oOo
After a moment of silence, the Storyteller bowed his head to indicate he had finished his Tell. The others about the fire nodded and hummed in approval.
“Until now,” murmured Saefren.
Heads turned.
“What do you mean?” asked a Jura kinswoman.
He hadn’t meant to say it aloud; it had just slipped out. Saefren reddened, but stood his ground. “You say the Malcuim were back to stay, Mortain Jura, but there is no Malcuim at Mertuile now.”
Protests came from Jura and Claeg alike, while the Nairnian girl sat back and watched all with eyes the size of silver sorchas. The Jura Chieftain stopped the outcry by raising his hand. He spoke, but Saefren barely heard him. His eyes were riveted on the palm of that hand. The star-shaped mark there gleamed brightly enough to rival the light of the fire. He had never seen a gytha before, though he knew from talk that it was the Sign that accompanied initiation into the ranks of the waljan—the Osmaer’s elect.
The sight of the thing stunned him. Before, he had thought of the gytha only in connection with those close to Taminy-Osmaer—Aine, Iseabal, Osraed Wyth. It had never occurred to him until this moment that the circle of chosen might expand, might embrace people like Mortain Jura, who had only seen the woman once.
He found his eyes drawn to his Uncle Iobert. Was there also such a mark in his palm? Saefren had never seen it, but he realized now that it was likely there.
He glanced around now, noticing only that The Jura had stopped speaking and was watching him.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I meant no disrespect. Only perhaps . . . that it is the lot and duty of the Claeg to return to Mertuile what we once attempted to remove from it—a Malcuim Cyne.”
He had acquitted himself well and would have begged leave to go to his tent, but The Jura turned immediately to Aine-mac-Lorimer and respectfully requested her to give a tell of the Lady Osmaer. Aine complied, timidly at first, regaling them with a tale that kept Saefren sitting right where he was.
She spoke of an evening in summer past when Taminy had told her what she had not wanted to hear—that she, Aine, had the aidan and a Gift for prophecy. She had fled, rushing on horseback into Nairne where, hard by the Cirke, her horse had shied and thrown her into a stone wall.
“My neck was broken,” she said, “and I died.”
Just that, so calmly—I died.
“The Osraed Torridon Wove over me and tried to save me, but he couldn’t. When he’d turned his back and given up, Taminy came and laid her hands on me. She healed my broken body and gave my spirit back into it.”
The group by the fire sat in awful silence, listening to the whispers of the flames. That they believed the tell, Saefren could see in their fire-lit eyes. He could only suppose that Aine believed it too.
He shook his head. A glowing mark in the palm, words of fire written on hide by a flaming crystal—these things were difficult to accept, though having seen them, he had no choice but to do so. But this—a resurrection of sorts . . .
He rose, weary and overwhelmed, and went to his tent.
oOo
The Graegam put up little more fight than The Jura had done and, two days after adding representation from that House to their contingent, they were trekking southwest again, angling toward the seaside holdings of the Madaidh. They would lay by there to await the arrival of some Gilleas kin.
If nothing else, Saefren reasoned, they would impress Daimhin Feich with their sheer numbers. At worst, they would scare him into a fight which he might lose, even ensconced in Mertuile . . . unless, of course, he had managed to win some allies in his time there.
Saefren considered recommending the construction of a few siege engines while they were at Madaidh, but hearing the religious tone of the Chieftains’ conversations, thought better of it. Instead, he sparred with Aine.
“That story you told our first night out of Jura . . . was it true?”
His opening gambit caused a gratifying reddening of the girl’s face. He’d expected that, and sat back to watch the fireworks.
There were none. Aine fought her obvious outrage to a draw, returned her red face to a mere pink and said, “It was true.”
Disappointed and curious, he pursued the subject. “But such an incredible tell! Can you honestly believe you were dead?”
“Yes.”
“And Taminy resurrected you.”
“It’s called an Infusion Weave,” she said as if that label made it any less miraculous.
“Whatever. But you believe she did it?”
Aine turned to look at him, eyes kindling. “There were enough witnesses, including Osraed Torridon, who first tried to save me.”
“Ah, but they’re all in Nairne.”
