The Eldress paused, glancing aside at the silent Skeet. She was troubled, clearly. “These are ancient rites—”
“And sacred,” said Taminy. “They remind you that you are the Hillwild and that these things have shaped you, nurtured you, become part of your relationship with the Spirit.”
The Eldress’s relief was evident. “You’d not have us give them up?”
“No, Eldress. Why would I?”
“Some have tried to persuade us that these things are superstition. That we should leave them and worship as do the people of the lowlands.”
“They worship as they worship; you worship as you worship. The Spirit isn’t interested in the form of your worship, but in its sincerity.”
“They say the Gwyr is a heathen spirit, unrelated to the Meri and Her God. They say our God is not their God.”
They. “The Osraed, you mean?”
“Aye, and others.”
“The Gwyr is a window to the world of the Spirit. There is only one Spirit. There are many windows through which to see It.”
The Eldress considered that. “Yet, each window offers a different view. How does one see the Spirit entire?”
“One finds a Door and enters it.”
The Eldress nodded. “You are the Door.”
Even now, Taminy could feel a part of herself shrinking from that truth—but it was truth.
“Here, now, for you, I am the Door.”
Eldress Levene slid from her chair to her knees, bending her forehead to the floor. “Blessed Lady! Last night I dreamed of a doorway filled with light. I see it again this moment.”
“Rise, please,” Taminy murmured, uncomfortable with the open adoration. “Rise and look at me. You have another question.”
The woman raised her head, but remained huddled on the carpet, her wool pantaloons billowed about her like gray clouds. “The Council of Elders also wishes to know if it should continue to guide the affairs of Airdnasheen.”
“What other body but the Aeldra would shepherd the community?” Taminy asked in return. “Who else would be qualified? You know the people’s needs. There’s no reason why the Aeldra should not continue to elect the Ren and mind the affairs of his people. I didn’t come here to govern the Hillwild, Eldress Levene, but to renew a Covenant.”
The Eldress nodded, looking thoughtful. “And to ready the young Malcuim to govern. He’s a good boy, that one, but rash, stubborn, fox-clever . . . for boon or bane.”
The absent Eyslk chose that moment to put in her appearance. It was Eldress Levene’s pleasure to tease her gently for her cleverness in lighting the fire without a tinder box.
While the two bantered, Taminy’s gaze roamed to the fire. Boon or bane, indeed. The Eldress had no way of knowing that in describing Airleas, she had also described his father. Colfre Malcuim’s cleverness had connived to disaster and his rashness had made him a willing puppet for Daimhin Feich. Taminy could only pray Airleas had something his father had not—strength of will.
oOo
The narrow outer corridor was empty and Airleas Malcuim congratulated himself on that good fortune. His arms wrapped around the long, swaddled package, he scurried the length of the hallway, down the narrow stone steps at its nether end, and out into the small, dark courtyard. It was a little-used yard; he knew that after several days of careful watching. Its only other access was from the rear of the main kitchen and it occasionally hosted the kitchen crews after-dinner chats, but little more than that.
Alone, Airleas laid his treasure out on a rough wooden bench and unwrapped it, a smile hovering at his lips.
“Airleas! A sword! Oh, wherever’d you get tha’?”
He jumped and swore, twisting his head toward the kitchen entrance. “Gwynet Alheart, you little weasel! How dare you sneak about like that? And keep your voice down.”
Gwynet’s eyes were two pools of reproach. “I’m sure I’m not a weasel, Cyneric Airleas. Nor was I the one sneaking. And my voice is down . . . Where’d you get the sword?”
Airleas sighed. “I found it. In a leather satchel at the bottom of a grain bin in the stable.”
Gwynet’s nose wrinkled in curiosity as she came down the short flight of kitchen steps to hover at the bench. “What were you doing in a grain bin?”
“I was pretending to hide from marauding Feichs, if you must know. Learning the ways of a Hillwild warrior.”
Gwynet glanced again at the sword. “Surely it belongs to somebody.”
“Surely it doesn’t. The bag was so old it was rotting away.
Whoever put it there must have forgotten all about it. So it’s mine now.”
“But why, Airleas?” Gwynet touched the freshly polished blade gingerly. “Why should you have a sword at all?”
