Crystal Rose (5 page)

Of what do I write
first? Do I give the Tell of our escape from Creiddylad? Do I record that
harrowing, magnificent moment when Taminy-a-Cuinn stood in the Cyne’s Great
Hall and declared herself Osmaer—by the Grace of the Spirit, mediator between
man and Meri? Do I tell of how she stunned all with her claim that she had,
herself, been the Vessel of the Meri for the past 100 years and that
Meredydd-a-Lagan of Nairne, whom I loved, was that Vessel now? With those
claims we began our flight, first to Halig-liath and Nairne, now here, under
Catahn’s devoted protection.

Do I report that our
Cyne is dead? Yes, I must. Some suppose he was murdered. I, unhappily, know he
was, because Taminy knows. I am grateful not to be endowed with her Sight.

Our Cyne is dead and
his heir, fled from the murderer, is among us. That murderer will come to our
mountain eventually. I pray not before spring.

There is a tension in
us that urges to preparation. It is a strange preparedness we seek, having
nothing to do with armaments or fortifications. God knows Hrofceaster, on its
craggy scarp, has enough of both. Instead, we learn duans and practice Weaves
that must provide a different sort of bulwark against Daimhin Feich. He will no
doubt come with more than an army. The Regency Cyne Colfre bestowed upon him is
meaningless without Colfre’s lone heir. So, he will come to us.

I wish to say
something of this place and its people. There is a wild beauty to the environs
of Airdnasheen, and the fortress of Hrofceaster is as different from
Halig-liath as that hallowed place is from the Castle Mertuile. Yet, there is a
spirit here that brings Halig-liath to mind. I am bereft and consoled at once.

Will we ever go home?

I ask that, yet
realize that for me, for the others who accompany Taminy into exile, she has
become home. Even familiar, beloved Halig-liath would be exile without her. In
her presence the loss of Osraed Bevol, my mentor, is eased, though I still
grieve. Where he is, only Taminy knows and only she can reach him.

In this new home, we
live among people who treat us all as royalty. We are Taminy’s first disciples,
waljan
, they call us—chosen—and
marvel at the star-shaped marks we each carry in our palms—marks Taminy put
there. They have a name for those too:
gytha
, meaning ‘a gift.’ The word refers to more than the mark.

I discover many shades
of meaning in the words of the Hillwild. I once dismissed these people as
simple, imagined them warlike and rude. The truth is, they speak plain words,
but those words often carry elaborate meanings. They perform simple tasks of
which every movement is freighted with significance.

They are a religious
people, though there are no Cirkes in their settlements. And they are, almost
to a person, devoted to Taminy.

As are we, her First,
her waljan.

—Osraed Wyth Arundel, Hrofceaster; Autumn, YP 605

Osraed Wyth set his seal to the journal entry and sat back
to rub his aching fingers. It was early, but he’d been up already for hours,
writing letters, mostly. Then, he’d opened his journal for the first time since
they’d fled Halig-liath. The words had finally come.

They were wholly inadequate.

His chamber door rattled sharply and he rose to answer it,
realizing, as he did, that the Sun had risen to pour watery amber light into
the gray mists of Airdnasheen. The Sun itself would not be seen for some time;
it had yet to clear the eastern crags of Baenn-iolair.

Outside his chamber door stood a Hillwild lad a bit older
than Airleas and considerably brawnier. He scrutinized Wyth with bold, tawny
eyes, then handed over a bound leather folio.

“You’d be Wyth,” he said. “This is for you. From
Creiddylad.”

“From Creiddylad?”

Wyth took the folio and eagerly flipped the leather latch.
There was a letter inside from Lealbhallain-mac-Mercer. Wyth hurried to lay it
out on his writing table, glancing at the date. Nine, no, ten days ago.

“This is likely the last you’ll see from lowlands.”

Wyth turned. The Hillwild boy had followed him into the room
and stood watching, thumbs crooked casually through his belt.

“The last?”

“Aye. Storms’re coming. Passes’ll be closed soon.” The boy’s
eyes were far from casual. They assessed Wyth from stem to stern, lingering on his
hands. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? Waljan?”

Wyth nodded.

“Is it true what they say—that you’ve got the Star in your
hand?”

In answer, Wyth opened his left hand and held it out. The
stellate gytha shimmered a vivid green that hovered on the edge of
invisibility—like a shadow cast through translucent glass.

The boy put out an inquisitive finger and rubbed across the
mark as if he thought it might smudge or come off.

