Taminy

by Bohnhoff, Maya Kaathryn

  oOo

  Outside the gates of Mertuile, Abbod Ladhar stood and let the sea breeze cool his heated face. He wished the chill would reach into his soul, but the fire there burned on, oblivious to tempering winds. He felt eyes on his face and knew the Ministers Cadder and Feanag stared at him, waiting for him to speak.

  “Loved,” he said at last, making the word repulsive. “She is loved. Loved by a blind, irreligious mob. How badly we have done our work when people can love such an atrocity.”

  “She serves them up magical poisons,” said Caime Cadder, “and they, gluttons, feast and thank her for poisoning them.”

  “But how does she do it?” asked Feanag, eyes doing a nervous dance between his two companions. “How is she allowed to do good, to call upon Blue Healing, to touch the Stone? I understand none of this.”

  “A test,” said Cadder. “A trial of faith. This is a Cusp—such trials must be expected. Thank God that we see her for what she is.”

  Ladhar shook with rage. “What? Thank God? Will you stand aside, pious, and thank God while your countrymen are being led into darkness? While their ignorant souls rush, like helpless sheep, to their own destruction? While this Dark Sister wriggles her sweet way ever closer to our Cyne—to his heir?”

  Cadder’s eyes glinted at that—coals longing for fire; Ladhar was pleased to ignite them. “You saw how Colfre looked at her that day in the Shrine. That was worship in his eyes, Caime. Worship. And I’ve heard that she is a favorite with the Riagan Airleas, as well.”

  Cadder’s voice was hushed and chill. “Worship is to be given to God alone, and to His Scion, the Meri. Taminy-a-Cuinn is an usurper—an abomination.”

  “An abomination,” echoed Feanag.

  “What do we tell our fellows in the Hall?” asked Cadder. “Surely we can’t speak as the Cyne bids us. Aren’t we bound to tell the truth? His so-called written testimony of the Nairnian inquiry is incomplete. The claims of divinity Osraed Ealad-hach alluded to in his letter are completely missing.”

  “Cyne Colfre asked only that we give his tell of her trial before the Osraed Body and say that he believes her innocent,” Ladhar replied. “Other than that, we must be bound only by our consciences. We will tell our peers what the Cyne believes, then we will tell them what we believe.”

  Feanag seemed uneasy. “She hasn’t won all the people. Surely when Ealad-hach brings his charges-”

  “She has won the Cyne,” said Ladhar and added, “He paints her portrait in his private chambers, so his servants say. A portrait even the Cwen is not privileged to see.”

  He looked back over his shoulder at the castle rising behind them. A late mist was twisting itself about the ramparts and bright Malcuim banners, drabbing them in funereal grays. Ladhar felt the two men with him shiver and could not suppress a shudder of his own. Evil had been planted in Mertuile and struggled to take root. He felt, stronger than ever, his own divine charter—to deprive that evil of existence.

  oOo

  Eadmund turned in his bed for perhaps the hundredth time in the long, sleepless hours since he had lain down. Truth was, he feared sleep now, for when he slept, she would visit him to pick at his soul, to wear it away, to shock it senseless. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing her framed in the doorway of the Shrine, her face gleaming with reflected Light, radiant, blinding. In that moment of seeing, as he cowered behind the doorframe, his eyes had betrayed him mercilessly. The Shrine had fallen away, even the Crystal had disappeared, and Eadmund had gazed on the face of the Meri. He’d all but swooned and, swooning, had crawled away to his room to hide.

  Oh, but not before filling his soul with her. Not before etching her in his mind. She was there when he closed his eyes, so he couldn’t close them ... however much he wanted to.

  He couldn’t say what pulled him from his bed to the room’s single large window or what caused him to settle there in the embrasure, staring out toward the estuary above which Mertuile sat astride her rocky cliff. But once there, his sleep-starved eyes gave him reason to stay. Above the towers and spires of the castle, an eddy of moonlit mist turned in a graceful spiral, inviting Eadmund’s senses to dance. He smiled—his first smile in days—and followed the eddy gratefully.

  When did he realize it had become something other than what his imagination made of it? He couldn’t say. He could only feel cold and hot at once, could only blink his bleary eyes and will them to see ordinary mist. But the mist above Mertuile would not be ordinary. It took on an Eibhilin light, like the liquid in a lightglobe, and it found its own shape—a shape that suggested simultaneously a crystal and a rose.

