“You forget the Cuillean. Intelligence suggests they’ve shown support of the Taminists. They’re unlikely to let a large force of our allies cross their lands unremarked.”
Daimhin sat back in his chair and tried to look more relaxed than he felt. He was damned tired of this sitting around, waiting for the Houses he had been romancing to come into the fold—the Malcuim fold, he told them, hoping they would believe him.
Some did. Some didn’t. The Chieftain of the House Gilleas had told him flat out that he thought Daimhin Feich’s alleged love of his dead Cyne was a sham and that Airleas Malcuim in any Feich’s hands was as good as dead. He’d been uncertain if he wanted to return a Malcuim to the Throne of Caraid-land; he’d been damn certain he’d not help to put a Feich there.
Anarchy. A return to the days when the Houses fought, each for its own piece of the land. That was what Daimhin Feich faced if he could not get Airleas Malcuim back to Mertuile—and soon.
“What do you suggest, then, Ruadh?” he asked.
The younger man drew himself up, looking every inch the young Marschal, every inch a Feich. Daimhin was as proud of him as he might be of his own son, had he a legitimate one.
“I propose,” said Ruadh, “that we meet the Teallach forces just south of Cuinn Holding, between the Ead-Tyne and the Bebhinn. That’ll take them two weeks the long way round—southwest and up the Ead. This I believe they should do to avoid confronting the Cuillean and the Gilleas. We’ll march our own forces up the Tuine side of the Halig-Tyne and cut a wide sweep around Nairne so as not to arouse any notice from that quarter. When we’ve amassed our army, we split it in two; one half seals off Nairne, the other half lays siege to Halig-liath.”
“Siege.”
“Aye.”
“And how long do you think that’ll last?”
“As long as it takes to force capitulation.”
“How, force capitulation?”
Ruadh shrugged. “How long can they last sealed off from the town? When they run out of food, water—”
Daimhin smiled. “Cousin, you underestimate our persuasive power. With an entire town of innocent hostages at our disposal, the siege will last only until the first cailin screams. But . . .” Daimhin Feich held up his hand. “That will be only our contingency plan. I’ve my reasons for wanting to take Halig-liath in honest combat.” He came forward in his chair, breath quickening. “There is a great symbology in breaching that sacred wall, Ruadh. Don’t underestimate it. Halig-liath as an institution, is legendary. The man who takes it . . .” His sword hand clenched and he paused to savor the sensations tightening his jaw and burning in his breast. “The man who takes it and subjugates it, subjugates the religion it represents.”
Ruadh faded back from the table, an odd expression in his eyes. “Our religion, too, cousin. It is not the sole property of the Osraed you so detest.”
“Well, of course! That’s exactly it, don’t you see? I want to take the Faith of the Meri out of Osraed hands and put it into the hands of the people. And for that reason, I believe we must be able to take Halig-liath by force. We’ll lay siege only until we can penetrate its defenses.”
Ruadh snorted. “Tell me, when we were at Halig-liath last, did you notice the blackened areas on either side of the main gates?”
“Aye, I did that.”
“Do you know how they came to be there?”
Daimhin was wary of his young cousin when he was in one of his professorial moods. Ruadh often forced him to reveal that his own knowledge of military history was lacking.
“Not precisely. But I suppose you’re going to tell me somebody tried to take them out with explosives or some such.”
“Diomasach Claeg, to be precise. He trailed Cwen Goscelyn there after she absconded with little Thearl, and attempted, vainly, to blow up the front gates of Halig-liath . . .” He glanced at Daimhin significantly. “. . . after the dear Cwen dropped the portcullis on ’im. The wood is oak, reinforced with straps and rods of steel. Impenetrable.”
Daimhin sucked the inside of his cheek. Damn the brat for reminding him how cleanly and unintentionally he’d repeated history with his own unsuccessful doings at Halig-liath.
“That was nearly two hundred years ago, cousin. Weapons technology has improved a great deal since then. Even I know that.” He leaned across table and map, pale eyes glinting with zeal. “I propose to use a new type of cannon with exploding ordnance.”
Again Ruadh snorted derisively. “And where do you propose to come by such a weapon?”
“The Deasach.”