“Ask Osraed Wyth the next time you’re at Hrofceaster. Or wouldn’t the word of an Osraed be enough for you?”
“Well, he might be rather partial to his Lady.”
“You’re a Claeg, all right,” Aine told him. “Stubborn as that sword-poked lump on your standard.”
“It’s a rock.”
She’d nettled him a bit and her eyes said she knew it. “A lump of clay, more like—your House namesake. A hard lump. Very hard. You could never really get a sword through it.”
“As it happens,” Saefren informed her, “that rock forms the altar of the Claeg chapel. It’s been an altar stone since our ancestors worshipped in the fields. And you’re right—it’s damned hard.”
She laughed at him. Actually laughed at him, the ignorant creature.
He bit back his annoyance that she didn’t show more respect for an elder, for a House kinsman. But then, what was she, after all—a lorimer’s daughter? A maker of saddles and harnesses? What sort of manners could he expect of that? He could even see how she might believe in these supposed miracles . . . but what excuse had Uncle Iobert?
Unable to muzzle his annoyance, he pressed on. “So you were dead. Your neck was broken and your head rattled. Now, that much I believe.”
She might’ve set his clothes afire with that look. “Does it make you feel quite great and powerful to cross words with a mere lorimer’s daughter, Saefren Claeg?”
Foolish was how he felt. He made a point of noticing a pack horse with a loose cinch and rode ahead to set it straight. He’d let her get the better of him and she knew it. He gritted his teeth. If not for Uncle Iobert, he’d turn his horse about now and head straight back to Claeg.
His anxiety grew when, half a day out from the Madaidh estates, a rider caught them up with news from Creiddylad: Daimhin Feich had officially declared Taminy-Osmaer an enemy of the Throne.
oOo
“Regent Feich? If you’ve a moment to spare, sir?” His Dearg guard, for all his imposing size, seemed uncertain.
Daimhin enjoyed his diffidence, awarding it with a scowl. “What is it? I’m in a hurry.” He turned back to watch a stable groom work on his horse.
“I recognize that, Regent, but thought you might find this of interest.”
Daimhin Feich shrugged. “You’ve my ear till my horse is saddled. Best hurry.”
“It’s about the other night at Ochanshrine . . . I couldn’t help but hear, when you spoke to the Minister . . .”
Daimhin sent his brows gliding up his forehead.
The guard hesitated, then said, “It’s like this, Regent. I know a woman. A Hillwild who married into our House.”
“Why should this be of interest to me?”
“Well, I’d style her a Wicke, though she’d likely deny it. Fact is, she’s been known to Weave a few inyx in her time. Got her own crystal too, though I can’t say how she come by it.”
Daimhin Feich forgot for a moment that the Deasach Mediator awaited him in Creiddylad and speared the Dearg with an avid gaze. “What is her name? How can I meet her?”
“Name’s Coinich. She’s a Mor before she came to Dearg. Married my uncle Blair.”
“I care very little who she married. How might I contact her? I suppose s
he’s at Dearg.”
“As it happens, she’s here. My uncle’s an Elder, advisor to Eadrig Dearg.”
Daimhin’s heart leapt in his breast. “She’s here? At Mertuile?”
“Aye.”
Daimhin put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I can’t avoid this meeting I’m to attend, or I’d see her this minute. Speak to her for me. Tell her I’d be pleased to meet her when I return from the city.”
The guard blinked. “But Regent, should I not go with you? My duty—”
“Is to follow my orders. I can find another bodyguard. It is far more important to me that you make certain this Wicke doesn’t leave Mertuile this afternoon. I’ll wish to speak with her directly I return.”
The man nodded. “Aye, then. I’ll see to it she’s awaiting you.”
On his return trip to Mertuile, Daimhin Feich wished his mount might have flown. The great Deasach cannon was en route, would be here in mere days, the Banarigh would no doubt be pleased with his gifts, and a Dearg Wicke awaited his return.
Fate rolled with him now, he could feel it. Things moved in the direction he sent them, guided like sheep by a shepherd’s staff.
His pleased reverie was interrupted at a street corner near Mertuile when a lump of rotting fruit flew out of nowhere to collide with his horse’s head. The animal started violently, and before Daimhin could regain control of her, a second piece of refuse struck him in the neck, exploding in a soggy spray of fetid perfume.
