Chapter 6
We are what we think, having become our thought—like the cart that follows the horse that pulls it, grief follows evil thought. And delight follows pure thought, like a man’s faithful shadow. We are what we think, having become our thought.
—The Corah, Proverbs of Ochan vs. 20
It had been nearly a week since his humiliating escape attempt. Airleas Malcuim had rededicated himself to his lessons and his worship and his learning of the Art. It was on the fourth day after that, during an exercise in Mapweave that he began to wonder, seriously, if he would ever be worthy of the Meri.
“Will I,” he asked Taminy one evening at supper, “ever take Pilgrimage to the Meri’s Shore?”
She looked at him and then away from him, and her eyes became misted, focusing on somewhere that was not part of the warm, noisy refectory. “You will make a Pilgrimage.”
He started to be elated, then checked himself. “You didn’t answer directly. You didn’t say I would go to the Meri’s Shore. Won’t I?”
“Everyone’s Pilgrimage is unique. This is a new age,” was all she would say.
Before he could frame another question, she said, “You’ve set yourself a difficult path, Airleas. Your Pilgrimage has as many facets as a Weaving stone. You are waljan. You are Cyneric. You are a youth, growing to manhood. I see three Pilgrimages in your future.”
“Then I’ll become Osraed?”
“Airleas, have you ever stood at the top of the Airdnasheen wall and looked off down the pass?”
“You know I have.”
“Did you see the path to the bottom of the mountain?”
“Aye.”
“Did you see Creiddylad at the other end of it?”
He frowned. “Of course not. It bends and winds and vanishes. And it splits into branches long before it reaches Creiddylad.”
“So Creiddylad is not the only place it goes?”
“No, it . . .” He saw the point of her questions then and did not like it. “You’re saying our future has branches that we mayn’t see.”
“Yes.”
“But you can see them. Surely, you can.”
“I see possibilities. And I see only those possibilities that the Meri and Spirit will me to see. Think of our lives as bits of a Tapestry. I am a thread and you are a thread, as is everyone here. Some threads are longer or stronger or more colorful or shiny as gold. Some threads are holy and pure and some are sullied. We are all weaving away at the Tapestry, Airleas.”
Her eyes lifted, unfocused, and he thought she must be envisioning the Tapestry.
“Every soul has been called to the weaving,” she said. “Some have heard a Voice, others an inarticulate cry, others only an annoying whisper. They have been called to a forking of paths, a Cusp, a choosing. Some souls understand that, but may fail to see the nature of the choice, or that it must be made. I can’t make this choice for Caraid-land, nor can you, nor can even the Meri. The choice is not Daimhin Feich’s. The Abbod Ladhar cannot make it, nor any other single human being. It lies not with the Council, nor the Body, nor the Hall. For the Tapestry is choices upon choices, woven through and into and over each other until a pattern emerges and a new fabric is created. The Spirit is the Weaver and all these souls provide the thread. The Meri adds Her own Thread to the weaving and the Spirit guides the shuttle, ever mindful of the patterns. The destiny of Caraid-land lies in a handful of threads. I will Weave Mine, also. We will Weave it, ever mindful of the Pattern.”
Strange, Airleas felt as if the entire room held its breath as she spoke. As if the entire fortress listened. He stared at her, suddenly mindful himself that he was part of the Pattern.
“I might’ve ruined it,” he murmured. “By running off like that, I mean. I wasn’t thinking of the Pattern then. I was thinking of myself.”
Taminy only looked at him and smiled.
He was about to ask her what he should do about the weaving of his own thread when the Ren Catahn came and sat next to her and speared Airleas with his strange amber eyes.
“Boy, you’ve some desire to learn swordsmanship?”
“I . . . I did, sir. I’m not so sure now.”
“Aren’t you?” Catahn glanced aside at Taminy.
“No, sir, at least . . . I’m of the mind that there are more important things. Like learning the Art and—and statesmanship.”
“Oh, aye, that.” Beneath the Hillwild’s thick beard, the corner of his mouth curled upward. “I’d likely not know anything about that.”