“The Deasach?” Ruadh repeated. “You’ve continued Colfre’s negotiations with them?”
“I have.”
“Trusting of you to tell me.”
“Trust had nothing to do with it. Expediency was all. You have your work; I have mine. No reason for you to become distracted from yours. Anyway, I’m telling you now. There has been a Deasach commission in Creiddylad since spring. You may have noticed them at Colfre’s funeral.” Ruadh nodded and his cousin continued. “My intentions toward them are somewhat different than our dear departed Cyne, however. He was looking for weaknesses in them, something he could exploit with an eye to conquest.”
Ruadh’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Colfre? Colfre Malcuim, Peacemaker? The Dove of Mertuile? You scandalize me. I’d suspect you of such manipulations, but not Colfre.”
Daimhin inclined his head. “Thank you, so much, for your vote of confidence. As it happens, I disagreed violently with Colfre’s intentions toward the Deasach. I find their strengths much more interesting than their weaknesses. They have, as I mentioned, some very progressive military resources. They also have mineral resources and agricultural products we don’t. On the other side of the coin, they would like expanded access to our fishing waters and our markets.”
“Ah, a bargaining chip.”
Daimhin smiled and let himself be distracted by a luxurious heat that tickled his bowels. “Oh, there’s more. The Deasach are a perverse lot. They have no Cyne. All my meetings, indeed, all of Colfre’s meetings were with a gentleman known as a Mediator. He is the representative of a sovereign female ruler.”
Ruadh gaped. “A sovereign Cwen?”
“They call her a Banarigh—literally, ‘a woman ruler.’”
Ruadh’s brows drew together. “‘Bana,’ that’s a Hillwild word, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? At any rate. I’m of the thought that my face-to-face meeting with this important lady must be accomplished in the near future.”
“You’d go there? To the Suderlands? Cousin, that’s taking an awful chance.”
“Of what? Do you imagine that there are monsters behind their rocks and bushes that are not also behind ours?”
Ruadh flushed as if that was exactly what he imagined. “Of course not. It’s just that, well, we know so little about them.”
“I know that the Banarigh is a woman. Her Mediator describes her as a ‘mature’ woman. I reckon that puts her between the ages of thirty and sixty. He says she’s a beauty, although what that means to a Deasach may be something incomprehensible to us. Frankly, I don’t care whether she’s a beauty or as ugly as the backside of a pig. She’s female, and that means she will ultimately succumb to flattery and charm.”
Ruadh puckered his lips. “Oh. The way the Wicke Cwen succumbed?”
Anger, swift and black, rose from Daimhin Feich’s belly and threatened to overwhelm him. He forced his hands around the arms of his chair so they would not fasten upon Ruadh’s young neck or shake as they so desperately wanted to do.
“Taminy-a-Cuinn is not a natural woman,” he murmured. “She is a demon, spawned in chill hell. She has a stone for a heart and ice in her belly.”
Ruadh whistled. “Dear cousin, such passion! Was it her you dreamed of the night you nearly set your rooms on fire?”
Daimhin twitched. He’d nearly forgotten. Oh, not the dream—he’d never forget that, for he’d written
it down on waking—but the overturned lamp . . .
“What do you know about it?”
“I’m the one who heard you screaming your lungs out, remember? What were you dreaming about? Or won’t you tell?”
“It was a simple nightmare. I . . . I dreamed I fell from my horse during a hunt.”
Ruadh shrugged. “Yes, well, if I were you, cousin, I’d remove anything breakable, flammable or sharp from the vicinity of my bed.”
“I’ll do that. Now, are we agreed on a course of action?”
Ruadh eyed him. “You want me to gather our forces for the march?”
“Aye. And I want the Teallach summoned. I’ll let you draft the message to them. Please be diplomatic. Have their liaison send it out immediately. And tell him to use his fleetest pigeon.”
“What about your Deasach cannon?”
“I’ll speak to the Mediator about it today. If it must come to us later, that’s fine. Halig-liath will fall. One way or another.”
He meant to go to the Deasach Mediator straight away, but with Ruadh gone, Daimhin Feich found himself lethargic. The nightmare still haunted him with its fire and fury. The face in the crystal mocked him. He found himself recalling his visit to the Shrine of Ochan, recalling the way the Crystal’s heart had leapt with flame when he drew near.
