Crystal Rose (24 page)

He bit back his annoyance that she didn’t show more respect
for an elder, for a House kinsman. But then, what was she, after all—a
lorimer’s daughter? A maker of saddles and harnesses? What sort of manners
could he expect of that? He could even see how she might believe in these
supposed miracles . . . but what excuse had Uncle Iobert?

Unable to muzzle his annoyance, he pressed on. “So you were
dead. Your neck was broken and your head rattled. Now, that much I believe.”

She might’ve set his clothes afire with that look. “Does it
make you feel quite great and powerful to cross words with a mere lorimer’s
daughter, Saefren Claeg?”

Foolish was how he felt. He made a point of noticing a pack
horse with a loose cinch and rode ahead to set it straight. He’d let her get
the better of him and she knew it. He gritted his teeth. If not for Uncle
Iobert, he’d turn his horse about now and head straight back to Claeg.

His anxiety grew when, half a day out from the Madaidh
estates, a rider caught them up with news from Creiddylad: Daimhin Feich had
officially declared Taminy-Osmaer an enemy of the Throne.

oOo

“Regent Feich? If you’ve a moment to spare, sir?” His
Dearg guard, for all his imposing size, seemed uncertain.

Daimhin enjoyed his diffidence, awarding it with a scowl.
“What is it? I’m in a hurry.” He turned back to watch a stable groom work on
his horse.

“I recognize that, Regent, but thought you might find this
of interest.”

Daimhin Feich shrugged. “You’ve my ear till my horse is
saddled. Best hurry.”

“It’s about the other night at Ochanshrine . . . I couldn’t
help but hear, when you spoke to the Minister . . .”

Daimhin sent his brows gliding up his forehead.

The guard hesitated, then said, “It’s like this, Regent. I
know a woman. A Hillwild who married into our House.”

“Why should this be of interest to me?”

“Well, I’d style her a Wicke, though she’d likely deny it.
Fact is, she’s been known to Weave a few inyx in her time. Got her own crystal
too, though I can’t say how she come by it.”

Daimhin Feich forgot for a moment that the Deasach Mediator
awaited him in Creiddylad and speared the Dearg with an avid gaze. “What is her
name? How can I meet her?”

“Name’s Coinich. She’s a Mor before she came to Dearg.
Married my uncle Blair.”

“I care very little who she married. How might I contact
her? I suppose she’s at Dearg.”

“As it happens, she’s here. My uncle’s an Elder, advisor to
Eadrig Dearg.”

Daimhin’s heart leapt in his breast. “She’s here? At
Mertuile?”

“Aye.”

Daimhin put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I can’t avoid
this meeting I’m to attend, or I’d see her this minute. Speak to her for me.
Tell her I’d be pleased to meet her when I return from the city.”

The guard blinked. “But Regent, should I not go with you? My
duty—”

“Is to follow my orders. I can find another bodyguard. It is
far more important to me that you make certain this Wicke doesn’t leave
Mertuile this afternoon. I’ll wish to speak with her directly I return.”

The man nodded. “Aye, then. I’ll see to it she’s awaiting
you.”

On his return trip to Mertuile, Daimhin Feich wished his
mount might have flown. The great Deasach cannon was en route, would be here in
mere days, the Banarigh would no doubt be pleased with his gifts, and a Dearg
Wicke awaited his return.

Fate rolled with him now, he could feel it. Things moved in
the direction he sent them, guided like sheep by a shepherd’s staff.

His pleased reverie was interrupted at a street corner near
Mertuile when a lump of rotting fruit flew out of nowhere to collide with his
horse’s head. The animal started violently, and before Daimhin could regain
control of her, a second piece of refuse struck him in the neck, exploding in a
soggy spray of fetid perfume.

Fighting his mare under control, he glanced around, trying
to see where the attack arose. He was appalled when, out of the crossroads, two
small mobs appeared, wielding their foul projectiles and more dangerous
weapons. Bystanders and passers-by fled like startled chickens into storefronts
and parked carriages. In mere seconds, the street was deserted but for the
approaching mobs, Daimhin Feich and his two guards.

He pulled his sword, his guards echoing the movement.
Another piece of fruit struck him, then a lump of coal. He was not a man for
flight, and so spurred his horse toward one of the converging groups, shouting
at them to desist. The guards followed, pushing their nervous horses toward the
teeming threat.

