Ruadh winced and rubbed his temples. “And when they are yours?”
Daimhin straightened and moved to warm his hands at the meager blaze in the chamber hearth. “I’ve been giving that much thought. It occurs to me that I might consolidate my hold on Mertuile if I were to marry the widowed Cwen.”
Ruadh shook his head . . . slowly. “You think Toireasa will have you?”
“I think,” Daimhin said, fingering Bloodheart’s leather pouch, “she will be enchanted with the idea.”
“I’ve heard she’s barren.”
“Taminy has healed worse conditions.”
“You have been giving this thought, haven’t you? Of course, once your heir is of educable age, I suppose Airleas Malcuim’s life will be worthless.”
Daimhin smiled at him over one shoulder. “I haven’t thought quite that far ahead,” he said, then let the smile fall. “See to it that your men are ready to march at dawn.”
Chapter 18
And when my lovers ask you about Me, then know that I am near. I hear the prayer of those that cry to Me. Let them hear My Voice and trust in Me. And let them be led aright.
—Osraed Ochan
Book of the Covenant #99
Today Airleas’s solitary walk fetched him up in Airdasheen again, gazing around at the snow-covered roofs of the clutter of houses and tiny shops. There were no streets as such in the village, but only narrow avenues paved with slate or granite block that converged on a central village circle. In the warmer seasons there was an open air market here; now there was only a large patch of snow much used by the village children.
Airleas watched them cavort among the drifts, building them up and exploding them gleefully in turns. They glanced at him cautiously, never full on, making him feel alien. He turned away, breathing deeply of the frosty, smoke-laden air and caught a whiff of something baking. The aroma drew him across the village circle to the Backstere’s shop, the carefree laughter of the children following him.
The shop was warm and smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg and apples and . . . He gave up trying to catalogue the smells and drank in the wonderful, if limited, array of buns and breads and little cakes.
From behind a long table in the center of the front room, the Backstere smiled at his visitor. “Fresh cinnamon baps today, lad,” he said.
Airleas liked that—“lad.” It made him feel . . . normal. He grinned at the Backstere. “I’d like two of those, please, and a sugar cake.”
He held out a handful of coins, which the Backstere took after a moment of hesitation. Airleas gathered up his prizes, stuffed the baps in his pocket and began nibbling on the sugar cake. The door opened behind him, letting a draft of cold air into the shop and jingling the little silver bell tied to the latch. He turned to see Eyslk’s mother, a basket on her arm.
Seeing him, the mistress an-Caerluel smiled and inclined her head. “Good-day, lord.”
“Good-day, mistress,” he said and found that he also liked being called “lord.”
Mistress an-Caerluel bid the Backstere good-day and conducted her business with him, trading eggs and herbs for baked goods. Then she turned her attention to Airleas once again.
“Are you enjoying your stay here, lord?”
Enjoying? Airleas had never thought of his tenure here as something to be enjoyed as much as something to be suffered.
“There are things I like about Airdnasheen,” he admitted diplomatically. “But . . . I wish I could do more.”
“Do more?” repeated Deardru, her dark eyes glinting humorously. “What might a boy your age do more of?”
Airleas drew himself up, mustering his dignity. “I’m Cyneric, mistress. I should be doing more to . . . to take back my father’s throne—to set things right in Caraid-land.”
Deardru smiled and shook her head. “How like my first husband you are. Raenulf was ever ready to rise up and defend the land of his ancestors—single-handedly, if necessary.”
“You speak of Raenulf Hageswode, mistress? The Ren Catahn’s elder brother?”
“Aye. He was a brave man. A brave boy, too.” She smiled again. “Like you.”
Airleas flushed at the praise. “How old was he at his Crask-an-duine?”
Deardru began moving toward the door, drawing Airleas with her smile. “Well, let me see.” She opened the door, letting in a gust of chill wind, and stepped out into the snow with Airleas at her heels. “I was thirteen at the time; I suppose he must have been almost fourteen. I’ll never forget how proud of him I was. I knew he would be my husband even then.”
“Almost fourteen,” Airleas murmured. “Older than I am. Catahn was only twelve when he did it. I guess that’s why he’s Ren.”
