Crystal Rose (32 page)

“Five days—six, perhaps. Uncle reckoned the cannon would
slow them down more than a little.”

Aine nodded and closed her eyes again briefly. A moment
later, she seemed to have concluded her communication and stood to move closer
to the fire that roared in the large hearth.

“You’ve . . . told her about Feich’s march, then?” Saefren
asked. “Just now?”

A malicious glint entered the redhead’s hazel eyes. “Do you
doubt that? Do you think perhaps I only pretended the Speakweave?”

“I’m sure you believe you . . . communicated with her, but how
can you be certain?”

Aine ignored the question. “Saefren Claeg,” she told him,
frank annoyance souring her already less-than-sweet features. “You are the most
hard-headed, cold-hearted—” She broke off, her body and face suddenly stiff
with tension.

Glancing at Fhada, Saefren saw that he too had frozen in
mid-chuckle, responding to something the young Claeg could neither see nor hear
nor sense. Moments passed without movement, the only sound, that of flames
crawling up the flue. Impatient, Saefren longed to demand to know what was
going on. He did not. Instead, he waited until Aine came back from wherever she
had gone. Only then did he open his mouth to ask his question, and was roundly
ignored.

Aine launched herself toward Fhada’s desk, behind which, the
Osraed now stood, eyes fastened on her flushed face.

“It was Eadmund!” she said.

“I caught that much—and his distress—but what was the
message?”

“The Abbod Ladhar’s deputy, Tarsuin, has been given an edict
to post. Drafted by Regent Feich and counter-signed by the Abbod himself. We
are to be denounced as heretics and enemies of the Throne, Osraed. There will
be a bounty on our heads—a hundred ambre for every waljan brought to Mertuile.”

Fhada paled. “But surely the Privy Council—?”

“Eadmund says that a quorum of the Council witnessed the
edict only this morning. It’s to be posted in a week’s time. Can he do that?
Can he bypass the Assembly?”

“What Assembly? The Assembly is effectively disbanded, and I
doubt Regent Feich has any intention of seeing it re-elected. As to the Privy
Council—it appears a significant number of its members are in agreement with
our Regent.”

“Aye,” muttered Saefren, “and it appears he made certain
those who were not were safely out of the way.” He felt the others’ eyes on
him. “You see what he’s done, don’t you? He drew up this edict—perhaps even at
the last moment, when he knew the waljan Chieftains would be on their way to
Halig-liath in his company. With only partisan Eiric, Osraed and Ministers left
to convince . . .”

Fhada nodded grimly. “He pressed his advantage and had the
edict passed and witnessed in the absence of strong dissent.”

“And posted to coincide with his arrival in Nairne,” Saefren
concluded.

“So we are now heretics,” murmured Aine, her ruddy
complexion for once devoid of color.

Saefren grimaced. “Or will be in a week’s time.”

The girl shot him a sharp glance and he realized that he had
crossed over an intangible line between skepticism and acceptance. Once again,
she surprised him and did not gloat.

Worship the Spirit in this
way: If your faith lead you to death, alter it not. If your faith lead you to
heaven, likewise, alter it not. This is the quality of faith that befits the
Spirit of the Universe.

— From the Testament of Osraed Bevol

Ruadh Feich sat uneasily astride his horse this
morning—uneasily and wearily. He had slept poorly after that bizarre dream and
had hardly been prepared for the shock of waking to find himself naked within
his bedroll with his night robe lying in a heap just inside his tent flap.
Daimhin had only laughed at him when he worried that he might have been
sleep-walking, and teased him that he must surely have been enchanted into a
tryst with a wood paerie—or perhaps with the elusive Gwenwyvar.

All joking aside, Ruadh was afraid someone might have seen
him dancing naked in the light of his tent brazier. At least he hoped that was
all he had done. He did recall dancing, and the transient light of fire, but
somewhere in the confusion of compulsions and memories were fragmentary images
of wandering across chill open ground, of approaching a large, lighted
tent—Daimhin’s tent, he thought—and of being watched by shadowy figures.

His skin crawled and he wondered if it were possible that
the Nairnian Wicke was responsible for this. Perhaps she knew they came to
confront her. Perhaps she had laid aislinn snares for them, hoping to inspire
fear. Fierce Feich pride rose in Ruadh’s breast. Well, if that were the case,
she’d have to do much better than a simple nightmare to turn back the Feich.