Above the scarves that obscured their faces, Daimhin Feich
could see eyes a-glint with anger. He tried to make himself heard above their
noise, but the shouts of rebellion drowned him out.

“The Malcuim! The Malcuim!”

He was struck again, this time from behind. Then something
whistled past his cheek followed by a blossoming pain. He put his hand up to
his face and felt blood. Turning, he realized the folly of confrontation. The
group behind had drawn nearer; in a few seconds more he and his guards would be
cut off, surrounded.

Swearing, he pivoted his horse and sent it into a careening
gallop, forcing it between the closing jaws and up the naked street toward
Mertuile. He only vaguely heard the sounds of other horses behind him.

Only when he had reached safety behind the inner curtain of
the castle, did he turn to see if his kinsman had escaped. They had, but not
without injury. Both were bloodied, as he knew he was. Furious, Daimhin Feich
threw himself from his horse and raged into Mertuile. Now, more than ever, did
he feel the hunger for control of the aidan he knew reposed within him. Now,
more than ever, did he long to take that red crystal in his hands and strike
out through it at all who opposed him—from that rabble of worthless dirtbags to
the so-called Osmaer.

He would learn the use of that crystal, God smite him if he
didn’t.

oOo

The Madaidh received his talisman without comment. Only a
slight widening of his eyes betrayed any response to the glowing words. When he
had read them, he looked up at Iobert Claeg with a complete lack of expression
on his angular face.

“Where is the Lady now?”

“With the Ren Catahn at Hrofceaster.”

The Madaidh nodded. “Daimhin Feich doesn’t know this.” When
Iobert’s brows knit, he said, “Seeking allies, he trumpets his grand designs;
we know much of what goes on. He has spoken to me of a siege of Halig-liath and
of a mighty Deasach weapon which the Regent has appropriated for his use. And
he has allies, Iobert—the Teallach, the Dearg, perhaps the Skarf . . .”

“And the Madaidh?” Iobert’s eyes were wary.

“The Madaidh are the Madaidh. We don’t toady to the Feich.
Nor to the Malcuim.”

Saefren was not surprised by these words. The Madaidh had
always considered themselves a breed apart. They traced their lineage to nomads
who had wandered from El-Deasach over the southern chain of the Gyldan-baenn
hundreds of years ago. Among the fair coastal hills they established a
permanent capitol.

Their dark eyes and dark skin spoke of their southern
heritage, as did their customs and traditions. Even after centuries in
Caraid-land, their customs were markedly different than their neighbors’. The
Madaidh elected their Chieftains, much as the Hillwild did.

Their current leader, Rodri, had followed in the footsteps
of a woman named Vaida, renowned in Cyne Ciarda’s time for the strong opinions
she voiced in the Hall. Though they practiced the religion of the Meri, they
kept their own holy men and women to advise them.

“Will you join with us in petitioning for Airleas Malcuim’s
return to Mertuile?” asked Iobert. “Will you join us in negotiating
Taminy-Osmaer’s safety?”

The Madaidh glanced around the light-washed room, his eyes
going for a moment to the odd eddies of luminescence cast on walls and ceiling
by the sea below his stronghold. He seemed, almost, to be listening to the
rhythmic drumming of its waves on the rocky roots of his home.

“Daimhin Feich has just declared your Lady of the Crystal
Rose an enemy of the Throne. His Abbod has called her Wicke and demon and has
suggested in recent gatherings that she is the representative of some supremely
evil being. There are those who believe these things.”

Iobert moved restively in his chair. “You are surely not
among them. You saw her in the Hall. Her actions were not evil.”

“Her actions spoke of a power I have seen wielded by no
other.” Madaidh held up the scroll, still dripping light. “I hold a piece of
this power in my hand.”

“That doesn’t make her evil,” said Aine-mac-Lorimer.

Damn the girl!
Saefren glared at her and signaled her to be quiet. Couldn’t she keep her mouth
shut even in an assemblage of Chieftains?

She had caught the Madaidh’s attention. “This is so,” he
said reasonably. “But Daimhin Feich represents opposition to her. Powerful
opposition. To ride into Creiddylad and ally yourselves to her by word or deed
may be dangerous—to yourselves, to those of her followers who must exist within
the city, even to those who possess no strong opinions. If Taminy-Osmaer is an
enemy of the Throne, what does that make those who identify themselves with
her?”

“She isn’t an enemy of the Throne!” Aine protested. “She’s
protecting Airleas Malcuim. Teaching him, preparing him to be Cyne.”

