He was a little surprised to lift his head and find her smile intact. He had hoped for hurt, reproach or anger.
“Don’t forget about me, Daimhin Feich, because I will be with you always. To the end.”
He laughed in the face of her promise and strode from the room, bemused at how girlish Coinich Mor seemed in her infatuation with him. He was aware that she watched him all the way to the doors, but didn’t look back, but he though she might have spit upon the place where he had stood.
He took the private way to Ochanshrine, crossing the Halig-tyne in his boat, a Malcuim regular at the oars. Abbod Ladhar seemed to be nowhere about, and so he entered the Shrine without announcing himself. Nevertheless, his presence was enough to send every Osraed, Aelder and cleirach scurrying from the sanctum. That pleased him, for he knew they sensed his power; perhaps they could even see it.
He took the steps down to the Crystal two at a time, pausing only when it was in reach. He raised his arms as if to embrace the Stone, but did not touch it. No, he would savor this. He drew in a breath, collecting the raw energies that shimmered behind his eyes, and let it all out—breath and energies alike—on a rush of exultation.
The Stone flared, washing him with light.
Not enough! There must be more. Perhaps he should have practiced with Bloodheart before he came here. He gathered his resources again, reaching deep into his own urgency. He thought of his hours with the Nairnian girl, heating the power within him to a full boil. The light of the Stone grew, steadied, yet . . . where was the heady rush of power? Where the electric potency?
Damn! What was wrong? He’d channeled more force than this through the puny crystals of his Wickish consorts. Anger swelled beneath the buzz of power.
Good. Coinich Mor had said that anger was good, and Iseabal had admitted that Taminy worked the Stone. Obviously, it was Taminy who kept the doors of its mastery closed to him. That enraged him further.
Yes! He could feel the heat, feel the might building up within him. Now he was ready. Now he could grasp—
He glanced up as a disturbance near the doors drew his attention. The Osraed Ladhar, still dressed for sleep, trundled toward him down the sloping aisle of the Shrine, Caime Cadder in his broad wake. He couldn’t help but smile at the look of tragic horror on the old man’s face. Smiling, he laid his hands on the Stone.
He was enveloped in a veil of golden light and warmth, a veil through which he seemed to hear a voice speaking to him, and laughter. The laughter angered him and he threw his will at the Stone with every last ounce of might, thinking, at once of Taminy. He saw her then, as in a hazy dream. She was kneeling in prayer or meditation while, around her, clustered a group of her besotted waljan.
He recognized some of them—the clumsy, young Osraed Wyth; the beautiful, thorny Desary—ah! Airleas Malcuim and his viperous mother; and the Ren Catahn.
Hatred boiled within him at the sight of the Hillwild, at the look on that dark, bearded face, turned toward Taminy-Osmaer in carnal worship. He could well imagine the sort of relationship they shared. Had the savage learned to tap that well of Eibhilin power? The thought stunned him and brought a growl of rage to his throat. The growl grew to a snarl as the image began to fade.
Feich tightened his grasp on the Crystal. “No! Not yet! I’m not finished!”
The Stone didn’t seem to care. The vision dissolved, the light waned, the warmth died beneath his hands.
No! This was all wrong! Wrong! He should have all but shattered the Crystal with the amount of power he’d consumed. He should have been able to rock the foundations of Ochanshrine and Hrofceaster alike with sheer force. He had done everything Coinich Mor had taught him—he had siphoned the energies, held them, concentrated them, expelled them . . .
Coinich Mor.
He pulled his hands from the Crystal with a curse. Damn her. She must have done this. Or perhaps he had allowed her to do it by letting her seduce him into that one, unwitting kiss. Wherever the blame lay, she had sucked Iseabal’s forces from him with that greedy mouth, or polluted them. It hardly mattered which. It meant a delay—a delay that Daimhin Feich knew he could ill afford.
He glanced up to find Abbod Ladhar watching him, those beady eyes like bits of glass in the ruddy face. Humiliation warmed Feich’s cheeks. To have failed so abjectly before this swollen toad and his pack of superstitious holy men . . .
