Crystal Rose (39 page)

Aine nodded. “I saw that. Feich was furious. I sensed her
terror of him.”

The Abbod busied himself with the closes of his cloak. “Yes,
well. He . . . returned this morning, alone, and tried to Weave through the
Crystal on his own. Which is why I am here.” He raised his head and offered
Leal a direct gaze that was somehow at once contrite and haughty.

Leal could only stammer, “Then Feich has—”

“Feich has nothing. He raised an aislinn of the Wicke at
prayer with your fellow . . . disciples—God only knows what it is they pray
to—but that was all he could do.”

Leal was weak with relief. “Then he can do nothing with
Ochan’s Stone?”

“I don’t know. Nor do I want to know.”

Ladhar reached beneath his cloak and brought out a satchel
of soft, black leather. He held it out to Leal, who took it in trembling hands
and pulled back the obscuring flap.

Aine, now at Leal’s side, gasped. “The Osmaer!”

“I took your advice, Osraed,” Ladhar admitted stiffly.
“Whatever our differences may be—and they are considerable—I am certain you are
less of a danger to the Crystal than Feich is. There are times I’m convinced
the man is mad. Other times I think he’s only completely amoral. What I do know
is what I have seen—he can Weave. Well enough to control the actions of others.
Well enough to catch and control the wind.”

Leal’s brow knotted. “Bevol’s Aiffe is a crystal of great
clarity and quality. Yet Feich could do nothing with it? How can that be?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps your Mistress blocked him. I only
know I don’t want him or his Wickish mistress to lay a finger on the Osmaer. I
fear they’d destroy it. I give it into your care in the hope that you can
protect it better than I can. It would be much too easy for Feich to find it at
Ochanshrine.”

Fhada twitched. “He doesn’t suspect—”

“No, Osraed, he suspects nothing . . . yet. He believes I am
his ally.”

“You spoke of his mistress. A Wicke, you called her. Do you
mean a Taminist?”

Ladhar snorted. “Hardly. She’s a woman of the House Dearg.
The Hillwild wife of a House Elder, but her only allegiance, I wager, is to
herself. She somehow got Feich a rune stone—a hideously flawed crimson thing he
calls Bloodheart—and she tutors him in all manner of . . . perversion.” He spat
the word. “There is something else you should know. Before I left Ochanshrine
to come here, someone made an attempt on Daimhin Feich’s life as he gave a
speech from the battlements. Feich elected to blame the Taminists. Support of
Taminy-a-Cuinn is now punishable by death. Or will be when the Privy Council ratifies
Feich’s most recent ban.”

Leal’s heart spasmed. “Will you vote to ratify it, Osraed?”

“I’m not stupid, young man. I have my own life to protect.”

“If we’re now to be the target of Feich’s purges, why bring
the Osmaer to us?”

“Recent history indicates Taminy and her acolytes are very
difficult targets to hit. Now, I must go—before some new crisis arises at
Mertuile or Ochanshrine.” He moved to open the chamber door, then paused to
look back at the waljan. “I’m curious. What Weave are you using to create the
illusion that Aiffe is the Osmaer Crystal?”

Leal blinked. “Aine modified a Cloakweave and bound it to
the stone.”

“A Cloakweave. Which is also what you used to get past the
guards at the Shrine. I see. Bound to the stone itself, you say.” He shot Aine
an appraising glance. “A useful inyx. I shall probably wish I could Weave one
myself before all this is over.”

“How did you know, Abbod?” Leal asked. “About the Weave.”

“I remember Bevol’s crystal. A beautiful stone, but flawed;
there was a tiny opaque smut at its base and a hairline fracture in one of the
basal facets. Fortunately, Daimhin Feich could hardly be expected to know the
difference.”

He left them holding the Osmaer Crystal with the unenviable
task of determining how to protect it and a hospice full of condemned
Taminists.

It was Aine who broke the silence that had settled over the
group. “I’m going up to Mertuile. I’m going to find out what’s happened to
Isha.”

“Too dangerous,” Fhada objected. “With the bans—”

“I’ll Weave a Cloak.”

“And if you’re surprised into dropping it? None of us are
masters of the Art, though we may have to pretend we are.”

“I’ll wear a crystal to amplify it. I’ll be fine.”

“No, Aine, I’ll go.”

