Crystal Rose (28 page)

“What lies at the heart of a Cyne’s justice and compassion?
The hope of happiness and prosperity? The promise of obedience and adoration?”

Airleas chewed his lip. He wanted those things, all of them,
but knew without doubt that they were not what a just Cyne—a Cyne like
Ciarda—would base his Cyneship upon.

“Find the answer to that question, Airleas, and you will
know why the Gwyr would not be seen by you today.”

A chill trembled up his spine and his lips went numb. “Did
Gwynet—?”

“Gwynet said nothing. Nor did she need to.”

“Will you tell me, please?” He begged. “Will you tell me why
the Gwyr slipped away from me? It would be so much quicker than me guessing.”

She laughed. “Airleas, the only real answers are the ones we
find ourselves. The ones we must buy with our tears and longing and desire. I
will tell you this: The seat of a Cyne’s power isn’t the Throne, nor even the
Stone of Ochan. His strongest fortress is not Mertuile, nor even Halig-liath.
The seat of a Cyne’s power and his fortress is the Covenant between God, Man
and Meri. The more you understand the Covenant, the more firm will your rule
be, and the more true your servitude.”

Away he went, feeling as he imagined a Prentice must feel on
his first day of Pilgrimage when the Weard has at last set a riddle to be
solved and a quest to be undertaken: Inspired, inadequate and a little
confused.

Alas, for when the weapon
is in the hand of the ignorant and cowardly, no one’s life and belongings are
safe; thieves grow in strength. Likewise, when a flawed priesthood acquires
control of a system, it becomes as a wall between their people and the light of
faith.

— Osraed Tynedale
A Brief History of the Cusps

It filled the eyes terribly and ten horses drew it. Even
lashed down to its sledge, its muzzle lay level with the shoulders of its
mounted escort. Children followed its progress through the streets of
Creiddylad. Their elders stopped and stared as it passed by, squinting against
the glare of sun on the burnished black barrel. It gleamed golden, too, with
radiating curls of some yellow metal that trailed from muzzle to flank as if
spewed from a small Sun trapped within the gaping maw. Up the Cyne’s Way it
rolled, ponderous, making it’s way to the gates of Mertuile.

Ruadh Feich’s heart cowered in his breast as he watched its
approach. He’d never seen anything like it—nor even imagined that such a weapon
existed. His eyes turned to the half-dozen drays behind it and tried to picture
what its ordnance must be like. Below him, the gates of Mertuile swung open to
admit the colossus. Sweating cold with awe, Ruadh hurried down from the parapet
to join his cousin in welcoming the Deasach party.

In the confines of Mertuile’s outer ward, the great cannon
was even more soul-chilling. Ruadh gazed up at the gleaming muzzle and realized
that it was designed to look like a sea snake—a fire-breathing sea snake. The
barrel he had thought was black had a sheen of emerald to it, and great,
glittering orbs of red agate were set in brass behind the mouth, forming
gold-lidded eyes.

His own eyes full of the marvelous weapon, Ruadh barely
noticed the Deasach contingent, scarcely heard the first murmurs of diplomacy.
Finally, he noticed them—tall, slender men, all, dark-skinned and dark-eyed,
dressed uniformly in flowing black robes over conspicuously non-uniform
garments in vivid hues.

From among these dignified figures stepped the Mediator, Loc
Llywd, in his hands an ornately carved box, inlaid with sea shells and stones
Ruadh didn’t recognize. Approaching a smiling Daimhin Feich, he proffered the
box.

“Noble Regent, the Banarigh Lilias of El-Deasach, called the
Raven, gratefully accepts your most delightful gifts and is pleased to offer
you these tokens in return.”

Ruadh suspected his cousin was interested in nothing but
that stupendous cannon, but his sense of politesse prevailed. Daimhin
graciously accepted the box, even making a pretty speech of his own as he
slipped the clasp and opened the lid.

That action stopped the flow of words and Daimhin’s eyes
fixed on something within the box.

Ruadh moved closer to peer over his cousin’s shoulder.

There was jewelry in the box and a letter on gilt-edged
linen rolled and tied with a cord of braided satin. There was also a dagger
with a gem-encrusted hilt and scabbard.