“You said it, Gwynet. I’m Cyneric Airleas. A Malcuim. The Malcuim, now. If anyone is going to retake Mertuile and pry the Stone out of Daimhin Feich’s hands, it must be me. I have to do that, or I’ll never be set before the Stone.”
“Do you know how t’use it?”
“Of course. I’ve had lessons in swordplay.” He didn’t add that they were with a much flimsier sporting blade, a blade that weighed about a quarter what this one did. “Besides, I watched the Claeg’s men practicing at Halig-liath. They gave me some pointers, too. Here, I’ll show you.”
Clutching the sword in both hands, Airleas moved to the center of the little courtyard. There, he closed his eyes. The mountain fortress dissolved away and he stood in the Great Hall of Mertuile beneath the House banners. That was a fitting place to face Daimhin Feich, for it was here that his father’s treacherous Durweard had taken up a crossbow with the intent of murdering Taminy-Osmaer, while Colfre Malcuim, who should have been defending her with his life, cowered behind his throne.
Airleas Malcuim would not cower, would not run, and would defend Taminy-Osmaer to his last breath. He brought the sword up, saluting his imaginary foe, then swung it in a circle over his head. The blade caught air and sang. It was a magical sound to Airleas and his blood rose in harmony. He danced and bobbed, following the blade around and around.
In moments, he had Feich on the run and was backing him against a wall. Good thing, too, for his found weapon grew heavier with every swing.
Slash! He caught the flat of Feich’s blade and ripped it away. Now, in for the kill.
Airleas lunged, his feet sliding on the stone foundation at the bottom of the kitchen steps. Over-balanced, he pitched face first onto the stone risers, releasing the sword in a desperate effort to catch himself. He sprawled on the steps, bruising body and spirit. He heard Gwynet squeal, but the sound of the sword striking stone never came. What he heard, instead, was laughter—loud, raucous laughter.
He scrambled to his feet, rubbing his bruised elbows. Another boy stood above him on the kitchen steps, shaking with laughter, the sword propped carelessly on one shoulder.
Bristling at the open mockery in the tawny eyes, Airleas gathered his Malcuim dignity and held out his hands. “May I have my sword back?”
“Your sword? And where would a midge like you come by a weapon like this?”
“It’s mine.”
The boy lowered the sword and gave it a careful glance. “This is a Hillwild blade, midge. Made at Moidart, by the crest.” His thumb brushed a design worked into the blade just below the hilt. “No one gives a boy a weapon like this. I’ll just take it back to the armory where it belongs.”
Stung, Airleas lunged, his hands grasping, but the larger boy was quicker. He leapt from the steps, landing behind Airleas in the yard . . . still laughing.
Airleas spun on him. “Give me the sword! It’s mine. I found it.”
“You’ll never make a decent swordsman if you give up your moves in your eyes like that. That ogre you were play-fighting almost got the best of you, midge. You’re lucky I came along.”
“It wasn’t an ogre. And I only lost my footing. Give me back the sword.”
“Sorry, midge.” The boy turned to go, the
sword flung over his shoulder as though it weighed nothing at all.
“Don’t you know who I am?”
The boy paused. “Ah, let me guess—you’re the Ren Morgant of Moidart in disguise. I’d pictured you as a larger man, Ren . . . and older.”
“I’m Airleas Malcuim—Cyneric of Caraid-land. Head of my House. Son of Cyne Colfre Malcuim and Cwen Toireasa. And you will give me that sword.” He put all the authority he could behind that.
The taller boy merely looked amused. “So, you’re the Malcuim brat. Well, Cyneric. All the more reason for me to keep this dangerous toy. I’m sure our good Ren Catahn’d be madder’n a treed catamount if one of his royal guests got nicked up.”
Chuckling, he resumed his journey cross-court toward the covered flight of narrow steps Airleas had descended earlier.
Uncertain, Airleas glanced aside at Gwynet. She still stood by the bench, her face radiating amazement. His pretensions to Malcuim dignity evaporated. Gwynet was the only person he knew who looked up to him. The only one in all of Airdnasheen who treated his station as if it mattered. To look foolish before Gwynet . . .
