She nodded, thanking the warmth that spread from his hand to suffuse her. “He will return when he realizes that Airleas is Cyne of Caraid-land’s heart and that to possess that heart, he must possess Airleas.”
Catahn snorted. “He’ll be happy enough with the body for a while.”
“Not long.”
“When he returns, will he find us here?”
She shook her head. “No. With us here, the people of Nairne are in danger. We must be elsewhere when Daimhin Feich revisits Halig-liath.”
She turned and re-entered the courtyard, Catahn maintaining his place beside her. She ignored the questioning faces that greeted them for a moment, and paused to gaze up and over the high eastern walls. Five of the seven peaks of the Gyldan-baenn marched away toward the south. Far and away, she could see the snow-capped thrust of Baenn-Ghlo, for once, not wrapped in the mists that gave it its name. The smaller summit of Baenn-an-Ratha stood out in stark relief against its bright, massive flank.
Somewhere among those crags and forested passes Catahn’s stronghold, Hrofceaster, snuggled in near-inaccessible safety. It would be a difficult place for those used to milder climes to winter, but there they would be safe, and there they would not be subject to sudden siege.
Catahn had followed her gaze to look lovingly and longingly on those same peaks. “Shall we begin preparations for travel, Lady?”
She smiled and squeezed his hand where it still rested on her shoulder. “Thank you, Catahn,” she said and moved to where Cwen Toireasa and Airleas waited in the midst of a cluster of other believers.
Catahn watched her till she was absorbed by the group, then pulled his eyes back to the Gyldan-baenn. His heart swelled with a surge of something big and fine and warm. He would go home soon, and he would bring the Lady of the Crystal Rose with him.
Chapter 1
How can a loving heart conceive that destruction should bring about good? Is wrong made right by further wrong? Can the slaughter of an innocent atone for evil deeds? Can religion be furthered by immoral conduct?
Make your hearts pure and kill not.
Your rituals are empty; your prayers are silent; your inyx are powerless to save. Rather, you should abandon envy and passion, to become free from cold and evil zeal, and give up all hatred and animosity, that is true sacrifice and worship.
— Corah, Book II, Verse 8-10
Creiddylad
“Damn you! Damn you to icy hell!” The goblet left Daimhin Feich’s hand and hit the closed door with a solid, metallic clang. Wine stained the wood like blood spreading, sudden, from a wound. “A dagger, next time, friend.”
The applause of a single pair of hands mocked him. “Bravo, cousin. An affective speech. A shame the object of your invective wasn’t around to hear it.”
“Piss ant,” growled Daimhin Feich, but he smiled. He would tolerate a certain amount of mockery from his uncle’s youngest son; Ruadh was easily his favorite relation. “He will hear it . . . in my time.”
“In your time? Hardly. And that’s Feich hell, isn’t it cousin—to need the Claeg.”
“Hell, indeed. But where the Claeg go, so go the southern midlands.”
“You’ve already lost old Iobert Claeg to the pretty Wicke. He’ll no doubt take a large share of his House with him. And more, if you can’t convince one of the other Claeg elders to take his seat on the Privy Council.”
“The Privy Council is the least of my worries.”
Daimhin Feich lifted himself from the Throne—the Malcuim Throne, he reminded himself bitterly—and paced to the near door of the audience chamber. There, he bent and picked up the goblet he’d flung, holding it up to the light that fell, bright and clear from the high, slanting windows. The Sun found tiny pathways of silver and gold in the delicately incised bowl and made them rivers of radiance.
“Things, Ruadh. I have gotten from the House Malcuim its riches, its possessions, and as much of its territories as Feich forces can hold from these walls. But I do not have its people. If Colfre Malcuim—God damn his spineless soul—had dropped this cup, it would not have reached the floor but a servant’s hand would have caught it and whisked it away. Except for a mercenary few and the folk you brought from Feich, this castle is a spacious, luxurious tomb. You heard the young Claeg just now.”
Ruadh crossed arms over his chest. “Oh, aye. ‘The Throne at Mertuile has always held a Malcuim. I doubt it will suffer itself to be sat upon by a Feich ass.’”