Today again, as he rode at the head of his troop of kinsmen,
Sorn Saba was beside him. Today the journey was more pleasant. There was no
talk of Wicke-burnings or drownings or other tortures. Instead, the Deasach
spoke of life in the court of his sister, the Banarigh Raven, of hunting and
riding and sailing.

He bragged a bit about being the youngest Marschal in the
history of El-Deasach and, while Ruadh suspected the position was the result of
nepotism, Sorn was quick to disabuse him of the idea. He had led a number of
guerrilla attacks against the Southern Hillwild, he claimed—two in the last
year alone. He had a talent for it. Or so he said.

The day passed uneventfully enough, though Ruadh could not
shake the idea that he was being watched. He imagined with irritation some old
dogs chuckling at what they had witnessed the young Feich Marschal doing in his
sleep. The thought made his face and stomach burn.

Sunset found the company camped, once again, on the banks of
the Holy River, and it was to the river that Ruadh went, as the Sun dipped
below the Western horizon, to wash the grime of the road from his body. Sorn,
seemingly unwilling to be separated from him, went along, and even joined in
the chilly ablutions.

That didn’t bother Ruadh, though it seemed an intrusion into
his privacy. He attributed it to differences in the Deasach concept of
courtesy. Sorn had been a pleasant enough companion during the ride and Ruadh
was inclined to merely ignore his presence, answering the younger man’s
grumbles about the abominable climate with grunts and monosyllables.

He’d just put on a clean pair of leggings and was unfolding
a fresh shirt when the sensation of being watched assailed him more strongly
than ever. Sorn, still shivering and complaining vociferously about these
hardships, seemed to sense nothing.

Skin crawling, Ruadh reached reflexively for his sword.

“I mean you no harm, young Marschal.”

Startled, Ruadh whirled, sword clutched in one hand, shirt
in the other.

Coinich Mor stood not five feet away, laughing at him as
silently as she had appeared. “How like a young buck you are,” she told him,
and stepped nearer. “Ready to leap up and run. Not very warrior-like. Perhaps
manhood sits lightly on you.”

Face burning, Ruadh forced himself to ignore the jibe. He
put down his sword with deliberate motion and prepared to pull the thick shirt
over his head.

“You startled me, mistress. I’m not used to having people
sneak up on me in my own camp.”

“You needn’t hurry so in covering yourself, Marschal. You
please the eyes greatly.”

Ruadh was vaguely aware that Sorn had ceased his chattering.
Only the river spoke. He pulled on the shirt, nearly tearing it in his haste;
his arm caught halfway up one sleeve. Cursing, he pulled it free and tried
again, this time succeeding in covering himself.

The Dearg woman moved closer still, her strange yellow eyes
never leaving him. “I was watching you today.”

“I felt you,” he admitted, then wished he hadn’t when the
woman smiled at him.

“I wanted you to feel me.”

She stopped no more than an arm’s length away and Ruadh
realized with a mixture of shame and anger that he had been retreating from
her. He stopped his backward progress with a will.

“Why have you come here, mistress?” He reached for his cloak
and brought it around his shoulders.

“To ask how you slept last night.”

Ruadh was certain every drop of blood had fled his face and
extremities.

The Dearg woman tilted her head—a gesture that would have
been charming and pert in a prettier, more delicate woman. Coming from Coinich
Mor it held predatory undertones. “And if you found your night robe this
morning,” she added.

Ruadh finally forced words from his open mouth. “I don’t
know what you mean.”

He moved to take up his sword again and strapped it on,
aware of Sorn’s silent watchfulness.

“You were not wearing it when last I saw you. I thought you
might’ve lost it.”

Anger brought the blood back to Ruadh’s face. “I am not a
game-player, mistress. Kindly come to your point.”

She laughed softly. “You’re not like your cousin, the
Regent. He likes games. He likes my . . . company.”

He boggled at the implications of that—that Daimhin was
dallying with the wife of a Dearg ally right beneath the man’s nose. “And so,
I’m sure, does your husband, Mistress Dearg.”