  Eadmund’s tired brain boggled. Was it that the rose was made of crystal, or was the crystal cut to the shape of a rose? Then he realized the absurdity of his quandary, for surely a rose-shaped crystal and a crystalline rose were one and the same.

  And there the thing was, floating over Mertuile as if it grew from her ramparts, and he couldn’t say what it meant except that it filled him with the irresistible urge to laugh or sing. His singing voice being what it was, he chose to laugh. He laughed until tears ran from his eyes and his stomach hurt and his lungs burned. He laughed himself into an exhausted sleep and, in his sleep, he frequently chuckled.

  oOo

  Osraed Bevol gazed up at the night sky over Mertuile and admired his handiwork. Light chased light along the unfolding petal-facets of the aislinn and shimmered in the air around it, making the night glorious.

  “Will it be seen by all, Maister?” asked Skeet from beside him.

  Bevol smiled. “I wish it could, Pov. For if it were, Taminy would not be here in this castle surrounded by suspicion and hatred she doesn’t deserve.”

  “Then who will see it?”

  “Only those who can.”

  oOo

  “Oh, look!” Wyvis had stopped her pony and pointed at the crest of the next low ridge. She turned her head back toward the others straggling up the hill behind her. “Look, all of you! What is it?”

  “It’s a rose,” said Iseabal.

  “A crystal,” said Aine at the same moment.

  Phelan rode up between the two of them, his eyes shining with utter amazement. “It’s aislinn. That’s some Osraed’s doing, for certain. God-the-Spirit!—I’ve never seen the like.”

  “Why do you suppose it’s there?” asked Wyvis, saucer-eyed.

  “It’s a beacon ... to show where Taminy is.” The deep male voice came out of the light-sucking darkness beside the road and made everyone’s heart shy sideways.

  Mam Lusach brought her own mount to the fore and tried to present a formidable appearance. “Show yourself!” she demanded, but the man was already leading his horse out onto the road.

  Iseabal gasped. “Father!”

  “Aye. Father, it is,” replied Osraed Saxan. “A father who thought he’d left his little girl at home, safe with her mother.”

  He eyed up the Apothecary and said, with some amazement, “Dear woman, what in the name of God are you all doing here?”

  Mam Lusach cracked a smile. “Following that there aislinn beacon, it would seem.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Let this commandment be a Covenant between you and Me: Have faith. Let your faith be immovable as a rock that no storms may harass, that nothing can shake, that will abide to the cessation of all things. As your faith is, so shall your blessings and powers be. This is Harmony. This is the greatest Duan.

  — The Corah

  Book I, Verse 10

  Ealad-hach shivered, though the Hall was far from chill. Giant hearths radiated warmth on this fog-gray day, but it never reached the old Osraed in his witness box. He fumed a bit, still, about the lateness of his arrival in Creiddylad. He’d had time to speak to no one but Ladhar, who confirmed his worst fears: The Cyne had been engaged in a campaign of propaganda all week—a campaign to establish Taminy-a-Cuinn in the hearts of his people. He had primed the Assembly, as well, or at least a good half of it, with his own version of the Nairnian
trials; only the Osraed and Cleirachs knew, with any certainty, of the abominable claims the wretched girl had made at Halig-liath.

  Ealad-hach’s gaze drifted through the huge oblong hall from quarter to quarter. To the West sat the Osraed; to the East, the Ministers; to the North was the Eiric quarter, representing landowners and businessmen; to the South, the Chieftains of the noble Houses—Claeg, Graegam, Glinne, Cuilean, Madaidh, Skarf and others, even the Hillwild were represented by the elder Chieftain of the Hageswode, the Ren Catahn’s blood uncle.

  The old Osraed grimaced with disgust. There was much shared blood among the Hillwild, for they rarely married out of the Gyldan-baenn. Small wonder such inbreds developed superstitious cravings for arboreal goddesses who would take up Hillwild causes and empower their fey leadership. His eyes roved the public galleries situated on two flanks of the hall between the Assembly quarters where others, who craved a supposed saint’s benediction, jostled each other to receive her glance.

