Crystal Rose (30 page)

That the Ren had not given in to that request was obvious;
there was no other Hageswode child born to Deardru. Garradh’s sons were clearly
his own, for both bore his bluff, ruddy features.

There was only Eyslk. Yet, Catahn’s note . . .

Hearing movement outside her room, Eyslk leapt to gather up
the contents of the little box and thrust them hastily inside. The portrait she
stuffed into her duffel, covering it with clothing.

The curtain swung back from the bedroom doorway and her
eldest half-brother regarded her, red-faced, from the threshold.

“Are you ready to go, then?” he asked, his voice
belligerent. “Da bid me help you carry your things up to the fortress.”

She smiled at him, her eyes watering, her heart still
banging out a wild rhythm in her breast.

“Aye, Con, thank you.”

She rose and put on her cloak before taking up the duffel.
Con hefted her little chest of books and linens and winter things.

“You know,” she told him, as he turned back through the
door, “you’ll see me often enough. I won’t be a stranger, I promise.”

He glowered at her. “You’re a Hageswode again, Eyslk. You’re
a stranger already.”

The words wounded, more so because, lately, she had begun to
think of herself as a Hageswode—more as Desary’s cousin than as Con and Gery’s
sister.

“That’s not true, Con. I’ll be in the village all the time.”

“Not if he gets his way,” Con said, and jerked his head
toward Hrofceaster. “Mam says he always does get his way. You’re good as gone,
Eyslk.” He grunted, tossing the chest to his shoulder and led from the room. He
didn’t speak to her again, even to say good-bye.

Whoever makes an effort on
the Spirit’s Path shall find their steps guided. The Meri is with those who
travel this Way.

— Utterances of the Osraed Gartain #45

Ruadh Feich found himself riding in column next to Sorn
Saba, brother of the Deasach Banarigh. The young Suderlander, who had
accompanied the Deasach party, he said, out of curiosity, was remarkably like
his sister. He had the same creamy bronze skin, dark hair, and dark, liquid
eyes. He was almost surreally beautiful—again, like his sister; Ruadh had no
doubt he blazed quite a trail among the young women in his sister’s court.

Sorn was a last minute addition to their number—a late
volunteer cousin Daimhin was only too happy to accept. He welcomed Deasach
interest in his doings—after all, he hoped to make fast allies of them for the
realm he fully expected would one day be his.

Ruadh watched his elder cousin’s machinations with a
peculiar detachment. He had no personal attachment to the idea that Daimhin
should be Cyne, but that the House Feich be elevated above all others—the
Claeg, the Malcuim, all—
that
he was
committed to. Whether that meant pulling the strings of a Malcuim puppet or
setting a Feich before Ochan’s Stone mattered little. Either would be a
victory.

Indeed, there were ways in which the former scenario was
preferable. Daimhin Feich was greedy and self-centered. What he did, he did for
his own good, not for his House. That rankled at times. More so when Ruadh considered
that without Daimhin’s self-seeking tenacity the Feich would not be standing so
close to the all-but-empty Throne of Caraid-land.

His Uncle Leod, Daimhin’s father, was a weak Chieftain. A
man who, though only just reaching his middle age, was content to hide behind
his petty infirmities like an old man. He neither censured his aggressive only
son, nor gave him any more than tacit support. Leod Feich was at home with his
senior Elders. Only the young bucks were here, but they had brought nearly every
able-bodied Feich kinsman with them.

That was enough to impress Sorn Saba. He stared at the
congregation of Chieftains and Elders, and most intently at the kinswomen
brought along by the Jura and the Graegam.

“I stand amazed,” he commented, his wide-eyed expression
making him look younger, even, than his nineteen or so years, “that such a
force should be mounted to capture a single sorceress.”

“We go to Nairne to free our Cyne,” Ruadh told him. “Still,
if the Wicke be captured, so much the better, I suppose.”

The Deasach’s raven brows quirked in query. “Your cousin
spoke with much passion about this sorceress. He blames her for the defection
of your little Cyne. He seems all intent on her capture. When I spoke to him
last eve, he said not a word of the Malcuim boy. He spoke only of this Taminy.”

Intent. Yes, that described cousin Daimhin well enough. “I
don’t doubt he speaks of her—and with reason. He tells me she invades his
dreams. But I assure you, Shak Saba,”—he hoped he’d gotten the alien title
right—“Daimhin is as aware as I that our first duty is to the safe return of
Airleas Malcuim to his capitol.”

