“What do you mean, the Claeg is gone?”
“What I said. The nephew of Iobert Claeg has escaped.”
“How?”
She shrugged. “You would not have him be drugged.”
“He was tied. I put an inyx on him.”
Coinich Mor’s dark brows rose. “Did you? To what did you bind this inyx, Regent?”
“Why to . . . to the ropes.” He had, in fact, thought it particularly clever to have done that. Rather like an aislinn pun.
“Well, he isn’t in the tent. Neither are his ropes. He must have taken your inyx with him.”
Her eyes glinted with wry humor, making him despise her.
“Taminy came to me last night in a vision. She must have aided him to unravel the Weave I set.”
The Dearg Wicke nodded, her eyes gliding past him to Lilias. “Ah, yes. I can see that’s what has happened. Well, it matters not a bit. There’s no aidan in him. It’s likely we’ll find his body wherever it was he froze to death.”
“They’re ready to go, then?”
She nodded.
He raised his eyes to the fortress and swept a gesture at it with one hand. “Behold, the gates of Hrofceaster open. Let us go to our parley.”
oOo
Catahn to her right, Wyth Arundel and Saefren Claeg to her left, Taminy met Daimhin Feich before the gates of Hrofceaster.
It was an oppressive morning—gray mist riding low over the clearing with trailing skirts, draping bits of them in tree and bush, entangling the battlements. The damp air reeked of ash.
Feich came alone, or nearly so. He left his cousin and the Deasach several yards behind him before a phalanx of Feich men. Now, in what he surely perceived as his moment of power, he did not smile or swagger. His pale eyes were alert, sharp as shards of crystal, his expression sober.
He came to stand before Taminy, only then allowing a smile to pass over his lips.
“Lady,” he said, “are you ready to surrender yourself to me?”
“Where are they?”
“My hostages?” He waved a hand above his head and the line of men behind him parted to allow the four hostages to move forward. They might have been sleep-walking—heads bowed, eyes glazed, feet shuffling through the snow.
Taminy wondered again at how Feich managed to control them so, though his attention seemed to be fully on herself. A boiling pot, Saefren had called him, and she knew him to be conflicted, a man of sometimes frenetic thought. That didn’t tally with the discipline necessary to Weave as he had.
She thought again of the Dearg woman and her inyx-laden sleeping potion, of the Deasach Banarigh and her sharing of her Gift of Sight. It was possible that Daimhin Feich was not the only Weaver at work here—that he was using one or both of them to amplify his powers. It was possible, but failed to explain why she could not smother his power at the source.
The Deasach woman had the Sight, even as Saefren had noted. She was not using it now, and Taminy sensed nothing from her but bristling hatred and anticipation. The Dearg woman was nowhere in sight.
The hostages had stopped now, Airleas, Aine and Leal forming an uneven line to Feich’s right. They were definitely mesmerized, looking like a set of particularly life-like scarecrows propped in a farmer’s vegetable garden. Iseabal remained beside Banarigh Lilias, her blue eyes fixed on nothing.
Taminy looked to Feich. “Let Iseabal come forward with the others.”
Feich glanced over his shoulder. Lilias Saba had wrapped a gloved hand around the girl’s arm. “Iseabal is no longer my affair. You’ll have to discuss her fate with my ally.”
Taminy didn’t argue the point. “These three are your affair. Let them go, Regent. Loose the Weave. I promise no one will work any harm against you.”
Feich smiled. “Oh, I can believe that.” Again, he made an exaggerated gesture over his head with one hand.
It was as if a bubble had popped. The three drooping hostages jerked, then gazed around in confusion, realizing they were on the wrong side of an invisible line. Aine and Leal looked to Taminy, but Airleas’s eyes were on Feich, a hatred born of humiliation burning deep in them.
“Welcome back to the waking world, Cyneric,” Feich told him. “You are just in time to witness a most momentous event.” He turned to Taminy then. “Here are your little ones, Lady. What will you surrender for them?”
“Myself.”
Airleas’s eyes flew wide open. “NO! Mistress, you can’t surrender to this monster!”
Taminy shook her head. “Airleas, I must. For your sake. It is destined.”
