Sorn was a last minute addition to their number—a late volunteer cousin Daimhin was only too happy to accept. He welcomed Deasach interest in his doings—after all, he hoped to make fast allies of them for the realm he fully expected would one day be his.
Ruadh watched his elder cousin’s machinations with a peculiar detachment. He had no personal attachment to the idea that Daimhin should be Cyne, but that the House Feich be elevated above all others—the Claeg, the Malcuim, all—that he was committed to. Whether that meant pulling the strings of a Malcuim puppet or setting a Feich before Ochan’s Stone mattered little. Either would be a victory.
Indeed, there were ways in which the former scenario was preferable. Daimhin Feich was greedy and self-centered. What he did, he did for his own good, not for his House. That rankled at times. More so when Ruadh considered that without Daimhin’s self-seeking tenacity the Feich would not be standing so close to the all-but-empty Throne of Caraid-land.
His Uncle Leod, Daimhin’s father, was a weak Chieftain. A man who, though only just reaching his middle age, was content to hide behind his petty infirmities like an old man. He neither censured his aggressive only son, nor gave him any more than tacit support. Leod Feich was at home with his senior Elders. Only the young bucks were here, but they had brought nearly every able-bodied Feich kinsman with them.
That was enough to impress Sorn Saba. He stared at the congregation of Chieftains and Elders, and most intently at the kinswomen brought along by the Jura and the Graegam.
“I stand amazed,” he commented, his wide-eyed expression making him look younger, even, than his nineteen or so years, “that such a force should be mounted to capture a single sorceress.”
“We go to Nairne to free our Cyne,” Ruadh told him. “Still, if the Wicke be captured, so much the better, I suppose.”
The Deasach’s raven brows quirked in query. “Your cousin spoke with much passion about this sorceress. He blames her for the defection of your little Cyne. He seems all intent on her capture. When I spoke to him last eve, he said not a word of the Malcuim boy. He spoke only of this Taminy.”
Intent. Yes, that described cousin Daimhin well enough. “I don’t doubt he speaks of her—and with reason. He tells me she invades his dreams. But I assure you, Shak Saba,”—he hoped he’d gotten the alien title right—“Daimhin is as aware as I that our first duty is to the safe return of Airleas Malcuim to his capitol.”
“Please, let’s not do the form. We are really youths still, and you, the elder. Call me Sorn, and I shall call you Ruadh. Your dear cousin has already made me call him Daimhin.”
Ruadh smiled, unwillingly charmed by the not-quite-perfection of the Deasach’s pleasantly accented Caraidin and warm voice. “Sorn, then.”
“Now, tell me: Why doesn’t your cousin simply declare himself Cyne of all this Land Between Streams? He seems to have his hands all over the Throne.”
Ruadh, to his credit, did not show his amazement at the young man’s brazenness. “There is a long tradition in Caraid-land of Malcuim Cynes. The Meri has always upheld them.”
Sorn nodded. “Ah, yes. Through the succession of Osraed. We have something like your Osraed. We call them Imrigh—spiritual rulers. They do not dabble in politics, however.” His eyes wandered to the group ahead of them—composed largely of Chieftains and Elders. “So tell me, Ruadh, what will you do with this sorceress when you get her?”
Ruadh grimaced, recalling a certain dinner conversation not that long ago. “I’m sure only my cousin knows the answer to that.”
“You’ve no prescribed way of dealing with them?”
“We’re rarely called on to deal with them. The last Wicke trials in Caraid-land were during the reign of Cyne Liusadhe the Purifier. That was two centuries ago.”
Sorn turned sideways in his saddle, all interest. “What did this Cyne Purifier do with his Wicke?”
“Exiled them.” Ruadh smiled wryly. “Along with some other folk he’d no love for.” He neglected to mention that those other folk were members of the House Feich.
“In El-Deasach, we put our sorceresses to the torch, but that is only the end of their humiliations. By the time they reach that pass, they bless the flames that devour them.” His voice was still warm and sweet; he might have been describing a lover’s caress. “Would you like to know what comes before?”
Ruadh glanced at him and saw the same warmth reflected in the dark eyes. The pit of his stomach shrugged. For all that he had never seen battle, Ruadh Feich thought of himself as a plain and simple soldier—a defender of Feich lands and honor. Men like Sorn, who seemed to find pleasure in the spilling of blood, he did not understand.
