimes. Of course there was nothing ‘magical’ there.”

  Iseabal stared hard at the cobbles beneath her feet. “There were wonderful paintings and weavings on the walls—with feathers and flowers.”

  “What’s magical about that?”

  “There was a crystal.”

  That stopped all three of them in their tracks.

  “A crystal?” repeated Aine. “A Rune crystal?”

  “Oh, Aine, is there any other kind?” Doireann was agog. “Was it hers?”

  Iseabal nodded. “She called it Ileane, the Light Bearer.”

  “And did she Weave with it?”

  “No. Not while I was there, but ... she let me hold it and ...” She colored, remembering how the stone had felt in her hands—warm, alive almost.

  “And what?” Aine demanded.

  “It glowed.”

  “Glowed?” Aine’s expression wavered between amazement and scorn and she spluttered like a dry tap. “You actually picked it up? What an idiot thing to do, Isha! She might’ve cast an inyx on you while you were touching it.”

  Iseabal glanced at her askew. “I thought you said Taminy’s talk of Weaving was all frivol.”

  “Yes,” agreed Doireann, “you did say that.”

  “Well, I-”

  “What did it feel like?” Doireann asked.

  Iseabal shivered a bit, recalling. “Oh, it was warm, Doiry,” she said, putting her face close to the other girl’s. “And smooth. And deep down inside it, there was this beautiful golden light. Like ...” She glanced around, making sure no one was eavesdropping from the Tanner’s doorway. “It looked like the Osmaer crystal, only smaller.”

  Aine blurted a rude noise. “You’ve never seen the Osmaer!”

  “I have. At Solstice Fest my tenth birthday. Papa took me down to Ochanshrine special to see it.”

  “Aw, you were a baby, then. How can you even remember?”

  “Even you’d remember the Osmaer, Aine, if you’d ever seen it. It’s that beautiful. And it glows, too, when the Osraed come near it. It glowed for my father when we stood looking at it.”

  She tucked her basket close and began walking again. Doireann hustled to keep up.

  Aine lagged behind. “So will you go tomorrow, Iseabal, Cirkemaster’s daughter?” she called. “Will you go to your magicky place?”

  Iseabal spun about, a finger to her lips. “Hush you, Aine Red!” She took three steps back to the taller girl and met her eye to eye. “You’ve no call to shout out to the whole town what innocent pastimes I take up.”

  “Innocent! Silly, you mean.”

  “And so what, Aine-mac-Lorimer? So what if I’ve a silly midge in me? Shall I shout on you because you’re wiggly over Terris-mac-Webber?”

  She surprised a giggle out of Doireann and a grunt of dire fear out of Aine. She used that as her walking line, turning on her heel and forging on.

  Again, she found Doireann beside her and Aine somewhere just abaft. I’ll never get home, she thought.

  “What do you do there?” Doireann asked. “In the pool glade, I mean?”

  “I just listen. Watch.”

  “But ...” Doireann glanced over her shoulder at their burnished shadow. “But what does she do?”

  Iseabal was torn. She savored the secret, anticipated savoring the telling of the secret. “She ... called birds down from the trees and they drank water from her hand.” She tried to keep her voice nonchalant, but the memory of that, of those enamored birds falling from the safety of their trees, still sent a thrill through her, and the words came out hushed.

  “Called them?” repeated Doireann, and behind them Aine said, “What? What did you say?”

  Feeling suddenly trapped and traitorous, Iseabal shook her head and hurried her step. The two yammered after her, Doireann whining, Aine blustering, until she had made the safety of the Cirkeyard. Before the Sanctuary she stepped and faced them. “If you think this is all so silly, Aine-mac-Lorimer, why are you harping on me? I’ve no love of your teasing and taunting.”

  “I wouldn’t taunt you, Isha,” Doireann gushed. “I don’t think it’s at all silly.” She turned her dark-bright gaze to Aine’s flushed face. “She says Taminy called birds down out of the trees and made them drink from her hand.”

  Aine scowled. “You’re making this up of fool’s cloth.”

  “No, I’m not. I saw it. I was hiding behind a bush and I saw it. But she knew I was there and she called me out.”

  “Called you?” echoed Doireann.

  Aine scowled, her face a near match for her hair. “What kind of birds where they? How did she call them?”

  Iseabal glanced up to see the Cirkewarden watching them from where he tugged weeds from the ground. Blushing, she herded her two companions up the Sanctuary steps, through the narthex and into the sanctum. There, she sat herself down on a bench before the altar and turned as the others slid in after her, their eyes never leaving her face.

  “She was sitting above a pool by a little waterfall,” Iseabal said. “She took some water in her hand and held it up and two birds came down and sat on her hand and drank the water.”

  Aine was still frowning. “But how did she call them? Did she sing to them? Speak to them? Did she Runeweave?”

  Iseabal shook her head. “She held up her hand and they came.” So did I, she didn’t say.

  “Where they ... real birds?” asked Doireann tentatively. “Or were they Eibhilin birds?”

  “Eibhilin birds!” snorted Aine incredulously. “And what would you know of Eibhilin anything?”

