He could barely speak. “You . . . you will aid me? You will give me men, arms?”
Again, the husky laugh. “So mercenary. I will give you more than that, lord Daimhin.”
She was mesmerizing and he, willing to be mesmerized. Yet, as they sealed their pact, his mind wandered to the lacework corridor and the transparent vault overhead and he wondered how, with winter pressing in on them, the palace of the Banarigh Lilias was kept so warm.
oOo
The day of their departure for the Gyldan-baenn dawned clear and cool, the Sun shimmering off the sands of Kansbar’s beaches as if reflected from the crushed remains of pearls. From the balcony outside Lilias’s state salon, Daimhin Feich gazed up into the azure sky and took it as an augury: The Sun shines on you, Regent Feich, and the way is clear. Clear to the Gyldan-baenn, clear to the Baenn-an-ratha, clear to Airdnasheen.
He set his eyes on the eastward track, gripping the balcony’s tiled wall with eager fingers. “I’m coming for you, Taminy,” he murmured. “Catahn Hillwild, prepare to give up your prize.”
Arms slid sinuously about his waist. “Do you Weave, my dear Sorcerer?”
He chuckled. “I’m no sorcerer, Lilias.”
“No? If not a sorcerer, then what?”
“What indeed?” He smiled. “Sometimes I wonder.”
Lilias laughed and slid around into his embrace. From the courtyard below, where their combined forces gathered, all eyes could see them; she seemed not to care.
“Less than a god,” she murmured, “more than a man.”
He accepted her flattery with a deep sense of wonder, feeling the truth of her words to his core. More than a man, indeed. His spirit, his soul, stretched to encompass power he had once doubted the existence of. He stood amazed at his own ability—at his own growth.
“Less than a god,” he teased. “That’s not what you told me last night.”
“Ah, well. In the dark, you are a god, and you make me a goddess.”
He had lowered his head to her kiss when a commotion within the palace unraveled the heavy Weave of desire. They parted and turned from the view of their gathering forces to see Loc Llywd enter the salon followed by a Deasach corsair in dirt-spattered clothing. Feich recognized him as one of the men Lilias had sent off in search of her brother and his caravan of gifts, now two days past their expected time of arrival.
Frowning, the Banarigh stepped from the balcony to meet them within. “You have a report? Speak. Where is the caravan?”
“The caravan is in the outer court,” said Loc Llywd, his eyes on Feich. “But your brother . . .” He gestured at the corsair.
Lilias’s attention turned to that quarter and she delivered a sharp demand in her native tongue. In response the corsair rattled off some manner of report, the intelligible words of which were “Shak Saba.”
The syllables that rolled from the man’s tongue turned Lilias’s bronze-gold skin to ash and shocked her graceful body into brittle rigidity. She asked several short, cutting questions in a voice that trembled with emotion, then dismissed the messenger with a slash of her hand.
Loc Llywd hesitated to follow the corsair from the room, instead attempting to speak to Lilias in gentle tones. She raised her voice and her hand to him, and he bowed swiftly from the room.
She stood quivering for several minutes, her back to Feich—pike straight—hands gripping her upper arms. When she turned at last, fury and anguish burned in her dark eyes.
“My brother is dead. Dead at the hands of your countrymen. While I have made you my lover and ally.”
Stunned, Feich could only hold out his arms to her and will her to feel his astonishment and outrage. She ignored his silent entreaty and flung herself past him to the balcony. He followed.
“Tell me, Lilias. Tell me what has happened.”
Her eyes on the orderly chaos in the parade ground below, Lilias said, “Why should I not kill you, Feich? Tell me that.”
“I can think of many reasons, not the least of which is that I have shared your bed these past nights.”
“Sorn is dead.”
“I had nothing to do with his death, Lilias-Raven. I am as stunned as you are. Now, will you not tell me what your man reported?”
She drew a ragged breath, looking, for the first time, vulnerable, mortal—more woman than goddess.
“He was bringing your caravan across Madaidh lands. The Madaidh attacked in the night. They killed Sorn. Some say it was The Madaidh, himself, that murdered him.”
“And the tribute?”