“No,” he said, “but you may find my cousin Daimhin a willing listener. You two are much of a mind when it comes to Wicke. I believe he would take Taminy-Osmaer and drown her.”
Sorn’s brow wrinkled. “What—throw her from a boat or a cliff? Lower her into a well?”
Ruadh was finding this whole conversation distasteful. Courtesy would not allow him to let it show. “There is a chamber beneath the castle Mertuile where the sea flows freely. At certain times it has been used to . . . discipline the enemies of Mertuile’s lords.”
Sorn laughed. “How polite you are! You mean that, there, people were tortured and died. Superb! Then you can prolong the death throes of the enemy and long hear their cries. Perhaps an improvement over fire, yes?” He nodded, as if in answer to his own question. “Yes, and the body is spared mutilation. An unfortunate thing about fire—it destroys so utterly.” He smiled at Ruadh—a bashful, boy’s smile. “Your cousin showed me a painting of this Taminy done by your poor, dead Cyne Colfre. She is an exotic beauty, is she not?”
Ruadh flipped his reins, casting about for a way to extricate himself from this increasingly morbid dialogue. “I’ve never seen her, but in that portrait. I concede that Colfre must have thought her beautiful. But then, he was enamored of her.”
“As is your cousin, I think.”
A startling thought. “Daimhin? No. You misunderstand him. He was once enchanted by the Wicke, but no longer. He is driven only by hatred, believe me. She laid hands on his soul not that long ago—or tried to. Tried to manipulate him as she had our Cyne. I think she humiliated him. Daimhin doesn’t tolerate humiliation. It’s revenge he seeks.”
“Ah, revenge.” Sorn nodded knowingly. The little-boy smile was back. “A powerful aphrodisiac.”
Ruadh shook his head. “I don’t understand . . . what’s an a—”
Sorn reached over and patted his arm. “A powerful inyx, friend. A potent Weaving that causes the vengeful to burn with desire for the object of vengeance.”
“You mean she Weaves lust upon him so he will spare her?” He hadn’t thought of that.
Sorn let loose a cascade of ebullient laughter. “Not at all! Passion needs no Weaver, friend Feich. It Weaves its own enchantment.”
Sorn, a loquacious companion, continued to chatter his philosophy regarding sorceresses (he seemed much less interested in sorcerers, though he claimed El-Deasach had known plagues of them from time to time).
Ruadh declined to listen, turning his attention instead to the group ahead of them—Chieftains and Elders all. The only exceptions were the inclusion of the Abbod Ladhar and Blair Dearg’s wife, Coinich Mor. She was Hillwild and a seeress, according to Daimhin. A novel resource, he said. She would be able to tell if they were being Woven against.
Her presence in the party bothered Ruadh, and he had protested it. More than he had protested the inclusion of the twenty or so females from the Taminist Houses (and he could think of them in no other way, regardless of the professions of their Chieftains). It seemed odd to him that they should carry one Wicke to deal with another. Couldn’t that damned Abbod tell if they were being Woven against? If not, what good was he?
Ruadh allowed himself a mean-spirited smile. If the presence of a Dearg “seeress” unsettled him, what effect must it have on the corpulent Abbod?
oOo
Ladhar was exhausted by the time they made camp the first night on the banks of the Halig-Tyne. The damned cannon slowed them to a crawl and the oversized wheels of its heavy undercarriage kept up the most horrendous racket—a cacophony that sounded like the screechings and wailings of every lost soul since Creation’s distant beginning. It was torment to listen to it, but a worse torment was having to ride in such close company with the Wicke, Coinich Mor.
Oh, she didn’t call herself a Wicke—neither did her husband or any other relation—but Wicke she clearly was. A ‘sensitive soul,’ Feich styled her, and her grinning husband spoke of how marriage to her had improved his fortunes. He was bewicked by her, no question. Must be, to have brought her on this march.
Ladhar had asked after it of course, joining his protest to the young Feich Marschal’s, but they were roundly ignored. She was here, he was told, to enhance his own powers. If the Wicke of Nairne were to try a Weave on them, two watchdogs were better than one.
