He rode past the inn and reined his horse in beneath the gates of Carehouse.
oOo
For two nights, the Dearg Wicke had tried the red stone and spoken of history and of Weaving. She had quoted Scripture and Tradition at him until he wanted to rage at her. One thing he had learned was that the woman could not be bullied. To snarl at her provoked nothing more than a patient, stony gaze. To snap only brought forth the arrogant smile.
“Find someone else to school you, then,” she’d say and begin to walk away, and he would stop her and promise to be more patient.
Now, on the eve of his departure for Halig-liath, she at last said the words he had been waiting to hear, “Tonight, you’ll take up the stone and Weave.”
They were seated on the floor within his makeshift aislinn chamber—a series of carved wooden screens he had gathered from around the castle and arrayed in a circle on his hearth rug. The place was dark, lighted only by candles and a dim flood of luminance from the fireplace. Outside, wind moaned in the dark and rain rattled the windows. It was a fitting atmosphere for what Daimhin Feich hoped to accomplish.
“What must I do?” he asked.
Coinich Mor smiled. “What did you before?”
“Does it matter? It didn’t work.”
“Hm. What d’you think they do—your Holy Ones? What d’you think she does—your beloved Wicke?”
“She’s not—” He dammed the words. “I’ve seen her Weave only once. It seemed she . . . pulled the power down from . . .” He shook his head. “. . . somewhere. She draws it. The Osraed, too, speak of drawing Blue Healing or drawing Red Power.”
The Wicke nodded. “Aye. They draw on the Source.”
“The crystals.”
“No, Regent. The stones’re mere channels—talismans. Did you not even learn that much from your Osraed? The Spirit of All’s the Source of their Weaving. The Meri’s the Mother of their duans.”
“How do I tap that Source? How do you?”
She laughed at him, candle light glinting from her fox eyes. Oddly, she reminded him of his dead Cyne, Colfre.
“The Spirit don’t suffer Its power to be drawn upon by the likes of us, Regent Feich. The Spirit commits Its energies only to those who serve It.”
Feich sat forward, quivering, intent. “Ladhar’s mewling cleirach speaks of a great Source of Evil let loose upon the world by this Cusp. He believes Taminy is its minion. Are you telling me that Evil exists? Is that what I must draw upon?”
The thought thrilled and chilled him at once, made him quiver with a dread so delicious it terrified him, excited him.
The Dearg Wicke was shaking her dark head, smiling at him as any indulgent teacher might smile at a naive pupil. “There’s no such source of evil, Regent. I know this cleirach you speak of. I’ve known men like him. Men who must believe in such a power because to do else’d be too terrible a burden.”
“I don’t understand,” murmured Feich.
The Dearg tapped her breast. “We, Regent Feich, we are the source of our own dark Weaving. To work what the Spirit abhors, we draw upon our own forces and on the forces of others.”
Captivated, Feich leaned closer still. Close enough to smell the scent of her—spicy, smoky.
“Others?”
“The weak. The foolish. The strong, but unaware. You understand.” She nodded, smiling.
By God, he did understand. It was what he had always done—used the weakness and foolishness and naivety of others to his own advantage. He manipulated and, behind each manipulation, put the full force of his will. But . . .
“You speak of a real drawing of power. How may I—?”
She picked up the red crystal from where it rested between them on the floor and put it in his hands.
“Begin within. Draw from your own self. Bring to mind that night at Ochanshrine—how the weakness of the cleirach maddened you. It was your rage that forced a spark from Ochan’s Stone.”
He did as she said, recalling vividly the scene; Cadder cringing on his bench, peering about, no doubt praying none would see him quivering before a Feich. Scorn poured forth. The blithering, pious fool! He’d wanted to strike Cadder physically, knock him from his perch—but Daimhin Feich was no bully. So his scorn had turned to rage in the face of Cadder’s obstinate cowering and, released, had touched the Great Crystal, sparking it.
“Ye-es,” breathed the Wicke, and Feich could feel her rising excitement. “Good.”