She laughed—a sound like glass breaking. “They took nothing. Nothing but the girl my brother was so enamored of . . . Iseabal of the White Skin.”
They had taken the Wicke, leaving priceless treasure. Why?
Feich shook himself. “And the cannon?”
“They destroyed it. Why, Daimhin? Why would they kill Sorn, yet leave others alive? Why would they take this girl and leave a treasure behind?”
Why, indeed.
He moved closer to Lilias, holding her eyes by will. “Can’t you guess? Rodri Madaidh, while pretending to me that he and his House were neutral, has all the while been under the sway of the Golden Wicke. The girl he liberated was herself a Wicke—a close confidante of Taminy-Osmaer. Your brother was murdered because he dared lay hands on one of Taminy’s own.”
“As you did, by Sorn’s tell. Why are you not dead?”
“I am protected, Lilias, by my own aidan. Your brother possessed no such Gift.”
“And yours did not show you what would happen to him?”
He could feel her rage building, seeking an outlet. He must give her one.
“Taminy is powerful. Her acolyte was powerful. Even as I veiled us from the eyes of the Madaidh and the Taminists, so the Wicke and her minions lifted that veil to reveal Sorn to them. My only fault was that I did not stay behind to protect the caravan. I never imagined Sorn might become a target of the Wicke’s wrath; though I knew myself to be such a target. No, Sorn was truly fond of the girl—was gentle with her. It was a gentleness she did not deserve.”
“You could have left your woman behind.”
“My—?”
Lilias’s smile was joyless. “I know of Coinich Mor, my pale lover. I know what place she has held in your pretty tent. You could have left her behind; you didn’t because the Wicke, Taminy, willed you not to. You left Sorn behind because the Wicke willed him to be left. Perhaps she could not avenge this Iseabal’s honor on you because of your aidan. But she could wreak her revenge on my brother. And did.”
“Lilias . . .” He reached for her yet again, but she stepped back from him.
“Truly, this woman is more powerful than I imagined. More deadly. Yet I, too, can be deadly. I would fight her.”
Feich smiled fiercely into the searing blaze of her anger.
“You are a goddess, Raven. Taminy is only a sorceress.”
“A goddess of death, I pray. Make ready your men.”
He hurried to do that, full of exultation. What could have been defeat, he had transmuted to victory: Banarigh Lilias Saba was no longer a casual participant in Taminy’s destruction.
He was mounted, ready to ride when he felt the eyes on him. Before he could turn and face their owner, Coinich Mor’s dark voice struck his ears. “You veiled our party from the Taminists, did you?”
He jerked about to find her seated astride her white mare, yellow eyes jeering.
“How did you—?” he began.
She laughed at him. “Did you think you were alone with your Deasach Cwen just now, ‘pale lover?’ Do you imagine you have ever been alone with her?”
Feich’s face blazed beneath the Dearg Wicke’s steady gaze. He was outraged. “You see more than I credit, Mistress Dearg.”
“I am more than you credit, Regent Feich. Don’t forget me.”
“Will you make some jealous demand of me now? Would you have me leave off with Lilias?”
“Not at all, lord. I only remind you t
hat your village cailin is gone. There is Lilias, but her Gift is small and her alien magics are full of superstition and ritual. One true partner in Weaving have you—Coinich Mor. Don’t forget her.”
“I promise I will not.” He let his eyes feed passion to her for a moment, and though she now existed in Lilias Saba’s shadow, it was a surprisingly honest passion. He reined his horse about, then paused and turned back. “Why did you not sense the danger to Sorn?”
“The same reason you did not. There was strong magic there—a wall of it.”
“A wall built by whom?”
“By those we failed to veil ourselves from.”
Feich twitched. “The Madaidh?”
“They are a wild people, lord Regent. It is said even their newborn are fey.”
“I pray that is only superstition.”
Coinich Mor threw back her head and laughed. “What do you pray to, ‘Demon’ Feich? Some dark, unseen, god or goddess?”
To whom did he pray? To whom could he pray? ‘To myself,’ he might have answered once. But his mind often turned to the idea that if Taminy represented some glorious Spirit of Light, must he not represent some opposing Spirit of Darkness—Caime Cadder’s Evil One?