Effrontery! Daimhin Feich was full of it. The Dearg Wicke had some motive of her own for being here, a motive Ladhar could not fathom, but which he was determined to know before they reached Nairne. He didn’t like the way she looked at Daimhin Feich—as if she marked his every move. He didn’t like the way she wielded her ample body—as if aware how well her own movements were watched by the men around her. He despised the way she made him feel—as if tiny, invisible vermin crawled ceaselessly over his body. He had felt like that before—when Taminy-a-Cuinn was near. It was the prelude to a storm of the spirit, the kind of storm Taminy had precipitated when she had stood in the Assembly Hall and spun lightning out of the air.
Exhausted, he was. Road-weary. Bone-tired. But not so worn that he couldn’t keep an eye and ear on the goings on about camp. He made it his business to watch Coinich Mor—or rather to have Caime Cadder watch her. It was a special talent of Cadder’s that in any group of people he was virtually invisible. Ladhar doubted Daimhin Feich even noticed his presence at Ladhar’s side, though he’d spoken over the man’s head a number of times on the ride. It was a pathetic distinction, that invisibility, but it served Cadder’s master well.
Well after sunset, when the rheum of the river had permeated every pore of Ladhar’s tent, Caime Cadder scratched on the door post and made a shivering entrance.
“The Dearg woman,” he said, teeth chattering, face pinched with distaste, “has gone to the Regent’s tent.”
His suspicions confirmed, Ladhar squeezed out of his shelter into the sodden night. The Wicke was surely after something. Perhaps now, she was making some move. Perhaps she was even a secret cohort of the Nairnian Wicke. Well, if she was, by God—he felt his belt pouch for the comforting bulk of his crystal, Scirwyn.
The Regent’s tent was closest to the river, shielded from the rest of the camp by a circle of low shrubby trees. It was three times the size of anyone else’s, dwarfing even the tasseled black tent of the visiting Deasach Marschal. This was a festival tent, hardly suitable for a battle camp.
Ladhar pursed full lips. As annoying as was Feich’s ostentatious tastes, his penchant for isolation would work against him this time; the shadowy hedge was perfect cover for a spy Ladhar’s size. The old Abbod pretended to make for the downstream wash pool, then squeezed behind the screen of greenery. The sounds of his discomfort covered by the whispered roar of the Halig-tyne, he stationed himself at a corner of the tent where inconstant light leaked from a long narrow gap in a corner joining.
Ladhar put his eye to the gap. The Dearg woman was there, just as Caime had said. She sat opposite Feich beside a small brazier, conversing in low tones. So soft was their discourse that the voice of the river obscured it. Ladhar could only tell that the Wicke was reporting something to Feich, her hands weaving illustrations in the air between them. For his part, Feich merely nodded, uttered a word or two here and there or laughed. His eyes were bright—too bright, Ladhar thought—and his body twitched as if in unbidden reaction to his companion’s words.
When the Wicke’s hands at last fell still, Feich brought a box into view. It was a small box, and covered with beaten gold.
Ah, now! Ladhar thought. He pays for her report.
Desperately, he wished to know what intelligence she had brought her lord. Had she some knowledge of treachery within the House Dearg?
Feich lifted the lid of the box, and the brazier glow picked flashes of sequined light from its contents.
Jewels! Jewels for a damned Wicke! Is there no end to the man’s outrageous—?
Ladhar’s innards were at once as chill as his corpulent body. Breath froze in his lungs. No. It was clear, there was no end—no depth to which Daimhin Feich would not go. For the gilt box contained only a single jewel—a large, blood red crystal that Daimhin Feich now removed from its velvet bed and held before him in cupped hands.
How—? How had he gotten the stone? Dear God, did he intend to give it to this creature? Or had she brought it to him herself?
Ladhar all but gasped when the woman, a taunting smile on her broad face, took a second, smaller stone from a pouch that hung between her ample breasts. She held the little yellow crystal up before Daimhin Feich’s eyes, smile deepening, and spoke. Ladhar made out only the word “warm.”
Feich laughed and shook his head and the two of them began to Weave.
Afterward, Ladhar would wonder how he had stayed still through what followed—how he had not cried out with each new outrage. For the couple practiced Weaving an array of inyx: They caused the fire to dwindle to an ember then flare blindingly in its bowl; they made the brazier itself to rise from the carpeted ground cover, then descend as if winged; they riled the winds outside the tent so that they beat at Ladhar and whispered to him in turns; they woke day birds from their slumber and coaxed them to light upon the center pole of their garish tent.