“Huh. Can’t feel it.” The sharp eyes moved to a similar
golden mark on Wyth’s brow. “You’ve been Meri-Kissed, too.”

“Yes.”

“This Taminy did that?” He poked again at the gytha.

“Yes.”

“Hurt, did it?”

“No, it didn’t hurt. It felt . . . wonderful. Like cool fire.”

“Some sort of Wicke, is she? Or a paeri? I don’t believe in
paeri.”

Wyth closed his hand. “She’s Osmaer. The Meri sent her.”

“Raised her from the dead, I heard.”

“No. Not . . . not exactly. She was . . .”

The boy grinned suddenly, displaying even white teeth. He
reminded Wyth of a mountain cat showing a playful bit of fang.

“No need to waste your time explaining that spirit stuff to
me, Osraed. I figure, Wicke or not, she’s the Ren’s business not mine.
Airdnasheen’s agog with her, is all. Just thought I’d sniff a bit. I’m a
curious lad.”

The curious lad left then, affording Wyth the barest whisper
of a bow, and Wyth, bemused, hurried to read his letter.

oOo

“The streets are not safe for us, now, and Creiddylad has
become an alien place of warring factions. All Osraed have been ordered to
carry papers affirming their loyalty to the Covenant established by Ochan and
to the House Malcuim. To be caught in the streets without these papers is to be
labeled a Taminist. That can lead to a harsh questioning and some time in the
dungeons of Mertuile. Several of our number have disappeared within the last
week and we fear that’s where they are.

“The rest of us have given up the wearing of Osraed garb,
but there is no way to disguise the Meri’s Kiss against close inspection.
Osraed Fhada tried tying a black scarf around his head, but the Kiss shone
through as if lit from within. So, we wear our forelocks long and affect
scarves and hats and cowls, but this only brings suspicion on us among those
who style themselves Loyalists or Covenanters. Loyalist men go about hatless,
regardless of the weather, so as not to be taken for Taminist Osraed—’burn
brows’ they call us. There is an actress named Siusan among us. She has brought
us theatrical paints to drab the Kiss. Osraed Eadmund has used it well enough
to be able to stay at Ochanshrine right under Abbod Ladhar’s nose.

“Meanwhile, the rumor is spread that Cyneric Airleas has
been kidnapped by Taminists. No man or woman can help but have strong feelings
about that. Even the non-Osraed in our number must carry themselves carefully
in public, for there is no way of telling if the person standing next to you in
the market square is Taminist or Loyalist by leaning. Regent Feich has not seen
fit to quell these rumors; suspicion and fear are rampant and easily erupt into
violence, as every word a man or woman speaks in the street is seized on by
those who hear it.

“The Cirke is full to bursting these days and those who do
not attend worship find themselves the focus of suspicion, as well. Devotions
are largely given over to warnings about us, condemnation of Taminy and harsh
words against the wayward women who have allowed themselves to be seduced by
lust for unnatural power. The Abbod Ladhar delivered an impassioned message
this past Cirke-dag, casting Taminy-Osmaer as Evil incarnate and seeking to
turn the people’s fear into hatred of her. He had especially harsh words for
the women of Caraid-land. I am happy to be no man’s daughter in this time, for
to be female is to be suspected of all manner of filth. I’m happy
she
cannot hear what they are saying
about her here.

“I think it must have been like this in the days of Cyne
Liusadhe and I fear that Creiddylad quivers on the verge of apocalypse. The
death of the Cyne, the disappearance of the Cwen and Cyneric, the fighting in
the streets, the general disorder —all this is laid at Taminy’s feet. I think
Daihmin Feich intends to use rumor to rewrite history, giving a different tell
of what happened that day in the Great Hall. Those who were there know these
rumors as lies, but the many who were not must rely on hearsay. To counter the
lies with truth is to incite suspicion and anger. It seems we can only wait and
pray and rejoice that Taminy, herself, is safe with you.”

Wyth looked up from the page to Taminy’s troubled face.

“Shall I stop, or would you hear more? He speaks of the
situation at Ochanshrine . . .”

She nodded, her eyes fixed on the mullioned windows behind
him. “Please, go on.”

