“Did you know Airleas was at Hrofceaster, then?”
“If I did, would I have expected to find him here?”
Feich smiled, cursing his capricious aidan; he could no longer read the other man at all. He scanned the stern, bearded face without success and suspected he was being intentionally blocked.
“Then you will ride beside me into the Gyldan-baenn to bring him home?”
“No sir, I will not. Nor shall any man of my House. The passes are deadly. I will not sacrifice my men on a fool’s errand. Airleas Malcuim is safe at Hrofceaster until spring.”
“Safe? In the hands of Evil? Among apostate Osraed and Wicke and Hillwild traitors? You underestimate the danger of his situation.”
“You underestimate the danger of the trail to Airdnasheen. The Claeg withdraw from your company.”
“Aye, and the Graegam,” said that Elder.
“And the Jura.”
“And the Gilleas.”
In the silence that followed that string of pronouncements, Daimhin Feich thought he could hear his own blood boil. He turned his head so as not to touch the curious eyes of the young Deasach Marschal, and addressed his own allies.
“Will you, too, join these men in their cowardice?”
The Dearg, a boulder of a man with flaming red hair, scowled so deeply his brush of brow obscured his eyes. “The Dearg join none in cowardice. We pledged to you. We stand by you. To Hrofceaster!” He raised his cup and drank of it, but his challenge was echoed only by his own kinsman.
Across from him, The Teallach was shaking his head. “I find myself of a mind wi’ t’Claeg. ‘Tis a foolhardy idea. Morose for us, who’re used to milder climes and terrain. My men are untried a’the sort of campaign you propose, Daimhin. The journey alone is near impossible, ne’er mind that you’d have ’em wage war at its end. The boy’s no doubt safe up there.” He jerked his chin at the Gyldan-baenn, whose oppressive presence Feich could feel through the very walls. “If they’d meant to kill ’im, they’d’ve done’t. I pledge you, if you but wait till spring, the Teallach’ll be with you.”
Frustrated, enraged, Feich smote the table with the flat of his hand, making crockery and cutlery leap. “Spring will be too late! Do you not understand the danger of leaving the Cyneric in the hands of that Wicke? She perverts him! Even as we sit here debating, she bends him to her evil will—as she bent his mother, as she bent his father. She aims to make a puppet of him—a tool for her own purposes. If we wait till spring to reach him, Airleas Malcuim will be fit only for the fire. More to the point, Caraid-land may be in a similar condition. If we are not to put Airleas Malcuim on the Throne, then who shall we put there?”
The room went silent again save for the creak of leather and the crackle of flame. Then Iobert Claeg rose.
“If you contemplate setting yourself up as Cyneric, I and mine will resist you to the last man. Be assured our allied Houses will offer similar resistance.”
He glanced down the table at Mortain Jura and the Elders of the Houses Graegam and Gilleas. They gave assent without hesitation.
“If it is anarchy you dread, Regent Feich,” The Claeg continued, “if it is disunity you fear, making yourself Cyneric without public abdication by The Malcuim would be . . . ill-advised. I return to Creiddylad tomorrow, my men with me. If you desire provisions for your . . . mission, Claeg will supply you with what it can.”
He left the room, his supper all but untouched. Mortain Jura and the Elders of the Houses Graegam and Gilleas trailed him like a pack of trained dogs. Feich watched them through a hot, black swell of hatred. They had checked him while he had sat back in false confidence, anticipating anything but this.
The Teallach and Dearg Chieftains and Elders had stayed to finish their meal; it was to these allies that Feich now turned his attention. “What say you, gentlemen? Is Caraid-land to be leaderless until The Claeg and his allies see fit to aid me in returning Airleas Malcuim to the Throne?”
The Teallach finished off his wine and cleared his throat. “Again, I’m forced to agree wi’ Iobert. You are Airleas’s Regent, Daimhin. If you do your job well, Caraid-land should not suffer. We need no Cyneric. We have one, though he seems t’ave been misplaced.”
He patted at his beard with a crumpled towel, then left the table, taking his own Elders with him.
At length, The Dearg spoke. “Perhaps we should make our plans tomorrow. Surely, sleep would be the best medicine tonight.”