“Please, let’s not do the form. We are really youths still,
and you, the elder. Call me Sorn, and I shall call you Ruadh. Your dear cousin
has already made me call him Daimhin.”

Ruadh smiled, unwillingly charmed by the
not-quite-perfection of the Deasach’s pleasantly accented Caraidin and warm
voice. “Sorn, then.”

“Now, tell me: Why doesn’t your cousin simply declare
himself Cyne of all this Land Between Streams? He seems to have his hands all
over the Throne.”

Ruadh, to his credit, did not show his amazement at the
young man’s brazenness. “There is a long tradition in Caraid-land of Malcuim
Cynes. The Meri has always upheld them.”

Sorn nodded. “Ah, yes. Through the succession of Osraed. We
have something like your Osraed. We call them Imrigh—spiritual rulers. They do
not dabble in politics, however.” His eyes wandered to the group ahead of
them—composed largely of Chieftains and Elders. “So tell me, Ruadh, what will
you do with this sorceress when you get her?”

Ruadh grimaced, recalling a certain dinner conversation not
that long ago. “I’m sure only my cousin knows the answer to that.”

“You’ve no prescribed way of dealing with them?”

“We’re rarely called on to deal with them. The last Wicke
trials in Caraid-land were during the reign of Cyne Liusadhe the Purifier. That
was two centuries ago.”

Sorn turned sideways in his saddle, all interest. “What did
this Cyne Purifier do with his Wicke?”

“Exiled them.” Ruadh smiled wryly. “Along with some other
folk he’d no love for.” He neglected to mention that those other folk were
members of the House Feich.

“In El-Deasach, we put our sorceresses to the torch, but
that is only the end of their humiliations. By the time they reach that pass,
they bless the flames that devour them.” His voice was still warm and sweet; he
might have been describing a lover’s caress. “Would you like to know what comes
before?”

Ruadh glanced at him and saw the same warmth reflected in
the dark eyes. The pit of his stomach shrugged. For all that he had never seen
battle, Ruadh Feich thought of himself as a plain and simple soldier—a defender
of Feich lands and honor. Men like Sorn, who seemed to find pleasure in the
spilling of blood, he did not understand.

“No,” he said, “but you may find my cousin Daimhin a willing
listener. You two are much of a mind when it comes to Wicke. I believe he would
take Taminy-Osmaer and drown her.”

Sorn’s brow wrinkled. “What—throw her from a boat or a
cliff? Lower her into a well?”

Ruadh was finding this whole conversation distasteful.
Courtesy would not allow him to let it show. “There is a chamber beneath the
castle Mertuile where the sea flows freely. At certain times it has been used
to . . . discipline the enemies of Mertuile’s lords.”

Sorn laughed. “How polite you are! You mean that, there,
people were tortured and died. Superb! Then you can prolong the death throes of
the enemy and long hear their cries. Perhaps an improvement over fire, yes?” He
nodded, as if in answer to his own question. “Yes, and the body is spared
mutilation. An unfortunate thing about fire—it destroys so utterly.” He smiled
at Ruadh—a bashful, boy’s smile. “Your cousin showed me a painting of this
Taminy done by your poor, dead Cyne Colfre. She is an exotic beauty, is she
not?”

Ruadh flipped his reins, casting about for a way to
extricate himself from this increasingly morbid dialogue. “I’ve never seen her,
but in that portrait. I concede that Colfre must have thought her beautiful.
But then, he was enamored of her.”

“As is your cousin, I think.”

A startling thought. “Daimhin? No. You misunderstand him. He
was once enchanted by the Wicke, but no longer. He is driven only by hatred,
believe me. She laid hands on his soul not that long ago—or tried to. Tried to
manipulate him as she had our Cyne. I think she humiliated him. Daimhin doesn’t
tolerate humiliation. It’s revenge he seeks.”

“Ah, revenge.” Sorn nodded knowingly. The little-boy smile
was back. “A powerful aphrodisiac.”

Ruadh shook his head. “I don’t understand . . . what’s an a—”

Sorn reached over and patted his arm. “A powerful inyx,
friend. A potent Weaving that causes the vengeful to burn with desire for the
object of vengeance.”

“You mean she Weaves lust upon him so he will spare her?” He
hadn’t thought of that.

Sorn let loose a cascade of ebullient laughter. “Not at all!
Passion needs no Weaver, friend Feich. It Weaves its own enchantment.”

