Crystal Rose (10 page)

Eventually, she fetched up before Taminy, who took her hands
and met her eyes and made the rest of the universe disappear entirely.

“This is not good-bye, Aine,” she said. “Don’t ever believe
it is. And when you’re in Creiddylad, don’t ever believe there’s a thing you
can’t do. Promise me, Aine. Promise me never to say, ‘I can’t.’”

Of all the things she could have asked. “I . . . of course, I
promise.”

Taminy smiled and all of Aine’s anguish and anger at leaving
evaporated like dew in the sun. “I love you,” Taminy said, and Aine poured
herself into her Mistress’s arms.

“I love you,” she murmured close to her ear and, “Take care
of Wyth.”

Taminy laughed softly. “Wyth thinks he’s supposed to take
care of
me
.”

In mere moments Aine was mounted and riding next to Iseabal
behind Iobert Claeg. They’d just cleared the gates and begun the short descent
into Airdnasheen when she remembered that there were words she must have with
the Claeg Chieftain. She gave her horse the heel and came level with him.

“Pardon, sir, but may I speak to you for a moment?”

The cloud-belly eyes moved to assess her. She seemed to
please them, for the great man smiled at her and nodded for her to continue.

“As we prepared to leave, one of your men offered me the
direst insult.”

The Claeg’s glower was like the sudden assault of a gale
force wind. “What insult?”

“Well sir, he—” Now that she’d gotten this far, she was
suddenly at a loss. What exactly had he said? “First, he ridiculed the color of
my hair which, as you can see, is a rather . . . forceful shade of red.”

The glower lightened and he eyed that feature respectfully;
long streamers of it had escaped Aine’s cowl and jigged about her head.

“Oh, aye,” he agreed. “That it is.”

“Then, he accused me of cowardice—implying that I was going
to Creiddylad to hide. Sir, I am no coward.”

The Claeg nodded, his face smoothing further. “No.
Apparently not.”

“And finally, he . . . I hardly know how to put it into words,
sir. He impugned my-my maidenhood and made ribald comments about-about
experience and . . . and sport.”

The storm was back. “Sport? Who spoke to you like this?
Point him out to me! By the Meri’s Kiss, if we have to go through every man in
this column—”

Aine turned in her saddle, peering over her left shoulder at
the double rows of horsemen. It hadn’t occurred to her that she’d have to sort
through every man here. She met Iseabal’s startled eyes for a moment.

What are you doing
?
The thought was as clear as if the other girl had spoken it.

Aine turned back round and swung her gaze over to the right.
Seated on the horse flanking hers was the man with the colorless eyes. The wry
grin that passed for a smile was still smugly in place.

“Why it’s
him!
”
said Aine and pointed as dramatically as she could.

When she looked back at Iobert Claeg, his face was a-flicker
with warring emotions: Fury, exasperation, resignation.

“Cailin, what you say about this fellow doesn’t surprise me.
He is rude, unpleasant, stubborn, impudent, vulgar and mouthy. But since he is
also my nephew, I suppose I must forgive him those things. I only hope you can
find it in your heart to do the same.”

Aine whirled on the elder Claeg. “Your nephew?”

“Aye. That’s Saefren Claeg, my field Marschal.”

“But he-he called me a
firepot!
”

Saefren Claeg’s grin dug further in to Aine’s ego. “Well,
Uncle did say I was mouthy. When you know me better, you’ll appreciate that
that’s one of my better qualities.”

Aine’s anger turned cold in her breast. “I’ve no doubt I
would, if I was to get to know you better—which I won’t.” She turned her horse
back and made her way several mounted pairs deep in the column, her face
burning so hot even the icy wind couldn’t cool it.

Iseabal joined her a moment later, eyes enormous. “What was
that all about? Did Saefren Claeg really say those terrible things to you?”

“Of course he did, Isha.” She raised her hand, baring the
gytha on the palm. “Do you imagine I’d lie? Only I can’t believe The Claeg,
defending him like that!”

“Now, Aine, he didn’t actually
defend
him. He merely asked you to forgive him. Besides, look—” She
nodded toward the head of the column where Iobert and Saefren Claeg rode side
by side.

