Taminy (20 page)

Daimhin
Feich raised a jet black brow and speared Leal with uncommonly pale eyes. “Oh?
And what source might that be?”

“The
Source of Sources.”

“The
Source of Sources,” repeated the Durweard. “Meaning the Meri, I suppose.”

“Aye.”

“The
Cyne is pursuing his muses just now,” Feich said. “He dislikes very much being
disturbed when he is so involved. I assure you, Osraed, any message from you, I
would personally deliver-”

“Durweard,
I am newly Chosen. I have been commissioned by the Osraed Bevol and Eadmund and
by the Meri, Herself, to deliver these messages to our Cyne. Neither commission
can be denied or circumvented. I must see Cyne Colfre—face to face.” He amazed
himself with that—with the fierceness of his confidence, with the edge that put
to his voice, with the certitude of his words. Sweating, because despite that,
he knew he looked like a carrot-topped, freckled mouse of a boy, he watched the
Durweard Feich and waited for his response.

Eye
to eye, they sat—boy and man—measuring each other, until the man finally
lowered his eyes and rose. “Of course, you must, Osraed Lealbhallain. I shall
endeavor to make my lord understand your imperative.”

“Please.”
Leal inclined his head.

In
the Durweard’s absence, he quaked and prayed, wondering at the words that had
come out of his mouth, marveling at their Origin.

What message, Mistress
? he begged
silently—and was swiftly rewarded with a tingling tide of response. He sponged
perspiration from his lip with the fine sleeve of his tunic. The Cyne would not
be pleased.

Durweard
Feich reappeared almost immediately, bowing deeply as he beckoned Leal to
follow him. “Please, Osraed. The Cyne will see you at once.”

Leal
was moved to wry humor at the thought that a Cyne’s Durweard (a scion of the
House Feich, no less) should bow and scrape to a small town Mercer’s teenage
son. He then smote himself mentally for the pride in that observation—Feich was
bowing to something entirely other than Lealbhallain-mac-Mercer, late of
Nairne.

Leal
had dared to imagine his first meeting with Cyne Colfre Malcuim. It would take place
in the throne room. The room that had seen weddings and war councils,
celebrations and treachery, royal pardons and condemnations. The room that
should have seen, for the six hundred fifth consecutive year, the celebration
of new Osraed. But the chamber in which Osraed Lealbhallain first met his Cyne
was a long, narrow, obviously unfinished room with canvas-draped floor and
walls. The Cyne, or so Leal assumed it must be, stood before a multi-hued wall,
gazing up at it in rapt concentration. He was wearing a gray smock and carried
a paint tray and brush.

As
he drew nearer the paint-bedaubed wall, Leal realized he was looking at a mural
laid out in lurid hues. He scanned it, eyes picking out familiar shapes, a
thread of narration, a flow. When they fell on the section the Cyne now
studied, Leal felt a surge of recognition. At the same moment, the Cyne
acknowledged his presence.

“Ah!
Dear Osraed Lealbhallain! You are too kind to visit me while I am in such
disarray.” Cyne Colfre gestured at the chamber and his own apparel. “But my
time is so often occupied with administrative affairs, I quite bury myself in
my passion when I get the opportunity.”

“I
understand, sire,” Leal murmured, trying to draw his eyes away from the mural.
They clung to the image of a white-shouldered woman clutching a child to her
half-naked body as she fled down a dark, tortuous cliffside stair toward a
river filled with dangerous-looking water.

“What
do you think of my mural, Osraed Lealbhallain?”

Leal’s
face felt suddenly cold and clammy. “It’s ... it’s the tale of Cwen Goscelin
and the kidnap of Cyneric Thearl, isn’t it?”

The
Cyne laughed. “Well, of course it is, b- Osraed! And more. See there?” He
pointed his brush to the upper left corner of the mural. “The uprising of the
Hillwild under Haefer Hageswode, his wild appearance at Solstice Fest ...”