Feich shook his head. “No, Eadrig. Thought is the medicine this situation needs—meditation upon our next course of action, upon our resources.”
“You’d do well,” offered Blair Dearg, pride soaking every word, “to consort with my wife on these matters. She has sharp sight, that one.”
Feich growled. “And yet did not see this!” He smote the table again, making the Elder jump right along with the tableware. “Rest assured, I will consort with her, Elder. Indeed, you may go to her this moment and send her to me.”
Blair Dearg glanced at his Chieftain, who answered him with a bare raising of one garish brow. The Elder left immediately on his errand.
“I, too, will give this matter some thought,” The Dearg remarked and removed himself from the table as well. “In the morning we’ll hold council.”
“By morning, I will be in need of no man’s counsel,” Feich murmured as the door closed at his ally’s broad back.
“What do you intend to do?” Ruadh asked. “Iobert Claeg is right about those passes. Winter is come early this year. A small party might make it along those narrow trails, but a battle company—and with that cannon . . .” He shook his head. “If we were to try to go up now, our losses would be too great to bear. It would not be a fighting force that arrived at Airdnasheen, but a funeral procession.”
Feich eyed his cousin with disgust. “You too? I never thought you a coward, Ruadh.”
The young man colored deeply. “I am not a coward. But my men come first in my estimation. I’ll not sacrifice even one of them to your . . . ambition.”
Feich became suddenly aware that this interchange was being watched on by another pair of eyes. Alien eyes. In the moment he recalled Sorn Saba’s presence, the young Deasach said, “There may be an alternative to this suicide, Regent Feich.”
Whatever else Saba had been going to say was interrupted by a knock at the chamber door. Feich scowled. Could Coinich Mor be here so soon? But the nervous energies that leaked from beyond the portal were not Coinich Mor’s. They belonged to an unknown.
“Come,” Feich called, and the door swung open to reveal a strapping young man—Saba’s age or younger—dressed in the short robes of an Aelder Prentice.
“Who might you be?”
The youth stepped into the room, carefully bringing the door to behind him. Broad shoulders back, golden head up, he displayed a handsome face whose expression completely belied the roil of anxiety Daimhin Feich sensed beneath.
“Regent Feich, I am Aelder Prentice Brys-a-Lach, Prentice to the late Osraed Ealad-hach. I have information I believe may be of help to you.”
“Indeed? Why should you care to be of help to me? I thought you lot had all thrown in with Taminy-Osmaer.”
The boy’s face blazed with sudden anger. “She killed my master. She imprisoned him in Halig-liath and then, when he would not submit to her, she murdered him.”
“Your master—this Osraed Ealad-hach you mentioned?”
“Yes, lord.”
Feich nodded. “I remember him. He led the fight against her among the Osraed and accused her before the Hall. A brave man. A righteous soul.”
“Yes, lord.”
Feich gestured at him. “Speak, then, Brys. What information have you?”
The young man glanced anxiously at Ruadh and Sorn.
“Don’t mind them. They’re my closest advisors. Speak.”
“You met with the Triumvirate today.”
Feich nodded.
The golden cheeks flushed. “No sir. You met w
ith three Osraed who only fancy themselves to be the Triumvirate. Only Osraed Calach has any right to his position. Osraed Tynedale took the place of my dead master on seniority alone. Osraed Saxan was voted in by a pack of traitors. All true Osraed have either fled Halig-liath or lie low in fear, pretending loyalty to the new order. The three men you met today are Taminists.”
Feich sat back, lacing long fingers over his flat mid-section. “That fact did not escape me.”
The youth’s blue eyes widened. “You knew? And yet did nothing?”
“Of course I knew. Those blinding Kisses they sport are ample evidence of their apostasy. But what was I to do? I was surrounded by their allies . . . which included several of the Chieftains and Elders in my own party. Is this your great news, Brys-a-Lach? If so, I am disappointed.”
“Ah, no sir. I came to tell this: These false Osraed are not yet able to Speakweave directly to their Mistress. They commune with her through a girl from the village—one of her waljan.” The last word was a sneer.