He glanced at the crystal in his hands, saw the light pulsing within it. No sudden flare, this, no tremulous flame, but a deep, ruddy glow, constant as the hot emotions that burned in his heart. He thought of that other Wicke then—of Taminy—and his rage blossomed beyond reason. In his hands, the red crystal blazed, showering the screened chamber with flaming glory, catching Coinich Mor in its brilliance and transfiguring her.
“Yes!” she said again, moaning the word as if in some pagan ecstasy. Her parted lips were blood red in the fey light and her Hillwild eyes glittered like the sands of Ochan’s Cave. Her scent washed over him again—hotter than before, spicier.
Shifting the stone to one hand, Feich tangled the other in the Wicke’s dark hair, drawing those red, red lips to his for a taste of that spice.
She did not pull away, nor did she demurely yield as the women of his experience usually did. Instead, she swarmed him, flooded him with awareness of her. Her hand joined his around the stone and they met at the center of the aislinn circle, pressing body to body, straining into embrace.
She devoured him, and he, her. They were wildness upon wildness, bodies tangled impossibly in the brilliance of Feich’s red crystal, their voices wrenched from their throats in coarse harmony again and again.
He heard laughter more than once, deep-throated, frenzied, feral. It amused him to realize it was his own.
When exhaustion at last claimed him, he turned his eyes to the crystal. Clutched still in their joined hands, its radiance was fading. His thoughts turned, unbidden, to Taminy. Drained by the wantonness of his coupling with Coinich Mor, he could still hate the Nairnian Wicke, still wish—yes, and imagine—that it was her body that lay, docile beneath his. The thought filled him and, gazing down at the Hillwild woman, he could almost see wheat-pale hair, not black—sea green eyes, not fox-amber.
The Wicke laughed. “You are a troubled man, Regent Feich.”
He laid his head down upon her shoulder and slept, too spent to decipher her meaning.
oOo
Rain fell in a sullen veil, washing Airdnasheen in moist shades of gray. Even the pines had surrendered the pretense of color to the fall of mist. But Eyslk-an-Caerluel could not be sullen, for today she was moving to Hrofceaster. It was not raining in Eyslk’s world; she looked from her window and imagined that Airdnasheen existed inside a cloud—a cloud of glorious silver.
She sang a little as she packed her belongings into a single large duffel and small, painted trunk. Happy melodies they were, though that happiness was tinged with surprise and a little bemusement. She had dreaded asking her mother for permission to move up to Catahn’s fortress—dreaded it because she had expected to win Deardru-an-Caerluel’s resentment, not the instant approval she got.
Eyslk had ever been aware of the coolness and alienation between her mother and Catahn. It had been difficult to gain her permission to be educated at Hrofceaster. Only a letter from Catahn and the reasonable arguments of her stepfather had given Eyslk access to learning beyond that of hearth, home and village.
Deardru had seemed to take an instant dislike to Taminy, though she had only seen her from afar. And, though she pleaded sympathy for the Osmaer’s plight, she seemed to take perverse pleasure in mocking her, making vulgar comments about the nature of her relationship with Osraed Wyth and the other male waljan. Which was, in part, why Eyslk had beseeched Taminy to grant her asylum at Hrofceaster. Her mother’s antipathy—the way it was vented—left her feeling uneasy and depressed.
She laid a pretty purple blanket
into the chest and, on top of it, some books Catahn had given her. She read well now, and loved the stories of magic and heroism, the little book of duans and scriptures.
“Before you close that,” said Deardru from the doorway of her daughter’s little room, “I’ve some clothing in my trunk you may have. Come, take it, if you wish.”
Eyslk followed her mother to her bedchamber, as much surprised at the smile on her face as she was at the gesture. The clothing in question turned out to be an array of items from finely sewn undergarments to a soft velvet cloak lined with fur. There were dresses, too, of beautifully woven wool. There were leggings and fine hose and shoes.
Eyslk glanced up at her mother from where she sat before the large chest of keepsakes. “Mam, are you sure you wish me to have these things? They’re so beautiful. So elegant.”
“Aye. Too much so to be kept in a trunk. I haven’t worn these things since I lived up at Hrofceaster myself. They’re not suitable for village life.”
