Taminy

by Bohnhoff, Maya Kaathryn

  He took her hand, fanning the blaze in her cheeks, making her skin creep pleasantly. “Taminy,” he said, his voice a whisper. “Dear Taminy, how close I came to losing you. If that bolt had found its mark-” He bent his head, pressing lips to the back of the hand he possessed, then turning it to kiss the palm.

  Choruses sang in Taminy’s ears, chill-hot dancers pirouetted up her spine, while a sensation that was not quite pain awoke in the place from which Healing flowed. She thought of a sharp-clawed bird stretching its wings within her, pressing at the confines of her body. Something was being born within her, and she knew it to be desire. She did not thrust it away, but touched the new sensation, explored it, turned it over in her soul. Her left hand, still her own, moved to rest on Daimhin Feich’s glossy hair. It was thick and she twined her fingers in it, feeling heat from the flesh beneath, feeling her own heat rise.

  Was this the beginning of love?

  He raised his head again, his eyes bright and exultant. They Weave, she thought. They Weave webs about me. Webs like hot silk. She wanted to wear that garment, wanted to wrap it about her and feel it glide warmly against her skin.

  As if he read her thoughts, he brought his lips up to brush hers in the merest, teasing whisper. He withdrew slightly to look at her then, to let his pale eyes Weave out more web. Satisfied with what he saw in her face, he raised his hands to her hair and pulled her gently to a second kiss.

  The fiery bird within Taminy’s body dug in its talons and beat at the confines of her womb. Liquid fire flooded her. She trembled and, feeling her tremble, Daimhin pressed his kiss home, tangling his hands in her hair, driving the breath from her lungs.

  A sound from down the verandah caused him to free her and move away, hastily adjusting the folds of his tunic below its wide leather belt. He glanced up at her from beneath dark lashes.

  “Forgive me, lady,” he said, but there was no regret in his eyes. He turned as a pair of guards hurried toward them, looking fierce and efficient.

  He took them aside to confer in hushed tones while Taminy stared at the crossbow bolt that lay at her feet. She picked it up and turned it in her hands, puzzled by what it told her. Gradually, her trembling eased and was replaced by the memory of why she was the target of such a thing.

  “The guards regret that the man who fired that fell from the curtain and was killed.” Daimhin stood looking down at her, his lips curled wryly. “Most likely it was some religious fanatic-”

  She shook her head, stopping him. “The man who fired this was paid to do it. There was no passion driving him.”

  Daimhin Feich’s brows scaled his forehead. “A paid assassin? How do you know?”

  “I can tell much in a touch,” she said. Except yours. I can tell nothing from your touch except that it burns me and makes me want to worship the fire.

  He smiled at her and held out a hand. “You must change those ruined clothes, my lady. Let me escort you to your chambers.”

  She did let him. He was visibly disappointed to find Desary Hillwild there, but Taminy was glad. Glad to slip out of his silken webs, glad to silence the clamor of her body. But when the door of the chamber closed she was assailed all over again by Desary’s impassioned anxiety.

  “I should have been there, Mistress!” the Hillwild girl protested. “Whatever was I thinking?”

  Taminy managed a smile. “That your father might like to see you?”

  Desary shook her head, sending a cascade of dark hair over her shoulders. “I should have been with you, Taminy. I won’t leave your side again, I promise.”

  Taminy was grateful for that, but Desary’s promise was put almost immediately to the test. Called to an audience with Cwen Toireasa in her ground-floor salon, the two girls were intercepted by Daimhin Feich who insisted that Desary go on ahead while he spoke privately with her mistress.

  “I spoke to the Cyne,” he told her as they strolled slowly through the broad corridors toward the castle’s seaward side. He did not touch her, but moved along only a breath away.

  She felt static rise between them and prayed she might stay grounded this time.

  “He is mightily distressed and bids me tell you we will find whoever hired the assassin and punish him before the eyes of Creiddylad. The Cyne is very fond of you, Taminy. Though not, I think, as fond as I am.”

  She glanced up to catch his smile. It flooded her with heat. She looked away.

  “Wait, lady!”