He suspected it was his presence the Stone reacted to for the old Abbod had clearly been astonished and dismayed at the display. The implications were startling. It suggested his gift for reading people, for moving them, directing their actions, was more than the intuition of a bright mind, more than the homely, utilitarian thing he’d once believed it to be. Though he’d never even held a Weaving crystal in his hands, he now felt the flicker of power within him. The Crystal felt it too.
Did the Wicke?
He rose from the long polished table and wandered the edge of the carpet it sat upon, tracing the pattern of braided gold at the perimeter.
Was the Osmaer woman connected to the Osmaer Crystal? Did the little flame he’d called from the Stone of Ochan, locked within its holy of holies, find an echo in the heart of the woman barricaded behind the walls of Halig-liath?
The thought amused him. The two connected. If he’d summoned that much fire from the Osmaer without conscious effort, what could he do if he half-tried? A curious thought, and one worth pursuing. His siege of the sacred might then take place on two fronts at once.
oOo
Daimhin Feich met the Deasach Mediator in an elegant private parlor in Creiddylad’s finest Inn. He had invited the man to Mertuile several times, but had never been able to get him to do more than pay a brief visit. He supposed it was the constant threat of mischief at the hands of a displeased citizenry that kept Loc Llywd from accepting his hospitality. That or the fear that to appear cozy with a Feich might prove injurious to a relationship with any future Malcuim Cynes.
Those were valid concerns and Daimhin no longer pressed the issue. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic within Mertuile’s confines, anyway; any excuse to leave them was to be anticipated.
Loc Llywd welcomed him cordially, but with a diplomatic reserve that Daimhin found vaguely irritating. He hated formality; it precluded satisfactory knowledge of the opposing individual, allowed them to hide behind protocol. Only when someone ceased to be that which they represented and became an individual could he really get his hands on them. Llywd the Taciturn was not likely to allow that.
They sat at opposite sides of a table made of glowing cherrywood and laden with little cakes on fine porcelain and an urn of some hot aromatic beverage Daimhin Feich had never before tasted.
“We call it karfa,” Llywd told him in lightly accented Caraidin. “We find it . . . braces the body and sharpens the mind.”
Daimhin smiled, lifting his cup. “Always a good idea before negotiations.”
“There are really no negotiations to undertake,” said Llywd. “I am ready to sign a preliminary trade agreement. I was ready before your Cyne met his unfortunate end. All that stands between El-Deasach and Caraid-land enjoying commerce is the agreement of our respective rulers.” He paused and laid upon Daimhin the full weight of his dark gaze. “The rumors about the state of Caraid-land’s leadership are disconcerting, to say little. One tale has it that The Malcuim’s young heir is dead, another that he turned heretic to your religion and ran to the hills, yet another that he is hiding from someone at court who means to do him the same violence that took his father’s life. There are any number of people who believe Caraid-land is now leaderless.”
Feich relaxed back into his chair with an effort. “Nothing could be further from the truth.”
“What is the truth, Durweard Feich? Who leads this country?”
“Presently, sir, I do.”
“And indefinitely?”
“That is something I am working on. Even as we speak, steps are being undertaken to return a Malcuim Cyne to the Throne of Caraid-land.”
“Then—”
“Then the first of the tales is a vicious lie. Airleas Malcuim is not dead. He lives. The second is also untrue. He did not turn heretic. But unfortunately . . .” Daimhin sighed deeply and rose, cup in hand. He moved to the hearth, feeling the heat of flame on his face, the eyes of the Deasach on his back. “Unfortunately, his mother did.” He turned back to face the Mediator, wearing an expression of great concern. “Cwen Toireasa was seduced from the path of true faith by a dazzling Wicke who convinced her to kidnap her own son and place him in the hands of his enemies.”
“A Wicke? A magical being, this is?”