Deardru’s face clouded momentarily. “Raenulf was . . . more headstrong than Catahn. He was a man of action. Where Catahn was inclined to sit and think and agonize over his decisions, Raenulf was impulsive, even as a boy. The village elders and the holt Council thought him brash, even cocky. He wasn’t. He was merely braver than they were, more willing to take risks for what he believed in.” She glanced at Airleas obliquely. “I imagine you’re a bit like that—ready and willing to fight for what you believe to be true. Ready to act on your beliefs.”
“I am,” said Airleas. “I am ready to fight—to take action, only . . .”
“Only?”
Airleas studied the sloping, snow-covered lane that led toward Deardru-an-Caerluel’s house. How to put it into words . . .
“Only I’m not really ready yet. Not for the kind of fight I’ll need to wage.”
Deardru’s eyebrows rose. “Who tells you this?”
“Well, Catahn and Osraed Wyth and mother and . . . and Taminy.”
She shook her head. “So little faith they have in you?”
“Oh no, it’s not that. I’m not ready. I’ve so much to learn—from all of them. I used to think about sneaking away. I even tried it once. I was going to make my way to Creiddylad—raise an army on my way.” He laughed.
“Now, why do you laugh? I think that’s very brave. That’s the sort of thing Raenulf would have done. It’s the sort of thing a Cyne might do.”
“I didn’t even have a sword, mistress! Or know how to use one.”
“What matter? You have far greater strength than a sword arm—I can tell.” She looked at him very directly, eyes assessing. “I have my share of the aidan, you know. I can tell that you do, too. You’re a fountain of it, Cyneric Airleas. Strong, like Raenulf, and brave. You’re more ready than you think. More man than many that have made the Crask-an-duine.”
They had come to Deardru’s house by now and entered a small fenced yard.
“I have something I want to give you, Cyneric Airleas, if you’ll accept a gift from me.”
“I . . . What sort of gift?”
“Wait a moment and I’ll show you.”
She went ahead of him to the little house and disappeared within while he stood in the tiny front yard, wondering at how four people could live in a place that was no bigger than his mother’s suite of rooms at Mertuile. He glanced up over the house’s eaves at the stark castle molded to the mountainside. Even there, his world was extensive, if lacking in luxury.
The door swung wide and the Mistress an-Caerluel reappeared. She held out her hand and placed in his an amulet hung on a thong of braided hair.
“A catamount,” he murmured. “That’s the Hageswode totem.”
“Aye. It belonged to Raenulf. It will draw courage to you and increase and preserve your valor.”
He rubbed the hair between his fingers. “Whose is this?”
She smiled. “Mine. It will bind the protection to you while the amulet helps you focus your aidan and your courage.”
“But it was your husband’s, mistress. Are you—?”
She closed his fingers around the totem. “Take it. It should go to another young man so like Raenulf.”
“Shouldn’t Eyslk have it?”
“Eyslk is Catahn’s now, more than she
is mine. Take it, with my blessing.”
He thanked her, amazed by the gesture, bemused by her words, but feeling suddenly much older than his nearly thirteen years—much closer to his Crask-an-duine.
He was standing there alone, studying his prize when someone called his name from the lane. He looked up to see Broran by the narrow gate and quickly settled the amulet over his head.
“The Ren Catahn is looking all over for you,” Broran informed him when he emerged into the road. “He wants to see what you’ve learned of swordsmanship. I think he’s got a few things he wants to show you himself.”
Airleas caught his breath. “Do you think I’m ready to learn from the Ren?”
Broran shrugged and began walking toward Hrofceaster. “Ready as you’ll ever be, I reckon. You’re not bad,” he added. “You learn pretty fast. When you want to.”
They walked for a while in silence, then Broran said, “So, what words did the Mistress an-Caerluel have for you?”
None of your business, was what he wanted to say, but more than that Airleas wanted Broran’s good will and so, he said, “She told me about her husband, Raenulf. What a brave man he was . . .” He shrugged.
“What was it she gave you?”