With an effort he calmed himself. No matter. He would simply have to return to Mertuile and visit the Nairnian girl again—always assuming her store of Eibhilin energy was renewable. Well, of course it was. Her dear Mistress was always with her, she’d said that herself. Just a few more hours and he could return, and this time he would see to it that neither Coinich Mor nor anything else distracted him.
He left Ochanshrine without saying a word to Ladhar or his mewling mendicants and crossed the mouth of the Halig-tyne, urgency building by the second. He was winded by the time he made the long climb from the pier to the main floor of the castle —winded, irate and far from happy to have his cousin and Eadrig Dearg accost him at the bottom of the ornate staircase that led up to the first level of private chambers.
“What is it, Ruadh? I haven’t time—”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to make time, cousin. There is a sizable contingent of citizens in the outer ward who insist that we produce Airleas and vacate Mertuile. They’re demanding that we use our guards to clear the streets of criminals rather than having them chase down every Taminist too stupid to be in hiding.”
“How did these citizens come to be in the outer ward?”
Ruadh’s mouth twitched. “I take it they bribed a gate-keep. Enterprising of them.”
“Why should I care what they demand? I’m in control of Mertuile—”
“It seems, cousin, that over beyond the landward hills a considerable contingent of Claeg, Jura, Graegam and Gilleas kinsmen still sit, waiting for . . . something. I suggest that if we don’t do something toward getting Airleas back to Mertuile, our unhappy citizens might prevail upon them to stop waiting.”
Feich’s jaw tightened. “I told them to disband—to return to their estates.”
“They didn’t listen. Does that really surprise you?”
“As I said, I don’t have time—”
“Daimhin.” Ruadh put a hand on his cousin’s arm and steel into his voice. “I don’t think you understand the situation. The people currently milling beyond the inner curtain have every intention of breaching it and speaking with you face to face. They’re rather . . . upset about the demise of their representative government and are demanding its return . . . among other things.”
Feich glared from his cousin to the silent Dearg, then pounded his fist on the stair bannister in frustration. “Oh, very well. I’ll go up to the wall and speak to them. I’ll tell them we’ve every intention of bringing their damned Malcuim out of hiding.”
“And the Hall?” The Dearg spoke for the first time.
“And the Hall . . . ?” echoed Feich sarcastically.
His sarcasm was lost on the hirsute Chieftain. “The Hall hasn’t met since Colfre’s death. By law, it should have sat down the next day to handle his affairs.”
“Colfre’s affairs are in my hands.”
“Aye. And that’s the trouble as far as they’re concerned.” He jerked his head toward the outer ward.
As if in response, there was a booming report like a clap of thunder and the gates of the inner curtain shook.
Feich spared no more words for the situation, but hurled himself from the stair and across the patterned floor of the entrance hall, taking special pleasure in grinding his boot into the Malcuim crest inlaid there. He crossed the court at a run, climbed to the walk along the top of the inner curtain, and stood trembling, glaring down at the crowd below him.
Ruadh and The Dearg moved to flank him.
“You!” he shouted. “You ungrateful swine! Is this how you treat the Regent of Airleas Malcuim?”
The rabble c
eased its press toward the gate below him and jostled for a view of the Regent. He recognized faces now—several prominent merchants and an Eiric or two fronted the crowd.
One of them shouted back at him: “This is how we treat a Regent who has neglected his duties to city and country alike in favor of chasing about after the members of some petty cult.”
“This ‘petty cult,’ sir, has Cyneric Airleas in hand. Should I allow that to continue?”
“No, sir, you should not! Nor should you allow Caraid-land to stand ungoverned. We want the Hall convened and we want Airleas Malcuim on the Throne where he belongs!”
Around the impudent Eiric—Cearbhall-mac-Corach, his name was, and Feich noted it—began a low chant of “The Malcuim! The Malcuim!” It was a name Daimhin Feich was sorely sick of hearing. He raised his hands over his head. “I intend . . .”
They continued to chant and he tried again . . . and again. On the third try, they let him speak.
