Crystal Rose (47 page)

“You know I have need of your aid,” he said.

She nodded. “You need men of war and safe passage. Explain
this to me. Sorn has little grasp of statehood. He spoke of sorcery, of the
kidnap of your Cyne.”

“Then your brother told you about the Wicke, Taminy.”

“Yes. An evil woman, from his account, who holds your
Cyneric against his will . . . And I should grant you my help—why?”

Taken aback, Feich frowned. He hadn’t expected to have to
justify himself on the most basic of issues. “Taminy is also a grave danger to
you, Raven, and to El-Deasach. She will not stop at Caraid-land. If she comes
to power—”

“Oh, yes, yes. All this I see. But this is all politics. Why
shall I, Lilias, aid you, Daimhin?”

He stopped and turned to her. “Raven, may I—?”

“
Lilias
, may I . . .”

“Lilias . . . may I be honest with you?”

“I would prefer this.”

“You are, without doubt, the most exotic, the most beautiful
woman I have ever met. I feel . . . forgive me . . . a great attraction to you. An
affinity. A connection. I can only pray you feel a similar bond, and hope you
will aid me because of that.”

She smiled, enigmatic, and said, “You, too, march beneath
the banner of the Raven. There is a sign in that, I think. I feel.”

“My family name in the old tongue means Raven.”

“
Clearly
a sign.”
Her smile broadened and she moved ahead of him a little, crooking her finger.

To the end of the hallway they traveled, side by side, and
entered a round chamber with a ceiling as transparent as the air. Stars like
chips of crystal studded the vault of sky beyond. Beneath the bowl of stars,
lit subtly and draped in silks, was a nest of pillows.

Lilias stepped from her shoes and into the nest, turning to
face Feich. Then, with a gesture subtle and elegant, she let fall her starling
gown.

Suddenly inflamed, Feich was scarcely able to take her in.
“Lilias . . .” he murmured, rooted to the polished floor.

She laughed at him. “Why do you hesitate?”

He needed no further invitation. An odd negotiation this,
but one he approved.

“Ah . . .” she whispered against his kiss, “you answer well,
Daimhin of the Raven. I wonder, will the rest of your tribute be as sweet as
this?”

“If I answer so well, do you need more tribute than this?”

She laughed, churning his blood. “Not I, but I think you may
not wish to make love to my Council. There must be fruit in this for them, as
well.”

“Their tribute arrives with your brother—a day, maybe a bit
more. Can they wait?”

“They can. I cannot.” She turned black eyes up to his. “My
tribute, lord—now.”

He could barely speak. “You . . . you will aid me? You will
give me men, arms?”

Again, the husky laugh. “So mercenary. I will give you more
than that, lord Daimhin.”

She was mesmerizing and he, willing to be mesmerized. Yet,
as they sealed their pact, his mind wandered to the lacework corridor and the
transparent vault overhead and he wondered how, with winter pressing in on
them, the palace of the Banarigh Lilias was kept so warm.

oOo

The day of their departure for the Gyldan-baenn dawned
clear and cool, the Sun shimmering off the sands of Kansbar’s beaches as if
reflected from the crushed remains of pearls. From the balcony outside Lilias’s
state salon, Daimhin Feich gazed up into the azure sky and took it as an
augury:
The Sun shines on you, Regent
Feich, and the way is clear. Clear to the Gyldan-baenn, clear to the
Baenn-an-ratha, clear to Airdnasheen.

He set his eyes on the eastward track, gripping the
balcony’s tiled wall with eager fingers. “I’m coming for you, Taminy,” he
murmured. “Catahn Hillwild, prepare to give up your prize.”

Arms slid sinuously about his waist. “Do you Weave, my dear
Sorcerer?”

He chuckled. “I’m no sorcerer, Lilias.”

“No? If not a sorcerer, then what?”

“What indeed?” He smiled. “Sometimes I wonder.”

Lilias laughed and slid around into his embrace. From the
courtyard below, where their combined forces gathered, all eyes could see them;
she seemed not to care.

“Less than a god,” she murmured, “more than a man.”

He accepted her flattery with a deep sense of wonder,
feeling the truth of her words to his core. More than a man, indeed. His
spirit, his soul, stretched to encompass power he had once doubted the existence
of. He stood amazed at his own ability—at his own growth.