Airleas’s face flamed and he tried to remember if he’d ever said aloud the thoughts he’d had about Catahn’s ability to lead civilized men. He decided he hadn’t, which gave him a new appreciation of the Ren’s aidan.
“I imagine, sir,” he said carefully, “that you do. I believe I could learn volumes from you.”
Catahn grinned at him. “Aye, well. I’ve things I can teach you, I reckon, when you’re sincere in that belief. For now, I’m asking about the sword, not the Throne. Have you any interest in learning that?”
Airleas looked to Taminy, trying to read her, to gauge her reaction to this. Was this a test of some sort? If he admitted he still harbored a yen to learn swordplay, would he fail the test?
“What do you think, Mistress?” he asked her.
“I think Catahn is asking you, not me. I’ve no interest in learning the sword. I doubt I’ll ever have need of one.”
“Will I?”
“You may.”
“Then, I suppose the answer is: It might be a handy skill for a Cyne to have. After all, I may have to lead men into battle someday.”
Taminy lowered her eyes and Airleas felt his heart take a long sickening slide toward his stomach. Had that been the wrong answer? “I-I-I mean . . .” Flustered he stopped the garbled flow of words. “Is it wrong to fight, Taminy? The Ren Catahn is a fine swordsman; so is The Claeg.”
The Ren made a humming noise in the back of this throat. “So, I imagine, is Daimhin Feich. Every man in every Noble House is trained to the sword. Every man, woman and child in the Gyldans learns to handle one—the bow and the dagger as well.”
Daimhin Feich. Airleas’s hackles rose. “Well, if Feich is learned at swordplay, shouldn’t I be? Won’t I someday have to face him? Fight him?”
“Do you imagine this will take place in the Great Hall with lights blazing and citizens watching and the rules of proper swordplay being observed by all?” There was a tang of irony to Taminy’s words and Airleas blinked at her in surprise.
That was exactly the way the scene always played out in his mind. His ears burned and the sounds in the large stone hall seemed suddenly amplified out of all proportion to the number of people dining there. It wouldn’t be that way, he realized. Daimhin Feich would play by no one’s rules but his own, and the chances of his attack being open . . .
Taminy sighed. “Airleas, there is nothing wrong with you knowing how to defend yourself against attack . . . both physically and through the use of your aidan. This is not a perfect world. This is not a sane or safe time. Catahn has brought to my attention that your use of the sword has been just what you called it—swordplay. That, I think, will do you more harm than good. Your aidan is strong, but it is yet undisciplined. I think Catahn can teach you something about discipline. I think you should learn from him.”
Airleas lowered his eyes, trying not to show how much the thought excited him. He would learn to be a warrior after all. Maybe he would even mark the Crask-an-duine before he left Hrofceaster. He stabbed a chunk of stew meat and stuffed it into his mouth, barely aware of the flavor.
Catahn nodded. “In the morning then—fourteenth hour. Meet me and Broran in that little courtyard beyond the kitchen.”
Airleas nearly choked on the plug of meat. Gasping, he grabbed for his mug of water and gulped down a mouthful. While he was indisposed, the Ren gave him a stone-faced stare, got up and headed for the kitchen.
Taminy, meanwhile, watched him painfully regain
his composure.
“What’s wrong, Airleas?” she asked quietly, when he’d stopped coughing.
“Broran?” He hated that he sounded whiny, but there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it.
“Why not Broran? Catahn says he’s an excellent swordsman. Probably the best to teach you the basics and serve as a sparring partner.”
“But he’s . . .”
“He’s what?”
“He’s just a-a boy.”
“He’s about a year older than you are. He’s marked his Crask-an-duine. By Hillwild reckoning that makes him a man.”
“But he’s not. I mean, at home my weapons tutor was a man of the House Madaidh—one of the young Elders.”
“Yes—so?”
“Well, Broran isn’t.”
Taminy looked at her half-empty plate. “Broran isn’t a nobleman, you mean.”
“I . . . yes. That’s what I mean. I’ve always been taught by nobles, cleirachs . . .”
“I see. Never a commoner.”
He shook his head.
“Then what am I?”
Airleas’s eyes fairly bugged out of his head. “You’re Osmaer!”