“Once my forces are rested from their last attempt to return Airleas Malcuim to Mertuile, we will be mounting another campaign to get him back. We had thought him to be at Halig-liath, but Taminy-a-Cuinn—who calls herself ‘Osmaer’—has spirited him away from there into the Gyldan-baenn. He is now among the Hillwild in the mountain holt of Airdnasheen. I intend to go there and bring him back.”
They approved. He could see it in their sheep faces, feel it wash up from them. He drank in their approval.
“Further,” he continued, “an emergency meeting of the Hall will be called to consult on the replacement of its apostate members.”
“When?” bleated several of the sheep.
“As soon as I have returned with Airleas Malcuim and have set him before the Stone. Until then . . .” He raised his hands against another outcry. “Until then, the Privy Council will handle the affairs of Creiddylad. Take your concerns to them. I expect them to give you satisfaction.”
He stopped and looked down at them. They milled for a moment more, speaking among themselves, then the leaders of the group made signs of agreement.
“That is satisfactory,” said mac-Corach. “For now.”
They began to disperse, to move back toward the outer gates.
Feich heaved a sigh of exasperation. Another riot averted. He’d turned to retrace his steps to the castle when something whizzed by him, narrowly missing his head. Ruadh cried out and drew his sword as Feich whirled to see one of the gate guards fall under the impact of a crossbow bolt. A bolt obviously meant for him.
While other men went to the aid of the fallen, Feich threw himself from the walkway and into the courtyard below.
At the bottom of the steps he doubled over, hands on his knees, to quake and tremble like a frightened child. It took him a moment to realize Ruadh was beside him, a hand on his shoulder. He straightened with an effort and pulled his clothing and thoughts into order.
“Ruadh,” he said, “I will issue a new decree. As of this moment, support of Taminy-Osmaer is an offense punishable by death.”
Chapter 15
In this Day a Door is open wide to the peoples of Caraid-land. The smallest drop of faith in this Day is as an ocean; the smallest sacrifice, a holy Pilgrimage. In this Age, if a soul sow one drop of blood in the field of faith, that soul shall reap the Sea.
—Utterances of Taminy-Osmaer
Book of the Covenant
“Who is it? Who’s at the gate?” Leal hurried across the courtyard to Osraed Fhada’s side.
The older man turned to look at him, his face bloodless. “It’s the Abbod Ladhar.”
Leal blanched and reached fingers of sense through the opaque barrier before him. “He’s alone. And . . . very afraid.” He glanced up at the boy atop the gate. “Let him in, Ferret.”
The bar lifted and the gate groaned inward, allowing the Abbod and his horse to enter. Covered from bald crown to booted foot in a thick, black, hooded cloak, Ladhar clearly feared recognition. When he had dismounted and set back his hood, Leal could see he’d even daubed some camouflaging color over his time-bedimmed Kiss.
“I must speak with you. In secret,” he added.
Fhada merely nodded, made certain the gate was bolted and barred, and led the way into Carehouse and through its halls to his office.
Aine was there, her usually ruddy face pale and drawn.
“Anything from—?” Leal began.
The girl shook her head. “Something’s horribly wrong, Leal. It was as if she was cut off. I felt her terror and then . . . nothing.”
“Taminy?”
Aine glanced at Ladhar, her suspicion of him a prickly thing in the air. “Silent . . . and cloaked in sorrow. What has happened to Iseabal-a-Nairnecirke, Abbod? What has Regent Feich done with her? Is she dead?”
The Abbod seemed, for once, at a loss for words. He colored and paled in turns then said, “As far as I know the girl is alive. I don’t think Daimhin Feich will allow her to be killed. He believes her captivity will draw Taminy out. I suspect he also believes she has abilities he can either channel or learn. He . . . brought her late last night to Ochanshrine and tried to force her to Weave with the Osmaer Crystal. She conjured an aislinn of your Mistress, then dissolved it and refused to do more.”
Aine nodded. “I saw that. Feich was furious. I sensed her terror of him.”
The Abbod busied himself with the closes of his cloak. “Yes, well. He . . . returned this morning, alone, and tried to Weave through the Crystal on his own. Which is why I am here.” He raised his head and offered Leal a direct gaze that was somehow at once contrite and haughty.
