As are we, her First, her waljan.
—Osraed Wyth Arundel, Hrofceaster; Autumn, YP 605
Osraed Wyth set his seal to the journal entry and sat back to rub his aching fingers. It was early, but he’d been up already for hours, writing letters, mostly. Then, he’d opened his journal for the first time since they’d fled Halig-liath. The words had finally come.
They were wholly inadequate.
His chamber door rattled sharply and he rose to answer it, realizing, as he did, that the Sun had risen to pour watery amber light into the gray mists of Airdnasheen. The Sun itself would not be seen for some time; it had yet to clear the eastern crags of Baenn-iolair.
Outside his chamber door stood a Hillwild lad a bit older than Airleas and considerably brawnier. He scrutinized Wyth with bold, tawny eyes, then handed over a bound leather folio.
“You’d be Wyth,” he said. “This is for you. From Creiddylad.”
“From Creiddylad?”
Wyth took the folio and eagerly flipped the leather latch. There was a letter inside from Lealbhallain-mac-Mercer. Wyth hurried to lay it out on his writing table, glancing at the date. Nine, no, ten days ago.
“This is likely the last you’ll see from lowlands.”
Wyth turned. The Hillwild boy had followed him into the room and stood watching, thumbs crooked casually through his belt.
“The last?”
“Aye. Storms’re coming. Passes’ll be closed soon.” The boy’s eyes were far from casual. They assessed Wyth from stem to stern, lingering on his hands. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? Waljan?”
Wyth nodded.
“Is it true what they say—that you’ve got the Star in your hand?”
In answer, Wyth opened his left hand and held it out. The stellate gytha shimmered a vivid green that hovered on the edge of invisibility—like a shadow cast through translucent glass.
The boy put out an inquisitive finger and rubbed across the mark as if he thought it might smudge or come off.
“Huh. Can’t feel it.” The sharp eyes moved to a similar golden mark on Wyth’s brow. “You’ve been Meri-Kissed, too.”
“Yes.”
“This Taminy did that?” He poked again at the gytha.
“Yes.”
“Hurt, did it?”
“No, it didn’t hurt. It felt . . . wonderful. Like cool fire.”
“Some sort of Wicke, is she? Or a paeri? I don’t believe in paeri.”
Wyth closed his hand. “She’s Osmaer. The Meri sent her.”
“Raised her from the dead, I heard.”
“No. Not . . . not exactly. She was . . .”
The boy grinned suddenly, displaying even white teeth. He reminded Wyth of a mountain cat showing a playful bit of fang.
“No need to waste your time explaining that spirit stuff to me, Osraed. I figure, Wicke or not, she’s the Ren’s business not mine. Airdnasheen’s agog with her, is all. Just thought I’d sniff a bit. I’m a curious lad.”
The curious lad left then, affording Wyth the barest whisper of a bow, and Wyth, bemused, hurried to read his letter.
oOo
“The streets are not safe for us, now, and Creiddylad has become an alien place of warring factions. All Osraed have been ordered to carry papers affirming their loyalty to the Covenant established by Ochan and to the House Malcuim. To be caught in the streets without these papers is to be labeled a Taminist. That can lead to a harsh questioning and some time in the dungeons of Mertuile. Several of our number have disappeared within the last week and we fear that’s where they are.
“The rest of us have given up the wearing of Osraed garb, but there is no way to disguise the Meri’s Kiss against close inspection. Osraed Fhada tried tying a black scarf around his head, but the Kiss shone through as if lit from within. So, we wear our forelocks long and affect scarves and hats and cowls, but this only brings suspicion on us among those who style themselves Loyalists or Covenanters. Loyalist men go about hatless, regardless of the weather, so as not to be taken for Taminist Osraed—’burn brows’ they call us. There is an actress named Siusan among us. She has brought us theatrical paints to drab the Kiss. Osraed Eadmund has used it well enough to be able to stay at Ochanshrine right under Abbod Ladhar’s nose.
“Meanwhile, the rumor is spread that Cyneric Airleas has been kidnapped by Taminists. No man or woman can help but have strong feelings about that. Even the non-Osraed in our number must carry themselves carefully in public, for there is no way of telling if the person standing next to you in the market square is Taminist or Loyalist by leaning. Regent Feich has not seen fit to quell these rumors; suspicion and fear are rampant and easily erupt into violence, as every word a man or woman speaks in the street is seized on by those who hear it.