“Less than a god,” he teased. “That’s not what you told me
last night.”

“Ah, well. In the dark, you are a god, and you make me a
goddess.”

He had lowered his head to her kiss when a commotion within
the palace unraveled the heavy Weave of desire. They parted and turned from the
view of their gathering forces to see Loc Llywd enter the salon followed by a
Deasach corsair in dirt-spattered clothing. Feich recognized him as one of the
men Lilias had sent off in search of her brother and his caravan of gifts, now
two days past their expected time of arrival.

Frowning, the Banarigh stepped from the balcony to meet them
within. “You have a report? Speak. Where is the caravan?”

“The caravan is in the outer court,” said Loc Llywd, his
eyes on Feich. “But your brother . . .” He gestured at the corsair.

Lilias’s attention turned to that quarter and she delivered
a sharp demand in her native tongue. In response the corsair rattled off some
manner of report, the intelligible words of which were “Shak Saba.”

The syllables that rolled from the man’s tongue turned
Lilias’s bronze-gold skin to ash and shocked her graceful body into brittle
rigidity. She asked several short, cutting questions in a voice that trembled
with emotion, then dismissed the messenger with a slash of her hand.

Loc Llywd hesitated to follow the corsair from the room,
instead attempting to speak to Lilias in gentle tones. She raised her voice and
her hand to him, and he bowed swiftly from the room.

She stood quivering for several minutes, her back to
Feich—pike straight—hands gripping her upper arms. When she turned at last,
fury and anguish burned in her dark eyes.

“My brother is dead. Dead at the hands of your countrymen.
While I have made you my lover and ally.”

Stunned, Feich could only hold out his arms to her and will
her to feel his astonishment and outrage. She ignored his silent entreaty and
flung herself past him to the balcony. He followed.

“Tell me, Lilias. Tell me what has happened.”

Her eyes on the orderly chaos in the parade ground below,
Lilias said, “Why should I not kill you, Feich? Tell me that.”

“I can think of many reasons, not the least of which is that
I have shared your bed these past nights.”

“Sorn is dead.”

“I had nothing to do with his death, Lilias-Raven. I am as
stunned as you are. Now, will you not tell me what your man reported?”

She drew a ragged breath, looking, for the first time,
vulnerable, mortal—more woman than goddess.

“He was bringing your caravan across Madaidh lands. The
Madaidh attacked in the night. They killed Sorn. Some say it was The Madaidh,
himself, that murdered him.”

“And the tribute?”

She laughed—a sound like glass breaking. “They took nothing.
Nothing but the girl my brother was so enamored of . . . Iseabal of the White
Skin.”

They had taken the Wicke, leaving priceless treasure. Why?

Feich shook himself. “And the cannon?”

“They destroyed it. Why, Daimhin? Why would they kill Sorn,
yet leave others alive? Why would they take this girl and leave a treasure
behind?”

Why, indeed.

He moved closer to Lilias, holding her eyes by will. “Can’t
you guess? Rodri Madaidh, while pretending to me that he and his House were
neutral, has all the while been under the sway of the Golden Wicke. The girl he
liberated was herself a Wicke—a close confidante of Taminy-Osmaer. Your brother
was murdered because he dared lay hands on one of Taminy’s own.”

“As you did, by Sorn’s tell. Why are you not dead?”

“I am protected, Lilias, by my own aidan. Your brother
possessed no such Gift.”

“And yours did not show you what would happen to him?”

He could feel her rage building, seeking an outlet. He must
give her one.

“Taminy is powerful. Her acolyte was powerful. Even as I
veiled us from the eyes of the Madaidh and the Taminists, so the Wicke and her
minions lifted that veil to reveal Sorn to them. My only fault was that I did
not stay behind to protect the caravan. I never imagined Sorn might become a
target of the Wicke’s wrath; though I knew myself to be such a target. No, Sorn
was truly fond of the girl—was gentle with her. It was a gentleness she did not
deserve.”

“You could have left your woman behind.”

“My—?”

Lilias’s smile was joyless. “I know of Coinich Mor, my pale
lover. I know what place she has held in your pretty tent. You could have left
her behind; you didn’t because the Wicke, Taminy, willed you not to. You left
Sorn behind because the Wicke willed him to be left. Perhaps she could not
avenge this Iseabal’s honor on you because of your aidan. But she could wreak
her revenge on my brother. And did.”