Daimhin gritted his teeth so hard they hurt. “His exact words. How kind of you to recall them for me.”
“Welcome. And you didn’t drop that cup, you hurled it. Even a Feich servant would think twice before answering that summons.”
“We’ll bring in more servants. Perhaps we can hire from the poor neighborhoods of Creiddylad. There should be plenty of those after Colfre’s years of excess.”
“Aye, and we can bring more Feich men, and hire more mercenaries, I wager. But never enough, cousin. Never enough to hold Caraid-land by force. Unless this castle is all you aspire to, we do need the Claeg and as many of the other Houses as they can bring to us. But I fear Saefren Claeg is right; a Feich on the throne of Caraid-land is not something the Houses will tolerate. If not for loyalty to The Malcuim, then for envy alone.”
“The Malcuim is dead . . . and I have the Stone of Ochan.”
Ruadh smiled wryly. “Ah, no. The Malcuim is a twelve year old boy hunkered upriver with a pack of apostates. If Colfre had died childless, you might rally the Houses to you. But he didn’t. Airleas Malcuim exists, and as long as he exists beyond your control, the Osmaer Crystal is useless to you. You can’t set him before it, nor can you use it to place yourself on the throne.”
Sour, that thought, but true, and Daimhin Feich knew it. Airleas Malcuim was the key to winning Caraid-land out of its present chaos and into his hands. Even now, mobs rallied in the streets of Creiddylad, roiled beneath the castle walls. Their voices and torches kept him awake nights. Their voices reached him wherever he lay his head. They cried for Cyneric Airleas, they cried for Feich blood, they cried for Taminy-a-Cuinn, Wicke—or Taminy-Osmaer, Seeress, Prophetess. He hated her. Passionately. And yet, when he finally slept, his dreams informed him of a different passion.
Daimhin Feich was a man in conflict where Taminy-Osmaer was concerned.
oOo
He was hunting. Flying over the ground on a fantastic black horse so powerful thunder rolled from beneath its hooves and assaulted the sky. He gripped the reins in both hands, feeling the tension of the animal’s massive neck, the superb, nervous lightness of its mouth on the bit. Between his legs the broad, muscular back rippled with unimaginable power.
Sensual. Heat invaded his belly, wrapping hot fingers around his heart. He tightened his hands on the reins, his thighs on the horse’s barrel. The animal responded with a forward surge, its hooves leaving the ground as if in flight.
He laughed in complete delight and the horse turned its great head to look at him. An eye as pale as his own fixed him, sending a chill up his spine. In that reckless moment he understood that he was both the horse and the rider of the horse. The animal was an extension of Self; it was he who held the reins and he who breathed fire and struck lightning from the earth.
Beyond exhilaration, he soared, barely taking in the world around him—an aislinn world, he now realized. Shapes flickered past, looking vaguely like trees, rocks, brush.
A hunt. Of course. He hunted. And the Object of that hunt lay somewhere ahead in this strange and wonderful realm.
His gaze strained ahead now, to where the path opened into a corridor of giant trees, light falling like golden snow through the dense lace of branches. The end of the corridor was indistinct, dark, a mysterious destination that resisted approach. He willed himself to reach that dark forest heart and it began to grow before him. Deep green, it was, emerald, like a spot of night in the depths of a daylight wood. Less and less sunlight filtered through the trees as he rushed toward it and
a veil of mist rose to obscure his way. Though he knew he still rushed forward, he felt time stretch like a lazy cat, drawing his senses out, prolonging each moment, underscoring each hoof/heart beat.
He was upon it then—in a breath, in an eternity. The emerald deep swallowed him whole. It was a distorted place of shadows and glimmers of light that danced just beyond the eye’s grasp.
He was drawing near the Hunted. Hard by the end of his quest. He could feel her, smell her, taste her. He reached up over his shoulder and found the crossbow there. Fingers met cold metal and smooth, hard wood and he chilled at the touch.
But no, this was wrong. He hunted with a longbow. His hand tightened on the curve of ash wood, felt the notch where the bowstring lay, taut.
Yes.
He dropped the reins, knowing the horse to be obedient, and pulled the bow into his hands. A quiver of arrows lay along his left thigh. He took one up and nocked it, eyes roving ahead.
