Crystal Rose (48 page)

A mist rode over the surface of the frozen pool, and beneath
it shapes moved—shifting, splitting, recombining. Drawn to the movement, Catahn
swore he could see men, horses, a cloud of billowing dust.

“They come,” Taminy whispered. She looked up at him. “He
comes.”

That, Catahn knew with certainty, was the cause of her
fear—the approach of Daimhin Feich.

Airleas broke the ranks of those gathered around and peered
into the pool. “Feich? Feich is coming? Can you see him? Where is he?”

“In El-Deasach.”

“But how?” Airleas demanded.

“Alliances.” She shook her head. “He plays with fire.”

“Then I’ll get to face him, after all,” murmured the
Cyneric, eyes distant. “The honor of my House—”

“Is not more important than your life,” Taminy told him.

“What is life without honor?”

“What is honor without life?” countered Catahn.

Taminy turned her face up to his again, wounding him with
her eyes. Her deep terror of Feich all but strangled him.

Throat tight, he glanced at the others. “Taminy must be
allowed time to meditate on this, to Weave for further knowledge. Perhaps you
should all return to your duties and studies.”

There was no argument, only anxious glances from Wyth and
Eyslk and a muttered oath from Airleas. Subdued, they drifted away. Not until
they were gone, did Catahn move, turning Taminy to face him, taking her hands
in his, all the while quivering with his own audacity.

“Is there nothing I can do?”

She smiled wanly. “Can you guard my dreams?”

Her skin was so pale, her eyes so large and dark and
bruised-looking, he nearly moaned in pain. “If I could only . . . But, how, Lady?
How does he . . . enter your dreams?”

“I wish I knew. I don’t. I don’t even know if he does it
willfully.”

“Can you not deny him entry? You’ve taught your waljan to
ward against another’s Weaves. Is there no Wardweave for Daimhin Feich?”

“I thought there was. But my Wardweaves are useless. Somehow
he breaks through them, slides past them, though I Weave them directly against
him.”

Catahn’s frown deepened. “Cannot the Meri grant you more
strength? Can She not shield you?”

Taminy shook her head. “This is a time of testing, Catahn.
For me, for all of us. Already, I draw on the Meri’s power, but
I
must determine how to direct it.
Somehow, when I direct it at Daimhin Feich, he is not there. It’s as if he . . .
steps aside.”

“There is nothing I can do? No way I can guard your dreams?”

Taminy squeezed his hands. “I’d not have you lose sleep,
too.”

“I do already. Mistress, must you face him?”

“Is that what you think I’m afraid of—coming face to face
with Feich?”

“Is it not? I know I fear for you.”

Taminy’s eyelids slid downward as if suddenly too heavy to
be borne up. “Daimhin Feich,” she said, “does not face anyone or anything
cleanly, squarely, honestly. He hides in dreams; he skulks in vapors.” She
shuddered, her voice falling to a whisper. “He touches me, Catahn. In the dark,
in the aislinn vapors, in my dreams. His touch is like death, and I seem not to
be able to turn his hand away.”

There was such anguish flowing from her that Catahn forgot
himself and gathered her into his arms. “I will find a way to guard your dreams,
Lady,” he told her. “I promise.”

oOo

One moment Saefren Claeg was asleep in his uncle’s tent,
the next he was wide awake, staring into the darkness, hearing rain whisper
softly on the oiled fabric overhead. He sweated in the cold, heart pounding an
uneven tattoo in his chest.

He gasped, shuddered and sat up. It was not a nightmare that
woke him, but a sensation of pure cold panic.

“Uncle?” he panted. “Uncle Iobert?”

There was no answer, and indeed, when he put out his hand,
he found his uncle’s bedroll empty. He heard voices from beyond the tent
flap—urgent murmurs, no words. As his world righted itself, he came out of his
bedroll, pulled on his boots and stumbled outside.

His uncle was there with The Jura and Aine, huddled under
the boughs of a large pine, hoods pulled up against the fine drizzle. Aine was
speaking, voice low, hands making emphatic gestures. As he approached, Saefren
realized others had emerged from tents and lean-tos to join the circle beneath
the tree—Leal and Fhada, Hethe Jura, others.

Iobert Claeg glanced up, noted his nephew’s presence with a
raising of his brows and placed a hand on Aine’s shoulder. “It seems others
have had their sleep interrupted,” he said. “Do I need to ask why you’re here?”

