Crystal Rose

by Bohnhoff, Maya Kaathryn

  Mortain’s eyes flicked to Iobert and back. “Will you agree to the triune Regency?”

  “Perhaps. But Toireasa Malcuim shall not reside in Mertuile, unless it be in her dungeons.”

  “That one concession we are willing to make,” said Mortain mildly, casting another glance at The Claeg. “Toireasa may return to the Selbyr estates to live with her family. That is as flexible as I am prepared to be.” He waited for some response from Feich, and when there was none said, “Shall we send to Ochanshrine for a cleirach and have an agreement drawn up?”

  Feich raised his hand, remounting the dais to the throne. “Too hasty, brother. There is another name that’s gone unmentioned here.” He seated himself and gazed out at them, eyes cold. “What of Taminy, who dares call herself Osmaer?”

  Saefren’s blood iced over in his veins and he felt, suddenly and to the bone, the rashness of this undertaking. The Madaidh was right; all they would get for espousing Taminy’s Cause was Daimhin Feich’s enmity and with it the enmity of his allies.

  Before Saefren’s inner eye was the specter of war—horrible, mad war between Houses that had been at peace for a century or more. He could hear the clashing of swords and the cries of a torn land. The sudden vision rattled him, making his knees quiver. He was not a coward, but he had no illusions that there was glory in battle. Perhaps he was less a Claeg for that.

  He shook himself.

  The Jura was speaking, his face still composed and smiling. “What of her?”

  Feich’s eyes narrowed to icy slivers. “Do you not serve her?”

  Mortain Jura looked down at his hands. Gloved, they rested on the eagle’s head cap of his staff. An affectation, Saefren had once thought, until he discovered that the ornately carved thing housed a thin sword.

  “We serve none but the Golden Meri, Regent. We worship none but the Spirit of All. We venerate Its Chosen Ones and we obey Its precepts.”

  “Then Taminy-Osmaer is nothing to you?”

  “She is as the air, Regent Feich. One looks, and sees nothing.”

  Saefren expelled the draft of air he’d been holding and hastily sucked up another lungful, this time vowing he’d remember to exhale it. There was a warning in his uncle’s eyes and a spark of something sterner. He said nothing.

  “Then you are not one of her followers?”

  “How does one follow the wind?”

  “Your words are elusive, Mortain. Speak plainly: Are you or are you not a Taminist?”

  “I am not a ‘Taminist.’”

  This seemed to mollify Feich. He looked to the other Chieftains. “What of the rest of you?”

  “I worship the Spirit of All,” said The Gilleas. “I serve the Golden Meri; I venerate Her Chosen Ones and obey Her commandments.”

  “The Gilleas speaks for me, as well,” said Karr Graegam.

  “I am no Taminist,” said Iobert Claeg and his nephew remembered to breathe.

  Daimhin Feich smiled. “I’m not certain I believe you. I seem to recall you arising to proclaim the truth of her mission not so long ago.”

  “The Dearg also proclaimed it,” Mortain reminded him. “And the Teallach. Yet . . .” He shrugged. “Taminy has great powers, Daimhin. Can you doubt them capable of bewicking the Hall? We are not Osraed to be able to withstand such Weaving.”

  “Then, the inyx has worn off?”

  “So it would seem. We are not now bewicked.”

  Saefren wished he could read minds as the waljan were said to do. He could only read the Regent’s sharp features and try to wring meaning from his words.

  Feich’s eyes were wary, if hopeful. “Are you then saying you are my allies?”

  This time it was Iobert Claeg who spoke, and his voice carried steel. “We are the subjects of the Cyne of Caraid-land and the allies of his House. Our cause is his cause. His success and safety is our mission.”

  “You would have a Malcuim Cyne?”

  “We have a Malcuim Cyne. We would have him set upon his throne.”

  Iobert Claeg’s eyes would have flayed a lesser man than Daimhin Feich—or perhaps a man more aware of his moods—but Feich continued to sit in his pirated throne and smile as if the Universe had arisen to call him “beloved.”

  “Then you are neutral?”

  “We are committed to Airleas Malcuim.”