He could not deny there were times when he felt a black power moving around him, through him, within him—in the throes of passion, in the clutches of rage, in the depths of his dreams. The fancy often took him that if he opened his eyes he might catch it, see it face to face.
He could never quite bring himself to open his eyes in those moments. Perhaps he scorned his own suggestibility. Perhaps he was merely afraid.
oOo
Catahn loved the garden. Even in winter it was beautiful. The little pool was a misty mirror of water-crystal, icicles festooned the eaves of the castle and the bare limbs of the few deciduous trees; the conifers wore a furry mantle of snow.
As he listened to Taminy singing, her gaggle of youthful disciples joining in close harmony, Catahn wished he had been granted the gift of song. He was too ashamed of his voice to do more than murmur duans. Like Wyth, he would only sit and keep silent time with the music.
Eyslk wielded the drum and Gwynet played a chanter, keeping less and less to the background. Today as she played, she danced and capered about the little high courtyard, her breath marking steamy trails in the crystalline air. Catahn could not help but smile.
Taminy sang of a fair maiden whose spiteful elder sister has insisted for so long that she is hideous, she never dares to look in a mirror. One day, a young woodman comes across her in the forest and, though she tries to hide herself, the young man takes her scarf and glimpses her face. Smitten, he declares her beautiful, but she refuses to believe him.
“She thought herself an ogre,” Taminy sang. “She thought the boy a fool. Till she tumbled to the grassy bank and gazed into the pool.”
She fit action to verse and let herself down upon the rocks that ringed the little pond. But instead of continuing with the song, she leapt up again with a cry, her eyes on the icy water.
Catahn felt the tug of her sudden fear—for fear it was, sharp and thin and brittle. He came to his feet and rushed to Taminy’s side, steadying her with an arm about her shoulders, his eyes following hers to the icy mirror.
A mist rode over the surface of the frozen pool, and beneath it shapes moved—shifting, splitting, recombining. Drawn to the movement, Catahn swore he could see men, horses, a cloud of billowing dust.
“They come,” Taminy whispered. She looked up at him. “He comes.”
That, Catahn knew with certainty, was the cause of her fear—the approach of Daimhin Feich.
Airleas broke the ranks of those gathered around and peered into the pool. “Feich? Feich is coming? Can you see him? Where is he?”
“In El-Deasach.”
“But how?” Airleas demanded.
“Alliances.” She shook her head. “He plays with fire.”
“Then I’ll get to face him, after all,” murmured the Cyneric, eyes distant. “The honor of my House—”
“Is not more important than your life,” Taminy told him.
“What is life without honor?”
“What is honor without life?” countered Catahn.
Taminy turned her face up to his again, wounding him with her eyes. Her deep terror of Feich all but strangled him.
Throat tight, he glanced at the others. “Taminy must be allowed time to meditate on this, to Weave for further knowledge. Perhaps you should all return to your duties and studies.”
There was no argument, only anxious glances from Wyth and Eyslk and a muttered oath from Airleas. Subdued, they drifted away. Not until they were gone, did Catahn move, turning Taminy to face him, taking her hands in his, all the while quivering with his own audacity.
“Is there nothing I can do?”
She smiled wanly. “Can you guard my dreams?”
Her skin was so pale, her eyes so large and dark and bruised-looking, he nearly moaned in pain. “If I could only . . . But, how, Lady? How does he . . . enter your dreams?”
“I wish I knew. I don’t. I don’t even know if he does it willfully.”
“Can you not deny him entry? You’ve taught your waljan to ward against another’s Weaves. Is there no Wardweave for Daimhin Feich?”
“I thought there was. But my Wardweaves are useless. Somehow he breaks through them, slides past them, though I Weave them directly against him.”
Catahn’s frown deepened. “Cannot the Meri grant you more strength? Can She not shield you?”
Taminy shook her head. “This is a time of testing, Catahn. For me, for all of us. Already, I draw on the Meri’s power, but I must determine how to direct it. Somehow, when I direct it at Daimhin Feich, he is not there. It’s as if he . . . steps aside.”
“There is nothing I can do? No way I can guard your dreams?”