“The Cirke is full to bursting these days and those who do not attend worship find themselves the focus of suspicion, as well. Devotions are largely given over to warnings about us, condemnation of Taminy and harsh words against the wayward women who have allowed themselves to be seduced by lust for unnatural power. The Abbod Ladhar delivered an impassioned message this past Cirke-dag, casting Taminy-Osmaer as Evil incarnate and seeking to turn the people’s fear into hatred of her. He had especially harsh words for the women of Caraid-land. I am happy to be no man’s daughter in this time, for to be female is to be suspected of all manner of filth. I’m happy she cannot hear what they are saying about her here.
“I think it must have been like this in the days of Cyne Liusadhe and I fear that Creiddylad quivers on the verge of apocalypse. The death of the Cyne, the disappearance of the Cwen and Cyneric, the fighting in the streets, the general disorder —all this is laid at Taminy’s feet. I think Daihmin Feich intends to use rumor to rewrite history, giving a different tell of what happened that day in the Great Hall. Those who were there know these rumors as lies, but the many who were not must rely on hearsay. To counter the lies with truth is to incite suspicion and anger. It seems we can only wait and pray and rejoice that Taminy, herself, is safe with you.”
Wyth looked up from the page to Taminy’s troubled face.
“Shall I stop, or would you hear more? He speaks of the situation at Ochanshrine . . .”
She nodded, her eyes fixed on the mullioned windows behind him. “Please, go on.”
Wyth cleared his throat. “Abbod Ladhar is still strongly in control of Ochanshrine and Wyncirke. The ranks there have dwindled, though; a number of the Brethren have come to us here in the city, though one or two stay behind as spies, pretending loyalty to the old Order. The Stone of Ochan is silent and dark, they say, and Osraed Ladhar frets over it as a mother over a sick child. Ladhar is often with Daimhin Feich and has stepped quietly into the role of Apex. The fact that you, Wyth, were appointed to that position by Osraed Bevol, himself, means nothing here. You are apostate—no, worse—you are a heretic, as much a Wicke to them as they believe Our Lady to be.
“But as to the Stone—the Osmaer Crystal: Ladhar brings it into the Cyne’s Cirke every Cirke-dag and displays it there under brilliant lights, so the congregation might not notice its darkness. I think it is the Crystal that convinces the people Ladhar has a right to his position at the Apex. It has become a rallying point, and in the streets, you will hear people swear by the Stone of Ochan. I swear, too, that it is the only thing that holds Creiddylad together and keeps her from falling to complete chaos.
“We, here, are desperate for some word of Taminy. Is she well? Please ask her to pray for us and to guide us to the Meri’s will. Your friend, Osraed Lealbhallain-mac-Mercer.”
Wyth folded the letter and returned it to the folio. “The boy who brought me this says it may be the last post we’ll receive from Creiddylad. To lose touch with them now . . .”
Taminy was shaking her head. “If Leal only knew it, he’s capable of staying in touch with us at a thought. He has the capacity, but not the discipline.” She looked up at Wyth. “If one of you went back to Creiddylad you could instruct them,
and in the meantime, you could keep in contact with me.”
“Are you thinking of me, in particular?”
The expression on his face drew a chuckle of amusement from her. “No, not you, in particular. Not you, at all. Your place is here. But one of you must go, I think. And soon.”
“How? How will they get there? The high passes will be closed soon and it’s a dangerous journey at the best of times.”
Taminy rose from her couch and moved to the windows. Through the thick diamond-shaped panes she could see multiple distorted images of the oblong courtyard below—in sunshine now, the coming and going of small figures repeated over and over.
One figure stood out among them as it crossed toward the residence; taller, broader, it seemed to collect more of the Sun’s fickle rays.
Catahn. Warmth curled in Taminy’s breast.
“Maybe the Ren Catahn could spare some men as an escort,” Wyth said from behind her.
“Dangerous,” Taminy murmured. “The Hillwild would only be a target for Feich’s rage.”