Sorn, a loquacious companion, continued to chatter his
philosophy regarding sorceresses (he seemed much less interested in sorcerers,
though he claimed El-Deasach had known plagues of them from time to time).

Ruadh declined to listen, turning his attention instead to
the group ahead of them—Chieftains and Elders all. The only exceptions were the
inclusion of the Abbod Ladhar and Blair Dearg’s wife, Coinich Mor. She was
Hillwild and a seeress, according to Daimhin. A novel resource, he said. She
would be able to tell if they were being Woven against.

Her presence in the party bothered Ruadh, and he had
protested it. More than he had protested the inclusion of the twenty or so
females from the Taminist Houses (and he could think of them in no other way,
regardless of the professions of their Chieftains). It seemed odd to him that
they should carry one Wicke to deal with another. Couldn’t that damned Abbod
tell if they were being Woven against? If not, what good was he?

Ruadh allowed himself a mean-spirited smile. If the presence
of a Dearg “seeress” unsettled him, what effect must it have on the corpulent
Abbod?

oOo

Ladhar was exhausted by the time they made camp the first
night on the banks of the Halig-Tyne. The damned cannon slowed them to a crawl
and the oversized wheels of its heavy undercarriage kept up the most horrendous
racket—a cacophony that sounded like the screechings and wailings of every lost
soul since Creation’s distant beginning. It was torment to listen to it, but a
worse torment was having to ride in such close company with the Wicke, Coinich
Mor.

Oh, she didn’t call herself a Wicke—neither did her husband
or any other relation—but Wicke she clearly was. A ‘sensitive soul,’ Feich
styled her, and her grinning husband spoke of how marriage to her had improved
his fortunes. He was bewicked by her, no question. Must be, to have brought her
on this march.

Ladhar had asked after it of course, joining his protest to
the young Feich Marschal’s, but they were roundly ignored. She was here, he was
told, to enhance his own powers. If the Wicke of Nairne were to try a Weave on
them, two watchdogs were better than one.

Effrontery! Daimhin Feich was full of it. The Dearg Wicke
had some motive of her own for being here, a motive Ladhar could not fathom,
but which he was determined to know before they reached Nairne. He didn’t like
the way she looked at Daimhin Feich—as if she marked his every move. He didn’t
like the way she wielded her ample body—as if aware how well her own movements
were watched by the men around her. He despised the way she made him feel—as if
tiny, invisible vermin crawled ceaselessly over his body. He had felt like that
before—when Taminy-a-Cuinn was near. It was the prelude to a storm of the
spirit, the kind of storm Taminy had precipitated when she had stood in the
Assembly Hall and spun lightning out of the air.

Exhausted, he was. Road-weary. Bone-tired. But not so worn
that he couldn’t keep an eye and ear on the goings on about camp. He made it
his business to watch Coinich Mor—or rather to have Caime Cadder watch her. It
was a special talent of Cadder’s that in any group of people he was virtually
invisible. Ladhar doubted Daimhin Feich even noticed his presence at Ladhar’s
side, though he’d spoken over the man’s head a number of times on the ride. It
was a pathetic distinction, that invisibility, but it served Cadder’s master well.

Well after sunset, when the rheum of the river had permeated
every pore of Ladhar’s tent, Caime Cadder scratched on the door post and made a
shivering entrance.

“The Dearg woman,” he said, teeth chattering, face pinched
with distaste, “has gone to the Regent’s tent.”

His suspicions confirmed, Ladhar squeezed out of his shelter
into the sodden night. The Wicke was surely after something. Perhaps now, she
was making some move. Perhaps she was even a secret cohort of the Nairnian
Wicke. Well, if she was, by God—he felt his belt pouch for the comforting bulk
of his crystal, Scirwyn.

The Regent’s tent was closest to the river, shielded from
the rest of the camp by a circle of low shrubby trees. It was three times the
size of anyone else’s, dwarfing even the tasseled black tent of the visiting
Deasach Marschal. This was a festival tent, hardly suitable for a battle camp.

Ladhar pursed full lips. As annoying as was Feich’s
ostentatious tastes, his penchant for isolation would work against him this
time; the shadowy hedge was perfect cover for a spy Ladhar’s size. The old
Abbod pretended to make for the downstream wash pool, then squeezed behind the
screen of greenery. The sounds of his discomfort covered by the whispered roar
of the Halig-tyne, he stationed himself at a corner of the tent where
inconstant light leaked from a long narrow gap in a corner joining.