Crystal Rose (41 page)

“It came to my attention that the Taminists were planning to
make an attempt on the Crystal. An attempt to remove it from Ochanshrine and
spirit it up to Halig-liath.”

“Indeed? How did that ‘come to your attention?’”

“I was favored with an aislinn in which two people
approached me and tried to lay hands on the Stone. I immediately replaced it
with a crystal left to me by Osraed Bevol. Later, as my aislinn foretold, I was
approached in the Shrine by . . . by the Taminist Osraed Fhada and Lealbhallain,
who tried to coerce me to give up the Stone.”

“This false Osmaer . . . it was still there when I tried to
Weave this morning?”

Ladhar nodded. “I thought it safest that the Osmaer remain
hidden until you had dealt with the Taminist threat.”

“Then, where is the Osmaer hidden, Abbod? You may speak of
it here, we’re among allies.”

“It’s hidden in a place known only to me. For safety’s sake.
I was unsure whom I could trust.”

Feich looked past Ladhar to the man at eternally at his
shoulder. “Is that so, Minister Cadder? Is the Osmaer’s hiding place unknown to
you?”

“It is, lord Regent.”

Feich rose from the throne and meandered off the dais to
approach Ladhar.

“You possess greater foresight than I gave you credit for,
Abbod. I suppose I must thank you for taking the Osmaer out of harm’s way. And
you know, Abbod, I would thank you . . . if I half believed your story.
Unfortunately for you, I don’t.”

Ladhar was once again consigned to the bottomless pit. From
its depths, all he could do was stand and tremble as Feich went on.

“You see, Abbod, your faithful lieutenant, the able Minister
Cadder, observed you switching the Stone. He saw you carry it to your private chambers,
which he later searched to find the exact hiding place. He found it, knowing
your habits. But when he checked the hiding place again, it was gone.
Naturally, he suspected, when he discovered you’d left Ochanshrine today, that
you’d taken the Osmaer with you.” Feich brought his face close to Ladhar’s,
searching him eye to eye. “Where did you go, Abbod? Did you take the Crystal to
your Osraed friends at Carehouse? Or did you have another destination?”

“The Osraed at Carehouse are Taminists,” said Ladhar
stiffly. “I am not a Taminist, nor shall I ever be one. They are not friends,
but adversaries.”

“Yet it seems you may have given them the Stone of Ochan.”

Ladhar was not used to lying. Except, he now saw, to
himself. Whatever had made him believe allegiance to Daimhin Feich was in any
way allegiance to Caraid-land or, more importantly, to the Meri? His distrust
and hatred of Taminy had blinded him, as it had apparently blinded Caime
Cadder.

“Whatever I did,” he said at last, “I did for Caraid-land.”

“Ah, patriotism. A noble sentiment, but hard to believe of a
Taminist.” Feich turned away.

“I am not a Taminist! I am a loyal lover of the Meri.”

“Then I’ll give you abundant opportunity to consort with
your beloved. Take him.” He flicked a glance at the hovering guards, who moved
immediately to take Ladhar in hand.

The Abbod offered no resistance. He had none left in him.

“Take his cloak,” Feich ordered. “He won’t need it where
he’s going.”

The Feich kinsmen did as commanded, stripping Ladhar of the
warm covering. Something slipped from its folds and fell to the floor. It was
the book Ladhar had taken from the little Taminist girl. Cadder plucked it from
the tiles to scan the cover page. With a glance full of loathing, he offered it
to Daimhin Feich who looked the pages over himself, a slow smile illumining his
sharp features.

“Why Abbod, how unlike you to be so careless. Surely, you
realize that carrying Taminist literature is an offense punishable by death.
Thank you for so thoughtfully providing us with concrete evidence of your
apostasy. You got this from Fhada, did you?”

“No, not from Fhada.”

Feich shrugged. “No matter. We now have ample reason to
search Carehouse and, if necessary, burn it to the ground. I’m sure your
successor will offer no resistance to the idea.”

“What will you do with me?”

Feich’s smile deepened. “Oh, I have a special place for
treacherous Osraed. You may find it a bit lonely there, though not for long. I
intend to fill it with Taminists. I think Osraed Fhada and Lealbhallain will be
the first to join you there.”