Even as she spoke, a sharp image formed in one of the tiny panes before her eyes. Mounted men struggled upward through a mountain pass the Hillwild called the Cauldron. Horses danced along the narrow, wind-whipped trail that circled the rim, while below them a curving expanse of gleaming black rock fell away into the mist-filled bowl. A banner bearing a sword-cleft rock on a red field snapped above the standard-bearer.
The Claeg.
Taminy turned away from the window. “I think an escort will be provided,” she said.
Wyth merely nodded. He was well-used to her sudden pronouncements by now and did not question them. “Is there anything else we can do?” he asked.
“We can wait. And pray. And be ready.”
Wyth shifted restively. She’d said that often since they’d come here—be ready. And he no longer asked, “Ready for what?”
She had no answer to give him yet, but she knew things were ever-changing and that an answer would be soon in coming.
Chapter 3
In this Cusp, whatever is hidden in the souls and hearts of all people shall be discovered. This is the Day of which the Osraed Gartain prophesied: “In that Day, the piercing gaze of the Meri will bring every dark secret to light, though that secret be as tiny as a dust mote. The deceiver shall deliver up what is in his breast and lay it bare before the Eye of God. Nothing can escape Her knowledge.”
— Osraed Tynedale
A Commentary on the Golden Cusp
Daimhin Feich came to Ochanshrine by boat, docking at the private wharf below the Abbis. To leave the castle by any other route would expose him to the rabble that seemed to mill endlessly in the streets without the walls, ready to pelt visitors with rotten produce and pebbles.
Abbod Ladhar, watching him debark at the little jetty, would rather he had stayed barricaded in Mertuile. Ladhar had never dealt well with ambiguity. Now, it was marching up the steps and right into his face. Part of him wanted nothing more than to retire to his chambers and pray until things were normal again. But normal, they would never be. Here, if he looked at it right, was not disaster but opportunity. Cyne Colfre’s death had left in its wake a welter of dependencies. Daimhin Feich was not in complete control of Caraid-land and could not be without two essentials: Airleas Malcuim and the Osmaer Crystal.
The Crystal was close enough at hand, physically, but removed from the new Regent across the estuary and within the stronghold of the Shrine at Ladhar’s broad back. More than that, the Stone was removed from him by subjects who would as soon see him dead as set before it. His threat to Cwen Toireasa that he would take the Throne in her son’s stead amounted to bluster. Such a move was the surest way of forcing the Houses to open rebellion, which the House Feich, populous and powerful though it was, could not withstand alone. Among the twelve other Houses of Caraid-land, allies must be had and, just now, the Chieftains and elders of those Houses were being singularly tight-lipped about their loyalties.
The Stone, sitting on its pedestal within Ochanshrine, could not be drawn upon for aid without the intervention of someone capable of wielding its power. Daimhin Feich needed the Osraed.
Or what was left of them, Ladhar mused grimly. The irony was that he needed them to an end that could ultimately prove their undoing—if he shared Colfre’s dislike of the Osraed, of the Hall, of anything that diluted the power of the Throne. He claimed he did not, for all he was brutally honest in his disparaging of things spiritual.
Another irony. Daimhin Feich was a puzzle, and the last thing in the world Abbod Ladhar wanted was another puzzle.
Feich reached him, breathing hard, as were the two armed guards behind him. Ladhar’s eyes fell on the guards’ colors with bemusement. They were not Feich.
Catching the Abbod’s look, Daimhin Feich grinned. “We have allies, Abbod. The House Dearg has fallen into our column.”
The two men strolled toward the Abbis; the guards remained to keep an eye on the boat and the bank of the estuary.
“And will this suffice to take Halig-liath?” asked Ladhar.
Feich shook his head. “Not and hold Creiddylad. Ruadh assessed Halig-liath’s fortifications and defensibility while we were there last. We had over a hundred men with us, but my cousin informs me twice that number would scarcely be enough. Between the forces of Ren Catahn and the Claeg they could easily defend the ridge. And the ridge is our only point of assault . . . unless, of course, we teach our horses to fly.” He shot Ladhar a sideways look. “What do you say, Abbod? Does the power of the Crystal run to flying horses?”
“It has never been tried,” said Ladhar dryly. He was weary of Feich’s constant teasing.