The
Cyne’s brush tip swept across the scene and Leal felt a blush rising from his
neck to cover his face. Haefer Hageswode, Ren of the Hillwild during the reign
of Cyne Siolta, was depicted not merely wild and half-clad during his legendary
meeting with the Cyne at Cyne’s Cirke, but was wearing only bright splashes of
paint and an ornate necklace.

The
brush continued on its way. “ ... his incarceration at Halig-liath, the murder
of Cyne Siolta by the Hageswode’s nephew, the battle for the Regency. Yes, it’s
all there. Yet, I must admit you are correct—the courageous acts of my
kinswoman, Goscelin, are the capstone of the piece ...If I dare mix my
metaphors freely.” The Cyne turned dark, zealot eyes on Leal again. “What do
you think of it, Osraed?”

“It
overwhelms me, sire,” Leal answered in all honesty. “Your sense of history ...
and color ... is very vivid.”

The
Cyne, smiling, inclined his head. “Your praise warms me, Master Lealbhallain.
But, please, forgive my zealous ramblings. My muses” —he returned his gaze to
the mural— “consume me at times.” He continued for a moment to gaze at the
lurid chain of scenes as if that were literally true, then turned smartly to
his Durweard, who still hovered at Leal’s elbow. “Refreshment, Daimhin. Have it
brought out to the Blue Pavilion.”

Feich
bowed and left them.

Cyne
Colfre, laying aside his paints and stripping off his smock, bid Lealbhallain
follow him. He led the way to the far end of the chamber and through a pair of
incredibly delicate doors with narrow panels of alternating clear and colored
glass. They seemed somehow out of place set deep into the thick walls of the
ancient Malcuim fortress. But once through the doors, Leal felt he had been
transported to a different realm. A slender bridge of gleaming white stone
stretched for several meters across a ground-floor garden, joining the second
story chamber to a splendid pavilion with a silver roof.

A
blue pavilion, indeed, Leal thought, as they moved out onto the bridge.
Everything about it that wasn’t white or silver was a deep, brilliant
azure—pennants, appointments, the pillows and pads on the circle of stone
couches. Leal was losing himself in the heady scent of late-blooming flowers
and evergreen shrubs when he realized that the Cyne was looking at him,
expectant of his commentary.

“Most
beautiful,” he said, inadequately, turning slowly within the pavilion’s airy
enclosure. Through every sculpted arch was a different view, each remarkable in
its own way, whether of courtyard, castle, city rooftops or-

“As
you can see, I had the seaward wall lowered and notched so as to obtain an
ocean vista. I designed it myself, you know.”

Leal
glanced at his Cyne, amazed. “Truly? Sire, your talents are remarkable. This
pavilion is-is ... glorious.”

“And
there are three more just like it. One for each point of the compass. Each
decorated in a different color.”

Colfre
gestured for Leal to be seated, then deposited himself on the most luxurious
couch of all—a stone creation in the shape of a recumbent horse. It glistened
as if wet. No sooner were they seated than a pair of servants appeared with a
silver pitcher and cups, a set of covered dishes, and an ornate folding wooden
table.

“I’m
designing a high pavilion for the royal suite now,” the Cyne continued as the
servants laid out a tray full of delicacies and drink. “I’m planning to extend
the buttressing away from the side of the western tower and build a little
chamber atop it. I’ve been giving thought to having a suspension bridge connect
it to the castle, although I daresay that could be quite off-putting to the
Cwen and probably not the safest of conveyances. A drawbridge, now, that would
be ideal. A Cyne’s duties do lend fantasy of splendid isolation a great deal of
appeal.”

The
Cyne dismissed the servants then, while Leal tasted a type of fruit he’d never
seen before. It was sweet, but tangy, and had deep red flesh.

“Like
that, do you?” Colfre asked.

Leal
nodded. “I’ve seen naught like it.”

“Well,
no, you wouldn’t have. It grows beyond the Suder-Gyldans. In the Sutherlands.
Aye, but you’ll be seeing more of it before long. Now, tell me, Osraed, what
service your Cyne might render to you.”

Leal
held out the folio, its gold clasp and inlay flashing brightly in the Sun. “I
bring a message from the Osraed Bevol and Eadmund regarding the holding of the
General Assembly. I am told it is in response to your last dispatch.”