In the deep a soft light quivered—a fitful flame. There! The Prey. He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was there at the heart of the flame. He could feel her through the thick air, smell her on the wind, taste her on the tip of his tongue.
How impersonal a bow seemed in the face of that intimacy. A sword would be better. No, a dagger. He looked at the thing lying across his palm, blade sharp, glittering.
Yes.
With a crack like close thunder, time ceased its stretching and lunged, hissing, into a blaze of light. The Universe roared and the great, black beast he rode spasmed beneath him. He took up the reins again. Fought for control. But the horse’s mouth no longer responded to his touch. The Universe reeled, roaring crescendoed, light blinded.
Then it all winked out—snuffed like a candle flame between fingers—leaving an echo of light and sound and sense, a nightmare after-image.
oOo
His breath left his body in a gasp; he sucked it up again on a sob of frustration and lay sweating in his bed, blankets tangled around his limbs, his fist clenched painfully on nothing.
He disentangled himself, shivering—not an ember glowed in the huge hearth—and moved to light a lamp. His hands stopped short of their goal and, for a moment, he feared the dream had followed him. Before him in the black night of his bed chamber hung an image. It moved where his eyes moved as if burned into them: A crystal. A face. No. A crystal, and within the crystal, a face. Her face—sweet, beautiful, treacherous.
A sigh slipped between his lips before he could drag it back. The hand that reached for the lamp now quivered toward the mirage; fingers grasping . . . nothing.
Sudden hatred wrung a howl from him. He swung at the black air, hitting the unseen lamp and sending it to the floor in a spray of broken glass and fragrant oil.
Stunned to silence, he trembled, listening for the movement of his guards in the corridor, struggling to rein in his rage.
The door rattled. “Cousin?”
Ruadh. He dragged in a cleansing breath. “It’s all right. I’ve only broken a lamp.”
“Shall I call a servant to clean it up?”
Stupid brat, I said I was all right. “No. It can keep. Leave me.”
There was a moment of silence, then the soft scrape of leather on stone.
He was cold now, his shivering born of chill, rather than rage. He flexed his fingers, still tight from gripping the aislinn reins. When next he hunted, he promised himself, he would control his mount. He would choose the right weapon. He would finish the Hunt.
Chapter 2
One walks upon the Shore;
One glides beneath the Sea.
In the water meet the twain
Who never met and meet again.
In the water they combine
The human soul and the Divine.
Humanity is glorified,
Divinity personified—
The dance of glory to and from
One to return, One to become.
One glides beneath the Sea;
One walks upon the Shore.
—The Meri Song
Book of the New Covenant
Hrofceaster at Airdnasheen
The room was gray this early. Though murky light entered through the three tall windows along the northern wall, it was not strong enough to bring the rich array of tapestries, arras and carpets to vivid life. A row of light-globes sat above the east-facing hearth, two more hung on either side of the fur-covered couch opposite the windows. All were unlit and the hearth was cold.
On the threshold, Taminy took in the empty chamber with something like relief. She raised her hand, palm out, to the dark globes. They lit, blue-gold flames dancing, seemingly suspended in whorls of mist. On the walls, furniture, and floors, colors leapt from sleep; golds, reds, verdant greens—all the colors of midland foliage. All the hues Taminy would have left behind in coming to Hrofceaster, were it not for Hillwild artistry; were it not for Catahn.
Taminy smiled at the thought of the Hillwild lord. He was easily her fiercest supporter, her most imposing ally and her most ardent devotee. It had taken her weeks to break him of bending the knee to her. She had yet to teach him not to call her ‘Glorious Lady’ with every other breath. And as he treated her, so did his people.
As if I was Cwen, she thought, moving to the firebox by the hearth. That was Toireasa Malcuim’s station, not hers. It was a station she could not imagine growing accustomed to.
“They’ll always treat you that way.”
Hands full of kindling, Taminy turned. “Skeet. Will you help with this fire or just stand there pecking at my thoughts?”
The boy moved from the doorway, face unsmiling, unboyish.