Feich sat up. “Really? This is most interesting. Who is this cailin and where may I find her?”
The youth smiled. “She is Iseabal-a-Nairnecirke, lord, daughter of the Osraed Saxan. And she is at Nairne Cirke this night with her mother.”
oOo
She had tried to talk to her mother again about Taminy and it had ended, again, with her mother barricaded in her room and Iseabal in tears outside the door. Over the weeks that had followed her return to Nairne, Isha and her mother had slowly mended their relationship; where there was love between souls, there was a path between them as well, a path both had been eager to tread. But with the return of familiarity and intimacy, Iseabal had sought to make her mother understand what was now the center of her existence—her love and loyalty to Taminy, her belief in the New Covenant Taminy embodied.
Ardis-a-Nairnecirke did not want to understand, did not want, even, to accept or acknowledge or hear about Taminy-Osmaer.
So, the path of love between mother and daughter had to be cleared again and, again, trodden. This time they had gotten closer than ever—or so Isha had thought—but then she had brought up the dread Subject, and her poor mother had fled from her in fear for her own soul.
At the top of the stairs Isha sat, drying tears on the sleeve of her sous-shirt, thinking perhaps she should tap at her mother’s door and apologize and promise never to bring the Subject up again—never to even speak of her daily trips up to the Holy Fortress to work with the waljan there.
She turned her left hand palm up in her lap and gazed, blurry-eyed, at the bright gytha. The gytha terrified her mother, so most of the time she kept it muted, using a mere thread of her aidan to do so. It made her want to sob all over again to think that she might never be able to share what was now the most essential part of herself with her own mother. If it were not for her da . . .
Ripples. Dark ripples in the Eibhilin All that surrounded her.
She sat up.
Approach. Someone at the center of those ripples was drawing physically near. Her heart began to pound. She could sense him coming up the road to the Cirke, entering by the gate, skirting the manse—a living well of darkness.
She quivered, frozen at the top of the stairs. What should she do? She was in danger, she knew it. She saw herself in the mind of the dark one; she was the object of his search. In that moment, she knew him—Daimhin Feich—and knew that he must not find her here. She moved, finally, bolting down the stairs and into her father’s study.
The room was dark and smelled of dust and ashes. Her mother had closed it off after her father had gone up to Halig-liath. The door was locked from the outside, but the little lock was nothing much to Iseabal. She stood in the darkened room and sensed the ripples lapping at her home, heard the sounds of booted feet on the verandah and the ringing of the bell outside the front door. She made her mind very still and open and waited.
The men outside rang and pounded, even shouting when no one came immediately to let them in. Then Ardis-a-Nairnecirke opened her bedroom door and came softly down the stairs. The Cirke-mistress called to the men to hold their pounding, and hastened to unbar the door (the door she kept shuttered against her own husband and no one else). Then they were there, in the hall, just outside the room where Iseabal stood and quivered and kept her aidan very still.
“What do you want, gentlemen?” her mother asked, and sniffled. “Ah, Regent Feich, isn’t it? I apologize for the delay, but . . .”
A smooth, creamy voice answered: “I’m very sorry to disturb you, mistress, when you are in such obvious distress, but we are in dire need of assistance from a member of this household. You are the wife of the Osraed Saxan?”
“I . . . Yes, I’m Ardis-a-Nairnecirke. But if it’s my husband you seek, you’ll find him up at Halig-liath, not here.” There was accusation in that.
“I’ve met your husband, mistress. It’s your daughter I seek. Iseabal is her name, I believe.”
“Yes, but what could you want with Isha? She’s only a young girl—”
“A talented young girl, I’ve been led to believe. A girl possessed of a strong Gift.”
Anger pulsed in Ardis-a-Nairnecirke’s breast. “Did Saxan tell you that? He exaggerates, I assure you. Isha is—”
“A Taminist.”
Her mother gasped softly. “Oh, surely sir, you won’t hold childish meanderings against—”
“Your daughter is late of Hrofceaster, as I understand it. She has been trained by this Taminy-a-Cuinn, this self-styled Osmaer, to use her Gift in particular ways. Ways which may be of help to me in finding Cyneric Airleas Malcuim and returning him to his rightful place on the Throne of Caraid-land . . . You do care what happens to Caraid-land, mistress?”