“You will never convince Daimhin Feich of that. He believes
she perverts him, bends him to her will.”

Aine leapt from her chair, face flaming with anger. “You’re
a coward, Madaidh! Afraid for your own skin, looking to your own interests—”

Saefren roared. “Damn you, Aine! Sit down! Have you no sense
in your head at all?”

The Madaidh silenced him, his dark eyes still on the angry
girl. “I am not a coward, child,” he said quietly. “But I am wondering where
the power is tipped at this moment. I am wondering what life will be like for
those in Creiddylad if it is tipped to the side of Daimhin Feich.”

“He can have no power compared to the Meri’s,” argued Aine.
“Compared to Taminy’s.”

“You speak of spiritual power. I speak of temporal power. I
do not think Daimhin Feich knows the difference. At this moment, that may give
him an advantage.”

“So,” said Iobert Claeg, “you’ll side with him?”

“I side with no one, Iobert. The Meri’s will out. Neutrality
has its advantage.”

Iobert stood, the other Chieftains and Elders mirroring the
movement. “Then you will sit on the border?”

The Madaidh chuckled softly. “We have always sat on the
border. From here we can watch both friend and enemy come and go.”

“Perhaps the young waljan is right,” Iobert observed.
“Perhaps you are a coward, after all.”

The Madaidh bowed his shaggy head. “If it pleases you to
think so.”

“No, Rodri. It does not please me. I doubt it pleases any of
us.”

When they were out of earshot of the Madaidh Elders, Iobert
Claeg gathered his allies to a council.

“Before we enter the city,” he said, “we need to get the
Lady Aine to safety. She mustn’t be seen with us by Feich’s people.”

You mean
, Saefren
thought,
that we mustn’t be seen with
her
.
With the open enmity between her
Mistress and Feich, Aine-mac-Lorimer was an exceedingly dangerous person to be
around.

“Our Mistress intends that she go to the Osraed Fhada and
Lealbhallain at Carehouse,” Iobert continued. “I will take her there.”

Before Saefren could protest, The Jura spoke up. “I’ll go
with you.”

“Nonsense.” Both Chieftains turned to look at Saefren.

“Rodri Madaidh is right about at least one thing,” Saefren
told them. “To be identified with Taminy-Osmaer right now could be fatal. I
don’t believe it would do for any of the Houses to lose their heads to Feich’s
purges.”

“There are no purges—” began Iobert but Saefren interrupted
him.

“There soon will be. Think, Uncle. It’s the next logical
step. Declaring Taminy an enemy is but a heartbeat away from purging Creiddylad
and beyond of her servants.”

“What are you suggesting, then?”

“I am suggesting that I take Aine to Carehouse—if, indeed,
there’s anyone there to greet her. Either of you will be easily recognizable in
Creiddylad; I won’t be. I don’t think it wise that you be connected with
Taminy-Osmaer at this moment.”

Iobert’s face grew deeply red. “It is far too late for you
to worry about me being connected, Nephew. I would sooner die than disavow—”

“Iobert, Iobert!” The Jura patted his volatile companion on
the shoulder. “Saefren is right. We may go farther with Daimhin Feich if our
allegiance appears uncertain. If we declare ourselves too openly we may
undermine our Lady’s Cause rather than help it. Let your nephew take the Alraed
Aine to her companions in Creiddylad; let
us
sit down with the others and decide what our strategy must be with Daimhin
Feich.”

oOo

Aine could not claim to be pleased that Saefren Claeg was
to be her escort to Carehouse. His open disdain of her—and of Taminy—produced
in her the most dreadful, sinking feeling. It also inspired her to flashes of
equally dreadful anger. But, as they rode beneath the port city’s open main
archway and negotiated the evening streets, Saefren did not speak to her,
disdainfully or otherwise.

Finally, she could take no more of the taciturn silence and
asked, “Do you know where you’re going?”

He swept her with his colorless glance. “My uncle wouldn’t
have sent me if I didn’t.”

“Then you’ve been to Carehouse before?”

“Aye. Once or twice. And been past it often enough. There’re
some haunts in the neighborhood I’ve been fond of.”

“Oh? What sort of haunts?”

His gaze came back to her, bearing a touch of derision. “I
doubt Uncle’d be pleased with me if I discussed them with you. They’re not the
sort of places a cailin would find . . . agreeable.”