oOo
Saefren Claeg couldn’t breathe. He could only stand with his back to the cold stone wall and let his terror suffocate him. His ears cringed from the sound of his breath rasping through his dry throat. He could hear the others breathing, too.
Dear God, he could hear their hearts beating in their breasts and he found it impossible to believe the man standing not five feet from him could not also hear them . . . or see them. Yet, Daimhin Feich’s pale eyes swept the room, passing over the spot where he stood again and again, each time looking right through him.
Saefren’s breath caught in his throat, sweat started from every pore in his body. He wanted to glance at Aine, pressed to the wall beside him, and couldn’t. He had done it once and found the blank spot where he knew she must be too unsettling to contemplate.
An invisible hand grasped his, pressing it, holding it against the cold stones of the refectory wall. He took a deep, painful breath. Humiliation washed over him, blanketing his fear. If he was invisible to Daimhin Feich, he was not to Aine-mac-Lorimer’s aidan.
Not four feet away, now, Daimhin Feich snarled something to his men and turned on his heel. His entourage followed him to the refectory doors, trading uneasy glances. The skittish cleirach trailed after—it seemed he couldn’t move quickly enough—but the Dearg Wicke lingered a moment to wander among the long tables, pondering the room with bemused eyes. Then she, too, was gone.
Saefren thought he might collapse, but could not, yet. The danger wasn’t past and would not be until Feich and his party rode away.
Minutes stretched. Sounds from the outer corridors continued, waned, ceased.
After long moments of listening to each other breathe, Aine loosed her grip on Saefren’s hand and sagged back into the wall, becoming a solid and visible presence.
“They’re gone.”
Saefren let his own body relax against the firm stones of Carehouse. “Thank God. I thought . . .”
“That they’d be able to see us?” asked Aine. Her face, too, was sheeny with sweat.
“Forgive me, Aine Red,” he begged, mocking, “but I’ve never been caught in the midst of a Cloakweave before. It was an unsettling experience.”
“Unsettling,” repeated Leal, wiping perspiration from his brow. “I was terrified. I wasn’t sure I could hold it that long. It’s one thing to Cloak yourself, but to hide an entire roomful of people . . .” He shook his head, glancing around the room to where others stretched or slumped or shook themselves. “I’m exhausted.”
“No time for that, I’m afraid.” Osraed Fhada stood in the doorway of the cellar passage, a wide-eyed little girl attached to one arm. “We’ve got to get these people out of here.”
“Do we?” Saefren asked. “Feich’s searched and found nothing. Surely the place is safe now.”
Fhada shook his head. “We don’t dare take a chance, Saefren. He’s Gifted. It could be only a matter of time before he realizes what we’ve done. Or he might put a watch on the place. We’d be in constant danger of being surprised. We can’t stay cloaked forever.”
So, they gathered up belongings and food and divided their number into small groups of five or six, the better to make clandestine journeys. Of the fifty or so people that had congregated at Carehouse, only a handful had mastered the Cloakweave. Those would be needed to ferry the refugees to safety.
When they had completed their plans for the exodus, Saefren gathered up his own belongings and loaded them onto his horse, thankful Feich hadn’t seen fit to take the four-legged inmates of Carehouse’s stable. He was tightening the cinch of his saddle when he sensed movement in the stable doorway.
Nerves still fired, he whirled, hand finding his sword. But it was only Aine who stood in the broad aisle, her robust form silhouetted against the silvery haze of moonlight washing in from the courtyard.
“You’re going to Mertuile?” she asked.
“I promised I would. A Claeg doesn’t go back on a promise.”
“I still think I should go with you.”
“Feich’s not stupid. He’ll be expecting Taminists to try escaping him. You’re one of the few here who can muster a Cloakweave. You’ll be needed.”
The silhouette shifted. “You speak of Weaving as if its something you now believe in.”
“It saved my life. Have I a choice?”
“Then you believe the future of Caraid-land is in Taminy’s hands.”
“I believe the future of Caraid-land is in Daimhin Feich’s hands, as frightening as that is. I also believe it’s my duty to help pry it out again. I’ll concede your . . . abilities and those of your Mistress, but that doesn’t make me a Taminist.”