Daimhin nodded. “Magical, yes. A woman. A young woman, beautiful of face and form, hideous in spirit. A woman who Weaves potent magic, confounding even our most learned Osraed. She mesmerized our Cwen. And, Mediator Llywd, I must be honest with you—this creature even laid her infernal hands upon the spirit of the Cyne. He was a broken man when he died—by his own hand, more’s the shame. And I, dear God—!” He broke off to draw a tremulous breath and blink suddenly teary eyes at the ceiling where firelight danced with shadow and muted sun-dapples. “I nearly followed him, so great was my own entanglement.”
Llywd watched his performance silently, eyes cryptic, sheeny as jets. Only a tightening around the corners of his mouth betrayed any emotion—but there was no such thing as a trivial betrayal.
“You say you were embroiled with this sorceress?”
Yes, this had been the right gambit, after all. This talk of sorcery and Wicke, this baring of the presumably embarrassing secrets of a younger man’s soul—this might drag Loc Llywd from his diplomatic distance.
Daimhin raised his head, straightened his back. “I was. I fancied myself in love with her. Mediator, you can have no idea—!” He put the keen of frustrated passion into his voice. “She was so young, so-so fragile and innocent-seeming. I had no idea until it was too late that beneath that facade was an ancient monster. I, who had set out to seduce her—yes, I admit that: believing her to be an innocent seventeen year old girl, I tried to beguile her. But in the end, the seducer was himself seduced. I chose not to follow my Cyne into oblivion, Mediator Llywd, but I understand all too well what drove him there.”
Llywd’s dark face was unreadable. “You admit much to a stranger, Durweard Feich.”
Daimhin returned to his chair and leaned forward in it, every line in his body speaking of urgency. “I admit it in the hope that the stranger will become an ally. Understand me, Loc Llywd. I am a man with a cause. This talk of trade agreements and commerce is—pardon me—but it is irrelevant. Before he died, Colfre Malcuim made me Regent to his absent son.” He uttered a bark of mirthless laughter. “He so believed I would bring the child back to him while he lived. I failed him. I didn’t bring Airleas back. The Wicke had so torn the fabric of loyalty in Caraid-land that I was unable to raise more than a token force. And at that, I didn’t raise it in time. Colfre died bereft. I am sworn to keep my promise to him, Mediator. I have but one duty at this moment: To bring Airleas Malc
uim back to Creiddylad and set him before the Stone of Ochan. To place the Circlet upon his head. If I can avenge the death of his father, so much the better, but even that is of less importance than tearing Caraid-land’s rightful Cyne out of the grasp of this insidious monster.”
“What you are telling me, if I understand you, is that any treaties between our two lands must await the successful return of your . . . Cyneric—that is the correct term?”
Daimhin nodded. “What I am telling you is that any treaties between our two lands is dependent upon his return.”
Llywd scratched his clean-shaven jaw. “There was a rumor about that you had declared yourself to be Cyneric of Caraid-land.”
Daimhin made certain his expression suffered not so much as a facial tic. “There is a provision in the testament of Cyne Colfre to the effect that if, for some compelling reason, Airleas is unable to take up his place on the Throne, I will be next in succession. I did not suggest this provision to the Cyne. It was the recommendation of the Osraed Ladhar, Abbod of Ochanshrine.”
“Ah, yes. The rather large mullih with the prodigious scowl.”
“Pardon?”
Llywd smiled. “No, pardon me. Occasionally, my mind becomes lazy and neglects to reach far enough for the Caraidin term. A ‘holy man,’ I suspect you would call him.”
Daimhin Feich would not call Ladhar that, but there was no reason Loc Llywd should know it. He merely nodded.
“He is your religious leader, then?”
“Yes, he is. And that is testimony to his spiritual strength, I can tell you. The Wicke struck at the very heart of our religious order, seducing even the most learned, the most devout, then casting them aside when they no longer pleased her.”
“She sounds extraordinarily powerful, your Wicke. How do you imagine you can defeat her and win back the Cyneric?”
“By making allies of those who can aid me in my cause. The Abbod Ladhar, as I mention, is a man of great spiritual power. There are others who were able to withstand the Wicke’s evil.” He paused and looked into his half-empty cup. “Then too, we must field superior physical forces. I have among my allies the Houses Dearg and Teallach. I expect that the Skarf and the Madaidh will soon join us.”
Crystal Rose Page 9