“Yes, of course I do! I—”
“Then let me speak to your daughter.”
Ardis-a-Nairnecirke was uncertain; to Iseabal, her suspicion of Daimhin Feich was a palpable substance.
“Mistress,” Feich said in a milder voice, “I am sorry if my manner seems brusque. Surely you understand that this is a matter of life and death. Airleas Malcuim is in the hands of his enemies. I have reason to believe your daughter can help him.” He paused, and Isha could feel the dark tendrils of his aidan seeking, probing. “If she were to help me find the Cyneric, I’m certain her childish meanderings could be overlooked.”
Relief flooded the space suspicion had lately held. “Yes sir. Thank you, sir . . . Isha!”
Iseabal shivered, listening as her mother called up the stairs. Supposing her to have gone to her room, she led the men to the second floor and along the corridor. Of course, her room was empty. Other rooms were checked, her mother called more loudly. Isha darted a thread of thought toward the front door.
Could she escape that way? But no, Feich was no fool, he’d left men there. She might use her aidan against them, but the thought of using it to do violence was alien.
They were downstairs again, searching the house, her mother saying, “I can’t imagine where she’s gone. We had a bit of a-a disagreement . . . You might check the Sanctuary.”
They did that, and Isha moved swiftly to the window and tried to throw the catches. Her hands shook terribly and the catches were stubborn with rust and swollen wood. Dared she use her aidan, or would he sense her as she sensed him? He was in the Sanctuary now, discovering that she was not. She pushed harder at the window clasps. They rattled, but did not budge. She heard the heavy tread of boot soles on the verandah—muffled voices moving toward the study window.
They’d heard—and now he was coming back through the house. Desperate, Isha tugged at the shutters with her aidan, an inyx on her lips, her full will behind it.
In answer, the catches gave, and outside the door of her father’s study a hungry voice said, “Here! What’s in this locked room?”
“My husband’s study,” said Ardis. “I’ve kept it closed since—”
“Open it.”
Iseabal pulled back the inner shutters and l
ooked out. She could see the graveyard, moonlit and silent, and the vague figure of a man standing not five feet from the window.
“But no one’s been in there—”
“Open it, mistress!”
In her mind’s eye, Isha imagined a shadowy figure darting through the gravestones. Look, you! Look! Someone escapes!
Outside the window, a male voice uttered a muted exclamation and the guard pulled his sword and leapt to follow the phantom.
“I’ll get the key . . .”
Isha fumbled with the window latch.
“Damn you!” Feich roared.
Something struck the door, buckling it inward.
Gasping for breath, Isha gave the window a shove and—
The door splintered behind her while her mother’s voice cried, “Please, sir! Please!”
Iseabal whirled from the window casement, heart beating wildly, breath catching in her lungs. A desperate thought struck her and she grasped her aidan tightly and drew it about her like a cloak.
Daimhin Feich stood in the room, the wreckage of the door about him on the flagged floor. He panted like a weary dog, but his pale eyes, gleaming in the moonlight from the open shutters, were bright and searching.
“Light!” he snarled. “Bring light!”
“I’ll get a lamp,” said someone behind him, but Feich was impatient. He pulled something from a belt pouch and held it before him. The red crystal was aglow before it even cleared the opening of the little bag. It sent bright, ruddy rays into every corner of the room as Daimhin Feich advanced.
“Empty.” A younger man entered the room behind him, a lamp out-thrust in his hand. “She’s escaped.”
“No,” breathed Feich. “Not escaped. I can feel her. Search! Search the room!”
Three men did as he ordered, even peeking behind the open shutters. The young one held his lamp close to the casement.
“See here, Daimhin, she’s opened the window and gone out. Probably well away from here by now.”
Daimhin Feich strode across the room to the other man’s side, making Iseabal, hiding behind her own fierce will, tremble at his nearness, at the nearness of that crystal. Dear God, could he possibly miss how the thing flared up when he passed by her? If she dared move . . .
Crystal Rose Page 26