“No! I don’t believe that. I won’t believe it.” He whirled to face Feich, eyes flaming. “I hate you!” He brought up his left hand, palm out, aimed toward Feich. A beam of emerald fire shot from the gytha there, catching the enemy between the eyes and flinging him backwards into the snow. The fingers of Airleas’s upraised hand flexed and Feich shrieked with sudden agony.
Taminy longed to cry out, to stop the boy from giving in to his rage, but she knew, suddenly, she could not. This was the moment of testing—for both of them. She would not—could not—provide external controls for his aidan or his anger. She could only protect Feich from the results.
Reluctantly, Taminy held up her own hand, ready to intercede, and wondered if it meant anything to Feich that neither his men nor his Deasach ally moved to protect him from Airleas’s attack. Only his cousin, Ruadh, his face ashen with fear, did anything at all.
“Lady!” he cried, addressing Taminy. “Lady, please stop him!”
Airleas stood over Feich’s prone form now, face contorted with rage, hand clenched before him as if it held his enemy’s heart. Only then did he glance up at the party from Hrofceaster, his eyes going to Taminy, then past her to where Gwynet stared at him, her face white as the snow about her feet. His expression went from crazed to stricken and he straightened, relaxing his hand. He subsided to his place between Leal and Aine as Daimhin Feich, choking and breathing raggedly, clambered awkwardly to his feet.
Feich’s smile had vanished. With visible effort he slid it back into place. “Weak. You are all weak. You could have killed me, just then, boy, but a moment of indecision robbed you of the chance. I have once more proved myself more powerful than any of you. And now, before all eyes, I will reveal a glimpse of that power to you.”
He turned his head back toward his line of troops and made a sweeping gesture with one hand. “Behold, the Stone of Ochan.”
The ranks behind him parted and a woman stepped forward, bearing an open gilt box. Even in the mist and smoke, the gem it carried painted the clinging tendrils of brume rose-gold, glowing brilliantly, as if in the presence of a strong aidan.
Taminy felt a cold shock run through her. Did the Dearg woman have that kind of Gift? She might have doubted it, but the Stone didn’t lie. She watched as the woman set the Crystal into Daimhin Feich’s hands. The fire within it wavered momentarily, then flared again.
Only now Taminy realized that it was not Feich’s tremulous ability that lit it. It was the Dearg who fueled the Stone; in handling it, she had revealed herself.
Much became clear, then. Feich’s grand gestures were cues to the Dearg Wicke, for it was she who held the captives entranced, she who lifted the Sleepweave from them. She was the source of the disciplined power Taminy had found confronting her at every turn. Feich did not use her, she used him, hiding herself behind his immature and inconsistent Gift.
And I was powerless to block it, Taminy marveled, because I was trying to defend myself against the wrong enemy. The real enemy was invisible.
Now she saw, and couldn’t help but wonder at the Dearg’s motives. Was she in Feich’s thrall? If so, why did she not work against Airleas when he attacked Feich? Or was it personal power she sought?
The woman was looking at her now, a smug smile on her full lips. “Shall we Weave now, my Lord Regent?” she asked Feich. “Shall we show them great wonders?”
He waved her off. “I shall Weave. Y
ou shall watch.”
The dark look the woman gave him as she stepped aside was enough to answer all of Taminy’s questions about her loyalties.
“Behold,” Feich said, lifting the Crystal dramatically above his head.
Behind him, his troops murmured, many flinching back a step. From Ochan’s great Crystal a chaotic whirl of motes exploded like a festival fire show, painting the enshrouding pall of smoke and mist with carnival colors. Daimhin Feich himself was swaddled in an aura of paerie light and seemed, momentarily, to lift several inches from the ground. His men gasped and withdrew further.
Feich, his eyes gleaming, laughed aloud . . . and the light died. The fire show ended as suddenly as it began; the aura drained away, the Crystal glowed dully in his upraised hand. He gaped at it, then turned his eyes to Taminy.
“What is this? What have you done? What have you done?”
The Dearg woman was laughing, now, hands on her broad hips, head back. Her hilarity wound through the fog and echoed from the walls of Catahn’s fortress.
“You fool! She has done nothing! I’m the one you should ask. Go on, Regent. Ask me! Ask me what I have not done.”