The Chieftain’s face looked like the dark side of hell and
he was apparently giving his kinsman a severe tongue lashing.

Although the younger man’s mouth popped open once or twice,
it formed no words and finally he spurred his horse and trotted ahead.

Aine smiled.

Well, Saefren Claeg. Now you do know what it feels like
to be basted.

oOo

The tiny, lightless world reeled and jigged and creaked
like a boat with a drunken helmsman. Within, in a cocoon of wool and fur,
Airleas rattled back and forth, up and down; rolled this way and that. Fleece
tickled his nose; the tiny burrs in it itched.

A late clipping, indeed. The entire fabric of early autumn
was imbedded in it. At least he was warm—too warm. The only part of him that
was not over-heated by now was his sense of adventure. That had been replaced
by fatigue from the constant swaying and bouncing and trying to lie still in a
world that refused to be still.

How long, he wondered, must he lie here in beneath this
freight of pathetic Hillwild produce before it would be safe to emerge? How far
must they go before turning back became impossible? He had no way of knowing
how long he’d already been here; he’d certainly have to count in something
other than conventional time: five thousand bumps, four hundred jostles and
fifty-seven full-on bounces.

Oh, at
least
that
long.

Of course it would be best to wait until nightfall before he
took a chance on showing himself. He imagined slipping from the narrow covered
wagon into scattered firelight, his soft-shod feet silent as a catamount’s on
the chill rock of Baenn-an-ratha, his eyes scanning the huddled groups of men
hard at their eating and drinking and storytelling. He’d smell the food
cooking, and hungry, would sneak along the line of horses—closer, closer to one
of the firelit groups.

The group that would contain Aine and Iseabal would be the
smallest, the easiest to draw close to. Few of Iobert Claeg’s men would want to
be near them. Those who were believers in the Osmaer would be too respectful of
them to intrude, unbelievers would want to avoid close contact. Either way,
who’d want to have his brains picked over by those two? They would be
practically alone with Saefren and The Claeg, himself.

He pictured the place; how Aine would sit huddled and
pouting and Iseabal would be gandering all about trying to see the mountains in
the dark. Iobert and Saefren would be wrapped in warrior’s conversation. And
he’d sneak up to their fire and snag himself some supper.

His stomach uttered a pathetic whimper at that, then, when
he mentally shushed it, gave forth with a solid growl of discontent.

He froze for a moment, wondering if the driver could hear
it, then laughed at himself. Whatever else he was, he was also well-insulated . . . and hungry . . . and bored. Stiff. And sleepy. Very sleepy.

He tried to take a deep breath of the musky, stifling air,
but found it a chore. His breathing would be shallower if he slept. Perhaps he
should indulge his growing drowsiness. He’d all but given in to the idea when
it occurred to him to wonder exactly how shallow his breathing would become in
this increasingly rancid little tomb.

Tomb. Oh, he didn’t like the sound of that at all.

Was it possible he was too well insulated? Was he in danger
of running out of air? Suffocating?

Adrenaline careened through his veins making them icy as a
sled run. He gasped, pushed against the weight of the hides and pelts and
bundles of fleece that lay over and around him. Hands and feet, arms and legs,
all thrashed in discordant harmony, achieving little but to wind him.

Stop it, Airleas
,
he told himself fiercely.
You’re only
making things worse. Don’t panic. Breathe calmly. Here, the Peaceful Duan.
That’s what’s needed. Sing.

He called the duan to mind, letting the music float through
his head—tranquil enough to soothe, spritely enough not to induce sleep. A
walking rhythm, Taminy had said. A rhythm that would set pace for the blood and
the spirit. His heart picked up the rhythm of the duan, his breath filed in and
out in an orderly march.

Calmer now, he pushed upward against the hemming pelts with
both hands. He was curled half on his side, making his efforts awkward, and
something seemed to have fallen across the top of his sheltering crate. No
matter how he tried, he could not lift the cargo from his body.

Damn and damn.

He chided himself for being so stupid as to stow away in an
enclosed space. He hardly deserved to be Cyne of Caraid-land if he couldn’t
think more sharply than that. Now he was stuck and there would be no sneaking
around campfires to cadge supper from the unawares. There would be no victorious
moment of revelation when the caravan reached the point of no return.