She said nothing to that and, without further comment, Saefren led his horse from the stable and mounted. He’d ridden halfway to the gate when Aine, following him, spoke again.
“Are you just going to ride right out into the street?”
“Am I expected to fly?”
“Feich might have posted men in the streets. Had you thought of that?”
He hadn’t, but should have. He glanced up at the evening sky with its undercoat of wood and peat smoke, and sighed. “Have you a suggestion?”
“I can cloak you as far as the next block. Just in case.”
“All right,” he agreed. “As far as the next block, then.”
She smiled, triumphantly, he thought, and faded from sight as if obscured by a piece of the night sky.
I will never get used to that, he thought, and steered his mount through the half open gate and out into the narrow street.
oOo
“And we can do nothing?” Airleas’s eyes stung with tears of futility and the snow-covered trees and houses blurred.
“We do what we do,” Taminy answered him. “It’s not as little as you think.”
Airleas thought he would explode with pent up rage. The situation in Creiddylad grew worse by the day, and yet he could do nothing but sit here, aloof on this mountainside, praying and practicing inyx. He blinked into the chill wind that roamed fitfully over the flank of Baenn-an-ratha.
“But when will we act?”
“We act already. We prepare our minds and souls for the future. What more should we do?”
“We should go to Creiddylad, free Iseabal and throw Daimhin Feich off of my father’s throne and out of Mertuile. Between the men The Claeg left here and the ones camped in the lowlands, plus the Hillwild, we could surely rout them.”
He turned to Taminy on a wave of passionate certainty and found her poking at a mound of snow with the toe of her boot.
“Daimhin Feich hasn’t mounted an attack on Hrofceaster because he can’t get to it right now. How do you propose to get your forces down off the mountains?”
Airleas chewed on that momentarily. “We don’t really need a force,” he concluded. “We need only a handful of people—but all must be Artful. Then we could enter Mertuile by stealth, and deal with Feich. Maybe even force him to admit that he killed my father.”
“I don’t think Daimhin Feich will be at Mertuile much longer.”
Airleas shivered. Damn snow. Damn cold. Damn wind.
“Then he comes to Hrofceaster? Good! The allied Houses can sweep in behind him, squeeze him into the blocked passes and crush him against the mountain. Then I could lead the Claeg men and the Hillwild down to—”
“I thought we’d already covered that. Do you really think the Claeg and the Hillwild will follow you on a suicide mission?”
“I’m their Cyne.”
“Cyneric, until you’re set before the Stone.”
“That’s right. And I need to show leadership, don’t I, if I’m to win their respect? If I lead my own defense—”
“You’d put yourself and your House at great risk.”
“Catahn says that taking risks is the mark of a great leader.”
Taminy’s breath appeared in a steamy sigh. “Calculated risks, Airleas. Well-reasoned and backed by experience and intuition. There’s more to le
adership than taking troops into battle.”
“Yes. Yes, I know, but how can I learn that here on this mountain? When will I have a chance to prove myself?”
“When you’re ready to be proven, I suppose.”
“But Daimhin Feich—”
“Is not your concern now, Airleas. He is mine.” Her voice, always gentle, carried a new touch of iron.
“You don’t think I’m ready, do you? Not ready to be Cyne—not even ready for Crask-an-duine.”
She glanced at him out of the tail of her eye. “That’s become very important to you hasn’t it?” When he nodded emphatically, she told him, “I don’t decide when you’re ready for Crask-an-duine. The Aeldra and the Ren decide that.”
“But you know—”
She turned to face him, laying her hands on his shoulders. “I know that you’re being asked to grow up very quickly, Airleas. You’re twelve years old and yet you must struggle toward manhood with every ounce of strength. I’ll help you all I can, but I can’t learn your lessons for you. You must learn them for yourself.”
“But you won’t even give me a crystal of my own to Weave with—just that tiny schooling stone. When will I have a crystal of my own, Taminy?” He was whining and he knew it. Abashed, he added, “It’s just that there’s so much I have to do.”
