Crystal Rose (25 page)

She knew what he meant, of course; she wasn’t completely
naive. Even a town the size of Tuine had “haunts,” as he called them. She
suspected her brothers knew those quite well judging from after-dark
conversations she’d overheard. She was pleased not to have blushed or paled or
done something else to give Saefren Claeg more to with which to mock her.

“So what’s it like, this Carehouse?” she asked.

“It’s a big, old stone place with miles of dusty, dark and
damp corridors, tiny, cheerless rooms and rat-infested attics. It’s like a
little fortress . . . or a prison. Walled courtyard, parapets. Looks like it
might have been an asylum once upon a time.”

“An asylum?” she echoed.

“Where they keep crazy people. If that’s the case, I can’t
think all that much has changed.”

“They’re not crazy,” she said, her voice deliberately soft.
“No more than your uncle is. They just . . . know something you don’t.”

He pursed his lips. “My uncle . . . I’ll tell you what I think
of my uncle. I think he may be under some sort of enchantment.”

Aine couldn’t help but stare at him, nor could she keep the
laughter from bubbling out of her mouth. “Enchantment! What—by Taminy-Osmaer?”

Saefren jerked his head around. “Hush, you! Keep your voice
down! All that’s holy, you crazy girl! Yelling that name in these streets could
cost you your life!”

“Well, then you’d be rid of me. Though I wouldn’t like to be
you facing your Uncle Iobert if that happened.”

She could feel his discomfiture clearly—the rankling
annoyance, his anxiety over his uncle, his suspicion, something else, nervous
and twitchy. She was pleased with that insight—as pleased as she’d been when
she’d caught his disparaging assessment of her as a mere saddle-maker’s
daughter. Though this time there were no words or thoughts attached, the roil
of emotion was as vivid as one of her worrisome dreams.

“With my luck,” he was saying, “I’d probably be killed right
along with you.”

They took a circuitous route to Carehouse, wending their way
through narrow back streets and dimly lit alleys, beneath little footbridges
that crossed from building to ancient building. She saw what she fancied were
some of Saefren’s haunts; inns that were little more than a hole in some sooty
wall beckoned the passerby with a flood of light and music that tumbled from
the front door and rolled across the street to tug on ears and eyes.

Sometimes the smell of cooking food tumbled out along with
the rest of the overflow, making Aine realize how hungry she was. Often patrons
fought their way in against the tide of light and noise, alone or with one of
the many women who offered their own enticements from patio and walkway.

Occasionally, Saefren would turn his head to gaze at a
doorway or the form within it, and Aine suspected that after he dropped her
off, he might find his way back to his haunts.

When he spoke, he disabused her of that suspicion. “Funny,”
he said. “When I was younger, I thought this place was full of intrigue and
adventure and mystery. Now it only seems . . . dark and poor and sad.”

They spoke no more after that and soon arrived at their
destination. Aine pulled up her horse just outside Carehouse’s huge, thick
gates and stared up at the stone walls. Saefren was right; it did seem a
fortress. She shivered at the unbidden thought that someday it might have to be
just that.

She turned to the man beside her. “You can leave me here.”

He shook his head, his thick chestnut hair frosted gold by
the lamps above the gate. “I promised Uncle I’d see you safe inside and that
I’ll do. Besides, I’d like to meet these Osraed of yours. See if they’re all so
blindingly virtuous as that last bunch.”

He reached up and pulled the bell rope.

A young face appeared to peer at them from a slit above the
gate. “Who goes?” asked an equally young voice.

In answer, Aine merely raised her left hand so that the
youthful guard could see the palm. She heard the muffled gasp of recognition
just before the face disappeared. In a moment, the gate swung open just far enough
to admit them in single file.

Inside, Aine slid from her horse and found herself enveloped
in a strong embrace.

“Oh, Aine! How good to see you! Are you tired? Are you
hungry? Come inside and sit! Who’s this?”

The embrace loosed a bit and Aine found herself staring eye
to eye at Lealbhallain-mac-Mercer.

Now, this is all wrong
,
she thought, because the last time she’d stood face to face with Leal, she had
been looking down at him.

“You’ve grown,” she told him, as if he mightn’t have
noticed.

He grinned at her, freckles dancing in the glow of the
lightglobes that bobbed along the front of the huge stone building they stood
before.