None of those things were what had arrested Daimhin Feich’s
eye and now held Ruadh’s as well. Rather, it was the portrait of a woman fitted
into the satin-lined lid. Eyes the color of wine, large as a doe’s, were set
aslant in a heart-shaped face that spoke at once of delicacy and strength. The
full, smiling lips were the color of Daimhin’s red stone, and so great was the
artist’s skill, that they seemed about to speak. Her hair was the color of the
raven’s wing, and so complimented the milky-bronze flesh that Ruadh could not
tear his eyes from the perfection of the image.

That Daimhin was also stunned was obvious. “This is Lilias?”
he asked, forgetting his acceptance speech.

The Mediator nodded, smiling. “Indeed.”

“And this portrait—?”

“Hardly does her justice, Regent.” The smile deepened. “And
you know I am not a man to exaggerate.”

“Understatement, Mediator,” Daimhin returned. “You make a
habit of it. You claimed your cannon was merely monstrous. It is a good deal
more than that. I can only imagine the virtues of your sovereign. Come now,
gentlemen, I have a campaign to plan.”

With a last look at the inyx-weaving portrait, he at last
forced himself to close the box and lead the Deasach delegation to the castle.

Ruadh gave the great Deasach cannon a parting glance as he
followed his cousin across the ward. Monstrous. Aye, it was that at very least.

oOo

The hillside grove where the Four Allies camped was
purposefully chaotic. People hurried here and there, carrying saddles, packs,
provisions. In a matter of hours the camp was divided; at the crown of the
slope, gathered a large contingent that would remain camped in the hills just
out of sight of Creiddylad on Madaidh land, so as not to violate their
agreement with Feich. At the foot, a smaller force prepared to travel with
Daimhin Feich to Nairne.

Saefren was no military strategist, but it seemed to him
that accompanying an enemy’s siege force to Halig-liath was a peculiar way for
the waljan Chieftains to protect their Lady’s interests. He didn’t quite understand
the ploy. What he did understand, with increasing unease, was that since
falling under the influence of the Nairnian cailin, his uncle was a different
man—harder to read.

Saefren shivered and blinked at the hard steel sky. Likely,
it would rain tonight. He didn’t relish the thought of bedding down beneath a
dripping sky when Creiddylad beckoned.

Smoke tickled his nose, drawing his eyes to where a
campfire’s plume curled through the trees. He moved toward it automatically,
finding himself among the Chieftains. Attended by their aides-de-camp (which
Saefren noted included The Graegam’s eldest daughter), they huddled in
discussion of tomorrow’s events.

“Ah, Saefren!” his uncle said. “Come, your opinion is
wanted.”

He dropped to the couch-roll beside his uncle, shrugging
within his thick cloak in hope of generating some warmth.

“Really?” he said. “I thought your course was already set.
You send forces to Nairne.”

Iobert’s iron brows rippled with bemusement. “This troubles
you.” It was not a question.

“It seems odd.”

Mortain Jura, sitting opposite them on the other side of the
fire pit, chuckled. “What better way to keep an eye on our noble Regent?”

“To what end? Do you hope to assassinate him?”

“While he’s surrounded by his kin?” asked Graegam’s girl.

Her father laid a cautionary hand on her knee. “This is no
place to speak of murder. You both forget why we are here. We show support for
The Malcuim, and try to impress Daimhin Feich with our unity.”

Saefren nodded. “While those who remain behind keep an eye
on things here.”

“The waljan in Creiddylad may be in danger,” said Mortain.
“Even in Feich’s absence.”

“Or perhaps especially then,” observed Iobert Claeg.

Mortain conceded that with a nod of his head. “Then, too, we
have yet to hear from the Skarf and the Glinne.”

Saefren frowned. “The Floinn have gone to Feich, then?”

The Gilleas, nearly invisible huddled in his thick
fleece-lined coat, snorted. “The Floinn have gone to the Floinn. I think
they’ve always awaited an excuse to move for autonomy. They all but own the
river south of Norder, which is as good as owning Norder itself. They’ve no
great love of the Feich.”

“Chill hell, Morcar!” chuckled The Graegam. “They’ve no
great love of anyone!”

“Aye. Isolation does that. Appears that Rodri Madaidh plans
to take his House down the same road.”

“The Cuillean,” observed Mortain Jura, “are split. They
agree only that they hate the Teallach and will likely fall to Taminy merely
because their near neighbors have gone to her enemy.”

“So the Skarf and the Glinne must be approached,” observed
Iobert, “and the waljan of Creiddylad must be protected and informed.”