“I know. And when you’re ready to do it . . .” She left the rest unsaid.
Disappointed, Airleas turned away from her and continued down the trail to Airdnasheen.
Chapter 17
Gracious Spirit! If none strays from Your Path, how can Your children know mercy? If wrong is never committed, how can Your forgiveness be tasted? May I be a living sacrifice for those that err, for they shall know both Your mercy and Your forgiveness. God preserve them from Your justice.
—Utterances of Taminy-Osmaer
Book of the Covenant
Saefren Claeg had no trouble gaining access to Mertuile and hadn’t expected to. The gatekeep was hardly going to tell Iobert Claeg’s nephew and aide he wasn’t welcome in the Cyne’s castle.
Daimhin Feich was not in the throne room. Neither his House Elders nor his guards seemed to be aware of his whereabouts; Saefren thought intentionally so—they seemed strangely uneasy with the subject. He had to content himself with wandering the quiet halls.
When Colfre was Cyne, the castle Mertuile had been a nest of activity—scurrying servants, visiting Eiric, Ministers, merchants, House Chieftains and Elders. The most purposeful activity he’d seen here took place in the outer ward around the Deasach cannon. The Feich and their allies did seem to be preparing for some sort of action.
The scent of cooking food drew Saefren to the dining rooms. The larger one was unoccupied, but in the smaller private room, a fire burned in the far hearth and a screen had been drawn around the table there to help hold in the warmth.
Here Ruadh Feich ate a solitary meal, his shadow lying long across the floor. He glanced up as Saefren entered the room, his eyes widening in surprise.
“Saefren Claeg! Good-eve. Your presence . . . astonishes me. Is your uncle with you?”
“No. I was just in the city passing time, and I thought I might have a word with your cousin, the Regent.”
Ruadh sipped hot cider, watching Saefren’s approach over the rim of his cup. “About?”
“Uncle was concerned about your young hostage.”
Ruadh’s lips pursed and he peered into the depths of his cup. “Hostage?”
“The girl, Iseabal.”
“Ah, the little Wicke, you mean. How did your uncle know about her? He’d left Nairne—”
“Surely her capture wasn’t a state secret. That sort of intelligence does tend to slip out.”
“To the concern of Iobert Claeg?”
“We delivered the girl to Halig-liath ourselves. We’re concerned with her welfare.”
“Ah. Most people around here are concerned about Daimhin’s welfare. Consorting with Wicke has never been popular with the Feich Elders. It makes them nervous. Well, you’ve good reason to be concerned, I think.”
Saefren tensed. “Has anything happened to her? Is she well?”
Ruadh’s laughter was false. “My cousin happened to her. I haven’t seen her for above a week, myself, though Daimhin sees her a good deal more than is probably good for her. Under the circumstances, I can’t believe she’s well. I only know she’s not dead . . . yet.”
Saefren tried to ignore the tight, cold lump that sat in the pit of his stomach. “Where is she?”
Ruadh gestured at the ceiling with his cup, which sloshed its contents down his arm. He seemed not to notice and Saefren realized he drank something stronger than cider. “Up there, somewhere.”
“Somewhere.”
“Her room adjoins my cousin’s. I understand that’s going to change soon.”
“Can you take me to her?”
“Should I take you to her?”
“I only want to make sure of her health.”
“You were looking for my cousin. If I take you to the girl, chances are you will find him.”
So much the better, Saefren thought and caressed the hilt of his sword.
Ruadh did not miss the movement. “Or, he could be with our other auspicious prisoner. The Abbod Ladhar is a Taminist, did you know that?”
“I very much doubt that. Ladhar is ruthless when it comes to their persecution.”
“Found one of their books on him.”
“One he probably lifted from the hand of a dead Taminist.”
Ruadh watched the firelight trace bright tracks in the etched silver surface of his cup. “I read some of it.”
Saefren did not react.
“Have you, ever?”
“No. I’ve heard some of their . . . doctrine, if you will. But read, no.”
Ruadh merely nodded.
“The girl?” Saefren prompted.
Ruadh rose from his chair, only a little unsteady, and led from the room.
