Crystal Rose (40 page)

Irritated, Feich stopped to glare at the cleirach. “It is
not only impolite to enter a private room without permission, Minister, in this
case it is also dangerous. You had better tell me something earth-shaking or
I’ll have you flung off the western battlements.”

Cadder blanched, his eyes glistening. “Please, lord. I beg
you—hear what I have to say before you throw me out. There is something you
must know. The stone you tried to Weave with this morning was not the Osmaer.
Osraed Ladhar has turned traitor and put another crystal in its place.”

We sent down the Scripture
as a blessing for the faithful, but it can only conduce to the downfall of the
wicked—they who hear nothing in the Scriptures but words. Consider: The Sun’s
blaze lights the entire sky, yet only its warmth reaches the blind.

—Utterances of Osraed Haefer Hageswode #36

Ladhar’s trek back through Creiddylad to Ochanshrine was
uneventful, but disturbing nonetheless. There was an increased military
presence in the streets, largely in the form of Feich and Dearg kinsmen and
Malcuim regulars. Ladhar was puzzled by the seeming fickleness of the latter.
While it was well known that a healthy contingent of minor Malcuim kinsmen had
fled after Colfre’s death—no doubt assuming the Feich would soon be at their
throats—just as many had stayed behind to lend support in finding their
Cyneric. Now they hunted down Taminist Wicke in his name.

An irony.

Curious circumstances, the Abbod thought, that had brought a
proud House to this pass. Colfre Malcuim had been an only child; there was no
brother to make a claim to the Throne or lead the House to fight for his son’s
return. The closest Malcuim relations were cousins—daughters of Colfre’s aunts
and uncles mostly, a rare son among them—who had lives and concerns of their
own, with little interest, it seemed, in grappling the man to whom had fallen,
not unwanted, the protection of the Malcuim Throne.

Ladhar paused momentarily to watch a couple of Dearg kinsmen
drag a young girl, kicking and screaming, from a tiny Backstere’s along a
Cyne’s Way back street to present her to a waiting Feich.

An older woman—her mother, Ladhar assumed—followed them,
protesting her daughter’s virtue at the top of her ample lungs.

“She’s a good girl, sirs! A good girl!” she cried, her broad
accent marking her northern rural origins. “She never done a midge of Weaving.
I swear’t. She’s a good girl!”

The Feich in charge—a tall, brawny man with mud-brown hair
and beard—grabbed the girl’s wrist and thrust her hand toward her mother’s
face.

“A good girl, is it? Then how do you explain this?”

There was a mark on the girl’s palm—a stellate smudge of
rosy gold. The mother blanched. “Oh, sir! I know naught of that!”

“Or this?” A second Feich had appeared from the shop with
what appeared to be a hand-bound booklet.

“I-I-I don’t know what—” the woman gabbled, and the younger
Feich kinsman flung the little book open and read in a loud voice. “‘As a
mother defends her only child from harm, let shielding thoughts for all be in
your heart, and all-embracing love for the whole universe. Let your love be
given without reserve, untouched by enmity, arousing no hatred.’”

“It . . . it’s just Scripture, sir.” The girl finally spoke on
her own behalf. “It’s a book of Scripture given me by a friend.”

“A Taminist friend, I don’t doubt,” said the elder Feich.

“No, sir!” the Backstere wailed. “Please, sir, my daughter!”

She held her arms out for the girl, but the Dearg pulled her
away.

“Give me the book,” said the brown-beard.

His kinsman tossed the little volume to him. He turned it
over in his hands.

“‘Book of the New Covenant,’” he read. “I never heard of
such Scripture as this. Whose this Osraed Wyth who signs his name to it?”

Ladhar quivered.
Books
.
Dear God, they were already disseminating books, making converts, winning
souls.

The Feich guardsman opened the little book and squinted at
the page before him.

“Gibberish. You’re condemned by nonsense.” He read another
passage in a sing-song voice calculated to show the gathering crowd how inane
was the maundering of Taminists. “‘Do you not see that the Spirit causes night
to follow day and day to follow night? And that this same Spirit holds the Sun
and moon and seasons and all His creation to Laws which flow toward a set goal?
And that this same Spirit is aware of all your doings? The promise and Covenant
of the Spirit is truth, and whatever else you adore is only His creation. Let
not the things you adore deceive you about the Spirit.’”

He clapped the book shut and glared at his little audience.