  Feich inclined his head. “As I am. Very well, gentlemen. Let us have an agreement. Airleas Malcuim will be returned to Mertuile and be set before the Stone. He will have three Regents: myself, and the Chieftains Jura and Claeg. Do you gentlemen intend to reside at Mertuile?”

  The Jura glanced at his Claeg peer. “We do.”

  This seemed to surprise Feich. “But your holdings—”

  “Will be in the hands of my brother,” said Mortain.

  “And you, Iobert? Will you, too, hand your powers of estate into the hands of a kinsman?”

  “I intend that my powers be vested in my eldest daughter.”

  Saefren was all but felled by amazement. Apparently, Feich was similarly afflicted. Fortunately, he was seated—Saefren merely wanted to sit. Damn, Uncle Iobert and his Claeg gall!

  Feich quickly regained his composure. “A Taminist idea that, isn’t it—to accord the right of succession to a woman?”

  “An Osraed idea, Regent. The Meri decreed that a woman may now became Osraed. If that is so, surely she may also be a House Elder, or even a Chieftain.”

  Feich let that pass and, apparently satisfied that the four Houses had drifted from Taminy’s influence, sent to Ochanshrine for a cleirach to draw up an agreement and an Osraed to witness it. It was the Osraed Ladhar, himself, who appeared, the Minister Cadder in tow.

  Saefren was much impressed—Feich seemed to hold some sway with the illustrious Abbod. He was impressed with something else, as well—the Abbod’s Meri Kiss. Where the Taminist Osraed wore stars of the brightest emerald or gold, Osraed Ladhar’s glimmered a reluctant peridot. He wasn’t sure what that meant, precisely, but suspected it spoke of Taminy’s power and the Covenanter Osraed’s lack.

  Before the Abbod, the Chieftains once more stated their loyalty to the House Malcuim and disavowed their Taminist leanings. The Abbod was clearly unconvinced. Further, he raised objections Feich had not.

  “The boy is a Taminist. How can you contemplate putting him in a position of power?”

  “He is a boy, Abbod,” The Jura told him mildly. “His education is far from complete.”

  “The Jura is right,” Feich assured him. “Airleas is not lost. Frankly, I doubt the child gave willing consent to his abduction.”

  Ladhar glanced at him sharply. “Abduction?”

  “Surely you don’t believe a twelve year old boy is to be held responsible for decisions made under duress. He did not ally himself with Taminy, but with his own mother. What else could be expected of a child?”

  Ladhar’s expression was sour. “He will turn thirteen before long. Malcuims that age have ruled this country.”

  “If Airleas has grown in maturity, he may be quite ready to be reunited with his heritage.”

  “And if he’s not ready?”

  Feich looked to the Chieftains. “These gentlemen will assist me in readying him.”

  The agreement was haggled over and, some hours later, signed by all present either as party or witness. Feich agreed to dispatch a message to Halig-liath, disclosing the nature of the agreement to Airleas and offering him safe passage to Mertuile.

  A last minute stipulation had it that, except for a small contingent from each House, which would accompany Daimhin Feich to retrieve Colfre’s heir, their forces would disperse to House-held lands.

  Saefren didn’t like that stipulation. He liked little about this agreement.

  “You changed your petition,” he observed as he and his uncle rode side by side through Creiddylad to their hillside camp.

  Iobert nodded. “Aye. Madaidh is a fool to eschew Taminy, but he is no fool when it comes to reading Feich. Nor are you. You were bot
h right—now is not the time to antagonize.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “Does rain fall up? He will serve his own interests, not the Malcuim’s. I trust him to do that.”

  “So, you let him believe the Cyneric is still at Halig-liath.”

  “Even so.”

  “Even so . . . you lied.”

  Iobert scowled. “I did not.”

  Saefren laughed. “Come, Uncle. ‘Taminy is as the air—she is as nothing.’ I heard The Jura.”

  “Aye, but did not understand him. How long, Saefren, would any of us survive without air? How precious is that invisible substance?”

  Saefren had to smile at that. “Clever. A riddle.”

  “Aye. And is it not true that we worship the Spirit, serve the Meri, revere Her Chosen and obey Her commandments?”

  “As you perceive them.”

  “Of course.”

  “You denied being a Taminist.”

  “I’m not a Taminist, Nephew, nor do I know what that is. I am waljan.”