“Is that what stops you? That I’ve a husband? Your cousin
has no such scruples.”

“If you have my cousin to play with, why should you want
me?”

“Shall I come to your tent tonight and show you why I want
you?”

“No, mistress. You shall not.” Flushing with outrage, Ruadh
scooped up his dirty clothing and thrust through the screen of shore-hugging
bushes.

Behind him, Sorn Saba’s voice said, “You may come to my tent
tonight, Mistress Dearg. Unlike Ruadh, I am not afraid of you,” and the Dearg
Wicke laughed.

The sound would haunt Ruadh Feich’s dreams.

oOo

When Daimhin Feich had first marked Coinich Mor’s interest
in Sorn Saba (among others), he was angry. The very thought that she should
spread her favors among other men while he was her sponsor filled him with an
overwhelming desire to strike at her with his new-found powers or, at the very
least, to leave her behind him on the trail to Nairne.

The anger hadn’t lasted. He quickly realized how ridiculous
it was that he should be jealous of her time and talents when it was her
husband who was being cuckolded several times over. She was teaching no one
else to Weave, so there was no threat from that quarter. His anger was
ill-spent.

From then on, his attitude was one of knowing amusement. She
was, after all, doing only what she had taught him to do; she was drawing energies
from her trysts with the Deasach boy and her other paramours. Perhaps she even
sucked forces from her doltish husband.

Daimhin found the thought amusing: Coinich Mor gathered
potencies from other men and brought them to him so he could feed upon the
pilfered energy. A twisted sort of mother bird, that made her, and he wondered
if she realized that
he
fed on her
forces, weak as they were.

It had surprised him, when first they Wove, that she taught
so well who could martial so little real power. She had barely been able to
call even a fitful glow from his red crystal—Bloodheart, he called it. Yet,
with her guidance, he had made it scream glory. She could do little with her
own stone besides make it pulse and flare. Only when they coupled did the yellow
crystal catch fire. There was a soul-deep satisfaction in that which went
worlds beyond the physical act. His powers grew with every encounter and this
last time . . .

He paused to savor the memory, quivering with anticipation
of the night to come. He was thankful to be astride his horse where no shrewd
eye could divine the tenor of his thoughts.

Last night, in his tent, after she had been with the Deasach
boy, the power he drew was such that, for a measure of moments, Coinich Mor had
ceased to be Coinich Mor. She had been Taminy, the chaste, the pure, burning
like a golden flame in his arms. No mere imagination, this, it was an aislinn
vision of such strength that it had taken his breath away. He had stilled and
stared, unable to believe what he had done, what he had Woven. The pale hair,
the sea green eyes, the silken skin. He had savored every moment of the vision,
knowing he embraced prophecy.

A thought had occurred to him then: if such power could be
drawn from a minor Wicke like Coinich Mor, if it could be channeled through an
imperfect red crystal, what could be possible with Taminy under his control and
the Osmaer Crystal in his hands?

He glanced back at the Dearg Wicke and caught her watching
him, her face devoid of expression. When their eyes met, she smiled briefly,
passion—or something like it—leaping in her yellow eyes. He turned front again,
breathing deeply of the autumn air and feeling fit and fine and powerful. His
eyes encountered another pair in their travels; the Abbod also watched him,
gaze burning.

Someday, old man,
Feich thought, and nodded to the Osraed with a smile. Ladhar turned away,
leaving him with a sudden realization:
He
fears me. Years of Osraed schooling in the Divine Art, the Osmaer Crystal at
the heart of his domain, and yet he fears me.

The thought was electrifying.

Daimhin Feich set about anticipating his future, impatient
to reach Nairne where he would lay hands on it.

oOo

Dreams, dark and chaotic, once again denied Taminy sleep.
She woke and prayed, communing with Comfort in its pure form. Comfort came, but
with it comprehension; a predator circled, growing in strength, cleverness and
acquisitiveness. He didn’t know where she was; still, he reached for her.
Tonight she’d felt his breath on her again—hot, insistent—making her skin creep
and her heart pound. She threw out a Wardweave, concentrating on the person of
Daimhin Feich. She knew where he was, knew where to direct the Weave, but its
web fell without effect; his Touch still lay upon her soul, fading only
gradually.