“There” was a place Ladhar
had prayed never to see outside of his nightmares. The chamber was deeper than
it was wide, darker than Ladhar’s dreams, and smelled foully of brine and
death. The only access was from a long flight of rheum-covered steps that
tumbled from a narrow door. The only natural light that entered the dungeon
floated phantom-like from mere slits of windows far up the western-facing wall.
It shimmered on the seething carpet of icy sea water and glistened dully on the
ever sodden walls with their covering of slime.

Up to his ankles in chill salt water, Ladhar experienced a
cold of body and soul he’d never known. With the closing of the door, he
suspected his life had also closed, for he could do nothing now but drown when
the rising tide caught him in exhausted sleep, or perish from exposure.

A thought of Bevol deepened the chill and sent his eyes
skittering across the eddying carpet to search for the other Osraed’s remains.

Enough!
he chided
himself. There would be enough time for terrible searches and
self-recrimination and futile analyses of what had brought him to this pass.
There was something he might accomplish even here, Meri willing. They had
stripped him of his rune crystal and his keystone pendant but, short of killing
him outright, or rendering him unconscious, they couldn’t tear from him what
little Art he still possessed.

His lips curled. He should probably thank God that Feich was
such a sadistic bastard, else he’d be dead already. Ignoring the cold that was
beyond cold, Ladhar sat in the waters beneath Mertuile and attempted what he
expected to be his last Weave.

oOo

They felt it simultaneously—a crawling of the scalp, a
prickling of the skin, a swift-blossoming sensation of dread. In the midst of
preparation for the evening meal, they paused in their various tasks and stared
at one another, mouths open to say—what? What could be said?

Aine set down the stack of plates she had been laying out on
a half-laid table and met Osraed Fhada’s troubled gaze.

“Who?” She merely mouthed the word, afraid any sound might
break the tenuous connection with the unknown.

Fhada only shook his head, while behind him Leal lowered
himself to a refectory bench, a large bowl of fruit in his arms.

Aine could feel the gazes of others, too, who had noticed
their sudden inactivity. She succeeded in blocking them out and fumbled along
the aislinn thread, willing it to thicken, to strengthen.

They were in danger—immanent danger.

“Feich,” she murmured. “He’ll attack us. Tonight. Soon.”

“It’s Ladhar. He has Ladhar,” added Leal.

Fhada’s body jerked as if struck by lightning. “Ladhar knows
we have the Stone.”

“That’s it!” breathed Aine. “That’s what Feich is after.”

“How soon?”

Aine looked up. Across the table from her, Saefren Claeg,
dressed for travel, awaited an answer. His face was storm dark, his expression
grim.

“Soon,” she answered him. “Within the hour.”

Saefren glanced about at the roomful of people: children
arriving for their meal, Prentices helping with the laying out, men and women
from any number of former lives who now spent their time here for safety, for
support, for community. Believers all.

“Then we have to move quickly. We have to evacuate these
people.”

“Evacuate?” Aine echoed. “To where?”

“Outside Creiddylad. To my uncle’s camp. They’d be safe
there. The House Chieftains will protect them.”

“Yes.” Fhada was nodding. “Yes. That’s exactly what we must
do.”

Time. That was what they needed most. Unfortunately, they
had none. Though they left the refectory in a state of chaos and turned at once
to packing up Carehouse’s inmates for a trek out of Creiddylad, they were
caught short. Warned by a cry from the gate top, they had only enough time to
hide the resident children in what had once been a storage cellar before
Feich’s men were at their gate.

Saefren drew his sword.

“Do you really think you can defend this place with that?”
Aine asked. “Put it away.”

“How would you defend it?”

Aine took a quick count of their assets—the handful of
waljan gathered in the refectory by the cellar door.

“Put it away,” she repeated.

oOo

Daimhin Feich led the party himself. A part of him would
like to have brought the Deasach cannon along and blown Carehouse’s barred
gates to chill hell, but he did not want to draw attention from the hills. So
instead, he demanded that the gate be opened and, when that did not happen, he
called Coinich Mor to his side.

They used no battering rams on the barred gate, but only two
crystals, a simple inyx and time. The heavy bar finally heaved itself from its
place and the metal bolt slipped from its bolt hole. Guards moved forward to
swing the gates open, allowing Daimhin Feich, Coinich Mor and Caime Cadder to
ride through.