  “Nothing,” Doireann returned, voice sharp. “That’s why I asked.”

  “They were physical birds, living birds.” Wouldn’t Eibhilin birds be real birds? “There was a black bird and a red one.”

  They were silent for a moment, then Aine said, “She’s a Wicke, Iseabal.”

  Iseabal felt her face go numb with sudden cold and her heart jump and run. She clutched the basket in her lap. “She’s not a Wicke. She’s just different. Special. She must be or she’d not be in Osraed Bevol’s house.”

  “Meredydd was in Osraed Bevol’s house. Look what became of her.”

  “Oh, Iseabal,�
�� breathed Doireann, her voice a hushed breeze in the old stone hall. “Aine’s right. Maybe old Marnie isn’t such a loon. Maybe, somehow, she is Meredydd, back from the dead.”

  “Doireann, you’d drive an Osraed to tears with that pagan twaddle.” Aine’s eyes shifted to Iseabal’s colorless face. “But if she’s got Meredydd’s ways, she’ll come to no good end. And you know it. Your father would cry Wicke if he knew.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. He never cried Wicke on Meredydd.”

  “Meredydd didn’t do secret magics in the woods.”

  “How do you know?” asked Doireann. “Maybe she did and we never knew.”

  “Taminy is not a Wicke,” repeated Iseabal.

  “Oh no, of course not,” said Aine. “I imagine the birds just like her very much. What else did she do?”

  Wriggling inside, Iseabal shrugged. “She instructed Gwynet about herbs and history.”

  “Just Gwynet? Or you, too?”

  Iseabal came swiftly to her feet. “Taminy is not a Wicke, Aine Red. And if you spread such malicious gossip about Nairne, I shall never speak to you again as long as we both draw breath.”

  “I don’t gossip, Iseabal-a-Nairnecirke. I’ll not spread any tales about your dear Wicke.”

  “Don’t call her that!” whispered Iseabal fiercely, then jumped half out of her skin when the door between the Cirke and the manse squeaked open.

  “Iseabal? Well, whatever are you girls doing out here? And where are my eggs and cheese?” Iseabal’s mother, Ardis, Mistress of Nairne Cirke, stood in the open doorway to the far right of the broad altar, hands in her apron pockets, a bemused frown playing between her brows.

  Iseabal leapt to take her the basket of goods. “I’m sorry, mother. We ... we just got talking. Here—everything you asked for. Oh, and Mistress Chandler put in some bright red finger-tapers she made. She wants to know if they don’t burn cleaner than the regular ones. She says they oughtn’t drip either.”

  “Well, that would be a source of amazement. And very sweet of her, too.” The Cirkemistress searched her daughter’s face. “I’d appreciate your help in the kitchen in a while. I’m making a special bread for supper this evening, and the Warden’s brought us some lovely game birds to dress.”

  “Oh.” Iseabal glanced aside. “Of course, mama.”

  “What’s wrong, dear?” her mother asked, then glanced up at the other girls who now stood silently before the altar. “Did you girls have plans for this afternoon?”

  Iseabal stared at the basket in her mother’s hands. “I was ... I was hoping to visit Taminy ...”

  “Well, why can’t Taminy visit you? She’s had you to supper once; why don’t you return the courtesy? Father and I would like to know her better. I’ve only met her in passing, you know. In fact, why don’t you invite all the girls? There’s more than enough on those rock hens to feed us all.”

  Iseabal’s eyes flicked up to her mother’s face and found nothing there but friendly interest. She put a smile to her own lips. “Thank you, mama.”

  Her mother gone, Iseabal stared hard at the carved oaken door as if the pattern might be instructive. It wasn’t. She turned back to her companions.

  “I’d love to take supper with you, Iseabal,” cooed Aine, her eyes glinting golden in the hazy, glass-filtered sunlight. “Of course, I’ll have to go ask my mam.”

  “Me too,” said Doireann.

  Aine smiled and folded her arms across her chest. “You were going to spend the afternoon in the woods listening to Wickish tales, weren’t you, Isha? Well, maybe we’ll hear some tonight at supper.”

  Doireann glanced at her friend. “She wouldn’t talk Wickish before a Cirkemaster, would she?”

  “Don’t be daft, Doiry. Of course, she wouldn’t. But it could be interesting, anyway. Come on, let’s go ask our permissions.”

  Iseabal watched the two of them leave, consternation roiling in her breast. She wanted to see Taminy. She didn’t want an audience for the visit. The thought of all those eyes—the benign eyes of mother and father, the watchful eyes of friends—and quaked at the thought. She could just neglect to ask Taminy to supper, then tell her mother the other girl had been unable to come ... which would be a lie.

  She was ashamed to have thought it. She turned to the altar beneath its tall, light-filled window, begging forgiveness. The shimmering splash of brightness that represented the Meri drew her eyes upward.

  Am I to believe that Taminy is wicked? Is Taminy wicked?