  He lifted his left hand from its resting place on the pommel of his saddle and turned the palm to Saefren’s gaze. He only offered a glimpse, but a glimpse was enough.

  Saefren’s heart stuttered in his breast. There was no doubt —Iobert Claeg belonged completely to Taminy-Osmaer.

  oOo

  “We will post troops here, here and here.” Ruadh’s finger found the ridge-back road up the Holy Hill, the river below Nairne, the quay beneath the Halig-liath’s massive flank. “The main force will follow your mighty cannon to the gates of the Fortress.”

  Daimhin Feich had scarcely heard his cousin’s words. In his mind a variety of battles played out. The battle for Halig-liath was the least of them; with the combined forces of the four Houses arrayed behind Iobert Claeg, he’d have the little Malcuim back in no time. It was the matter of a triune Regency that disturbed him. It couldn’t happen, of course. It was out of the question. Airleas would be in his power alone or Airleas would be dead—it was that simple.

  The key to that was Taminy. Despite the Chieftain’s protestations to the contrary, he knew where their allegiance really lay—his Gift told him that much. He would never confront them with it, of course—not as long as he could string them along, manipulate them to his own ends. Besides that, the last thing he wanted or needed was an all-out war.

  It was clear to Daimhin Feich that, in addition to Airleas Malcuim, Taminy controlled at least four Chieftains. Therefore, he must control Taminy.

  He realized, suddenly, that his cousin had stopped speaking and was staring at him.

  “Did you hear me, Daimhin?”

  “Yes. Yes, I heard you. A good plan, Ruadh.”

  “With one flaw. Your wonderful cannon is nowhere in sight. Will we wait for it, or will we simply have our men clamber over Halig-liath’s walls?”

  “The cannon will be here in a matter of days. It will take that long to assemble our forces and brief the House Marschals on the plan.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “And what might that be, dear cousin?”

  “That Halig-liath is protected by magic as well as stone.”

  Feich smiled. “No cousin, I have not forgotten. That, too, is being taken care of.”

  oOo

  “This is the place!” Gwynet clambered down over the rocks to the pool, evidently mindless of the chill. Airleas followed, reluctantly at first then, realizing the rocks cut the buffeting wind, with more enthusiasm. By the time they reached the pool, he was warm with exertion. The sun penetrated this little grotto, the wind did not.

  Once at the bottom, Airleas gazed about, fascinated. Jumbled blocks of stone formed uneven walls on both sides of the steep rill, looking as if a giant had thrown them there in displeasure.

  Downstream, the water tumbled away toward Airdnasheen; he could see the sharp peaks of roofs and the tops of ancient pines. Upstream, was the fall—a cascade of liquid crystal that plummeted twenty feet into its pool, raising a froth of silver-white.

  Airleas moved to the edge of the water, peering into it. It was dark, even in sunlight, blue-violet like a twilight sky. His eyes couldn’t penetrate to the bottom. “Is that where she lives, d’you think?” he asked.

  Gwynet squatted, following his gaze. “I don’t think she lives in the water at all. Not really. I don’t think she lives any place. Taminy says she just is.”

  “Well, then, a person would be able to see her anywhere at all, wouldn’t you think?”

  “I think some folks can. But here, it’s just easier.”

  Airleas glanced at the veil of water cascading from above. He could feel the spray, icy and wet on his face. He licked his lips. “Do you think she’ll come with both of us here?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. She comes to each heart, the Hillwild say . . .” She caught his look and grinned. “Anyway, I got studies.”

  With Gwynet gone, Airleas sat cross-legged on a large flat rock whose hollowed surface looked as if it had held the huddled forms of a thousand-thousand aspirants to the Gwyr’s favor. He breathed deeply, cleared his mind, tried to open his heart and free his spirit. His mind was a bird—an iolair—climbing, climbing, soaring toward the Sun, reaching for the supernal. The chill of the day fell away, and the icy spray, and the Sun, itself. Even the pool and the falls disappeared.

  He wondered, at once detached and curious, if this was what the pilgrim Prentices experienced at the end of their journeys. This, too, was a Pilgrimage of sorts. He felt he’d been tested—just being here was a test. And between Feich’s treachery and the lessons he’d had to learn at Taminy’s hands—and Broran’s—he certainly had been tried.