Leal could only stammer, “Then Feich has—”
“Feich has nothing. He raised an aislinn of the Wicke at prayer with your fellow . . . disciples—God only knows what it is they pray to—but that was all he could do.”
Leal was weak with relief. “Then he can do nothing with Ochan’s Stone?”
“I don’t know. Nor do I want to know.”
Ladhar reached beneath his cloak and brought out a satchel of soft, black leather. He held it out to Leal, who took it in trembling hands and pulled back the obscuring flap.
Aine, now at Leal’s side, gasped. “The Osmaer!”
“I took your advice, Osraed,” Ladhar admitted stiffly. “Whatever our differences may be—and they are considerable—I am certain you are less of a danger to the Crystal than Feich is. There are times I’m convinced the man is mad. Other times I think he’s only completely amoral. What I do know is what I have seen—he can Weave. Well enough to control the actions of others. Well enough to catch and control the wind.”
Leal’s brow knotted. “Bevol’s Aiffe is a crystal of great clarity and quality. Yet Feich could do nothing with it? How can that be?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps your Mistress blocked him. I only know I don’t want him or his Wickish mistress to lay a finger on the Osmaer. I fear they’d destroy it. I give it into your care in the hope that you can protect it better than I can. It would be much too easy for Feich to find it at Ochanshrine.”
Fhada twitched. “He doesn’t suspect—”
“No, Osraed, he suspects nothing . . . yet. He believes I am his ally.”
“You spoke of his mistress. A Wicke, you called her. Do you mean a Taminist?”
Ladhar snorted. “Hardly. She’s a woman of the House Dearg. The Hillwild wife of a House Elder, but her only allegiance, I wager, is to herself. She somehow got Feich a rune stone—a hideously flawed crimson thing he calls Bloodheart—and she tutors him in all manner of . . . perversion.” He spat the word. “There is something else you should know. Before I left Ochanshrine to come here, someone made an attempt on Daimhin Feich’s life as he gave a speech from the battlements. Feich elected to blame the Taminists. Support of Taminy-a-Cuinn is now punishable by death. Or will be when the Privy Council ratifies Feich’s most recent ban.”
Leal’s heart spasmed. “Will you vote to ratify it, Osraed?”
“I’m not stupid, young man. I have my own li
fe to protect.”
“If we’re now to be the target of Feich’s purges, why bring the Osmaer to us?”
“Recent history indicates Taminy and her acolytes are very difficult targets to hit. Now, I must go—before some new crisis arises at Mertuile or Ochanshrine.” He moved to open the chamber door, then paused to look back at the waljan. “I’m curious. What Weave are you using to create the illusion that Aiffe is the Osmaer Crystal?”
Leal blinked. “Aine modified a Cloakweave and bound it to the stone.”
“A Cloakweave. Which is also what you used to get past the guards at the Shrine. I see. Bound to the stone itself, you say.” He shot Aine an appraising glance. “A useful inyx. I shall probably wish I could Weave one myself before all this is over.”
“How did you know, Abbod?” Leal asked. “About the Weave.”
“I remember Bevol’s crystal. A beautiful stone, but flawed; there was a tiny opaque smut at its base and a hairline fracture in one of the basal facets. Fortunately, Daimhin Feich could hardly be expected to know the difference.”
He left them holding the Osmaer Crystal with the unenviable task of determining how to protect it and a hospice full of condemned Taminists.
It was Aine who broke the silence that had settled over the group. “I’m going up to Mertuile. I’m going to find out what’s happened to Isha.”
“Too dangerous,” Fhada objected. “With the bans—”
“I’ll Weave a Cloak.”
“And if you’re surprised into dropping it? None of us are masters of the Art, though we may have to pretend we are.”
“I’ll wear a crystal to amplify it. I’ll be fine.”
“No, Aine, I’ll go.”
Heads swiveled to a shadowed alcove beside the hearth from which Saefren Claeg had emerged.
“It makes more sense than having you go,” he told Aine before she could protest. “I can get into Mertuile without having to resort to inyx. I should have little trouble finding out what happened to Iseabal. No one would have any reason to lie to me or question my curiosity. After all, my Uncle Iobert was part of the party that brought her here.”
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