“I’m also a commoner.”
“Your father was an Osraed.”
“I see. What about Catahn? You’d learn from him.”
“He’s the Ren of all this holt. He’s The Hageswode.”
“And that’s why you’d learn from him, Airleas? Or from me? Because we have titles: Osmaer, Ren?”
Airleas sincerely wished he had never opened his mouth. He was wrong. He knew that intellectually, but it didn’t alter the fact that he was a Malcuim at heart. By God, he was The Malcuim. And a Malcuim never took lessons from commoners.
Her eyes were all over him; he was surrounded, out-flanked.
“Tell me about Ochan-a-Coille,” she said.
He opened his mouth on the legend, ready to parrot it; it was ingrained in every Caraidin mind. “In his fifteenth year, Ochan, son of—” His voice died in his throat.
Son of the Cyne’s Woodweard—the man who tended his forest lands.
He stared at the fork in his hand, another piece of meat already impaled there. He said, “Ochan, a commoner, went to The Malcuim, who was Cyne by might. Ochan-a-Coille, a commoner, was chosen by the Meri to be Her first Osraed. Osraed Ochan, taught The Malcuim how to be Cyne by right.”
Airleas raised his eyes to Taminy’s face again, praying to see the light of approval there.
“You have been taught,” she told him, as the Hillwild Ren reseated himself at her side with a plate overladen with food, “that there are classes of men and women. That how you are born or how you marry determines your worth or worthiness. Unlearn this, Airleas. It is a lie. Broran is a Hageswode and your kinsman, but even that is irrelevant. Whether he be a Hageswode or a Madaidh or a Mercer or a Smythe, Broran has something he can teach you. That is what matters.”
“Yes, Mistress,” he murmured and comforted himself that at least she was not angry with him. He’d never seen her angry and didn’t think he wanted to.
oOo
“So what is she like, this Wicke of Catahn’s?”
Eyslk, laying out the lovely, thick violet cloth that would make the dress for her Crask-an-bana, glanced up in confusion. “Wicke? Whoever can you mean?”
“Don’t be dense, girl. I mean your mistress. The woman he has you serving day and night.”
Flustered by her mother’s apparent hostility, Eyslk wallowed among possible replies. She’s not Wicke, mama or I serve her because I want to or . . . “She’s lovely.”
Deardru-an-Caerluel rolled dark eyes and chuckled. “I can see that, child. I meant what sort of woman is she—or should I say ‘girl’—I hear she’s no older than Desary.”
“I meant she’s lovely,” said Eyslk. “She’s . . . brave and full of compassion and love. And she’s . . . sad.”
“Sad? Why ever sad? She’s got Catahn and you all wrapped about her. Not to mention having a handful of lowland Chieftains and the Cwen and Cyneric of Caraid-land among her baggage.”
“You’ve heard the tell, Mama. How can you ask?”
“Oh, aye—the poor little orphan girl, everyone she knows dead an age, whole world on her shoulders, and all the Cyne’s men against her. Sort of a fish out of water, isn’t she?”
Deardru smiled at her own play on words and Eyslk cringed, finding the close kitchen suddenly over-warm.
“Please, Mama, don’t say such things.”
Deardru tipped her head back, smile twisting wryly. “Why, because your magical Mistress might hear me? Strike at me?” She leaned forward then, her hand stopping Eyslk’s anxious tugs on the unresisting material. “Remember, daughter, before you pity the woman too much, that she can Weave her every want. More than you or I can do.”
Eyslk lowered her eyes to the fabric she’d been stroking and smoothing for the last several minutes.
Her mother chuckled. “Ah, but she’s teaching you, isn’t she, the beautiful Wicke? Someday you, too, will reek of magic.”
“She’s not a Wicke, Mama. She’s Osmaer.”
“But she is beautiful, isn’t she?”
“You’ve seen her.”
“Only from a distance. I suppose our mighty Ren is smitten with her.”
Eyslk caught the venom in her mother’s voice and was repulsed by it. “You’d have to ask Uncle his opinion of her, Mama. I only know what I think.”
