Crystal Rose (38 page)

He didn’t wish. Not at that moment. He was on his way to
take the Stone; he was on the verge of reaching out to the Wicke of Hrofceaster
in her own medium. He had no time now for Coinich Mor. She was a pleasure that
would taste just as sweet later. Nor could he be certain her tainted energies
wouldn’t corrupt the pure power he now cradled within. But, so that she’d
understand her place at Mertuile, he kissed her hard enough to punish her
bruised lips.

He was a little surprised to lift his head and find her
smile intact. He had hoped for hurt, reproach or anger.

“Don’t forget about me, Daimhin Feich, because I will be
with you always. To the end.”

He laughed in the face of her promise and strode from the
room, bemused at how girlish Coinich Mor seemed in her infatuation with him. He
was aware that she watched him all the way to the doors, but didn’t look back,
but he though she might have spit upon the place where he had stood.

He took the private way to Ochanshrine, crossing the
Halig-tyne in his boat, a Malcuim regular at the oars. Abbod Ladhar seemed to
be nowhere about, and so he entered the Shrine without announcing himself.
Nevertheless, his presence was enough to send every Osraed, Aelder and cleirach
scurrying from the sanctum. That pleased him, for he knew they sensed his
power; perhaps they could even see it.

He took the steps down to the Crystal two at a time, pausing
only when it was in reach. He raised his arms as if to embrace the Stone, but
did not touch it. No, he would savor this. He drew in a breath, collecting the
raw energies that shimmered behind his eyes, and let it all out—breath and
energies alike—on a rush of exultation.

The Stone flared, washing him with light.

Not enough! There must be more. Perhaps he should have
practiced with Bloodheart before he came here. He gathered his resources again,
reaching deep into his own urgency. He thought of his hours with the Nairnian
girl, heating the power within him to a full boil. The light of the Stone grew,
steadied, yet . . . where was the heady rush of power? Where the electric
potency?

Damn! What was wrong? He’d channeled more force than this
through the puny crystals of his Wickish consorts. Anger swelled beneath the
buzz of power.

Good. Coinich Mor had said that anger was good, and Iseabal
had admitted that Taminy worked the Stone. Obviously, it was Taminy who kept
the doors of its mastery closed to him. That enraged him further.

Yes! He could feel the heat, feel the might building up
within him. Now he was ready. Now he could grasp—

He glanced up as a disturbance near the doors drew his
attention. The Osraed Ladhar, still dressed for sleep, trundled toward him down
the sloping aisle of the Shrine, Caime Cadder in his broad wake. He couldn’t
help but smile at the look of tragic horror on the old man’s face. Smiling, he
laid his hands on the Stone.

He was enveloped in a veil of golden light and warmth, a
veil through which he seemed to hear a voice speaking to him, and laughter. The
laughter angered him and he threw his will at the Stone with every last ounce
of might, thinking, at once of Taminy. He saw her then, as in a hazy dream. She
was kneeling in prayer or meditation while, around her, clustered a group of
her besotted waljan.

He recognized some of them—the clumsy, young Osraed Wyth;
the beautiful, thorny Desary—ah! Airleas Malcuim and his viperous mother; and
the Ren Catahn.

Hatred boiled within him at the sight of the Hillwild, at
the look on that dark, bearded face, turned toward Taminy-Osmaer in carnal
worship. He could well imagine the sort of relationship they shared. Had the
savage learned to tap that well of Eibhilin power? The thought stunned him and
brought a growl of rage to his throat. The growl grew to a snarl as the image
began to fade.

Feich tightened his grasp on the Crystal. “No! Not yet! I’m
not finished!”

The Stone didn’t seem to care. The vision dissolved, the
light waned, the warmth died beneath his hands.

No! This was all wrong! Wrong! He should have all but
shattered the Crystal with the amount of power he’d consumed. He should have
been able to rock the foundations of Ochanshrine and Hrofceaster alike with
sheer force. He had done everything Coinich Mor had taught him—he had siphoned
the energies, held them, concentrated them, expelled them . . .

Coinich Mor.

He pulled his hands from the Crystal with a curse. Damn her.
She must have done this. Or perhaps he had allowed her to do it by letting her
seduce him into that one, unwitting kiss. Wherever the blame lay, she had
sucked Iseabal’s forces from him with that greedy mouth, or polluted them. It
hardly mattered which. It meant a delay—a delay that Daimhin Feich knew he
could ill afford.