“Taminist ravings! Of course the Spirit causes day and
night. Of course He orders the seasons. Any child knows that, but you lap it up
like it was news! You stand condemned by your own demon scripture, girl, for
you are deceived about the Spirit. Deceived by Taminy-a-Cuinn. Do you deny that
you are a follower of this woman?”

Whatever the girl said was completely lost in the renewed
wailings of her mother, who pled her case with clasped hands and bended knees.
“Oh, please, sir! You’re wrong! I know you must be wrong. It’s Scripture, sir!
It is! Given us by Osraed. My girl is a good girl! Not prone to wickedness at
all, sir!”

The elder Feich, enjoying his role as inquisitor, smiled.

“Well, mam, I reckon we’ll learn how good your daughter is
soon enough. If she’s
very
good, she
might not have to die. She might only have to lose that wicked hand.”

He grasped the girl’s wrist again and extended her arm. The
book dropped, unheeded, to the cobbles as he drew his short sword.

The crowd roiled noisily as the Feich rested the sharpened
edge of the gleaming blade on the girl’s wrist.

“Your call, mam. Let’s see how well you shield your child
from harm. She dies a Taminist with both hands or she lives to prove her virtue
with one.”

Ladhar’s legs tightened on the barrel of his horse, prodding
the animal to carry him forward through the knot of onlookers. Sweat beaded his
brow though the air was cold enough to cloud with his breath. He broke into the
inner circle of watchers and let down his hood.

“Is there a problem, friend Feich?”

The elder kinsman blinked up at him, nonplussed. “No, Abbod.
Merely following the Regent’s order to ferret out these Taminist Wicke.”

“Did you intend to execute this one in the street without
trial?”

“No, sir. Only trying to determine guilt or innocence.”

“Ah. Surely a job for a tribunal.”

“She’s guilty!” cried someone in the gathering.

“She’s not!” The Backstere now took the opportunity to throw
her ample self before Ladhar’s horse. “Lord Osraed, I beg you! My daughter is
no Wicke!”

“Aye,” snarled the Feich, “and I’m no Feich either, I
suppose. We found Taminist writings.”

“They’re Scripture!” keened the woman.

Ladhar held out his hand. “Give me the book.”

After a moment of hesitation, the younger of the Feich
obeyed. Ladhar lifted the leather cover. It was a crude binding, but adequate
to hold the pages. They were linen, and the first, embossed with the Sign of
the Meri, was signed by Osraed Wyth, dated not a month past at Hrofceaster.

“You see, Osraed?” the Feich gloated.

Ladhar flicked a razor glance at him. “Where did you get
this?” he asked the quaking girl.

“From a young Osraed. I knew him to be Osraed from the
bright kiss on his brow. Like-like your own, sir, but golden.”

“I see. He told you this book was Scripture.”

“Aye sir. The Book of the New Covenant. New, since the Meri
has changed Aspect. It is Scripture, sir, isn’t it?”

The Feich uttered a grating laugh. “Pretending ignorance
won’t save you—”

“Yes. It is Scripture.”

Around Ladhar, the street and its denizens, the air and its
steaming chill, stilled as if time had ground to a halt.

The Feich gaped at him. “What did you say, lord Abbod?”

“I said, it is Scripture. Compiled by our newest Osraed.”

“But the girl’s a Taminist! She’s got the mark of the Wicke
in her palm!”

“Does she, indeed? Let me see it.”

Ladhar’s eyes fixed on the girl’s hand as the men tumbled
her roughly forward. The Feich brute stepped forward to pry back her fingers,
exposing her palm. After a moment, Ladhar moved his eyes to that worthy’s face.

“I see no mark.”

The girl’s palm was blank, a thing which seemed to surprise
even her.

The Feich gaped. “I-I don’t . . . It was there moments ago, I
swear it.”

“Well, it’s not there now. Release the child.”

They hesitated. Ladhar lifted his head and roared, “
Release
her
! She is no more Taminist than I am! You have made a mistake.
See that you don’t make the same error twice. Our Regent will be none too happy
if you harass and maim his law-abiding citizens. Now, go about your business.
While you loiter here, the real threat to Creiddylad escapes your notice.”

Grumbling, bemused, they did as ordered. The crowd
dispersed, some following the soldiers, some going about their own business, a
few staying behind to comfort the still weeping mother and daughter.