  She came to her own box then—a flower-decked stall in the rounded northwestern corner of the Hall, situated at the right hand of the Throne. The Hillwild girl was at her side, as worshipful a pawn as her father, who sat in the southwestern gallery reserved for the Throne’s special guests.

  The crowd at the far end of the Hall, seeing their miracle-worker, went into a frenzy of adulation, calling to her, beseeching her, waving flowers at her—roses, all. And the Cyne—the stupid, dim-sighted young Malcuim Cyne—sat and grinned like a Prentice at Farewelling, confident he had a prize in his grasp. Whatever did he think—that with a powerful Wicke at his side, he could overthrow the spiritual institutions of Caraid-land and subvert its religion? Did he fancy the Cwen Toireasa, whose father sat in the Privy Council, would simply disappear while he pursued a relationship with this Dark Sister?

  Ealad-hach glanced furtively at the Cwen, seated to her lord’s left. Her face was composed, as always—smooth as pale silk. There was no indication that she sensed what her husband was about. Poor wretch. Surely the Meri would not allow it. Surely all things would work to ultimate good.

  He heard his name called and realized the adoring crowd had been silenced. He moved to the circular speaker’s box at the center of the room and timorously began to present his testimony. He told the story straight out, chronologically, from the time he first became aware of Taminy. He spoke of her oddness, the little miracles, the runebags and his initial suspicions. He told of how he’d tested her at Nairne Cirke and of Aine-mac-Lorimer’s accident and of his aislinn and of the eventual trial.

  All the while, he looked to Osraed Ladhar for support and found it readily given. Heartened, he began to give the details of the inquiry at Halig-liath when the Cyne stopped him.

  “Enough. Enough for now. You have recounted her miracles—we, here, have seen many of those also, have we not?”

  The crowd of observers, and indeed, some of the representatives to the Hall cheered at that, and Ealad-hach could only stare at them mutely, his eyes hopping from one eager face to another.

  Dear God, his testimony had only made her more a goddess. These people gazed down on that fragile, flower-like face of hers and saw an Eibhilin personage—a Gwenwyvar, a Gwyr, even (Spirit help them!) the Meri, Herself. And how could they not, when that was exactly how she appeared—hair curried to a veil of pale gold, heaven-blue dress contrasting flesh like flower petals.

  He wanted to commit violence on her at that moment. He wanted to rush the royal platform and throttle life from the Lie. He wanted to shake her until she dropped her facade and appeared as she surely must be—hideous, stark and colorless. More than that, more—he wanted to beat the beautiful face to horrible, bloody, truthful submission.

  His eyes swept the three corner galleries, searching for any face that showed something other than whole-hearted acceptance of the Lie. What they found, instead, was the face of the iron-gray woman, the woman who had panicked him so at Halig-liath. Opaque, shuttered, her sheeny metallic eyes were depthless. Before, he thought he had only mistaken her for a Wicke, now he knew her to be one. And he remembered the name that went with that aging, ageless face—Lufu Hageswode. The Gifted daughter of the Hillwild Renic, Bana-Meg, she had been brought by her mother to Creiddylad’s environs that she might be of service to the Osraed there. At the age of fifteen, she had become Mam Lufu, “Mother Love,” called “The Solace of the Poor.” A saint, some said—a Wicke, the Osraed had decided.

  All two centuries ago.

  “Osraed Ealad-hach, are you ill?”

  He woke his stunned being, whipped up his senses. “What, sire? Pardon. Pardon, sire. The noise. It ... it disorients me.”

  “I asked you, noble Osraed, to lay forth your charges.”

  “My-? But sire, I haven’t finished with my evidence. You must hear-”

  “We have heard enough.”

  “Sire, she claims-”

  “Order, please!” Acting in his capacity as Durweard, Daimhin Feich stood and rapped his staff sharply on the polished wooden planks of the royal dais. “The Cyne has requested that you name your charges, Osraed.”

  Ealad-hach shook his head. Cold, frantic terror leapt to his throat. “Don’t you see what’s happening? Sire, we are surrounded by Wicke! In the gallery there,” —he pointed— “I have seen yet another of them! A woman who-!” He cut off, realizing how absurd it would sound, and scrambled within to retrieve his dignity and control. They must not think him a wild-eyed fool. If they had not yet heard Taminy’s claims, they would think his ridiculous.