“I noticed. Probably never be as tall as Fhada, though. He’s
waiting to meet you, with the others. I felt you coming. I was waiting. I
didn’t even need to hear Ferret shout but that I knew you were here.” His eyes
moved to Saefren, then. “And you are?”

“Saefren Claeg. My Uncle Iobert and a troop of Claeg,
Gilleas, Graegam and Jura are camped outside the city this moment, preparing to
meet with Daimhin Feich.”

Leal blinked startled green eyes. “Meet? You don’t mean . . . ?”

“I don’t mean a battle, no. The Chieftains plan to petition
the Regent to return Airleas to Mertuile and set him before the Stone.”

Leal grimaced. “Good luck
to them.”

“They’ll need more than luck, I fancy.” Saefren seemed
unable to keep his eyes from Leal’s Kiss. The golden star shown from his
forehead with enough force to cast shadow. “The others were green,” he said.
“Yours is gold like Osraed Wyth’s.”

“I’m Osraed by the Golden Meri, after the Cusp.”

“And waljan, like the others?”

Leal raised his hand. The gytha also cast shadows.

“How does it happen?” Saefren asked.

Leal shrugged, smiling. “She touches you and you begin to
burn.” He glanced down at his palm. “They can be inconvenient when you’re
trying to stay hidden.”

“Oh, but you can cloak them,” said Aine. “That’s part of
what I’ve come to teach you. You won’t have to use green paint anymore.”

Leal laughed, taking the girl’s elbow and guiding her toward
the house. “How did you know about that?”

“Taminy told me. She was worried about you, Leal. About all
of you here in Creiddylad.”

The youth’s face darkened. “Well, she’d have reason to be.
It’s not been easy. No way to tell who’s friend and who’s foe.”

As the door to the huge stone barracks opened before him,
Leal turned back to face Saefren. “Come in, friend, and welcome. We’ve laid on
a feast for this lady, and you’re more than welcome to our hospitality.”

Saefren started to protest, but Leal cut him off. “I’ll hear
no argument, Saefren Claeg. We owe you much for getting Aine to us safely.”

With a guarded glance at Aine, Saefren inclined his head in
acquiescence and followed them into the house.

oOo

The Dearg’s Hillwild was legend’s own Wicke. Fey
yellow-amber eyes gazed cat-like from under a thick mane of unruly black hair,
full lips pouted arrogance beneath a long, aquiline nose. Her skin was the
color of the foothill’s clay and her body echoed their contours; she was
voluptuous as the earth itself.

Feich had no doubt she’d borne her Dearg husband many fine,
strong sons and earthy daughters. She was neither young nor old, neither homely
nor fair, but there was about her the quivering vitality that exists in fire.
Her entire being was wary; he could almost hear the aislinn growl. There was
more—a haughtiness that lay behind the eyes like laughter behind a closed door.

It was the Hillwild in her, Feich thought, and was not
altogether surprised when she did not bow to him. It didn’t anger him. He
admired it.

“I’m Regent Feich, Moireach. And you are . . . ?”

The woman’s mouth pulled up at the corners. “Moireach, I’m
not. I’m Coinich Mor of Dearg. My husband’s a shepherd as well as an Elder and
what land we’ve got’s owned by the House, not by us. Call me Coinich. That’ll
be fine.”

“Well, Coinich Mor of Dearg, do you know why I asked to see
you?”

The smile deepened. “You need my help.”

“Is that what your nephew told you?”

She chuckled. “My nephew barely knows his own name.
Blessedly, he’s not hard to look at. No, my aidan told me.”

“Really? What else did your aidan tell you?”

“You have a crystal.”

Her nephew might’ve told her that, too, but it hardly
mattered. Let her show off if she wanted, he’d soon see if she could inspire
his stone. He drew it from its belt pouch and held it out. It caught light from
the chamber window and fired with a ruddy gleam.

The Dearg woman’s cat-eyes widened and he half expected her
to hiss at the thing. “Red,” she said. “The color of passion . . . and of blood.”
She held out her hand and Feich let the crystal fall into it. Her eyes followed
the fall. “You know, don’t you, that ‘red’ in the Old Tongue is ‘dearg?’”