Saefren swept damp hair out of his eyes and shivered. “I
don’t know why I’m here, Uncle. What’s happened?”

Aine turned to him, her face a pale moon in the darkness.
“Daimhin Feich has left Creiddylad this week past. He’s crossed over into
Deasach lands.”

“And taken the bulk of his forces with him,” added Iobert.

Saefren didn’t bother ask how they knew this. “To what
purpose?”

“To gather allies, it would seem. Or so Rodri Madaidh has
it. He overtook a tribute caravan bound for Kansbar with gifts for the
Banarigh. The caravan drivers understood that their lord had forged an alliance
with the Deasach Cwen and intended to march through El-Deasach to attack
Airdnasheen from the east.”

“But the Madaidh . . .” Saefren puzzled. “The Madaidh refused
to—”

“As he said,” commented Mortain Jura dryly, “there are
advantages to neutrality. One of those advantages would seem to be
invisibility. Feich completely overlooked him and, when the time was right . . .”

Aine grasped Saefren’s arm. “He found Iseabal. He brought
Iseabal away from there.”

Saefren swum for a moment in overwhelming relief. He’d hated
to leave the girl in Feich’s keeping. He looked to his uncle. “Now what do we
do?”

“Alraed Aine believes we should attempt to reach Hrofceaster
from the western side to offer reinforcement, but I can’t imagine we could get
enough troops through the high passes to do any good.”

“We can’t do
nothing!
”
Aine erupted.

Saefren stayed her with a firm hand on her shoulder. “Uncle
is right, Aine. To take our men into the Gyldan-baenn would be futile and
hazardous.”

“But—!”

“Our energies would be better spent elsewhere.” He turned
back to Iobert. “What forces has Feich left in Creiddylad?”

Iobert Claeg’s eyes glinted. “Minimal, I would think, though
a little reconnaissance should give the whole tell.”

“Would the Madaidh join in an attack on Mertuile?”

Aine gasped. “Take Mertuile?”

“Our Cyneric will need a safe capitol to return to,”
observed The Jura. “One emptied of traitors.” He looked to Iobert. “Perhaps you
and I should ride to the Madaidh.”

Iobert nodded. “And perhaps our young bucks should gain some
intelligence of Creiddylad.”

Aine folded her arms and shifted impatiently. “And our
refugees?”

“Would be welcome among the Graegam.” That Chieftain stood
at The Claeg’s shoulder. “Graegam is the closest stronghold. From there, you
could make your way to Halig-liath.”

“We? You think I should go with them?”

“It would be safest for you, Alraed.”

Aine glanced from one Chieftain to another, her eyes finally
coming to rest on Iobert. “You also wish me to go up to Graegam with the others?”

“Karr Graegam is right, Alraed. It would be safest for you.”

For us as well
,
Saefren thought, watching Aine return to her tent. Anger and impatience
radiated from her in waves he could almost see.

Fire-pot. No matter how acquiescent she might pretend to be,
he suspected sending her to Graegam and getting her there would be two
different things.

If I speak sweetly as an
aingeal and have no wisdom, my speech is not more than the noise of a brass
bell. And if I have the Sight of prophecy, and comprehend all secrets and all
knowledge and hold the power to move mountains, and have no mercy, I am
nothing.

—Utterances of Taminy-Osmaer
Book of the Covenant

In the arid foothills of the Southern Gyldan-baenn, the
weather was brisk, but not chill. They slept comfortably by night and their
breath did not hang on the air by day. Daimhin Feich found the journey
exhilarating. Riding, he dreamed of holding the true Osmaer in his hands.
Sleeping, he dreamed of other things.

He saw little of the Banarigh Lilias their first week on the
trail. By day, she was a wind-blown wraith. Garbed in red (the color of
mourning among the Deasach), she sat a black horse at the head of her corsairs,
head and face obscured by yards of skillfully wrapped and draped cloth. By night,
she took to her tent, alone. Feich wove secretly to draw an invitation from her
and consoled himself with Coinich Mor.

At the end of the week the invitation came, and he went to
the tent of the alien goddess to receive her favors. He could not, somehow,
make her become Taminy in his heated moments. She was Lilias, always, seductive
and sultry. He had no complaints about that, but merely thought it odd that his
aidan should be so circumscribed in her presence. He attributed it to her
excessively strong will and accepted her passion happily.