Eyslk ran her hand over a velvet hoodlet. “You wore these when father was alive.”
Deardru didn’t answer. “You may have whatever you wish,” she said. “There’s even a small box of jewelry there. That, too, you may consider yours. I’ve surely no use for it.”
She was gone then, leaving her daughter to wonder over the treasures she’d been awarded. There were three fine dresses, two embroidered skirts and a number of delicate sous-shirts. There was a pair of vivid scarlet breeches and a long, loose, split coat that matched.
Eyslk wondered if her mother had ever worn the outfit to ride with her beloved Raenulf. She pictured them together, her mother young and happy, her father tall and handsome and laughing. She imagined he must have looked much like Catahn, though her mother had said Raenulf Hageswode’s eyes were dark and his hair a gleaming, lightless, blue-black. She had seen only one portrait of her father, painted when he had completed the Crask-an-duine at the age of thirteen.
She had sometimes been tempted to envy Desary her father, but reasoned that she, at least, had both a mother and step-father while Desary had only Catahn. Now, of course, there was Taminy . . . for both of them.
That thought shook her from her reverie and set her to folding her new clothing. It was a tall stack she carried back to her own room, the small, intricately inlaid box of jewelry balanced on top. She had just gotten through her curtained doorway when the tower of cloth collapsed, spilling the top layers and the jewel box. The little casket hit the floor and broke open, scattering its contents all over the rough planks.
Eyslk felt immediate, sharp remorse for her carelessness. Dropping the rest of the clothes atop her duffel, she fell to her knees and scrambled after the spilt jewels.
How stupid! She should never have tried to carry it all at once. She should have gone back for the box. She tilted it upright, noting with relief that none of the seashell inlay had been damaged. Her father, Raenulf, had given her mother that box at their betrothal. It would break her heart to damage it. She picked up a necklace, a brooch, a pair of silver earrings set with tiny red stones, a hair clip, and a ring; she started to put them back into the box.
She paused. Oh, but it was damaged, after all. The side of the largest of three compartments had broken and stuck up at an odd angle. She tried to push it back into place, but could not; it was solidly wedged. Maybe if she could remove it and try reseating it level . . .
She laid the jewels in her lap and grasped the little piece of wood between her fingers, wiggling it until it worked loose. She tugged and it shifted slightly. Encouraged, she tugged again. This time, it came free, bringing the bottom of the compartment with it. Something fell out to plop into her skirts atop the little pile of jewelry.
It was a packet about the size of her open hand—a packet of soft, woven paper. She picked it up, surprised at the weight of it, and turned it in her hands. The paper was yellow with age, though still pliant beneath her fingers. She toyed with the careful folds, wondering if she might open it and see what was written.
She felt immediate guilt. This was surely some treasured keepsake of her mother. She ought to take it to her at once. But, again, the contents of the jewelry box had been given to her. Surely, that included the mysterious packet. Perhaps it was another brooch or some other piece of jewelry.
After a moment of hesitation, she opened it. A lock of dark hair fell into the palm of her hand; a folded piece of paper fluttered to her lap. She ignored both, her eyes on the thing that had given the packet its weight and stiffness. It was a portrait of a young man, and Eyslk could only believe it was Raenulf Hageswode whose painted eyes gazed at her from the small, linen-covered slab of wood.
A wave of tenderness engulfed her. Poor mother, she thought, and tried to fathom the devotion that had caused the pragmatic Deardru-an-Caerluel to save and treasure these mementos of her young husband—to pass them on to her daughter.
Eyslk opened her hand on the lock of hair. It lay across her gytha, its black-cherry strands catching more light from that than from the weak fire in her room’s tiny grate. She frowned, rubbing the silken threads between her fingers, and glanced again at the portrait. The young man’s hair was the same ruddy black as the lock she held. And his eyes . . .
Putting down the portrait, Eyslk scrabbled amongst the jewelry for the fallen scrap of paper. She unfolded it and read the faint writing there, scrawled in ash ink.