  He turned her to him, hands firm on her shoulders. From the tail of her eye she saw Desary pause far ahead of them. The girl didn’t turn, but merely stood, waiting. She gave her gaze back up to him and he seized it.

  “Your manner tells me you are uncertain of me. I apologize, again, for my behavior earlier—I would apologize a thousand times if it would soothe you. But I must tell you—yes, I must tell you—that I am driven only by my attraction to you, an attraction I am at a loss to fight or fathom.” He raised a hand to tilt her chin upward and studied her face, stroking her lower lip with his thumb. “Tell me I needn’t fight, Taminy. Tell me that the fires within you are as fierce as the ones that light my soul. Do I see that same attraction in your eyes or do I only wish to see it?” He shook his head, anguish in every feature. “No, I’ll not be a coward in this. Let me bare this soul to you, Taminy-a-Cuinn. Let me tell you I am driven by love.”

  She quivered under his touch—waiting, breathless, for the stroke of his lips. She had a sudden desire to press herself against him, to know what it felt like to meet him body to body, to be clasped in his arms.

  He lowered his head, but did not embrace her. “By the God of all things, I would die to show you love’s ways. I would die of sheer joy if we could live, side by side, submerged in each other till the end of time. But ...” He dropped his hands to his sides and stepped away, leaving her to sway like a mast stripped of supporting lines.

  Dear God, the wind is so strong here.

  He gazed at her from too far away. “But, this ... situation ...Everything is so uncertain. Caraid-land is being torn apart by the forces that control our lives. Colfre struggles to hold it together, but I feel the fabric being rent. You feel it, too.”

  I am being rent.

  “The Assembly is wracked with indecision, the Osraed have been discredited and Caraid-land reels in search of spiritual direction. With Osraed Bevol gone, with no heir to the position of Apex, how can they find it?”

  There was a tiny explosion of light in Taminy’s head. “But that’s why I ...That’s why I’m here. For direction.”

  He grasped her hands in his. “Yes. I know that. You belong to this people. Believe me, Taminy, their eyes are on you every moment. They pray for your glance, for your smile. They wait for you to give them direction. I fear only that-” He lowered his eyes.

  “Only what?”

  “That the direction you choose will carry you away from me, along a different path. I must stay with my Cyne. No matter what, Taminy, I must be at Colfre’s side to guide and protect him. But I would rather, with all of my heart, be at yours.” He narrowed the gap between them again, standing mere fingers’ breadth away. “Only you know which it will be. Only you can decide whether we are together or apart.”

  Taminy all but held her breath while frissons of awareness scattered over her, tingling on her skin. She looked up at him, struggling to read him. Why is it so difficult? Does love block the Touch? She had never known that to happen before, and she had only this much knowledge of desire.

  “How can I decide?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t ask it.”

  “Tell me, please, sir.”

  He looked anguished again. “No, no! Speak my name.”

  “Daimhin,” she said.

  “Ah.” He groaned as if the sound burdened him.

  “Tell me.”

  “The Osraed can no longer guide Caraid-land; only Colfre can. He has been visited by dreams—aislinn which tell him he is the one the country must look to for leadership. Now, he is
forced to share that burden with lesser vehicles—the Assembly, partisan as it is, and the weak and corrupt Osraed. But if their responsibilities and duties were laid upon him alone, if he were Osric—Cyne by Divine Right. He could take the reins of government in strong hands—hands guided by the Spirit and the Meri. Colfre believes only you can bestow that station on him.”

  “He believes I am Osmaer?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “And you, what do you believe, Daimhin Feich?”

  “I believe I love you.”

  “And if I endorse Colfre as Osric?”

  “Then you would be spiritual allies, conjointly caring for the souls of Caraid-land. The infighting of the Houses, the greedy plunder of the Eiric, the fanaticism of the Cleirachs, the corruption of the Osraed—all set to naught. By you and Colfre.”

  “And you would be at my side?”

  “Forever.”

  A movement in the tail of her eye reminded Taminy that another had made that promise and now kept it, if from a distance. “Others have also made that pledge. Can I trust you to keep yours?”

  “You wound me in asking,” he said and kissed the palm of her left hand. He let go of it rather suddenly, and stepped back from her, eyes searching.