He glanced up to find Abbod Ladhar watching him, those beady
eyes like bits of glass in the ruddy face. Humiliation warmed Feich’s cheeks.
To have failed so abjectly before this swollen toad and his pack of
superstitious holy men . . .

With an effort he calmed himself. No matter. He would simply
have to return to Mertuile and visit the Nairnian girl again—always assuming
her store of Eibhilin energy was renewable. Well, of course it was. Her dear
Mistress was always with her, she’d said that herself. Just a few more hours
and he could return, and this time he would see to it that neither Coinich Mor
nor anything else distracted him.

He left Ochanshrine without saying a word to Ladhar or his
mewling mendicants and crossed the mouth of the Halig-tyne, urgency building by
the second. He was winded by the time he made the long climb from the pier to
the main floor of the castle —winded, irate and far from happy to have his
cousin and Eadrig Dearg accost him at the bottom of the ornate staircase that
led up to the first level of private chambers.

“What is it, Ruadh? I haven’t time—”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to make time, cousin. There is a
sizable contingent of citizens in the outer ward who insist that we produce
Airleas and vacate Mertuile. They’re demanding that we use our guards to clear
the streets of criminals rather than having them chase down every Taminist too
stupid to be in hiding.”

“How did these citizens come to be in the outer ward?”

Ruadh’s mouth twitched. “I take it they bribed a gate-keep.
Enterprising of them.”

“Why should I care what they demand? I’m in control of
Mertuile—”

“It seems, cousin, that over beyond the landward hills a
considerable contingent of Claeg, Jura, Graegam and Gilleas kinsmen still sit,
waiting for . . . something. I suggest that if we don’t do something toward
getting Airleas back to Mertuile, our unhappy citizens might prevail upon them
to stop waiting.”

Feich’s jaw tightened. “I told them to disband—to return to
their estates.”

“They didn’t listen. Does that really surprise you?”

“As I said, I don’t have time—”

“Daimhin.” Ruadh put a hand on his cousin’s arm and steel
into his voice. “I don’t think you understand the situation. The people
currently milling beyond the inner curtain have every intention of breaching it
and speaking with you face to face. They’re rather . . . upset about the demise
of their representative government and are demanding its return . . . among other
things.”

Feich glared from his cousin to the silent Dearg, then
pounded his fist on the stair bannister in frustration. “Oh, very well. I’ll go
up to the wall and speak to them. I’ll tell them we’ve every intention of
bringing their damned Malcuim out of hiding.”

“And the Hall?” The Dearg spoke for the first time.

“And the Hall . . . ?” echoed Feich sarcastically.

His sarcasm was lost on the hirsute Chieftain. “The Hall
hasn’t met since Colfre’s death. By law, it should have sat down the next day
to handle his affairs.”

“Colfre’s affairs are in my hands.”

“Aye. And that’s the trouble as far as
they’re
concerned.” He jerked his head toward the outer ward.

As if in response, there was a booming report like a clap of
thunder and the gates of the inner curtain shook.

Feich spared no more words for the situation, but hurled
himself from the stair and across the patterned floor of the entrance hall,
taking special pleasure in grinding his boot into the Malcuim crest inlaid
there. He crossed the court at a run, climbed to the walk along the top of the
inner curtain, and stood trembling, glaring down at the crowd below him.

Ruadh and The Dearg moved to flank him.

“You!” he shouted. “You ungrateful swine! Is this how you treat
the Regent of Airleas Malcuim?”

The rabble ceased its press toward the gate below him and
jostled for a view of the Regent. He recognized faces now—several prominent
merchants and an Eiric or two fronted the crowd.

One of them shouted back at him: “This is how we treat a
Regent who has neglected his duties to city and country alike in favor of
chasing about after the members of some petty cult.”

“This ‘petty cult,’ sir, has Cyneric Airleas in hand. Should
I allow that to continue?”

“No, sir, you should not! Nor should you allow Caraid-land
to stand ungoverned. We want the Hall convened and we want Airleas Malcuim on
the Throne where he belongs!”