Airleas tried to calculate how long it would take to reach
Nairne, where they might be expected to unload the cargo. The journey up
Baenn-an-ratha had taken the better part of a week; surely they’d move faster
on the way down. But how fast? And once in the foothills, how long to reach
Nairne? He’d starve to death or die of thirst before then.

It occurred to him, belatedly, that this entire adventure
was lame-brained. He was still a boy—a child. He was only Airleas, not Bearach
Spearman. Unlike his distant forebear, he’d been raised gently. His father’s
domain hadn’t been torn by insurrection and unease. He hadn’t been trained for
battle or schooled in wiliness. He knew of those things only what he’d read in
the histories. If he’d stayed put, he might’ve been taught how to fight, lead
an army, regain his throne. Catahn could have taught him those things—turned
him into a Cyne worthy of the title.

Worst of all—worst—he’d disobeyed Taminy. Shrugged out from
under her tutelage as if it were a burden he could do without. Well, he
couldn’t do without it. More than the use of a sword, he needed to learn the
use of his mind, the use of his aidan.

All that would be academic if he couldn’t get out of here.

He thought for a moment about his predicament. Perhaps there
were ways other than the physical to lift the weight above him. He conjured to
mind the image of a pair of fiery hands—

No, not fiery! God’s grace! He’d burn himself alive! Iron hands,
strong, mighty. They took hold of the fleeces and furs and whatever lay above
them and lifted . . . lifted . . .
lifted
.

The load lightened measurably. Airleas concentrated harder.

Lift and throw. Lift
and throw.

Lighter, still, grew the suffocating heap and in a corner of
Airleas’s mind a small boy jumped up and down with glee. Wait till he told
Taminy what he’d done—how he’d saved himself from—

The pile collapsed, stunning the breath from his lungs. For
a moment, he was poised to begin another physical struggle, but regained
control of himself before he did something so stupid.

He silently hummed the Peace Duan again, slowing his
rebellious heart and steadying his breathing. If only he could signal someone
that he was here, make a noise, make . . . a
Speakweave
.

He chewed his lip, considering that. His imagination
supplied him with the humiliation he would suffer to be found huddled—no,
trapped—beneath this pile of burr-infested stuff, looking supremely
un-Cyne-like.

Well, and who would he call? He was surrounded by giftless
Claeg; his only chance was to reach Isha or Aine.

He sneezed just then, his nose tickled by a wad of fleece,
and found the regaining of his breath difficult. Spurred by fear, he formed a
cry of distress. Pride modified it. The finished Speakweave was much more
dignified than his reflexive yelp for assistance, but urgent, nonetheless.

Inside his increasingly muzzy head, a time-piece marked the
seconds—five bumps, now seven, and uncounted jostles. Dear God, would no one
sense him? Were Aine and Iseabal as dense as these ungifted ones?

He was at the point of giving up when the wagon stopped its
mad jostling. He all but held his breath in anticipation, celebrated wildly
when he felt the thing rock gently, when he sensed the presence of another
person. Only when the weight above him began to lift, did he school himself to
calm. By the time the last layer of hides came off, he was, he thought,
suitably unruffled-looking.

A stranger’s face peered down into his. “God-the-Spirit!
It’s a boy!”

Hands reached in to pull him up into the cold air—air that
smelled strongly of moist wood and dust and tanning herbs. Behind the Claeg
kinsman’s cowled head, a halo of gray light marked the entry of the small,
hide-covered dray. In a moment he was being hauled toward that opening, stunned
by the realization that this oaf didn’t know who he was.

“Let go of me, you clod! Where’re Aine and Iseabal? Where’s
The Claeg?”

“At the head of the column, if it’s any business of yours,
scrap,” the clod replied and lifted Airleas clear of the wagon to dump him
unceremoniously overboard.

He landed on all fours on the damp earth, but was quick to
regain his feet. A circle of Claeg faces peered at him from beneath cowls and
caps, the wind sucked Airleas’s breath away in misty streamers, nipping at any
untucked edges of cloth.

The man who’d evicted him from his hiding place crunched to
the ground behind him.

“By the Cleft Rock, Brunan,” exclaimed one of the onlookers,
“what’ve you got here? A stowaway?”