Taminy squeezed his hands. “I’d not have you lose sleep, too.”
“I do already. Mistress, must you face him?”
“Is that what you think I’m afraid of—coming face to face with Feich?”
“Is it not? I know I fear for you.”
Taminy’s eyelids slid downward as if suddenly too heavy to be borne up. “Daimhin Feich,” she said, “does not face anyone or anything cleanly, squarely, honestly. He hides in dreams; he skulks in vapors.” She shuddered, her voice falling to a whisper. “He touches me, Catahn. In the dark, in the aislinn vapors, in my dreams. His touch is like death, and I seem not to be able to turn his hand away.”
There was such anguish flowing from her that Catahn forgot himself and gathered her into his arms. “I will find a way to guard your dreams, Lady,” he told her. “I promise.”
oOo
One moment Saefren Claeg was asleep in his uncle’s tent, the next he was wide awake, staring into the darkness, hearing rain whisper softly on the oiled fabric overhead. He sweated in the cold, heart pounding an uneven tattoo in his chest.
He gasped, shuddered and sat up. It was not a nightmare that woke him, but a sensation of pure cold panic.
“Uncle?” he panted. “Uncle Iobert?”
There was no answer, and indeed, when he put out his hand, he found his uncle’s bedroll empty. He heard voices from beyond the tent flap—urgent murmurs, no words. As his world righted itself, he came out of his bedroll, pulled on his boots and stumbled outside.
His uncle was there with The Jura and Aine, huddled under the boughs of a large pine, hoods pulled up against the fine drizzle. Aine was speaking, voice low, hands making emphatic gestures. As he approached, Saefren realized others had emerged from tents and lean-tos to join the circle beneath the tree—Leal and Fhada, Hethe Jura, others.
Iobert Claeg glanced up, noted his nephew’s presence with a raising of his brows and placed a hand on Aine’s shoulder. “It seems others have had their sleep interrupted,” he said. “Do I need to ask why you’re here?”
Saefren swept damp hair out of his eyes and shivered. “I don’t
know why I’m here, Uncle. What’s happened?”
Aine turned to him, her face a pale moon in the darkness. “Daimhin Feich has left Creiddylad this week past. He’s crossed over into Deasach lands.”
“And taken the bulk of his forces with him,” added Iobert.
Saefren didn’t bother ask how they knew this. “To what purpose?”
“To gather allies, it would seem. Or so Rodri Madaidh has it. He overtook a tribute caravan bound for Kansbar with gifts for the Banarigh. The caravan drivers understood that their lord had forged an alliance with the Deasach Cwen and intended to march through El-Deasach to attack Airdnasheen from the east.”
“But the Madaidh . . .” Saefren puzzled. “The Madaidh refused to—”
“As he said,” commented Mortain Jura dryly, “there are advantages to neutrality. One of those advantages would seem to be invisibility. Feich completely overlooked him and, when the time was right . . .”
Aine grasped Saefren’s arm. “He found Iseabal. He brought Iseabal away from there.”
Saefren swum for a moment in overwhelming relief. He’d hated to leave the girl in Feich’s keeping. He looked to his uncle. “Now what do we do?”
“Alraed Aine believes we should attempt to reach Hrofceaster from the western side to offer reinforcement, but I can’t imagine we could get enough troops through the high passes to do any good.”
“We can’t do nothing!” Aine erupted.
Saefren stayed her with a firm hand on her shoulder. “Uncle is right, Aine. To take our men into the Gyldan-baenn would be futile and hazardous.”
“But—!”
“Our energies would be better spent elsewhere.” He turned back to Iobert. “What forces has Feich left in Creiddylad?”
Iobert Claeg’s eyes glinted. “Minimal, I would think, though a little reconnaissance should give the whole tell.”
“Would the Madaidh join in an attack on Mertuile?”
Aine gasped. “Take Mertuile?”
“Our Cyneric will need a safe capitol to return to,” observed The Jura. “One emptied of traitors.” He looked to Iobert. “Perhaps you and I should ride to the Madaidh.”
Iobert nodded. “And perhaps our young bucks should gain some intelligence of Creiddylad.”
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