Eventually, the two came to Ladhar’s side, their faces maps
of gratitude with salt rivers marked in flour.

“How can I thank you, Osraed?” the girl mewed. She seemed
unutterably fragile still, cowering at her mother’s side.

A fragile heretic.

What have I done?
Ladhar shook himself. “I’ve not yet received a copy of Osraed Wyth’s work. May
I keep this one?”

Daughter and mother exchanged glances. “Of course, Abbod.
With the Meri’s blessing.”

He nodded, pulled up his hood and reined his horse toward
Ochanshrine. He arrived there to find that his presence was required at
Mertuile. Immediately, said a dour Caime Cadder.

At Mertuile, he and Cadder were taken directly to the throne
room where Feich sat in state, surrounded by kinsmen and allies. There seemed
to be an inordinate number of armed men about, but then the Regent had only
this day survived an attempt on his life.

“Ah, dear Abbod! How kind of you to join us!”

Feich beamed from his borrowed throne, seeming very relaxed
for a man who had come so close to death. Ladhar could only suppose he must
have been drinking something stronger than the summer wine he served at state
suppers.

“I’ve brought you here that I might ask a supreme favor. I
have recently made an agreement with the Marschal, Shak Sorn Saba, to affect an
alliance between ourselves and the Banarigh Lilias Saba of El-Deasach for the
purpose of returning Cyneric Airleas to Creiddylad. Pursuant to that, we will
be moving our forces south to El-Deasach and from there into the Gyldan-baenn
east of Hrofceaster.”

Ladhar was astounded. “The Banarigh has consented to this?”

“She will consent when her Marschal petitions her to do so.
He travels on that mission even as we speak, and has assured me of success.
This means we will be traveling on a most crucial campaign immediately upon his
return. We will need all the aid the Eibhilin realm has to offer. I intend to
take the Osmaer Crystal with us.”

“The—! That’s unheard of!” The Abbod found he could only
stand and quiver. “The Osmaer has only left Ochanshrine once in all history—for
the coronation of Kieran the Dark at Cyne’s Cirke.”

“Ah, wrong. It also left once in the hands of Bearach
Malcuim, Kieran’s son. He removed it clandestinely to Halig-liath, I recall, in
an attempt to keep it from the hands of Buchan Claeg.”

Ladhar willed his face to remain immobile and his blood to
lie still in his veins. “I had forgotten. For all that his intentions were
good, it was still theft—possibly blasphemy.”

“Yet it contributed to the salvation of Caraid-land, did it
not?”

“I wouldn’t deny it.”

“And I . . .” Feich spread his fingers upon his breast. “I, at
least, am asking permission of the Osraed charged with the Crystal’s protection
and care.”

His thoughts fevered, Ladhar considered his response. It
must depend, he supposed, on how intent Feich was on having the Crystal with
him. If he was set on it, he would simply take it, just as Bearach Spearman had . . . just as Ladhar had, himself.

The Abbod glanced at Feich’s face and recalled being
buffeted by a wind of Feich’s calling. The Regent did nothing that was not
driven by his full will. It would be futile to resist him. Besides, the real
Stone of Ochan was several miles away in the hands of well-meaning, if misled
souls whom Ladhar knew he could trust with it. Only the fraud would take the
trail to El-Deasach. There was really no harm in granting Daimhin Feich his
wish.

Ladhar made a display of his meditational pose, then nodded
once, heavily. “Very well, Regent. Your point is well taken. I can concede that
extraordinary circumstances require extraordinary remedies. Yes, of course you
may take the Osmaer Crystal on your campaign.”

Feich inclined his head. “Thank you, Abbod. You honor me.
Now . . . where is the Osmaer? It is not in its place at Ochanshrine.”

The pronouncement dropped into an oppressive silence. In the
bottomless pit that opened up in his soul, Osraed Ladhar flailed for balance.
Should he dissemble? Should he admit his subterfuge? Should he collapse to the
floor and beg mercy?

“No,” he said finally. “You’re quite correct. Last night, I
replaced the Osmaer with a stone of similar size and appearance.”

Feich seemed taken aback, affording Ladhar a tiny victory.

“You admit your treachery?”

“Treachery, lord? Protecting the Osmaer from Taminists is
hardly treachery.”

“Protecting it?” Feich aimed a furrowed glance at Caime
Cadder, who stared at the toes of his shoes. “How so?”