Feich glared at her, fury standing out in red relief on his face. “What are you talking about? What have you not done?”
“I have not aided you, Regent. I have not guided your paltry powers and shored them up and supplemented them. ‘Behold,’” she mocked him. “‘Behold’ what you are capable of doing without Coinich Mor!”
“You lie! I have power. I have great power. I have used it often since—”
“Since I tutored you? Since I held your hand and let you believe you drew upon me for your Weaving? Behold me, Regent Feich—the one who has been drawing upon you.”
His face was the color of death and his eyes transparent as glass. “No. You lie. I Wove. I Wove. You’ve tricked me. You’ve siphoned off my powers somehow. Are you in league with her?” He jerked his chin toward Taminy. “Are you one of her minions?”
“I am no one’s minion, Feich. Least of all hers. I am in league with no one but myself.” She held out her hand. “Give me the Crystal, and I’ll prove what I say. I’ll show you power.”
Feich shook his head and held the Crystal close to his chest. “No. You’ll not get your hands on this. You’ll ruin it. You’ll defile it.”
She laughed again, mocking. “And you won’t? Come, Regent. You’re a good enough prentice, but a wretched master. Give me the Stone.”
He stepped back, prompting her to fling herself upon him, locking her hands with his around the Crystal.
“Let go!” he shrieked, but she only laughed, crowing as the Stone of Ochan caught fire, bathing their struggles in amber radiance. Behind them, Feich’s troops began to melt away into the mist.
Sensing movement from the men near her, Taminy held up her hand to them. Do nothing.
Their hands entwined around the glowing gem, Feich and Coinich Mor continued their physical struggle, and now, impatient, the Dearg assailed her opponent in other ways, causing the Crystal to flare up so as to blind him, causing it to grow cold enough to freeze his hands.
Feich fought back, flailing at the Wicke with random slashes of thought. Aislinn sparks fell in a shower around them, and now, Coinich Mor’s cloak seemed to catch fire.
She cried out, but recovered quickly, recognizing simple trickery. Then she was laughing again. “Like heat, do we? Well, here’s fire for you!”
The flames leapt between their fingers now, licking up Feich’s arms, setting his clothes afire. He shrieked in agony. The fire was within him, around him. It was eating him alive.
Rage soared with the pain, until Taminy felt it as the heat of a roaring fire. No! He would not let this woman best him with a lie. He would not let her prove her vile claims to be true. He was the Dark Power. It lived in him, walked with him, worked through him.
He writhed, mouth forming meaningless sounds, trying to gather all his pain and fury for one great Weave. He turned his head to look at Taminy, found more reason for rage in the mute sadness of her eyes.
“Damn you!” he cried. “Damn you all!” He forced himself to look down into the Crystal past his burning, shriveled hands, past the smell of his own cooking flesh. He forced his mouth to form more words—a command of power: “Destroy the enemy!”
With a roar of sound like a thousand thunders, with a flash of light like a thousand suns, the Stone of Ochan resounded with one great beat of power. The mist and snow, the walls of Hrofceaster, the assembled troops, were lit more brightly than if the Sun had suddenly appeared in its noonday glory. Some cried out and shielded their eyes or covered their ears. Others simply turned and ran as all the light and sound and fury gathered itself into a mad whorl of flaming wind that rose from the place of struggle, catching up snow and mist into a scintillating storm of fire and ice.
A moment, and it was over. The colorful maelstrom with its light and heat was gone. The world around the watchers faded back to gray. Where Daimhin Feich and Coinich Mor had stood there was only a circle of bare earth, naked of snow, steaming in the chill air. Of the two combatants, there was no sign.
For a long moment, the clearing before Hrofceaster was silent. Silent, save for the sounds of the hasty dispersal of Feich’s loose alliance.
Catahn grasped Taminy’s arm. “Lady! The Crystal!”