Reluctantly, Airleas drew the amulet from beneath his jacket and was rewarded when Broran’s tawny eyes nearly started out of his head.
“That’s a Hageswode totem.”
Airleas nodded. “I know. She said it would draw protection to me and focus my courage. She said I reminded her of Raenulf Hageswode.”
Broran snorted. “You’d do better,” he said, “to focus your brain. Courage is a grand thing, but a well-taught aidan is better and wisdom in using it better still.”
Broran was right, of course, and Airleas could make no comeback.
“Raenulf Hageswode,” Broran told him as if compelled to explain his advice, “was a wild man. He cared naught for wisdom or learning or patience or anything but danger and a good fight.”
“Catahn’s never said that of him.”
“Catahn wouldn’t, but it’s true. Catahn was always pulling him from the fire, but Raenulf liked the heat too well. Died because of it.”
“You know so much,” Airleas remarked, half-taunting.
“Ought to. My da served with Raenulf up at Moidart. They were cousins. Da was there when Raenulf died. Brought his body back and all. Brought that—” He gestured at the amulet bobbing over Airleas’s breast. “—as well, to the brave man’s widow.”
Airleas swallowed. “Catahn said he was a brave man. That he died in battle.”
“Oh, aye, he did that. And he started the battle that killed him. Took an encampment of Deasach corsairs in the foothills. Single-handed.”
“Single—!” Airleas gasped. “But—”
“Sought out their camp in the middle of the night and slit two Deasach throats before the alarm was raised. Then off he ran—or tried to. Meant to lead the corsairs back to his comrades, da figures, only he never made it. Of course his men tried to rescue him. Three of them died too.”
Airleas bristled, not wanting Broran to be right about his newest hero. “Says your da.”
“Says my da,” Broran repeated emphatically. “You know you shouldn’t wear that without showing it to Taminy. Mistress an-Caerluel is no special friend of hers . . . or Catahn’s.”
“Oh, and does your da know all about that as well?”
Broran reached out a hand and stopped him roughly. Airleas expected the youth to mount some defense of his father, but instead, with an expression sober as any he’d ever seen on Osraed Wyth’s face, Broran said, “Take the amulet to Taminy, Airleas. Let her decide whether it’s a Weaving you should carry about you.”
oOo
They had left before dawn, a long column of mounted men, silent amid the pale jingle of bits, the creak of leather, the muted tack-tack of cloth-wrapped hooves. Once on the beach outside Creiddylad’s west-facing Sea Gate they had paused only long enough to unbind their horses’ feet, then moved off smartly southward, the roar and rush of surf covering the thunder of their movement.
Now, as the Sun climbed in the sky, they were miles from the city, streaming south along the shore at a brisk trot. Very soon they would be crossing Madaidh land, and Daimhin Feich gave some thought to attempting to add some Madaidh men to his forces, but the Madaidh, he knew, were stubborn loners. It was enough that they could be counted on for their self-serving neutrality. They would provide a physical buffer between his forces and the Taminists in the hills beyond Creiddylad. The aislinn buffer would be provided by Coinich Mor.
The sound of a horse moving at a gallop through moist sand brought Feich’s attention to the dunes along their landward flank. Beside him, his cousin Ruadh roused himself from a near stupor and glanced away toward the rock-strewn sands where a horseman in Feich colors had now appeared.
He grunted. “It’s Correch.”
The rider was upon them in a moment, reining in his mount along side Ruadh. “The caravan is well away, lords,” he reported. “It rolls over an hour behind on the cliff road. The cannon slows things up a bit. Surely, we don’t plan to take it up into the mountains with us?”
“We won’t need it in the mountains,” Daimhin told his kinsman. “We have stronger weapons. But I promised to return the cannon to the Deasach, and I keep promises to prospective allies, Correch. It shows good faith.”
Correch shrugged. “It’s nothing to me, I’m sure. As long as it’s not holding up the main column. It only seems we might have needed it to defend Mertuile.”
Ruadh chuckled, rubbing his eyes. “It’s not a defensive weapon, Correch. That cannon is intended for breaching walls and laying waste to villages. Which makes me wonder a bit why the Deasach had it cast.”