“I noticed a lot of activity in the outer ward,” Saefren remarked as they negotiated the chill halls. He didn’t remember Mertuile being quite so cold and dark. “Are you still planning on trekking into the Gyldan-baenn?”
“Have to. Daimhin promised we’d get them back their little demi-god.”
“Isn’t that foolhardy?”
“Oh, but you forget—or perhaps you don’t know—my cousin is fey. Kissed by the aidan, overflowing with Eibhilin energies sucked from his wickish lady-friends, his enemies, and probably every other living thing within a twenty mile radius. Cousin Daimhin can now have whatever he wants, which makes it his right, I suppose.”
That had an ominous sound even to Saefren’s ears. He forced a chuckle. “I see. Will he fly over the Gyldan-baenn, then?”
“Ah, yes. On the back of a raven, I believe,” Ruadh said cryptically and fell into a thoughtful silence.
Saefren could think of nothing more to say to him, and wished he had Aine-mac-Lorimer’s aidan so he could divine the other man’s thoughts.
Once on the second floor, they traversed the Royal wing. The widely-spaced doors hinted at the size of the apartments behind the tapestried and paneled walls. At the end of the broad main corridor Ruadh stopped and nodded toward a heavily ornamented door.
“That’s it. He’s not here. He usually posts guards when he’s . . . consorting with one of his Wicke.”
“Can you open it?”
“No key. Cousin wears it. Like a jewel. Around his neck.”
Saefren stepped forward and tried the door. Indeed, it was locked.
“Iseabal?” he called softly. “Iseabal-a-Nairnecirke, are you there? Are you all right? It’s Saefren Claeg.”
There was no answer and Saefren felt a chill of dread trickle like ice down his back. He put his ear to the door, ignoring Ruadh Feich’s opaque stare.
“Daimhin isn’t a very gentle man,” Ruadh commented almost absently. “Never has been. Oh, he starts out that way—soft-spoken, caressing. But somewhere b
etween wanting and having . . . it’s as if a demon takes him. Demon-Daimhin. I’ve heard women call him that. Those were the willing ones.”
Saefren rattled the door with no result. “Damn. Look, Ruadh, I need to talk to the Regent. Have you no idea where he is?”
“Behind you?”
Saefren turned. Daimhin Feich was indeed standing behind him, flanked by two armed men in Feich colors. He shook his head, made a clucking noise with his tongue.
“I come to visit my lovely guest and what do I find—she’s attracted other admirers.”
“Saefren was merely concerned about the good health of your lovely guest,” said Ruadh dryly. “He seems to feel some personal responsibility for it.”
“Uncle was concerned that the girl not come to any harm,” Saefren offered.
Daimhin Feich smiled. “Charming. Concerned about the health of a virtual stranger—a Wicke, at that. Imagine how concerned he’ll be about you.”
Before Saefren could react to that obvious threat and draw his sword, Feich’s men were all over him, forcing him against the wall and relieving him of his weapon.
Ruadh stumbled out of the way, a stunned expression on his face. “Cousin, what in the name of—!”
“Good work, Ruadh. You’ve helped me capture a traitor.” Feich peered into Saefren’s face. “All Claeg are traitors. All Jura, all Graegam, and all Gilleas. You, sir, are also insurance. If your uncle or any of his cronies put themselves in my way, I will have you dismantled, piece by piece, and the bits sent to your family.” He glanced at the guards. “Take him to the first level dungeon. There’s a tiny cell there with his name on it.”
oOo
Frozen in a moment of sheer terror, Aine watched Feich’s men drag Saefren Claeg away down the corridor. It took all her will not to cry out, not to drop her Cloak, not to give in to desperation and division, but there was Saefren being taken away into the unknown, and there was Iseabal ebbing into aislinn silence just on the other side of that ornately carved door.
She reached for Isha, frantic, wanting to shake her to awareness, but no awareness answered her.
In the instant she hesitated, Saefren was gone from sight and Aine could only stand and quake, desperately clutching her Cloakweave. Tears started from her eyes before she could stop them. She wanted nothing more than to lie down on the dusty floor and weep.
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