Heads swiveled to a shadowed alcove beside the hearth from
which Saefren Claeg had emerged.

“It makes more sense than having you go,” he told Aine
before she could protest. “I can get into Mertuile without having to resort to
inyx. I should have little trouble finding out what happened to Iseabal. No one
would have any reason to lie to me or question my curiosity. After all, my
Uncle Iobert was part of the party that brought her here.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Aine.

“No, you won’t. It makes no sense—am I right, Osraed Fhada?”

Fhada nodded. “I have to agree with Saefren, Aine. It makes
more sense for him to go. He isn’t the subject of a Regency decree. You are.
Besides, dear girl, we need you here.”

Aine subsided, but Leal knew it was not out of acquiescence.
There was rebellion in her hazel eyes and mutiny in the set of her jaw.

oOo

An hour after the failed attempt on his life, Daimhin
Feich sat in his salon quivering between terror and rage. His mind was a roil
of impulses. He wanted to strangle Coinich Mor; he wanted to seize the Osmaer
Crystal and throw every smug Osraed in the dungeon; he wanted to drown the
Taminists there now with his own hands. Most of all, he wanted to squeeze from
his young hostage every last ounce of power she had to offer.

It was difficult to restrain himself from that last action,
but he had no doubt that if he went to her now, in this chaotic frame of mind,
he’d leave nothing of her but a dried out husk, and he had only Coinich Mor
with which to replace her.

Then, too, there was the matter of the traitorous Houses. He
could do nothing about that now. They were camped just beyond Creiddylad, in
position to trap his forces with their backs to the Sea if they forced a
battle.

Damn, but he hated this feeling of impotence! When he could
face her again without wanting to thrash her witless, he’d consult Coinich Mor
about possible Weaves he might apply to this wretched situation.

Someone rattled the door and he growled permission for them
to enter. It was Sorn Saba who appeared around the ornate slab of wood, bowing
slightly as he entered. The momentary obeisance blended smoothly into an
arrogant straightening of the Deasach’s lithe body.

“Daimhin, if I might share words with you?”

Feich waved a half-empty wine cup at the seat across from
him at the hearth. The youth perched himself at the edge of it and fixed his host
with a gleaming, black gaze.

“You seem besieged by trouble, my friend,” he observed.
“Your little Cyne stolen, your arch enemy at large, and now your subjects press
toward rebellion.”

Brat
. Feich forced
his face to reflect a composure he was far from feeling. “They aren’t precisely
my subjects.”

“They may as well be; the return of Cyneric Airleas at any
time soon would seem to be impossible.”

“You needn’t remind me, Shak Saba. I am well aware of my
problems.”

“Please, friend Daimhin! Let us not return to formality. I
only wonder why, in such dire circumstance, you promise your people that you
will return their Cyneric to them. It seems to me you are not in a position to
do this.”

“Your point . . . Sorn.”

The Deasach shrugged. “Only that you would appear to be in
need of some help. The kind of help my dear sister, Lilias, could provide.”

“Such as?”

“Men, arms. A force at your command that is well-versed in
mountain combat.”

Feich laughed. “For whatever good that would do. The passes
are snowbound.”

“Ah! The northeastern passes, yes. But it is much milder on
the southeastern side of the range.”

Feich sat forward in his chair. “You’re suggesting . . . that
your sister would allow us to cross Deasach land to reach Hrofceaster? She
would lend me both support and passage?”

Sorn Saba glanced down at his hands, clasped between his
knees. “If you were to offer some tribute to her and if I were to advise her
that a military alliance with you would be beneficial and appropriate under the
circumstances.”

“The circumstances being . . . ?”

“That a powerful Enemy of the Caraidin throne holds the heir
to that throne hostage. That that enemy is an ally of the Hillwild, who are
our
enemies. That this enemy is strong
in magic and beauty.” He grinned. “A natural adversary for my very vain
sister.”

“You would advise your sister to aid me?”

The boy looked up at him through dark, glittering eyes and
Feich thought,
Ah, this is it. We come to
the point.

“I could be persuaded,” Sorn said.

“And what could persuade you?”

“The Nairnian sorceress.”

“What? Taminy?”

“No, no. Iseabal. Iseabal of the blue eyes. I want her.”

“You want her.” Feich only just kept himself from laughing.
“Whatever for? Surely you would find an experienced woman like Coinich Mor more
arousing than a village cailin.”