Wyth cleared his throat. “Abbod Ladhar is still strongly in
control of Ochanshrine and Wyncirke. The ranks there have dwindled, though; a
number of the Brethren have come to us here in the city, though one or two stay
behind as spies, pretending loyalty to the old Order. The Stone of Ochan is
silent and dark, they say, and Osraed Ladhar frets over it as a mother over a
sick child. Ladhar is often with Daimhin Feich and has stepped quietly into the
role of Apex. The fact that you, Wyth, were appointed to that position by
Osraed Bevol, himself, means nothing here. You are apostate—no, worse—you are a
heretic, as much a Wicke to them as they believe Our Lady to be.

“But as to the Stone—the Osmaer Crystal: Ladhar brings it
into the Cyne’s Cirke every Cirke-dag and displays it there under brilliant
lights, so the congregation might not notice its darkness. I think it is the
Crystal that convinces the people Ladhar has a right to his position at the
Apex. It has become a rallying point, and in the streets, you will hear people
swear by the Stone of Ochan. I swear, too, that it is the only thing that holds
Creiddylad together and keeps her from falling to complete chaos.

“We, here, are desperate for some word of Taminy. Is she
well? Please ask her to pray for us and to guide us to the Meri’s will. Your
friend, Osraed Lealbhallain-mac-Mercer.”

Wyth folded the letter and returned it to the folio. “The
boy who brought me this says it may be the last post we’ll receive from
Creiddylad. To lose touch with them now . . .”

Taminy was shaking her head. “If Leal only knew it, he’s
capable of staying in touch with us at a thought. He has the capacity, but not
the discipline.” She looked up at Wyth. “If one of you went back to Creiddylad
you could instruct them, and in the meantime, you could keep in contact with
me.”

“Are you thinking of me, in particular?”

The expression on his face drew a chuckle of amusement from
her. “No, not you, in particular. Not you, at all. Your place is here. But one
of you must go, I think. And soon.”

“How? How will they get there? The high passes will be
closed soon and it’s a dangerous journey at the best of times.”

Taminy rose from her couch and moved to the windows. Through
the thick diamond-shaped panes she could see multiple distorted images of the
oblong courtyard below—in sunshine now, the coming and going of small figures
repeated over and over.

One figure stood out among them as it crossed toward the
residence; taller, broader, it seemed to collect more of the Sun’s fickle rays.

Catahn. Warmth curled in Taminy’s breast.

“Maybe the Ren Catahn could spare some men as an escort,”
Wyth said from behind her.

“Dangerous,” Taminy murmured. “The Hillwild would only be a
target for Feich’s rage.”

Even as she spoke, a sharp image formed in one of the tiny
panes before her eyes. Mounted men struggled upward through a mountain pass the
Hillwild called the Cauldron. Horses danced along the narrow, wind-whipped
trail that circled the rim, while below them a curving expanse of gleaming
black rock fell away into the mist-filled bowl. A banner bearing a sword-cleft
rock on a red field snapped above the standard-bearer.

The Claeg.

Taminy turned away from the window. “I think an escort will
be provided,” she said.

Wyth merely nodded. He was well-used to her sudden
pronouncements by now and did not question them. “Is there anything else we can
do?” he asked.

“We can wait. And pray. And be ready.”

Wyth shifted restively. She’d said that often since they’d
come here—be ready. And he no longer asked, “Ready for what?”

She had no answer to give him yet, but she knew things were
ever-changing and that an answer would be soon in coming.

In this Cusp, whatever is
hidden in the souls and hearts of all people shall be discovered. This is the
Day of which the Osraed Gartain prophesied: “In that Day, the piercing gaze of
the Meri will bring every dark secret to light, though that secret be as tiny
as a dust mote. The deceiver shall deliver up what is in his breast and lay it
bare before the Eye of God. Nothing can escape Her knowledge.”

— Osraed Tynedale
A Commentary on the Golden Cusp

Daimhin Feich came to Ochanshrine by boat, docking at the
private wharf below the Abbis. To leave the castle by any other route would
expose him to the rabble that seemed to mill endlessly in the streets without
the walls, ready to pelt visitors with rotten produce and pebbles.

Abbod Ladhar, watching him debark at the little jetty, would
rather he had stayed barricaded in Mertuile. Ladhar had never dealt well with
ambiguity. Now, it was marching up the steps and right into his face. Part of
him wanted nothing more than to retire to his chambers and pray until things
were normal again. But normal, they would never be. Here, if he looked at it
right, was not disaster but opportunity. Cyne Colfre’s death had left in its
wake a welter of dependencies. Daimhin Feich was not in complete control of
Caraid-land and could not be without two essentials: Airleas Malcuim and the
Osmaer Crystal.