Fighting his mare under control, he glanced around, trying to see where the attack arose. He was appalled when, out of the crossroads, two small mobs appeared, wielding their foul projectiles and more dangerous weapons. Bystanders and passers-by fled like startled chickens into storefronts and parked carriages. In mere seconds, the street was deserted but for the approaching mobs, Daimhin Feich and his two guards.
He pulled his sword, his guards echoing the movement. Another piece of fruit struck him, then a lump of coal. He was not a man for flight, and so spurred his horse toward one of the converging groups, shouting at them to desist. The guards followed, pushing their nervous horses toward the teeming threat.
Above the scarves that obscured their faces, Daimhin Feich could see eyes a-glint with anger. He tried to make himself heard above their noise, but the shouts of rebellion drowned him out.
“The Malcuim! The Malcuim!”
He was struck again, this time from behind. Then something whistled past his cheek followed by a blossoming pain. He put his hand up to his face and felt blood. Turning, he realized the folly of confrontation. The group behind had drawn nearer; in a few seconds more he and his guards would be cut off, surrounded.
Swearing, he pivoted his horse and sent it into a careening gallop, forcing it between the closing jaws and up the naked street toward Mertuile. He only vaguely heard the sounds of other horses behind him.
Only when he had reached safety behind the inner curtain of the castle, did he turn to see if his kinsman had escaped. They had, but not without injury. Both were bloodied, as he knew he was. Furious, Daimhin Feich threw himself from his horse and raged into Mertuile. Now, more than ever, did he feel the hunger for control of the aidan he knew reposed within him. Now, more than ever, did he long to take that red crystal in his hands and strike out through it at all who opposed him—from that rabble of worthless dirtbags to the so-called Osmaer.
He would learn the use of that crystal, God smite him if he didn’t.
oOo
The Madaidh received his talisman without comment. Only a slight widening of his eyes betrayed any response to the glowing words. When he had read them, he looked up at Iobert Claeg with a complete lack of expression on his angular face.
“Where is the Lady now?”
“With the Ren Catahn at Hrofceaster.”
The Madaidh nodded. “Daimhin Feich doesn’t know this.” When Iobert’s brows knit, he said, “Seeking allies, he trumpets his grand designs; we know much of what goes on. He has spoken to me of a siege of Halig-liath and of a mighty Deasach weapon which the Regent has appropriated for his use. And he has allies, Iobert—the Teallach, the Dearg, perhaps the Skarf . . .”
“And the Madaidh?” Iobert’s eyes were wary.
“The Madaidh are the Madaidh. We don’t toady to the Feich. Nor to the Malcuim.”
Saefren was not surprised by these words. The Madaidh had always considered themselves a breed apart. They traced their lineage to nomads who had wandered from El-Deasach over the southern chain of the Gyldan-baenn hundreds of years ago. Among the fair coastal hills they established a permanent capitol.
Their dark eyes and dark skin spoke of their southern heritage, as did their customs and traditions. Even after centuries in Caraid-land, their customs were markedly different than their neighbors’. The Madaidh elected their Chieftains, much as the Hillwild did.
Their current leader, Rodri, had followed in the footsteps of a woman named Vaida, renowned in Cyne Ciarda’s time for the strong opinions she voiced in the Hall. Though they practiced the religion of the Meri, they kept their own holy men and women to advise them.
“Will you join with us in petitioning for Airleas Malcuim’s return to Mertuile?” asked Iobert. “Will you join us in negotiating Taminy-Osmaer’s safety?”
The Madaidh glanced around the light-washed room, his eyes going for a moment to the odd eddies of luminescence cast on walls and ceiling by the sea below his stronghold. He seemed, almost, to be listening to the rhythmic drumming of its waves on the rocky roots of his home.
“Daimhin Feich has just declared your Lady of the Crystal Rose an enemy of the Throne. His Abbod has called her Wicke and demon and has suggested in recent gatherings that she is the representative of some supremely evil being. There are those who believe these things.”
Iobert moved restively in his chair. “You are surely not among them. You saw her in the Hall. Her actions were not evil.”