Last of all, and more unsettling than their Weaving of the wind, they caused a sleep-befuddled Ruadh Feich to stumble from his own small tent to the Regent’s grand shelter. Bewicked, he asked why he had been summoned inquired after his lord’s pleasure. His lord’s pleasure was to send him away again, back to his tent, but not before bidding him remove his night robe and dance naked upon it in the brazier-lit doorway.
Gales of laughter followed Ruadh Feich, still unclad, back to his tent. The entire storm was from his elder cousin’s throat; the Dearg monster only sat and smiled that secret, know-all smile with her cat’s eyes as bright and hot as the flames leaping in the brazier at her side. When Feich turned to her from his cousin’s humiliation, he was jubilant, his face alive with mirth, with exultation.
Dear Meri, he was drunk with power, intoxicated beyond reason. Ladhar quaked like the breeze-blown trees overhead, horrified.
His horror would only grow. For now the Dearg Wicke laid her yellow stone aside on the thick carpet Feich had carried from Mertuile and wordlessly removed her clothing, eyes gleaming with feral light. Daimhin Feich watched her, his own crystal clutched in his hands, his eyes mirroring Coinich Mor’s heat and brightness.
Ladhar watched, too, as the woman began to weave and dance, sporting her abundant, rounded body before the rapt gaze of Caraid-land’s Regent and would-be Cyne. Her movements grew in wantonness, her gestures gracefully obscene, until at last she lay beside the brazier, writhing in the wash of kinetic light, there giving her companion mute intimation of her desire. Feich complied, laying his glowing stone beside Coinich Mor’s, stripping his own garments in fevered haste, lowering himself to her undulating body.
Their joining was violent, Feich assaulting the woman as he must dream of assaulting Halig-liath. Ladhar barely saw them as they writhed in the crawl of firelight. His eyes were on those two crystals, covered now by the lewdly shifting shadows, but blazing-bright nonetheless. They pulsed with their own commingled fire—the red and the yellow-gold—power upon power, feeding on itself, growing fat on its own heat and light.
Brighter than the brazier light the crystal glory gr
ew, until the tent blazed with it. Near blinded, Ladhar at last tore his eyes away and sank back on his fat haunches, chilled to the soul, numb to the core of his being. He barely managed to haul himself to his feet, not caring that he made loud scuffling noises—they would be covered by the river’s murmurs and Daimhin Feich’s fierce cries—but he must get away, because the light had blinded him and the sights he had witnessed were now burnt into the darkness behind his eyes. Worse, the Dearg woman had begun to whimper and moan and the old Abbod could not bear the sound. A moment more and the rhythmic keening would become shrill enough for others to hear and he could not be caught here, cowering in a frozen heap.
So, he willed his rebellious legs to obey him and dragged himself from tree to tree, from bush to bush, away into the darkness to a place where the sound of the Holy River might wash over him and soothe the tumult of his soul.
He had been there for some time when he realized that he could still hear the sobs of the Dearg Wicke. The sound tore at his ears. Holy of Holies, how could he yet be hearing that terrible sound?
Shuddering, he forced his hands over his ears . . . and discovered that the pitiable cries were his own.
oOo
Ladhar was alone in the Inner Chamber of Ochanshrine. Alone, but for the seemingly sentient Stone. But no, he was in a tent on the banks of the Halig-tyne, the uneven ground wreaking havoc with his back, exhaustion putting sand beneath eyelids too heavy with fatigue to open.
A dream. He was dreaming.
Dear God-Spirit, Precious Meri, he did not want to dream. Perhaps, if he whimpered he might wake himself, or Cadder might hear and wake him. But he could make no sound, so the dream claimed him.
Alone in the Shrine, his eyes on the Great Crystal, he sensed danger all around him. He could hear deceit whispering in the halls above and behind, and perfidy scuttling in the eaves. Profanity quivered in every dark nook; blasphemy shivered invisibly in the air.
As he stood guard here, the shadowy forces coalesced and took on a loathsome form. Ladhar could not see it, but he knew its aspect; it was writhing darkness and flame; it smelled of incense, oils and lust-born sweat; it sang lewd duans and whispered obscenities. It fed on power—the sort of power that could be channeled and amplified through the Crystal on which he now fixed his eyes.
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