Daimhin raised his eyebrows. “To attack Caraid-land, you suppose? You could be right. With Colfre’s militaristic designs, they may have had reason to suspect they needed it, but I have taken steps to see that they do not need to fear us. We will not war with the Deasach when it is better to be their allies. Better to be on the butt end of that cannon than to stand before its muzzle.”
Glancing ahead, he caught sight of a rune post. “We’re almost within Madaidh lands. Prepare to run up the standards. I want them to know who crosses their territory.”
They did mount their standards shortly after that—the Feich’s black raven on its field of yellow and, flanking it, the Malcuim and Dearg pennants—clasped hands on green and a red hand on a white and yellow field respectively—but going before them was the standard Feich most wanted to catch the Taminist eyes when at last they reached Hrofceaster. There was no banner to play on the stiff breeze. At the top of the long, brass-jointed pole gleamed the Star Chalice—the Cup of Cynes—from which every legitimate ruler of Caraid-land had drunk his oath of office. Filled to the crystalline rim with sunlight, its delicate facets overflowed, spilling rainbows into the morning air.
Beneath it in a gold and silver casket rode the false Osmaer. Only Daimhin Feich and a handful of his confidantes knew it was false, and they could be trusted not to speak of it. The Madaidh would not know, nor would the Deasach. He was riding to crown a Cyne at Airdnasheen; it remained to be seen whether the Cyne would be Malcuim or Feich.
By late afternoon it became obvious that the Madaidh were not interested in his train. Nor did anyone else seem to be, though they were watched after by fishermen and villagers at times during the day. Just before twilight, they bore inland, crossing the dunes and low hills to meet the shore road. Ahead, still at great distance, was the seaward tail of the Gyldan-baenn and the border between Caraid-land and El-Deasach.
They camped the night in the heart of Madaidh, but the only word from that House was a messenger sent to assure them safe passage and God-speed. It nettled Daimhin Feich that Rodri Madaidh could not be bothered to visit him face to face, but Coinich Mor was there to absorb his ill humor and offer comfort.
They were on the road the second day at dawn,
and it was just shy of mid-day when riders were seen to be approaching from the south. It wasn’t long before the flowing black robes of Deasach corsairs could be discerned. The handful of riders—a mere half-dozen—spurred their mounts forward along the road, advancing on the column at a gallop.
Ruadh drew his sword and started to call up a guard, but Daimhin stopped him with a leisurely hand.
“Stay cousin. It’s our friend, Shak Saba.”
“How can you be sure?”
Daimhin smiled, feeling the aidan’s power ripple deliciously in his breast. “Simply know that I can. Halt the troops.”
Ruadh shouted and raised his gloved hand. Behind him, the cavalcade came to a ragged halt. The advancing riders were upon them in moments. As Daimhin had said, they were lead by Sorn Saba, who pulled up beside them, a look of puzzlement on his face.
“Regent Daimhin! Why do you ride for El-Deasach? I expected to find you at Mertuile awaiting my return.”
“Much has happened since you left, Sorn. Let us ride away a bit and I’ll tell you of it.”
He reined his horse aside a measure of yards, Sorn Saba following him. When they were out of earshot of the men, Daimhin pulled up and turned to the Deasach.
“Since you left Mertuile, the Osmaer Crystal has been taken from Creiddylad by Taminists.”
“Your Great Crystal stolen?” murmured Sorn. “But how?”
“Our Abbod turned traitor and put it into their hands. He paid with his life, but that doesn’t answer the fact that the Stone is gone—presumably on its way to Airdnasheen. I felt we could wait no longer. If your sister has refused our alliance, I must seek to change her mind personally. Tell me, Sorn, what is her answer?”
Sorn smiled. “As I suspected, she was eager to accept your plea for alliance once I explained your situation . . . and added my own plea. Of course, there is still the matter of the gifts . . .” His eyes swept the column, seeking sign of the tribute.
Daimhin smiled wryly. “Of course. A matter you may take charge of personally, if you wish. The caravan bearing my gifts to your sister . . . and yourself . . . is some distance behind us on this road.”
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