“Her actions spoke of a power I have seen wielded by no other.” Madaidh held up the scroll, still dripping light. “I hold a piece of this power in my hand.”
“That doesn’t make her evil,” said Aine-mac-Lorimer.
Damn the girl! Saefren glared at her and signaled her to be quiet. Couldn’t she keep her mouth shut even in an assemblage of Chieftains?
She had caught the Madaidh’s attention. “This is so,” he said reasonably. “But Daimhin Feich represents opposition to her. Powerful opposition. To ride into Creiddylad and ally yourselves to her by word or deed may be dangerous—to yourselves, to those of her followers who must exist within the city, even to those who possess no strong opinions. If Taminy-Osmaer is an enemy of the Throne, what does that make those who identify themselves with her?”
“She isn’t an enemy of the Throne!” Aine protested. “She’s protecting Airleas Malcuim. Teaching him, preparing him to be Cyne.”
“You will never convince Daimhin Feich of that. He believes she perverts him, bends him to her will.”
Aine leapt from her chair, face flaming with anger. “You’re a coward, Madaidh! Afraid for your own skin, looking to your own interests—”
Saefren roared. “Damn you, Aine! Sit down! Have you no sense in your head at all?”
The Madaidh silenced him, his dark eyes still on the angry girl. “I am not a coward, child,” he said quietly. “But I am wondering where the power is tipped at this moment. I am wondering what life will be like for those in Creiddylad if it is tipped to the side of Daimhin Feich.”
“He can have no power compared to the Meri’s,” argued Aine. “Compared to Taminy’s.”
“You speak of spiritual power. I speak of temporal power. I do not think Daimhin Feich knows the difference. At this moment, that may give him an advantage.”
“So,” said Iobert Claeg, “you’ll side with him?”
“I side with no one, Iobert. The Meri’s will out. Neutrality has its advantage.”
Iobert stood, the other Chieftains and Elders mirroring the movement.
“Then you will sit on the border?”
The Madaidh chuckled softly. “We have always sat on the border. From here we can watch both friend and enemy come and go.”
“Perhaps the young waljan is right,” Iobert observed. “Perhaps you are a coward, after all.”
The Madaidh bowed his shaggy head. “If it pleases you to think so.”
“No, Rodri. It does not please me. I doubt it pleases any of us.”
When they were out of earshot of the Madaidh Elders, Iobert Claeg gathered his allies to a council.
“Before we enter the city,” he said, “we need to get the Lady Aine to safety. She mustn’t be seen with us by Feich’s people.”
You mean, Saefren thought, that we mustn’t be seen with her. With the open enmity between her Mistress and Feich, Aine-mac-Lorimer was an exceedingly dangerous person to be around.
“Our Mistress intends that she go to the Osraed Fhada and Lealbhallain at Carehouse,” Iobert continued. “I will take her there.”
Before Saefren could protest, The Jura spoke up. “I’ll go with you.”
“Nonsense.” Both Chieftains turned to look at Saefren.
“Rodri Madaidh is right about at least one thing,” Saefren told them. “To be identified with Taminy-Osmaer right now could be fatal. I don’t believe it would do for any of the Houses to lose their heads to Feich’s purges.”
“There are no purges—” began Iobert but Saefren interrupted him.
“There soon will be. Think, Uncle. It’s the next logical step. Declaring Taminy an enemy is but a heartbeat away from purging Creiddylad and beyond of her servants.”
“What are you suggesting, then?”
“I am suggesting that I take Aine to Carehouse—if, indeed, there’s anyone there to greet her. Either of you will be easily recognizable in Creiddylad; I won’t be. I don’t think it wise that you be connected with Taminy-Osmaer at this moment.”
Iobert’s face grew deeply red. “It is far too late for you to worry about me being connected, Nephew. I would sooner die than disavow—”
“Iobert, Iobert!” The Jura patted his volatile companion on the shoulder. “Saefren is right. We may go farther with Daimhin Feich if our allegiance appears uncertain. If we declare ourselves too openly we may undermine our Lady’s Cause rather than help it. Let your nephew take the Alraed Aine to her companions in Creiddylad; let us sit down with the others and decide what our strategy must be with Daimhin Feich.”
Crystal Rose Page 18