The boy had the grace to blush. “I’ve known a score of women
like Coinich Mor—experienced, as you say, and gluttonous when it comes to young
men. Iseabal is . . . innocent, exotic, beautiful, magical. I find her . . .
fascinating.”

“Exotic,” Feich repeated. “A village cailin. A Cirkemaster’s
daughter.”

“Oh, not to you, surely. You’re used to your fair women with
their light eyes and snowy flesh. But what is common to you is alien to me.
Frankly, I find Iseabal’s very lack of experience in matters of passion as
exciting, in its own way, as Coinich Mor’s skill. But it’s more than that,
Daimhin. There is something indefinable about her, something intriguing. She
seems so gentle. Yet, she has the steel to contradict even you, though you hold
over her the power of life and death.”

“Ah, and it would have nothing to do with the fact that
magic drips from her fingertips.”

The Deasach’s eyes grew brighter still. “You can almost see
it. Yes, there is that. She is a jewel. A jewel I would like to own.”

Arrogant whelp.
“Out of the question. I need her.”

“As hostage? So be it. What difference in whose tent she
sleeps? Consider her your hostage and me her . . . special guardian.”

“I need access to her. She . . . provides me with power, you
see.”

The boy’s brow knit. “Power? I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t—not being Gifted with the aidan. You say she
is magical. You’re right. She is, but only one with the Gift, one who can Weave
inyx, could possibly make use of her magic. I can channel that power. She would
be useless to you.”

Sorn smiled. “Oh, not useless, Daimhin. A woman needn’t be
dripping with the aidan, as you call it, to be of value. Yet, you are right in
saying I have no need of her power. If you do, then of course you may use her
as you wish.”

“I’m sorry, Sorn. I can’t let you take her.”

“Then I can give my sister no good reason to let you take
your troops across Deasach land or send Deasach forces with you into the
Gyldan-baenn.” He began to rise.

Feich raised a detaining hand. “Wait. Perhaps we can
compromise. You may visit her tonight, if you wish.”

“Not enough.”

“Then you may visit her at your whim until we depart for
El-Deasach. You may even take her to your tent on occasion.”

“Again—not enough. Look, my friend Regent, if my sister
agrees to aid you, what need will you have for this girl? Surely it is Coinich
Mor who aids you with your Weaving.”

Feich sat up on a jolt of suspicion. “What do you know of
that?”

“What I see. What little she tells me.” Catching Feich’s
sudden scowl, he added, “You made a great impression on her. ‘A man of
consuming passion,’ she called you. ‘A man of raw power.’ Surely, with such a
woman at your side, you have no need of young Iseabal. Let me have her. If you
still need her on your campaign to Hrofceaster, then of course, she shall come . . . but in my custody. Tell me—what difference does it make?”

“This is the only bribe you’ll accept?”

“Ah, please—a gift.”

“This is the only
gift
you’ll accept from me? Is there nothing else I can give you, do for you?”

“Nothing.”

“If it’s village cailin you want, I can give you a
dozen—each colored just like this one. Or each a different shade, if you
prefer.”

“They would not be magical heretics. They would not be
sorceresses. They would just be young girls. In that way, even Coinich Mor is
exotic. I find I like magical women. Perhaps, when we find this Osmaer of
yours . . .”

The hair rose up on the back of Feich’s neck. “Precisely.
Taminy-Osmaer is mine.”

Sorn favored him with a gleaming smile. “See? Now what does
any man—even a man like yourself—need with three sorceresses?”

Feich snorted. “What, indeed. All right, friend Sorn. You
may be Iseabal’s ‘guardian.’ Consider her your personal responsibility. I ask
only that I be allowed to consort with her at will.”

“Of course.” The boy rose and made an exaggerated bow. “You are
a most gracious host, Daimhin.”

“Yes, aren’t I?”

Daimhin saw the Deasach out, torn between anger at the boy’s
arrogance, and admiration of his sheer gall. He’d have made a good Feich, he
thought, and determined to visit the Nairnian immediately, before her
‘guardian’ could lay hands on her. He would have to hurry to get another chance
at the Stone of Ochan before they departed for El-Deasach. Yes, and he must
give immediate orders to Ruadh about the preparation of their men.

He had not made it to the door when it rattled and opened,
revealing a flushed, nervous Caime Cadder.