There was, after all, always Coinich Mor, who left her
husband’s bedroll late nearly every night to seek out his. Their Weaving
exhausted him, but she could always be bent to his whim. If it was Taminy he
wanted, Taminy she became.

He had expected them to dislike or even hate each other,
these two women who shared his attentions, but they seemed quite at ease in
each other’s company. They seemed, in fact, to like each other, and often rode
side-by-side, chatting, laughing, even bathing together in the Raven’s red
tent. Feich chuckled over that development and decided he must have secretly
willed it to be so. He might have been uneasy about their friendship had he
given it much thought, but his thoughts had flown ahead to the passes south and
east of Baenn-an-ratha and carefully worked out what he must do when they
arrived there.

Another week, he figured. Another week and he would stand
siege against the gates of Hrofceaster. And though he had arrayed about him
many men, he knew it would be, first and foremost, a siege of spirit.

oOo

Aine-mac-Lorimer had no intention of going to Graegam, but
she had pretended acquiescence anyway. So she was surprised when, on the day
the Madaidh arrived with Iseabal, Saefren Claeg took her aside for a forest
walk and asked a blunt question: “All right, Aine Red. What are you planning?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not going to Graegam, I think.”

She studiously avoided his gaze, staring instead at the
leaf-strewn ground. “Where else would I go?”

“Hrofceaster.”

“Ha! Now that’d be foolhardy . . . according to some.”

“Aye. But you wouldn’t let that stop you.”

“Alright.” She stopped kicking acorns about and crossed her
arms, tight, over her breasts. “Let’s say I’m planning on going up to Hrofceaster.
What then?”

“Who were you planning on taking with you?”

She chewed her lip, wondering how honest she could afford to
be. “Leal. Fhada wants to stay with the children. I think that’s wise.”

“Only Leal? And the Stone, of course.”

“That’s the whole purpose of the journey.”

“And Iseabal?”

“I hadn’t asked her. She’s not well enough to make such a
trek. She should go home to her family.”

Saefren laughed, sending a family of magpies squawking to
higher branches. “Aine, you hypocrite! How can you snarl at the Chieftains for
making a decision for your safety, then turn about two-faced and make the same
sort of arbitrary ruling for Iseabal?”

Aine flushed hot and cold. “Arbitrary, is it? Well, it’s
not! I’m up to this trek, by God. Isha’s not. That’s the difference. The Stone
must be gotten to Taminy with all haste. We’ve already wasted enough time
waiting on Rodri Madaidh to get here, and for your uncle and his cronies to
come up with a strategy for Mertuile. Feich’ll be halfway to Baenn-eigh by
now.”

His back against a gnarled oak, Saefren watched Aine with a
gaze that only made her flush more prodigiously. “Are you finished?”

She clamped her mouth shut and glared at him.

“I agree that the Stone ought to go up to Taminy for
safe-keeping, but you’ll need a guide up that icy track. I’m coming with you.”

She gaped now, unable to stifle her amazement. “But won’t
your uncle want you here?”

He shrugged. “I’ve done my bit of reconnaissance, and I’m no
strategist. But I know my way through those mountains, having grown up at their
feet.”

Bluster deflated, Aine could only drop her defensive posture
in head-shaking bemusement. “All right, Saefren Claeg. It’s guide you are.” She
looked him square in the eye. “And thank you.”

oOo

“Catahn says I’m not to study swordsmanship anymore.”

Airleas took the chair opposite Taminy at the huge eastern
hearth of the Great Hall, his sword propped between his knees, his chin resting
on the hilt. He was bemused, but there was no reproach in his voice or eyes,
nor even in his heart.

“We need the time, you and I, for other things.”

The boy-Cyne sat up straighter, making Taminy realize how
much he had grown physically these last months. “Am I to receive my own crystal
now?”

“Not yet. Not quite yet. What you must learn now has to do
with Weaving only a little. You’ve heard the Tell of Meredydd-a-Lagan.”

“Of course, Mistress. She is now the Vessel of the Meri.”

“Her Pilgrimage is known to you, too, of course.”

He nodded.

“Recall the first task of her Pilgrimage to me.”

“She was to choose, from among three amulets, the most
important one.”

“They were?”

“Healing, Clear Sight and Wisdom. She chose Wisdom.”