“Lilias . . .” He reached for her yet again, but she stepped
back from him.

“Truly, this woman is more powerful than I imagined. More
deadly. Yet I, too, can be deadly. I would fight her.”

Feich smiled fiercely into the searing blaze of her anger.

“You are a goddess, Raven. Taminy is only a sorceress.”

“A goddess of death, I pray. Make ready your men.”

He hurried to do that, full of exultation. What could have
been defeat, he had transmuted to victory: Banarigh Lilias Saba was no longer a
casual participant in Taminy’s destruction.

He was mounted, ready to ride when he felt the eyes on him.
Before he could turn and face their owner, Coinich Mor’s dark voice struck his
ears. “You veiled our party from the Taminists, did you?”

He jerked about to find her seated astride her white mare,
yellow eyes jeering.

“How did you—?” he began.

She laughed at him. “Did you think you were alone with your
Deasach Cwen just now, ‘pale lover?’ Do you imagine you have ever been alone
with her?”

Feich’s face blazed beneath the Dearg Wicke’s steady gaze.
He was outraged. “You see more than I credit, Mistress Dearg.”

“I am more than you credit, Regent Feich. Don’t forget me.”

“Will you make some jealous demand of me now? Would you have
me leave off with Lilias?”

“Not at all, lord. I only remind you that your village
cailin is gone. There is Lilias, but her Gift is small and her alien magics are
full of superstition and ritual. One true partner in Weaving have you—Coinich
Mor. Don’t forget her.”

“I promise I will not.” He let his eyes feed passion to her
for a moment, and though she now existed in Lilias Saba’s shadow, it was a
surprisingly honest passion. He reined his horse about, then paused and turned
back. “Why did you not sense the danger to Sorn?”

“The same reason you did not. There was strong magic there—a
wall of it.”

“A wall built by whom?”

“By those we failed to veil ourselves from.”

Feich twitched. “The Madaidh?”

“They are a wild people, lord Regent. It is said even their
newborn are fey.”

“I pray that is only superstition.”

Coinich Mor threw back her head and laughed. “What do you
pray to, ‘Demon’ Feich? Some dark, unseen, god or goddess?”

To whom did he pray? To whom
could
he pray? ‘To myself,’ he might have answered once. But his
mind often turned to the idea that if Taminy represented some glorious Spirit
of Light, must he not represent some opposing Spirit of Darkness—Caime Cadder’s
Evil One?

He could not deny there were times when he felt a black
power moving around him, through him, within him—in the throes of passion, in
the clutches of rage, in the depths of his dreams. The fancy often took him
that if he opened his eyes he might catch it, see it face to face.

He could never quite bring himself to open his eyes in those
moments. Perhaps he scorned his own suggestibility. Perhaps he was merely
afraid.

oOo

Catahn loved the garden. Even in winter it was beautiful.
The little pool was a misty mirror of water-crystal, icicles festooned the
eaves of the castle and the bare limbs of the few deciduous trees; the conifers
wore a furry mantle of snow.

As he listened to Taminy singing, her gaggle of youthful
disciples joining in close harmony, Catahn wished he had been granted the gift
of song. He was too ashamed of his voice to do more than murmur duans. Like Wyth,
he would only sit and keep silent time with the music.

Eyslk wielded the drum and Gwynet played a chanter, keeping
less and less to the background. Today as she played, she danced and capered
about the little high courtyard, her breath marking steamy trails in the
crystalline air. Catahn could not help but smile.

Taminy sang of a fair maiden whose spiteful elder sister has
insisted for so long that she is hideous, she never dares to look in a mirror.
One day, a young woodman comes across her in the forest and, though she tries
to hide herself, the young man takes her scarf and glimpses her face. Smitten,
he declares her beautiful, but she refuses to believe him.

“She thought herself an ogre,” Taminy sang. “She thought the
boy a fool. Till she tumbled to the grassy bank and gazed into the pool.”

She fit action to verse and let herself down upon the rocks
that ringed the little pond. But instead of continuing with the song, she leapt
up again with a cry, her eyes on the icy water.

Catahn felt the tug of her sudden fear—for fear it was,
sharp and thin and brittle. He came to his feet and rushed to Taminy’s side,
steadying her with an arm about her shoulders, his eyes following hers to the
icy mirror.