  “A woman who?” repeated the Durweard.

  Ealad-hach glowered. “You would not believe me.”

  “Then, name your charges,” Feich repeated.

  “Very well, Durweard. I charge this young woman with practicing the Wicke Craft, with heresy, and with treason against the House Malcuim and the government of Caraid-land.”

  What had he expected? That they might applaud him? That they would hum and haw like ruminative wise men, then look calmly into his charges? He had not expected any of those things, yet neither had he expected a complete breakdown of order. That was what he got.

  He withdrew amid a roar of hostility, thinking, So few. So few there are who see.

  oOo

  Osraed Eadmund was well-acquainted with fear. It seemed he renewed the acquaintance daily now, and he nodded at it again while Ealad-hach addressed the Assembly. Seated next to Bevol among the other Osraed representatives to the Hall, he had all but folded over in his chair when Ealad-hach turned to look at him—directly at him—and tried to catch his eye.

  He felt no better now, as the elder Osraed removed himself from the speaker’s dais. The public galleries were alive with hoots and cat-calls, giving the great chamber an almost festive atmosphere, but through it all, Eadmund could feel Ealad-hach’s hatred of Taminy unfurling behind him in a smoky black wake. He found the hatred frightening, more so because he knew it was a shared thing, being fed by some of the very men who occupied the Osraed gallery with him. He was amazed at his own sensibilities; he could almost see the emotion as smudgy tendrils reaching towards Taminy’s box. He wished he could Weave a shield around it.

  The Cyne called up his witnesses. They told of miracles great and small—so many, so frequently in the last week, the listeners must have been tempted to think, “Well, of course, she performed miracles! What else would one expect her to do?”

  Cyne Colfre himself gave testimony as well, describing the Episode of the Rosebud, which Ealad-hach had related somewhat lopsidedly as an attempt by Taminy to dupe the citizens of Nairne. And he related the events at Ochanshrine, making Eadmund break into a cold sweat and tremble like a newborn foal. He even called upon Abbod Ladhar to corroborate his story. The Abbod did so, but grudgingly.

  Then, Eadmund heard Durweard Feich’s voice making the ritual call to the Hall for fair judgment. The hearing was over. The young Osraed shifted in his seat, puzzled at the omission of Taminy’s claims—claims he had heard as clear as Cir
ke-chimes at her inquiry, claims Ealad-hach had spelled out in stark clarity in his letter to the Abbod. He glanced sideways at Osraed Bevol and saw that the elder Counselor was already coming to his feet.

  “Wait, lord!” Bevol called. “Should we not hear from the cailin herself? Should not Taminy be allowed to speak on her own behalf?”

  The public approved this loudly and many Assembly members added their overwhelming and curious assent. The Cyne hesitated. Then, with a smile that could have melted metal hearts, he gestured for Taminy to stand and address the Assemblage.

  In the public gallery, people crowded against the heavy wooden balustrade, holding their breath. Durweard Feich, Eadmund noted, did more than hold his breath. He gripped his staff so tightly his knuckles showed white. His eyes were on Taminy, who rose as bidden and gazed around the hall, her own eyes seeming to touch each face as they had done that day at Halig-liath.

  She spoke then, in a voice that was clear and sure. “I am Taminy-a-Cuinn of whom it has been said, ‘She is a Wicke.’ I am not a Wicke. I was a Prentice at Halig-liath during the reign of—”

  Durweard Feich and the Cyne both moved to snatch her attention. She glanced at them and smiled. Eadmund almost smiled with her.

  “I was a Prentice at Halig-liath,” she repeated. “My father was Osraed and the Council allowed my studies to please him, somewhat against their best judgment. I am grateful to them for that. I was later expelled from Halig-liath by the Osraed Council before I could complete my Prenticeship.”

  The audience hissed and grumbled at this; Cyne Colfre smiled and most of the Osraed around Eadmund cringed and made sour faces.

  “I went on a forbidden Pilgrimage,” Taminy continued, then paused, face lowered as if in reflection. When she raised her eyes again, tears sparkled there. “My father returned alone and told the Osraed Council I had drowned, because they could not be told the truth.”