  She smiled at him. “The Cwen will wonder why I am less than obedient in answering her summons.” She started to walk again toward the waiting Desary.

  “She does not summon you, lady,” Daimhin told her. “She requests your presence.”

  He left them at the door to Toireasa’s salon, not by choice, but because the Cwen’s Maid refused to admit him, insisting that her mistress was “indisposed.” The real reason for the Cwen’s reticence met them as soon as they entered the room. It was Skeet who greeted them, Skeet who informed them soberly that he couldn’t tell them where Osraed Bevol was or what had happened to him.

  “Then, is he dead?” Taminy asked, breathless. “Have they killed him?”

  “I can’t answer you that, Mistress,” Skeet said.

  “Then there is no spiritual heir to the Apex. The Osraed will have to elect. And that will take time.” Time in which Caraid-land will wallow without direction, for at this moment, I have none.

  “Oh, but there is an Apex already appointed, mistress,” Skeet told her, his eyes glinting oddly. “Osraed Bevol left his testament with me.”

  Taminy felt amazement all the way to the core of her soul. All the while she had been assaulted with the distractions of Mertuile, Bevol had kept his eyes wide open, had known danger surrounded them, and had taken precautions.

  “While I slept,” she murmured and felt as if, drowning, she had just pulled her head clear of the water.

  “What, Mistress?” Desary asked her. “What did you say?”

  “I said I’ve been asleep, Desary. I pray God I am at last awake.” She turned back to Skeet. “Who is it, Skeet? Who is the new Apex? We must summon him.”

  Skeet smiled. “Why Osraed Wyth, of course, mistress. And I’ve already seen to his summoning.”

  CHAPTER 20

  This is the hour of dawn. The light of the Sun is not yet at the height of its power. When the Sun has ascended to its midday station, its flames will blaze so hot that they will excite even the crawling things under the earth. Though they cannot perceive the Light, yet they will be set in frantic motion by the heat.

  — from the Testament of Osraed Bevol

  “Osric?” Iobert Claeg spoke the word as if he’d never heard it before. “And what in the Name of the Spirit shall we want with an Osric? There’s never been such a thing in the history of Caraid-land.”

  “Ah, not so,” Colfre corrected him. “Malcuim the Uniter was Osric before Ochan gathered up the Osraed and established that sacred institution at Halig-liath. There was no official Assembly then either, if you recall. Merely a rabble of House and village representatives who fought over land rights and whether or not to give their young men into Malcuim’s army.”

  “Aye, well I don’t recall, sir. I ain’t that old.” He glared at Colfre, then took a stroll from one end of the Cyne’s dais to the other.

  Bristling, Daimhin thought. A Claeg through and through.

  “Tell me why my House should support this Osric nonsense. What do the Claeg—or any other House,” he added, glancing at Daimhin Feich, “have to gain by your becoming divinity?”

  “Not divinity, Claeg,” Colfre corrected, rolling the chalcedony ring about on his finger. “No, sir. The only divinity at Mertuile is Taminy-Osmaer. I’d be merely Cyne by Divine Right.”

  “Merely, eh?” The Claeg Chief cocked his greying head. “By her say-so?”

  Colfre nodded. “By her say-so. If I am Osric, she will be at my side. With her at my side, it will be springtime in Caraid-land eternally. Miracles, by God, every day of the year.”

  “Why should the Claeg support such an idea? If you mean to disband the Hall-”

  Colfre raised his hand. “Not disband it, merely limit its capacity to advisory. And the Claeg will forever be represented on the Privy Council, which will retain its consultative status.”

  “The Hall and the Osraed were for checks and balances, Cyne Colfre,” Iobert reminded him. “What’s going to check you if you get some squirrel-brained notion about warring on the Deasach or taxing the breeches off the Houses?”

  “Taminy-Osmaer.”

  Daimhin watched the Chieftain’s face as he chewed that idea. Love-struck old fool. Softening that iron heart is one of her finer miracles.

  “Why are you in such a hurry with this, Colfre?” the Claeg asked finally. “Why can’t the Hall wait until a new Osraed has been elected to Apex?”