She gathered up her fabric then, folding it hastily against her chest. “I’ll take this to Gram Long for sewing. There’s cakes for Da’s supper in the pantry.” She bolted from the kitchen, ignoring her mother’s amused glance.
“Eyslk.”
Halfway into their small parlor, she paused, clutching her fabric.
“Don’t forget your jacket. It’s chill out.”
“No, Mama,” she said and made good her escape.
oOo
Airleas lunged, arm thrusting upward, swinging inward. He grunted, throwing himself into the thrust, allowing himself an instant of satisfaction that he had performed the move exactly as Broran had shown him.
Satisfaction was short-lived. The blade caught Broran’s parry and spun out of his hand—for the fifth time that morning. He scrambled after it, pride and face in flames, eyes averted from Broran’s smug grin and Gwynet’s ever-watchful eyes.
“Not bad, Cyneric. The move looks good enough, but you’ve got to keep a better grip on the hilt.”
“Before, you told me I was holding it too tightly,” Airleas complained.
“You were. And I didn’t say you should hold it tighter. I said ‘get a better grip.’ Don’t try to block my blade, try to gate it. Grip tight; wrist flexible.”
Trying not to look at Gwynet, who watched from the bottom of the kitchen steps, Airleas retrieved his sword and held it out, wrist wobbling. “Flexible? How’s that supposed to work?”
Broran scowled. “I said flexible not limp. Hell’s wind, but you’re stubborn, midge. If you’d rather not learn what I have to teach you—”
Smoke curled in Airleas’s heart. “Don’t call me that. I’m not a midge.”
“No, you’re the Cyneric Malcuim. And I’m just a lowly mountain boy. I know what you think of me, Cyneric Airleas. And you’d best believe I’m no happier teaching than you are learning. But Catahn’s lady wants me to tutor Your Loftiness, and that means Catahn wants me to. I obey my Ren, but I can always tell him you just aren’t learning.”
The embers in Airleas’s heart burst into flame. “You wouldn’t!”
Broran’s wide mouth pulled into a tight smile. “I surely would. You’ve a head as hard as iron, Your Worthiness. You know the difference between a limp wrist and a flexible one, you’re just pretending to mistake me. I don’t want to teach you anymore than you want to learn.”
He turned and started to walk away, moving past the gawping Gwynet as if she weren’t there.
“I can learn, damn you! I’m not pretendi
ng!”
Knowledge of his own lie added more heat to Airleas’s fire. Damn Broran for seeing through him! Damn him! He spat the thought in full fury, feeling it as a rush of physical heat that flowed from the crown of his head and radiated from his eyes.
Broran stopped and snapped around to face him as if jerked on the end of a chain. His face, drained of its normal ruddy color, was cloud pale below his tawny hair.
Beside him, Gwynet gasped in open-mouthed amazement. “Airleas! Don’t!”
Airleas, face flaming, dashed his hot gaze to the ground.
Broran shook himself and took a backward step away. “You’re an evil boy, Airleas Malcuim,” he said, and fled to the kitchen.
Airleas might have sneered and called the older boy a coward, but he was caught in the talons of a cold so complete he thought his soul had frozen. Gwynet came to him, bombarding him with concern and distress.
He could only blink at her and whisper, “What did I do?”
She stopped toe to toe with him, looking into him through his eyes.
“What did I do?” he asked again.
“You Wove, Airleas. But . . . it wasn’t a good thing.”
“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t. Don’t tell Taminy,” he pleaded.
“Oh, Airleas, she already knows.”
oOo
Eyslk-an-Caerluel rose from sleep in a bubble of happiness. Yesterday she had seen Gram Long’s pattern for her Crask-an-bana dress, had seen the wonderful material cut and pinned. Today she knew the sewing would begin. She was glad to contemplate a day of service up at the fortress, for otherwise she would surely be in Gram’s hair all day, watching every stitch.
Now she kept her mind on the trivial—heating water for her ablutions, picking out warm clothing, braiding up her hair. She was in the kitchen putting on water for tea when her step-father came in, broad, handsome face worried and tense.
“Eyslk, it’s your mama. She’s taken ill.”
Crystal Rose Page 12