My Chieftain. You think me a woman of duty? You believe I am blinded by my desire for another Hageswode child? That might once have been true. But it is love that blinds me, now. It is desire for you that drives me to seek you out. What drives you, my Chieftain? Pity? Responsibility? I care not. I accept any feeling you may have for me. If, as you say, there is none, leave this letter where it lies. But if you would have me again, take it, and I will meet you tonight in the chamber below the stair.
There was no signature, only a single initial: “D.”
Her mother had written this—to “my Chieftain.” As much as Eyslk wanted to believe that might be an affectionate reference to the man who should have been Ren in Deardru’s eyes, she could not believe it. The object of the letter’s passion was the man whose amber eyes gazed at her from a painted bit of cloth and wood, and a lock of whose hair curled, silkily, across her palm. Not Raenulf Hageswode, but his younger brother, Catahn.
Eyslk wallowed in confusion. Had there been no love, then, between her parents? Had her mother been that faithless, that wretchedly fickle? Shaking her head, she scanned the letter a second time.
Another Hageswode child. That could only mean she had already been born; Raenulf Hageswode was dead and her mother, widowed. Still . . . still . . . She put a hand to her head. But her uncle had obviously not taken this missive from whatever place Deardru had left it. Catahn had refused her advances, had remained faithful to Desary’s mother, and Deardru, disappointed, had kept this reminder of his rejection.
Why then, did the letter say—“if you would have me again?”
Eyslk turned the paper over; the back was blank. She glanced at the back of the portrait; only the artist’s signature appeared there. She looked down at the linen paper that had wrapped it all; there was writing there—a handful of words in an unfamiliar hand: It is agreed. I shall give you what you ask, but there is nothing more I can give.
The signature was a blur of ink, but Eyslk could make out the letters “C” and “n” at either end.
Confusion spun her thoughts away. Surely, this was not a response to her mother’s note. Might it have preceded it? That seemed just as unlikely. She gave up trying to piece the story together. One thing she understood quite well: In the very act of keeping these things, Deardru-an-Caerluel had betrayed herself. She did not hate Catahn Hageswode as Eyslk had suspected; she loved him and had once wanted to bear his child.
That the Ren had not given in to that request was obvious; there was no other Hageswode child born to Deardru. Garradh’s sons were clearly his own, for both bore his bluff, ruddy featur
es.
There was only Eyslk. Yet, Catahn’s note . . .
Hearing movement outside her room, Eyslk leapt to gather up the contents of the little box and thrust them hastily inside. The portrait she stuffed into her duffel, covering it with clothing.
The curtain swung back from the bedroom doorway and her eldest half-brother regarded her, red-faced, from the threshold.
“Are you ready to go, then?” he asked, his voice belligerent. “Da bid me help you carry your things up to the fortress.”
She smiled at him, her eyes watering, her heart still banging out a wild rhythm in her breast.
“Aye, Con, thank you.”
She rose and put on her cloak before taking up the duffel. Con hefted her little chest of books and linens and winter things.
“You know,” she told him, as he turned back through the door, “you’ll see me often enough. I won’t be a stranger, I promise.”
He glowered at her. “You’re a Hageswode again, Eyslk. You’re a stranger already.”
The words wounded, more so because, lately, she had begun to think of herself as a Hageswode—more as Desary’s cousin than as Con and Gery’s sister.
“That’s not true, Con. I’ll be in the village all the time.”
“Not if he gets his way,” Con said, and jerked his head toward Hrofceaster. “Mam says he always does get his way. You’re good as gone, Eyslk.” He grunted, tossing the chest to his shoulder and led from the room. He didn’t speak to her again, even to say good-bye.
Chapter 12
Whoever makes an effort on the Spirit’s Path shall find their steps guided. The Meri is with those who travel this Way.
— Utterances of the Osraed Gartain #45
Ruadh Feich found himself riding in column next to Sorn Saba, brother of the Deasach Banarigh. The young Suderlander, who had accompanied the Deasach party, he said, out of curiosity, was remarkably like his sister. He had the same creamy bronze skin, dark hair, and dark, liquid eyes. He was almost surreally beautiful—again, like his sister; Ruadh had no doubt he blazed quite a trail among the young women in his sister’s court.
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