In the moment he opened his mouth to answer, the red stone
came to sullen life in the Hillwild Wicke’s hands. It was a reluctant light—not
so much a spark as an ember. But it was enough. Feich’s heart leapt up in his
chest and bolted. It took effort to hold his excitement in check.

“Impressive, Coinich Mor, but can you teach me to light the
stone? To Weave with it?”

She looked up at him, golden eyes almost saucy in their
regard. “Oh, more than that, Regent Feich. More than that.”

The faithful lover hunts
only the object of his Pilgrimage, and has no passion but union with the
Beloved. He shall not attain this object until he sacrifices all. That is, what
he sees and hears and knows—all must be given up, so that he might enter the
abode of the Spirit, which is the City of Light.

This Pilgrimage demands
labor and ardor; and if we taste of this glorious reunion, we shall gladly cast
away the world.

— Book of Pilgrimages
Osraed Gartain

They rode beneath the great arch when the light of morning
was still slanting across the low hills. Shadows lay deep among the buildings
of Creiddylad, yet already there were people on the street who looked up in
amazement as the assembled ranks of the Four Allies rode through.

Saefren could not help but feel a swell of pride and
exhilaration. He rode between his uncle and the Jura Chieftain at the fore of
the long column. The other Chieftains rode one rank back, their
standard-bearers just behind them, carrying aloft the pride of the Houses.

They drew people to them as they moved through the city. By
the time they made the final climb up the long slope to Mertuile, they had a
long train of citizens spread out in their wake, and when they halted in the
great square that held the Cyne’s Market, those citizens eddied and pooled
behind them, murmuring among themselves.

Iobert sent Saefren to ask admittance for the Chieftains. He
could see the unease and perplexity in the gatekeeper’s eyes as he spoke with
him—the way they darted again and again to the mounted multitude. But Saefren’s
words were mild; the chieftains wanted only an audience with the Cyneric’s
Regent. The man hurried away to deliver his message, leaving Saefren to study
the sun-warmed stone of the castle’s outer curtain and become mesmerized by the
snap of banners in the sea breeze and the rhythmic drumming of surf against the
base of Mertuile’s rocky scarp.

The gatekeeper’s return was swift. The gates of Mertuile
swung open and the four Chieftains entered with their respective aides-de-camp.
As was custom, their standards were carried to the top of the southeast wall
above the city gate and flown beside the three already there—the Malcuim, the
Feich and the Dearg.

Saefren thought it ironic to see the Malcuim banner still
flying over Mertuile when there was no Malcuim in residence.

Feich did not keep his guests waiting long, but that he kept
them waiting at all was significant to Saefren. Feich was still playing the
politics of the game, still assuming that his was a position of power or at
least of control. While Saefren chafed at the delaying tactic, his uncle and
the others seemed almost too relaxed.

Feich appeared at last, placing himself brazenly in the
Malcuim throne. Saefren gritted his teeth, glad he would not be called upon to
speak; he doubted he could be civil. It was The Jura who presented the
petition, and The Jura was ever the diplomat.

“We bring you greetings,” he said, his elegant voice filling
the large room, “from the Houses Claeg, Gilleas, Graegam and Jura.”

Feich gave his head a token nod. “Your greetings are
accepted, Mortain Jura. To what do I owe the honor of your overwhelming
presence?”

The Jura smiled, teeth white and even in his fair face. “As
you can see, many of our people wished to travel with us to Creiddylad to show
their support of our petition.”

Feich’s brows rose. “Petition?”

“Regent, we have come to enjoin you to return Airleas
Malcuim to the Throne of Caraid-land.”

Feich spread his hands. “What would you have me do,
gentlemen? What powers have I in the matter?”

“You can guarantee the Cyneric’s safety and his independence
of coercion.”

“How can I do that?”

“We propose,” said The Jura, his voice taking on a subtle
edge, “that Airleas be brought to Mertuile under an escort made up from among
these Houses.” His hand swept the group arrayed about him. “Once here, he will
be set before the Stone at Ochanshrine and given his rightful place on the
Throne.”

Feich smiled. “Airleas is a boy. I would yet have to serve
as Regent.”

“We have no argument with that, save to propose that his
Regents shall be three—yourself, as you were appointed by Colfre and approved
by the Abbod Ladhar, Iobert Claeg and myself.”