“Hmm. Then too, we’d have to be able to guard our flank from rearward attack. That ridge would make a dandy trap. No, we need to field a large enough force to secure the town. And we need enough men skilled with heavy weaponry to be able to take out Halig-liath’s front gate.”
He paused for a few strides, tilted his head and said, “Or we need a miracle. Is the Stone up to a miracle?”
Ladhar had once had a raven drop onto his window sill and fix him with a gaze like that one. He’d thrown a walnut at the raven. Today his pockets were empty.
“The Stone was much abused by that Nairnian bitch. I don’t think it has quite recovered.”
Feich seemed amused. “Abbod, your language shocks me! ‘That Nairnian bitch,’ indeed.”
They stepped into the Abbis and made their way along the curving outer corridor toward Ladhar’s chambers.
“By the way, Abbod, that was a fine address you delivered last Cirke-dag. Taminy-Osmaer as Evil incarnate—very clever. I don’t think even I could have dreamed that up. A few more speeches like that and every able-bodied man in Creiddylad will volunteer to take Halig-liath.”
Ladhar snorted. “Perhaps you’ve not noticed the make-up of our congregation these days. Able-bodied men are a conspicuous minority. My addresses are delivered, for the most part, to old men and women and their minor children and grandchildren. Every last one of them terrified. Every last one of them seeking familiarity as insulation against change. Now, if it’s able-bodied young women you want, we’ve no shortage of those. Parents drag them in by the score to hear my dire warnings, while they cower on their benches, afraid Colfre’s Wicke will get them. No, Regent Feich, the only army you’ll raise among that lot will carry canes and distaffs, not swords.”
Feich heaved an exaggerated sigh and came to a halt before the entrance to the Abbis’s inner sanctum: The Shrine of the Osmaer Crystal. “Abbod, for a religious man, you are surprisingly negative. Where’s your faith?”
Heat rose in Ladhar’s bowels. “What do you know of faith?”
Feich glanced aside through the carved and filigreed doorway. “That I have it in abundance. Faith in myself, first of all. Faith in my fellow Caraidin.”
The Abbod chuckled. “And which Caraidin might your faith reside in?”
“The fence-sitters, Abbod.
Those who wait. For the past weeks, rumors have been circulating that the Taminists forcibly abducted Riagan Airleas from Mertuile.”
“Rumors you started.”
Feich inclined his head. “I think it timely to acknowledge those rumors. Yes, the whole story must come out; Cwen Toireasa, seduced by your walking Evil, Taminy, handed her own child and Colfre’s heir over to her. Our poor Cyne, the Wicke’s unwitting champion, was so smitten by guilt at his own culpability that he took his life.”
Feich wandered to the Shrine’s doorway and peered down the long aisle into its sacred heart. “Now I, Cyne Colfre’s last friend and his heir’s Regent, propose that every man with any loyalty to the Throne arise to aid me in retrieving our future.”
A frisson of inexplicable anxiety shivered its way up Ladhar’s spine. “A noble speech. Just how do you propose to ‘acknowledge’ these rumors?”
“I propose to post bans; I propose you shout them from the altar.”
“I never shout, Regent Feich.”
Feich grinned at him. “You will now. There is a sea of passion awash in Caraid-land. We must harness it.”
“To what end? Do you really intend to put Airleas Malcuim before the Stone? He’s a Taminist.”
“He’s a child. And do I really have any choice? Imagine, for a moment, that Airleas were to perish while in my hands. What do you think would become of me?”
Ladhar had considered that, of course, but wasn’t sure Daimhin Feich, in his strange and sometimes passion, had. When they’d returned from Halig-liath he’d been fired with the notion that he could simply declare Airleas delinquent or heretic and set himself before the Stone of Ochan to accept the Circlet and Throne. Confronted with harsh reality, his fire had been forced to cool, but that feverish light had not quite left his eyes; it made Ladhar queasy.
“I doubt your life would be worth much under the circumstances,” he said.
“My life and that of every other male Feich. Even after all that’s happened, the Claeg are leaning toward Halig-liath and I’ve no idea how many other Houses have similar attitudes. They’re tight as a pail of clams. But if they thought for one moment that I was responsible for harm coming to that boy, they’d wipe out the House Feich to a man.”
Crystal Rose Page 4