Lying in the sodden, snowless circle, the Osmaer glowed fitfully as if lapping up the dregs of the aislinn explosion. Taminy moved to pick it up. In her hands it caught fire once again, making her a beacon in the morning gloom.
oOo
Caime Cadder’s universe had come to a shattering, explosive end, pieces of it falling down about him like snow. In a blinding flash, his hopes of keeping Caraid-land out of evil’s hands failed. The Wicke had won. She had won. Now her lovers flocked around her and her former adversaries approached to grovel obsequiously—The Dearg, Ruadh Feich, even the Deasach Banarigh.
How? How could evil prevail so utterly? How could the Meri allow the Crystal to fall into her hands?
A small voice within him reminded him that Daimhin Feich’s hands had not been so very clean. He would not, in his wildest dreams, have called Feich good.
“Destroy the enemy,” Feich had cried, and had, himself been destroyed.
Taminy must have deflected the inyx, turned it back on him. Cadder wanted to believe that; the alternative was too terrifying to contemplate. Yet, as he watched the Golden Wicke, the Osmaer Crystal gleaming in her hands, he couldn’t keep his mind from wandering that path.
He scarcely realized he was moving, taking shuffling steps backwards in the snow. The men who had stood around him only moments ago had fled. Now, his feet found the chaotic path of their flight and followed it. They had not gone far—only returned to their camp, where they clustered in shivering, murmuring groups, eyes returning again and again to the walls of Hrofceaster.
Caime Cadder did not join them. He pursued a stumbling track to the corrals where he saddled his horse with fumbling hands, mounted and rode away down the mountain.
The trail was steep, choked with snow, dangerous. Cadder didn’t stop to consider that, but spurred his mount on with increasing speed. The mist was ungodly thick. The Sun, which surely must be above the peaks by now, did nothing to penetrate it. The horse skidded down the track, belching steam into the air, a lather born of panic rising on its withers.
Without warning, Cadder found himself in an alien landscape. A mob of twisted shapes surrounded him as if they had leapt up from the frozen mountainside. Twisted and gaunt, they seemed to lean over him, threatening. He caught himself in mid gasp, realizing it was only a grove of winter-stripped trees; what he took for the arms of skeletal giants were only branches lifting to spear the ever-shifting fog. Still, the place reeked of Wicke Craft, stank of evil. Surely, it was a carefully woven snare.
Twigs whipped his face as the horse descended through the trees, stumbling over a concealed boulder and plunging into a snow dri
ft. He tightened his grip on the reins and fought to pull the animal’s head up, to help it lift its forequarters back up toward the trail.
There, in the still, ghostly place of frozen trees and a sparkling veil of mist, the only sounds were those he and his horse made, blowing, grunting, thrashing the snow, regaining the main trail—if it could be called that—with great difficulty.
“Cadder.”
He did not expect to hear his name called, but he heard it. Least of all did he expect to hear it called by a man he knew beyond doubt was dead. Jerking his mount around to face downslope, he saw—beyond belief!—the Abbod Ladhar blocking his escape. The animal beneath him danced sideways; he clutched the reins and choked out words.
“You’re dead. You’re not here. You’re not real.”
“I am here.” Translucent, he seemed, and faintly aglow.
Cadder pointed a shaking finger. “Be gone, foul spirit! You—you’re a Weave meant to frighten me.”
He set his heels to the horse’s flanks, but the stupid beast wouldn’t move. It merely shuddered as if in some equine seizure, bobbing its head frenetically from side to side.
“You can’t run away from Her, Cadder,” Ladhar’s ghost told him. “There is no place to hide that She cannot find you.”
“The Wicke? She’s that powerful?”
“It’s our Mistress I speak of. The Meri. She’s the one you flee. The only Wicke here was Coinich Mor of Dearg and she is dead.”
“Lying spirit! Let me pass!” He raised the ends of his reins as if he might flog the apparition.
Ladhar’s image laughed. “I am beyond lies, Cadder. Where I exist, they cannot.”
“What are you?”
“A messenger of Light sent to offer you a choice. Turn back into light or flee into darkness.”
“I don’t comprehend you. Let me pass.”
“To do what? To return to Creiddylad to try to raise the Osraed up against Taminy-Osmaer? You can’t hope to succeed in doing anything more than slowing destiny. Turn back.”
“Or what—she’ll destroy me as she destroyed Daimhin Feich?” He felt tears pressing his eyes. His whole body quivered with terror.
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