The large courtyard was empty. Feich had expected that. He
stationed several guards in the courtyard and entered the huge stone building
flanked by his Wicke, his cleirach and his kinsmen. The hall was eerily quiet.
Feich swore that, above the scuffing of their shoes and the soft whisper of
their breath, he could hear pigeons fluttering in the eaves, wind passing over
the ridge pole, fire licking up the hearth in an adjacent room.

He glanced back over his shoulder at the men arrayed behind
him. “Spread out. Search. Shout out when you find them. Gather them in the
courtyard for the trip back to Mertuile.”

With Coinich Mor, Cadder and two Feich cousins at his side,
he moved softly through Carehouse. They had peeked into several rooms—empty,
all—when he was touched by unease.

It was too quiet. They had come without warning. Even if
some lookout had spotted their approach, there was no way to hide all the
people he knew by report lived within Carehouse’s aging walls. Yet, the place
seemed deserted and the refectory offered abundant proof of hasty flight. The
dozen or so tables were half laid, a stack of plates had been left where
someone had halted in setting them out, tableware had been abandoned in similar
disarray on the end of the same table. Bowls of food sat untouched on a worn
sideboard and the hearth fire blazed as if freshly stoked. In the adjoining
kitchen, cook fires boiled a forsaken stew.

Touring the large chamber Daimhin Feich frowned, a creeping
sensation prickling the back of his neck. He gestured vaguely at the hearth.
“Fire in the hearth, but no candles or lamps. Yet, it’s near sunset.”

“They’d use light-globes,” said Cadder. “There are none lit.
They’re not here.”

“No, they want us to believe they’re not here,” Feich said.
“This old place must be full of bolt holes and hiding places.” He moved toward
a small, rounded door on the rear wall of the room. “Where does this
go—Cadder?”

He looked to the cleirach who hurried to unlatch the door
and push it open.

“If I recall, it’s an access to the cellars.”

Feich smiled. “Yes, of course. The cellars. What better
hiding place? A dead end.”

He afforded a chuckle at that obvious wordplay and slipped
into the dark corridor. He had Coinich Mor hold his hand, feeding her enough
power to use her yellow crystal to light the way. It clearly awed his kinsmen
to realize that their cousin had such command of the Art—the Divine Art, he
reminded himself.

Ironic. He had never, in his wildest dreams, thought of
himself as Divine. Taminy was Divine. He knew that—could admit it. But he—he
knew only that he was something beyond the frail and human. What was he, if not
Divine—he who pursued the Divine and sought to co-opt it?

Later, he would find an answer to that. Right now, he was
faced with another doorway, its thick, oaken barrier an opaque face that
pretended at disuse. Feich, disbelieving, bade one of his kinsmen open the
door. It swung away into a gloom so intense even Coinich Mor’s crystal made
little impression upon it. He had the cleirach fetch a lamp and lit it himself
without flint. His kinsmen’s eyes gleamed.

A short but steep flight of stairs descended into the gloom.
After a moment of hesitation, Feich sent one of his men down with the lamp. He
followed, beckoning the second Feich guard to bring up the rear of the party.
They were cautious, quiet.

It hardly mattered. The dank chamber seemed as empty as the
refectory, and the creeping feeling did not abate. They searched methodically
among the kegs, crates and clay pots of goods. They even broke open random
containers in case the Taminists had been that clever. They hadn’t been; the
crates contained only jars of preserved fruits and vegetables, the pots only
flour and grain, the kegs only cider.

Cursing Osraed Fhada and Abbod Ladhar, cursing Taminy, Feich
led his party back up to the ground floor, hoping the other searchers had had
better luck than he. They hadn’t, and though they searched even the private
rooms, not one Taminist was found.

Furious, defeated, humiliated, Daimhin Feich retired to the
courtyard and thence to Mertuile, taking his brooding cleirach, his smiling
Wicke and his puzzled kinsmen with him.

oOo

Saefren Claeg couldn’t breathe. He could only stand with
his back to the cold stone wall and let his terror suffocate him. His ears
cringed from the sound of his breath rasping through his dry throat. He could
hear the others breathing, too.

Dear God, he could hear their hearts beating in their
breasts and he found it impossible to believe the man standing not five feet
from him could not also hear them . . . or see them. Yet, Daimhin Feich’s pale
eyes swept the room, passing over the spot where he stood again and again, each
time looking right through him.