Around the impudent Eiric—Cearbhall-mac-Corach, his name
was, and Feich noted it—began a low chant of “The Malcuim! The Malcuim!” It was
a name Daimhin Feich was sorely sick of hearing. He raised his hands over his
head. “I intend . . .”

They continued to chant and he tried again . . . and again. On
the third try, they let him speak.

“Once my forces are rested from their last attempt to return
Airleas Malcuim to Mertuile, we will be mounting another campaign to get him
back. We had thought him to be at Halig-liath, but Taminy-a-Cuinn—who calls
herself ‘Osmaer’—has spirited him away from there into the Gyldan-baenn. He is
now among the Hillwild in the mountain holt of Airdnasheen. I intend to go
there and bring him back.”

They approved. He could see it in their sheep faces, feel it
wash up from them. He drank in their approval.

“Further,” he continued, “an emergency meeting of the Hall
will be called to consult on the replacement of its apostate members.”

“When?” bleated several of the sheep.

“As soon as I have returned with Airleas Malcuim and have
set him before the Stone. Until then . . .” He raised his hands against another
outcry. “Until then, the Privy Council will handle the affairs of Creiddylad.
Take your concerns to them. I expect them to give you satisfaction.”

He stopped and looked down at them. They milled for a moment
more, speaking among themselves, then the leaders of the group made signs of
agreement.

“That is satisfactory,” said mac-Corach. “For now.”

They began to disperse, to move back toward the outer gates.

Feich heaved a sigh of exasperation. Another riot averted.
He’d turned to retrace his steps to the castle when something whizzed by him,
narrowly missing his head. Ruadh cried out and drew his sword as Feich whirled
to see one of the gate guards fall under the impact of a crossbow bolt. A bolt
obviously meant for him.

While other men went to the aid of the fallen, Feich threw
himself from the walkway and into the courtyard below.

At the bottom of the steps he doubled over, hands on his
knees, to quake and tremble like a frightened child. It took him a moment to
realize Ruadh was beside him, a hand on his shoulder. He straightened with an
effort and pulled his clothing and thoughts into order.

“Ruadh,” he said, “I will issue a new decree. As of this
moment, support of Taminy-Osmaer is an offense punishable by death.”

In this Day a Door is open
wide to the peoples of Caraid-land. The smallest drop of faith in this Day is
as an ocean; the smallest sacrifice, a holy Pilgrimage. In this Age, if a soul
sow one drop of blood in the field of faith, that soul shall reap the Sea.

—Utterances of Taminy-Osmaer
Book of the Covenant

“Who is it? Who’s at the gate?” Leal hurried across the
courtyard to Osraed Fhada’s side.

The older man turned to look at him, his face bloodless.
“It’s the Abbod Ladhar.”

Leal blanched and reached fingers of sense through the opaque
barrier before him. “He’s alone. And . . . very afraid.” He glanced up at the boy
atop the gate. “Let him in, Ferret.”

The bar lifted and the gate groaned inward, allowing the
Abbod and his horse to enter. Covered from bald crown to booted foot in a thick,
black, hooded cloak, Ladhar clearly feared recognition. When he had dismounted
and set back his hood, Leal could see he’d even daubed some camouflaging color
over his time-bedimmed Kiss.

“I must speak with you. In secret,” he added.

Fhada merely nodded, made certain the gate was bolted and
barred, and led the way into Carehouse and through its halls to his office.

Aine was there, her usually ruddy face pale and drawn.

“Anything from—?” Leal began.

The girl shook her head. “Something’s horribly wrong, Leal.
It was as if she was cut off. I felt her terror and then . . . nothing.”

“Taminy?”

Aine glanced at Ladhar, her suspicion of him a prickly thing
in the air. “Silent . . . and cloaked in sorrow. What has happened to
Iseabal-a-Nairnecirke, Abbod? What has Regent Feich done with her? Is she
dead?”

The Abbod seemed, for once, at a loss for words. He colored
and paled in turns then said, “As far as I know the girl is alive. I don’t
think Daimhin Feich will allow her to be killed. He believes her captivity will
draw Taminy out. I suspect he also believes she has abilities he can either
channel or learn. He . . . brought her late last night to Ochanshrine and tried
to force her to Weave with the Osmaer Crystal. She conjured an aislinn of your
Mistress, then dissolved it and refused to do more.”