The young Cyneric launched himself at his adversary’s retreating back, catching him not quite unawares. The boy flung the sword away and met him face to face, falling beneath him in a grapple of arms and legs. Gwynet squealed again and was silent.
Airleas knew more of wrestling than he did of swordplay, which was fortunate, because the enemy was a strapping lad who left the young Malcuim only the advantages of quickness and flexibility. He used them as best he could, managing to trip his opponent and get a lock on his neck before superior strength sent him flying end over end.
Snarling and snapping like wild foxes, they met again, struggling and straining one to fell the other, ending up again in a scrabble of arms and legs. Airleas got another neck hold and wove his legs with the other’s, pinning him. It gave him a moment of respite in which to wonder how one determined a winner in these affairs.
A hand on his collar rendered the quandary academic. Airleas found himself dangling well above the ground, glaring into his adversary’s dunnish eyes. The two boys were at once separated and connected by the same things—a pair of huge arms and a broad expanse of chest.
“Hold, both of you!” The roar of the Ren Catahn’s voice was enough to rattle Airleas’s teeth. “What in the name of all holy are you about, Broran Hageswode? Have you no idea who you’re scrapping with?”
Airleas’s feet touched down, but the hand on his collar stayed.
“Says he’s Cyneric of Caraid-land,” snarled Broran, trying to shake hair from his eyes.
“Happens, he is Cyneric of Caraid-land,” Catahn agreed. “A cousin of yours, too, a few dams removed. It won’t do to assassinate your blood relations.” He set Broran down. “Now what’s this about a sword?”
“Here, master. This is the sword.”
Airleas and Catahn both turned. Behind them, Gwynet stood, the Moidart blade clutched in two hands. Its point dug into the dirt between her feet, the sword was taller than she was.
“Airleas found it in an old leather bag in the stable, master. He wanted to use it to retake Mertuile.”
Catahn was surprised into a sharp laugh, Broran sniggered, and Airleas thought he would sink into the earth.
Still smiling, the Hillwild Ren fetched the weapon from Gwynet’s hands, lifting it easily with one of his own. “Well, Cyneric Airleas, I once had similar thoughts about this sword. Oh, not that I’d take Mertuile with it, but that it’d prove I was battle-ready. That I was a man just in the having of it. But I stole it, you see, so it proved nothing of the sort.”
“You stole it!” repeated Airleas.
“Aye. I was of an age with you boys, head full of tales I’d heard about the Battle of the Banner, aching to prove myself a hero. Round about that time, we had a bit of trouble with the Deasach. My Aunt, who was Renec then, took me over to Moidart to a Council. While I was there, at loose ends and looking for trouble to get at, I saw this sword. It belonged to the daughter of the Ren Gaineamh. Her name was Geatan. She was thirteen and she’d just celebrated the Crask-an-Bana. I thought her the most beautiful, brave and wonderful woman I’d ever seen.
“I snuck the sword from her room, leaving a thistle-rose in its place, and I thought of a grand scheme. With Geatan’s sword, I’d take up arms against the southern harriers and become a hero to my people. Then I’d be worthy to take the Crask-an-duine and then, once I was a proven man—then I’d ask young Geatan to marry me. And, of course, I’d make a grand gesture of returning her sword.”
“But you didn’t,” Gwynet observed.
“Well, the theft was noticed, which should’ve been no surprise to me, and the talk of her parents about it chilled me so, I decided I must try to put it back. But I couldn’t. There were guards everywhere I turned that night and the next morning we were bound for Airdnasheen. I carried the sword home, knowing I’d never be able to use it, and feeling an idiot. I buried the damn thing at the bottom of that grain bin over twenty years ago. I figured never to see it again.”
“Might she forgive you if you returned it now?”
Catahn’s eyes seemed to lose their focus momentarily. “Oh, that lady’s long dead, Gwynet. She died when our daughter was twelve years old. I never did tell her about the sword, though she might’ve known, she was that fey. I suppose Desary should have it, now.”
Airleas’s heart sank. “What would Desary do with a sword?” he asked.
Catahn’s brows rose. “Fight, if the occasion arose. Of course, she already has one of her own . . .”
Airleas took his eyes from the weapon only long enough to let them plead with Catahn.