“I would go to the Skarf,” said the Graegam woman and her
father nodded approval. “Perhaps Feich has not yet gotten to them.”

In short order, it was decided that Mortain Jura and Iobert
Claeg would lead the Allies within Feich’s force, taking Elders from the Houses
Gilleas and Graegam to complete their number; The Gilleas and his son would
coordinate the troops left at Creiddylad through the most senior House kinsman;
Mortain Jura’s young brother, Hethe, would lead spies to scour Creiddylad; The
Graegam would accompany his daughter to the Skarf and the Glinne, if time
allowed.

There was that feeling, Saefren thought, listening with half
an ear to the arrangements being made, as if time was rushing by in an
invisible current, cascading headlong to some point, some crux.

Not much time left
,
he thought, but had no idea for what. He realized that the discussion had ended
without a decision as to his own disposition. He felt his uncle’s eyes on him.

“I would stay in Creiddylad,” he said, glancing up and about
at the fire-lit faces. He smiled wryly. “It’s a damn sight more hospitable than
this soggy wood.”

There were appreciative chuckles from the others and his
uncle slapped him on the shoulder.

“Stay wakeful,” he admonished. “Perhaps you should leave
tonight since your tent will be departing at dawn with me.”

He did not have to be coerced. Light had bled from the sky
and already a fine, cold mist was settling among the trees.

Saefren and his Jura companions hurried to saddle their
horses, collect their belongings and get on their way. They ate together at a
tavern near the landward gate, then decided it would be advantageous to
separate.

Hethe elected to ply the waterfront; Saefren headed for the
cluttered environs below Mertuile. He had an inn picked out for his evening’s
pleasure and, riding there, justified the move as a good way to hear the local
gossip. He knew the place well from some years earlier when a cousin had taken
him there. He recalled that the girls there were young and willing and
occasionally even pretty, and that the drink was strong and hot and made even
the homeliest girl a goddess.

Reluctantly, he remembered that it was not a place where
either the eyes or the ears worked well, but where the mouth was likely to
function altogether too well.

He rode past the inn and reined his horse in beneath the
gates of Carehouse.

oOo

For two nights, the Dearg Wicke had tried the red stone
and spoken of history and of Weaving. She had quoted Scripture and Tradition at
him until he wanted to rage at her. One thing he had learned was that the woman
could not be bullied. To snarl at her provoked nothing more than a patient,
stony gaze. To snap only brought forth the arrogant smile.

“Find someone else to school you, then,” she’d say and begin
to walk away, and he would stop her and promise to be more patient.

Now, on the eve of his departure for Halig-liath, she at
last said the words he had been waiting to hear, “Tonight, you’ll take up the
stone and Weave.”

They were seated on the floor within his makeshift aislinn
chamber—a series of carved wooden screens he had gathered from around the
castle and arrayed in a circle on his hearth rug. The place was dark, lighted
only by candles and a dim flood of luminance from the fireplace. Outside, wind
moaned in the dark and rain rattled the windows. It was a fitting atmosphere
for what Daimhin Feich hoped to accomplish.

“What must I do?” he asked.

Coinich Mor smiled. “What did you before?”

“Does it matter? It didn’t work.”

“Hm. What d’you think they do—your Holy Ones? What d’you
think
she
does—your beloved Wicke?”

“She’s not—” He dammed the words. “I’ve seen her Weave only
once. It seemed she . . . pulled the power down from . . .” He shook his head.
“. . . somewhere. She draws it. The Osraed, too, speak of drawing Blue Healing or
drawing Red Power.”

The Wicke nodded. “Aye. They draw on the Source.”

“The crystals.”

“No, Regent. The stones’re mere channels—talismans. Did you
not even learn that much from your Osraed? The Spirit of All’s the Source of
their Weaving. The Meri’s the Mother of their duans.”

“How do I tap that Source? How do you?”

She laughed at him, candle light glinting from her fox eyes.
Oddly, she reminded him of his dead Cyne, Colfre.

“The Spirit don’t suffer Its power to be drawn upon by the
likes of us, Regent Feich. The Spirit commits Its energies only to those who
serve It.”

Feich sat forward, quivering, intent. “Ladhar’s mewling
cleirach speaks of a great Source of Evil let loose upon the world by this
Cusp. He believes Taminy is its minion. Are you telling me that Evil exists? Is
that what I must draw upon?”