  Perhaps it was inspiration, perhaps it was her own impious imagination, but she felt suddenly, certainly, that the answer to that question was “no.” She contented herself with that and went to help her mother in the kitchen.

  oOo

  Cirkemaster Saxan slid into his seat in one if the galleries of the Osraed Council Chamber and leaned toward the aging peer sitting to his left. “What has happened, Osraed Parthelan? Why is the Body called to a special assembly?”

  The older man glanced at him through rheumy eyes and sniffed audibly. “It’s rumored that this is the young one’s doing.”

  “Osraed Wyth?”

  “Aye. A Prentice of Faer-wald’s let fall that the boy wishes to make significant changes in the running of Halig-liath—though he’s not, himself, on the Council ...”

  “You mean ... the Meri wants to make changes in policy?”

  “So he says. Upstart. Didn’t even consult with his elders. Just opens his young yawp and says there’re changes to be made.”

  Saxan straightened, uncomfortable with the tenor of his peer’s commentary. “I believe that is his prerogative.”

  “Aye, well. So they say.” The old fellow sneezed, then whipped out a kerchief to mop up. “Damned allergies. Can’t isolate the damned pollen, can’t concoct the right inyx. Heh. Speaking of prerogatives, I’ve also heard-”

  Whatever Parthelan had been about to say was drowned in the sudden wash of sound that accompanied the seven man Osraed Council into the chamber. Osraed Wyth came in behind them to take a seat at the end of the curving table reserved for the Council members. He looked up at the encircling galleries of Osraed drawn here from as far south as Lin-liath and Hrofceaster and as far north as Cuinn Holding, and blinked. His narrow, angular face turned white, then red before he closed his eyes.

  “Huh!” muttered Parthelan. “Look at ’im. Sitting there, quivering like a half-set jelly. I tell you, Saxan, the quality of this institution is diminishing every year. No wonder we have arrived at another Cusp. When the only Prentices chosen are an undersized pup and a shivering Eiric-”

  “Brother Parthelan, please!” Saxan breathed.

  It was pure mercy that Osraed Bevol chose that moment to address the gathering. He struck the crystal summons bell before him on the table and stood to survey the room as the singing tone died away.

  “Welcome, Brothers,” he greeted them. “As you all know, our Beloved has changed Aspect once again in this, the six hundred and fifth Year of Pilgrimage. She has, in fact, returned to Her original Golden Aspect. In this new ... manifestation, our Mistress has chosen two new Osraed, whom you met at Tell Fest.

  “You have heard the Tell of Osraed Wyth. You know that his entitlement was marked by portentous occurrences and that he is commissioned to further the Meri’s purpose here at Halig-liath by whatever means the Meri bids him employ. He is further appointed Weard of the Covenant and has already begun his work at collecting and anthologizing all writings pertaining to that critical subject. The aim of this meeting is to acquaint you all with the changes that are to be made here, at Halig-liath. Osraed Wyth will now speak to us.” He gestured at the younger Osraed, then seated himself.

  The youth came to his feet with a brushing of hands on robes and a shuffling of feet. He made his way to the center of the Council’s crescent table and faced the galleries, looking so ill-at-ease that Saxan couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

  “Quivering jelly!” snorted Parthelan beneath his breath.

  Saxan hushe
d him just as Wyth raised his eyes and began to speak.

  “For too long,” he said, his voice much stronger than the Cirkemaster expected, “we have taught our Prentices the letter of Law, the flesh of Doctrine, the mere clothing of Faith. We have recited to them histories that exist only as a recording of actions. Faithfully recorded, aye, but missing their motive and their meaning. We must change that. The Meri ...” He paused, scanning the faces in the gallery one by one.

  Saxan felt a chill pass over him with the touch of those dark, liquid eyes. It was not unpleasant, in and of itself, that touch, but behind it was an open doorway, and through that doorway, Osraed Saxan-a-Nairnecirke saw darkness. He shivered.

  “Huh!” muttered Parthelan from beside him. “The daft boy’s gotten all tongue-tied.”

  Saxan ignored him. No, old man. He has not. He reads us. He measures us.

  “The Meri,” Wyth repeated, “demands of us passion. She desires our devotion, our love. Not our cool respect or our shrewd appreciation of Her teachings. Our passionate devotion is what binds us to Her Covenant. Our love for Her draws Her love to us like a great magnet—like the force that holds our world in its course about the Sun. This will now be taught at Halig-liath: That the essence of the Meri is love, and the essence of our Covenant with Her is love. This must guide everything we do here—from selecting our Prentices to teaching them the Art. This Covenant will be at the heart of our teaching.”

  He paused again, as if waiting for response. There was silence, though heads were nodded and brows furrowed and arms folded over velvet-covered chests. Saxan found himself among the nodding, and waited eagerly for the new Osraed’s next words.

  “The second matter is this: Halig-liath will now officially and publicly open its classrooms to female students.”

  That pronouncement was greeted by a small storm of sound. Osraed Wyth weathered it in silence. Saxan found he couldn’t so much as croak, but only stare at the serene center of sibilant storm. He glanced aside, once, to catch Osraed Bevol’s face set in a somewhat sardonic smile, then returned his gaze to Osraed Wyth, unable to muster anything more than dumb amazement.