The Ren ignored him, glanced from one boy to the other and asked, “Why were you fighting over this?”
“He,” said Airleas, glaring at Broran, “tried to take it away from me.”
Catahn turned to Broran. “Why did you do that?”
“He was like to have killed himself, Lord. He was dancing all over with it, slash and bash, and barely able to hold it up. I was afraid he was going to hurt himself. I was coming to bring it to you when he jumped me.”
Catahn grinned. “Yes, and it appeared Gwynet brought me none too soon. The Cyneric had you at a loss. Now, I’ll be taking this sword with me. And I want no more fighting between you boys. Broran, I’m sure you’ve got duties. Airleas and Gwynet, you’d best attend to your studies.”
Catahn left the courtyard with the sword in hand; Airleas followed it with his eyes until he could no longer see it.
Nor was his longing lost on Broran. Grinning, the Hillwild brat dusted off his jacket and saluted Airleas with a mocking bow. “Pardon, Cyneric Midge, but as my lord says, I’ve duties.”
Cyneric Midge. Airleas wanted to rage and make Broran take back the taunt, but at the moment, it was all he could do not to cry.
oOo
I feel I should speak of time, but time has lost its meaning. So, I will not say we have been here for so many days, weeks, months. (Can it have been months?) But the seasons progress here, and that has meaning.
Autumn in Nairne meant crisp mornings and evenings, balmy-cool days, the smell of sun-drying leaves and harvest. There is little to harvest here and the trees never lose their glossy needles. Here, there is only the pulling to of shutters and the delicate, chilled fragrance of pine. The wind howls up the passes below Airdnasheen and whistles through the spires above the Ren Catahn’s fortress, and I hear winter in the song.
Of what do I write first? Do I give the Tell of our escape from Creiddylad? Do I record that harrowing, magnificent moment when Taminy-a-Cuinn stood in the Cyne’s Great Hall and declared herself Osmaer—by the Grace of the Spirit, mediator between man and Meri? Do I tell of how she stunned all with her claim that she had, herself, been the Vessel of the Meri for the past 100 years and that Meredydd-a-Lagan of Nairne, whom I loved, was that Vessel now? With those claims we began our flight, first to Halig-liath and Nairne, n
ow here, under Catahn’s devoted protection.
Do I report that our Cyne is dead? Yes, I must. Some suppose he was murdered. I, unhappily, know he was, because Taminy knows. I am grateful not to be endowed with her Sight.
Our Cyne is dead and his heir, fled from the murderer, is among us. That murderer will come to our mountain eventually. I pray not before spring.
There is a tension in us that urges to preparation. It is a strange preparedness we seek, having nothing to do with armaments or fortifications. God knows Hrofceaster, on its craggy scarp, has enough of both. Instead, we learn duans and practice Weaves that must provide a different sort of bulwark against Daimhin Feich. He will no doubt come with more than an army. The Regency Cyne Colfre bestowed upon him is meaningless without Colfre’s lone heir. So, he will come to us.
I wish to say something of this place and its people. There is a wild beauty to the environs of Airdnasheen, and the fortress of Hrofceaster is as different from Halig-liath as that hallowed place is from the Castle Mertuile. Yet, there is a spirit here that brings Halig-liath to mind. I am bereft and consoled at once.
Will we ever go home?
I ask that, yet realize that for me, for the others who accompany Taminy into exile, she has become home. Even familiar, beloved Halig-liath would be exile without her. In her presence the loss of Osraed Bevol, my mentor, is eased, though I still grieve. Where he is, only Taminy knows and only she can reach him.
In this new home, we live among people who treat us all as royalty. We are Taminy’s first disciples, waljan, they call us—chosen—and marvel at the star-shaped marks we each carry in our palms—marks Taminy put there. They have a name for those too: gytha, meaning ‘a gift.’ The word refers to more than the mark.
I discover many shades of meaning in the words of the Hillwild. I once dismissed these people as simple, imagined them warlike and rude. The truth is, they speak plain words, but those words often carry elaborate meanings. They perform simple tasks of which every movement is freighted with significance.
They are a religious people, though there are no Cirkes in their settlements. And they are, almost to a person, devoted to Taminy.
Crystal Rose Page 3