  “What? Shall Caraid-land hold its breath while every Osraed within its borders is visited by dreams and visions? While the Osraed Council sifts and ponders and prays itself to a divine revelation? Shall Taminy go unvindicated while they regroup? Do you not understand what is happening, Iobert? The cup of revelation has passed from their withered lips to her young and vital ones. She—and not the Osraed—represents the Meri in Caraid-land. There is a new order coming into being and Taminy-Osmaer is its mother.”

  Iobert Claeg snorted mightily, but Daimhin could tell he was not unimpressed. “Making you its father?”

  Colfre merely inclined his royal head.

  “Aye, well, you are the Malcuim. I suppose we can do no better.”

  “I was the first to recognize her,” Colfre reminded him. “Except of course for Osraed Bevol.”

  “Aye. And he’s dead, most likely. Meanwhile, you’ve let someone’s henchman get a shot at her, too.”

  “My Durweard was there to protect her. The would-be assassin paid with his life.”

  The Claeg glanced at Daimhin, then, a wry twist to his mouth. “Your Durweard protect Taminy-Osmaer? I saw that woman straighten a man whose back was crippled with pain. I saw her ward off that idiot Cleirach, Cadder. I heard what she did to him in the Shrine. I’d not be too sure your Durweard had aught to do with it.” He made a gesture of dismissal. “Nevertheless, I’ll carry your politicking to the Houses. Good luck with the Osraed.”

  The Claeg had nodded a curt dismissal and turned to leave when a lackey in Malcuim colors scurried into the room with tidings that obviously could not wait. He spilled them before he’d even come to a stop before the throne.

  “My lord, there’s an Osraed Wyth just outside in the vestibule. He claims he’s the new Apex of the Triumvirate.”

  oOo

  The Hall was to reconvene. With a new Apex, duly confirmed in a testament produced by Taminy herself, there was little that could be done to stall. The unexpected appearance of the young Osraed put Colfre in such a high state of nerves, Daimhin could scarcely maintain his patience. It was idiotic; barely a month ago Colfre had assured him the young Counselor was too uncertain of himself to warrant worry, and now he was mumbling about acts of God and watchful demons.

  “Did you not dream?” Daimhin asked him the eve of the Assembly. “You told me you dreame
d that you were to be Osric. If that’s so, then why should the appearance of this boy unnerve you?”

  “The circumstances,” muttered Colfre. “He must have started from Nairne the very moment that Bevol ... went missing.”

  “Sire, he is endorsed by Taminy. As are you. How could he be a threat to you? Surely, if she is an ally, he is one also.”

  Colfre could not dispute the logic of that. “You’re certain she will endorse me? She will confirm that I am to be Osric?”

  Daimhin smiled a smile that went all the way to the core of his being. “I’m certain, lord. I have spoken of love to her—of spending eternity at her side. I have all but worshipped her. And I now know that we possess no unnatural saint. There is fire in that young body and I have warmed myself in it.”

  To his surprise, Colfre paled. “What have you done? You haven’t ... violated her?”

  “My lord! I merely courted her. I saved her life, regardless of what the Claeg would have you believe. We’ve kissed, nothing more. Rest assured, I will not ‘violate’ her, as you so politely put it. When she capitulates to me, she will do so of her own free will. Where is the victory, otherwise?”

  “Victory?” Colfre clutched at the collar of his tunic as if it had suddenly grown too tight. “She is Osmaer,” he whispered. “You cannot mean to-to conquer her.”

  “Is that not what you meant to do, sire?”

  “No! Never that. Never!” Agitated, the Cyne paced away from him down the length of the Taminy mural he had recently begun. He paused below the panel wherein she emerged from the Sea, naked and streaming ocean froth.

  Daimhin’s eyes were drawn to the half-finished likeness and he wondered how close Colfre’s imagination came to reality. Shaking off the heat that evoked, he dragged his eyes back to his lord’s ashen face.

  “I meant to gain an alliance,” Colfre was saying, “a meeting of minds and hearts. My intention was friendship, not conquest.”

  “Ah. Forgive me. I misspoke. But no matter.” He smiled brightly. “We have a friend. And we have made friends for her, too, have we not?”