“You’re more than Cwen, Taminy-Osmaer. Catahn knows that. His elders know that. Toireasa is Cwen of Caraid-land; you are its soul.”
Taminy bent to arrange the kindling, not caring to look into Skeet’s eyes. She knew he was right, the little old man. Knew that in her hands was the fate of the House Malcuim and, through it, of the Caraidin people.
“And Airleas is its spirit,” she said. “I feel for the boy—to have his childhood end so suddenly, so cruelly.”
“If he’d grown up here, his childhood would’ve been over long since. In Creiddylad, he’d’ve stayed a child past time. Colfre was a young man; were it not for Daimhin Feich, he’d still be on the Throne. Maybe Airleas is better off here.”
Taminy smiled, rising from the hearth to brush at her skirts. “Pov-Skeet, you know as well as I do the truth of that. He may not see it now, but Hrofceaster is no mean place to become a man.”
“If the Ren Catahn is any measure,” Skeet added.
Taminy turned to look at him. “Such a sly tone. Don’t you like Catahn?”
Skeet’s dark eyes widened. “Why, Mistress! I should say I like him very well, indeed. He’s a prodigious man.”
The observation coaxed laughter from her throat. It felt good to laugh.
“Mistress! What are you doing? God-the-Spirit, the fire! Now, now—you oughtn’t touch that!”
The Eldress Levene scuttled into the room like a fretting hen, bobbing and clucking, while Taminy, errant chick, scooted away from the hearth, dropping the log she’d been holding.
Skeet cackled.
“You really mustn’t do for yourself, dearest Lady,” chided the older woman. “Where’s Eyslk? She should ha’ been here to start this. Not like her to be so lazy.”
“Please, Eldress, you needn’t curtsey. And I came early today. I didn’t ring for Eyslk. I rather intended to be alone for a while . . . in the quiet.”
Eldress Levene paused in her fire-making and blinked at Taminy. “God’s Breath, Lady! It never came to me that you’d like to be left alone in the mornings.”
Taminy’s hands flew out in reflexive apology. “Oh, please, Eldress, I didn’t mean—It’s only that occasionally I like to come here and meditate. It’s a lovely room.”
The other woman’s face suffused with pleasure. “Why thank you, Mistress. It was done all for your joy . . . N
ow, now, where’s the tinder box?” She poked along the rough mantle piece, looking for the box of flints.
“Eyslk usually asks me to start the fire,” Taminy said.
The Eldress was aghast. “Eyslk asks—?”
Taminy laughed. “Please don’t fault Eyslk. She caught me at it one morning. I admit it’s a guilty pleasure of mine.”
She moved back to the hearth as she spoke and held her hands out to the pile of unlit wood as if a fire was already there to warm them. In a moment, a red glow appeared among the kindling. In another, flames leapt—gold and white—to consume the wood.
“You see, it’s really much easier for me than for poor Eyslk with her flints.”
The Eldress nodded, eyes casting back the glow of the flames. “A good, practical bit of Weaving, that.” She shifted her eyes to Taminy then, head tilted questioningly, asked, “Would you like me to leave you a bit, Lady? I can return in your time.”
“Not if you’ve some business for me, Eldress.”
Taminy retreated to the couch from which she now “held court” as Skeet put it. She preferred to think of it as consultation and had even convinced Catahn that the couch, which had once sat on a raised platform, be on a level with the other furniture in the room.
Eldress Levene approached her (curtseying again) and seated herself in a facing chair. “If it please my Lady . . . Taminy,” she corrected, when Taminy would have reminded her, “the Aeldra have consulted this past eve and have raised some questions.”
Taminy gestured with her left hand, bidding her to continue. The Eldress’s eyes followed the gesture, seizing on the blessed mark—the gytha—glowing from the palm like a tiny flame.
“We have certain rites, Lady Taminy, which have been held in the heart of these mountains since time known. We are born and named, cross from childhood into adulthood, marry, give birth and die. All these things we mark and celebrate. And in between, we plant some and harvest some and mark the passing of the seasons. We revere the Gwyr, too, as you know, and celebrate Her rare appearances. We lay before you these things, these rites and ask . . .”
Crystal Rose Page 2