  He peeked at the pool. Nothing.

  Patience. Taminy was right; he needed to develop patience. He wondered if he might ask the Gwyr for that. He also needed maturity. A Cyne must be mature, whatever his age. He must be a man, not a boy. And justice—he must be replete with justice. And honor, trustworthiness, devotion to the Meri . . . to Taminy.

  His meditation became a litany—a catalogue of the qualities he must have—must have—to be a fitting Cyne. How could he possibly acquire them? His life at court had not prepared him to be a man—to be Cyne. His father had not been prepared to give up what Feich had snatched from him. At Mertuile, Airleas had learned only self-indulgence and pride. Except for his mother’s loving influence he might not have been capable of recognizing Taminy at all.

  Airleas’s eyes, half open, caught movement below him in the pool. His heart fluttered. Draped across the deep violet mirror was a veil of tatted mist. As he watched, the mist circled, drawing into a lacy spiral. At its center there appeared a peak and, in a moment’s time, a translucent mountain rose from the cycling mist like a miniature ghost of snow-capped Baenn-iolair.

  Heart racing, expectant, Airleas could hardly contain himself. It was happening. The Gwyr was forming before his eyes. He wanted to leap up and dance; he wanted to cry with relief. He had learned something here, after all.

  The form was no longer a mountain, no longer amorphous. In a moment more he would gaze on the face of the White Wave—mystic Gwyr-Gwenwyvar, believed by the Hillwild to be an aspect of the Meri. He would receive her benediction. He shivered in delight.

  Taminy would be so proud of him, and his mother, and even Catahn. He’d be given his own Weaving Stone instead of the little schooling crystals he now used. He’d be eligible for the Crask-an-duine; he’d be a man in the eyes of all. Broran would respect him then, by God, for surely, he’d never seen the Gwyr.

  The misty shape quivered over its dark pool, tenuous and uncertain. In a breath it was gone and all of Airleas’s daydreams with it.

  oOo

  He sat long by the pool, trying to call the Gwyr back. Chill permeated his clothes as the Sun slid away from the grotto, leaving a deep pocket of shadow. At last realizing the futility of his efforts, he gave up and left, trekking forlornly back up the trail to Hrofceaster. He reached his
room without drawing notice and curled up before the fire to contemplate his failure.

  He had trouble accepting it as that. After all, the Gwyr had been there, had formed almost completely—most people probably never even saw the mist—but what had made her vanish again?

  Was it something he’d done or thought? Had someone been watching and impinged on his aislinn?

  He knew he should seek out Taminy and ask her what it meant. Had he failed, or had he nearly succeeded? Only she could tell him which. He wanted to go to her this minute; he dreaded going to her at all.

  “Airleas?”

  He started guiltily and looked up to see his mother standing in the doorway of his room.

  “Airleas, are you all right?”

  “Oh, just cold, mam.”

  The Cwen moved further into the room and perched on a fur-covered chair. “Gwynet told me you’d gone down to the stream—to the Gwyr’s pool.”

  Drat Gwynet! Couldn’t keep a thing to herself. All anybody had to do was ask a direct question . . . Well, the damage was done and his mother was sitting here, looking at him with searching blue eyes and he, too, was powerless to dissemble.

  “I wanted to see her,” he said simply. “I wanted to . . . to see if I was ready for Pilgrimage.”

  “Don’t you think Taminy must be the one to tell you that?”

  “I guess I was hoping . . .”

  “To prove yourself?”

  He nodded, bleak.

  “What happened?”

  “She came, mam! I saw the mist rise and form, and then, just before it was finished, she disappeared—as if the wind had blown her away.”

  “Why do you think that happened?”

  “I don’t know, really. Gwynet says the Gwyr usually appears to only one soul at a time. Perhaps someone was watching me.”

  Toireasa tilted her head, sending a cascade of honey-gold hair over one eye, and Airleas realized how different she looked now, wearing simple clothes, her once carefully styled hair left to its own devices. He wanted to ask her how she felt about that—about the loss of their home, their way of life.

  “Do you think that’s what happened?” she asked him. “That someone was watching?”