Cyne
Colfre took the folio and turned it over in his hands. He hesitated for a moment,
then tripped the clasp, opening the tooled cover to view the contents.
Frowning, he leafed through the several pages of dense script, scanned the
first page. Finally, he glanced up at Leal. “Are you to wait for a response to
this?”

“No,
sire. I am not returning to Halig-liath. My mission is here, in Creiddylad.”

The
Cyne seemed interested in that. “Oh? Doing what, precisely?”

Leal
drew himself a little straighter on his couch; he hoped he looked taller. “I am
to examine the state of the poor in Creiddylad and to do what may be done to
change their lot for the better.”

The
Cyne’s brows rose steeply. “We have already a number of Osraed working under
that same charter. I would not presume to question the Meri’s wisdom but-”

“Are
there yet poor in Creiddylad?”

“Aye.
There are always poor in Creiddylad.”

“Then
the charter is not yet fulfilled. I assume I am to help see that it is.”

The
Cyne smiled—indulgently, thought Leal. “Quite a great undertaking for so young
an Osraed.”

“The
Osraed Ochan was no older than I, sire. At Cyne Malcuim’s side, he helped
transform Caraid-land into a nation. I won’t be alone. I’ll have assistance
from the Meri, from the Osraed already here, and from yourself, of course.”

The
Cyne’s smile deepened, his teeth showing white and even, his eyes glinting.
They were Hillwild eyes, Leal realized, not brown, as they first appeared, but
a peculiar shade of amber.

“Of
course.” Cyne Colfre tucked the folio under his arm and stood, indicating the
interview was at an end.

Leal
came swiftly to his feet, shivering with a rush of adrenaline. “I have another
message for you, sire.”

“Oh?
From whom?”

“From
the Meri.”

A
peculiar parade of expressions moved across the Cyne’s face: surprise,
bemusement, amusement, unease. Unease won out.

“From
... the Meri,” he repeated. “For me.”

“Aye,
sire.”

The
Cyne let himself back down to his couch. “Pray, deliver your message.”

Something
in the way he said it ...He doesn’t believe! Leal felt a chill shake his
bowels. He wanted to sit, himself, certain his legs must begin to tremble, but
he remained standing. To look less a child, he thought. To seem more a man.

A
frisson of indescribable warmth welled in Leal’s brain, coursing down,
spreading throughout his body. He opened his mouth and spoke. “You must first know
that the Meri has changed Aspect. The Emerald Meri has given way to the Gold.”

Cyne
Colfre’s face paled visibly beneath his neatly trimmed beard. “Changed Aspect?
You ... you saw this? You’re certain of this?”

“The
Meri came to me golden. Ask any of the Osraed here at court or at Ochanshrine.
They will tell you She radiated emerald hues. She has changed, Cyne Colfre. I
have seen it and the Osraed Wyth has seen it. Caraid-land enters another Cusp.”

The
Cyne came to his feet and began to pace the perimeters of his grand pavilion. “A
Cusp? Now? What can it mean?” He turned to Leal, his expression wary and
fierce. “Explain this to me, Osraed. Tell me what this means.”

“The
history of Caraid-land gives tell of that, Cyne. Do you recall the last such
time?”

The
Cyne made a nervous gesture. “I have studied history, of course. It was over a
hundred years ago.”

His
disbelief wavers. “It took place not long after the events you describe in your
mural, during the reign of Thearl the Stern. Do you recall the circumstances?”

Relief
spread across Colfre’s face like a slow stain. “Well, of course. There was an
insurrection. The House Claeg and its Hillwild allies moved against the Throne.
But we’re in no such circumstance now. The Hillwild have long been pacified—by
the Kiss, my mother and grandmother were Hillwild. And as to the House Claeg,
it is also reconciled to us ...You are not suggesting that there is danger to
be expected from those quarters?”

“The
Meri wishes you to know that She is wounded by disunity and deceit wherever
they arise and whatever form they take.”

“What?
What does that mean? What disunity? What deceit?”

Osraed
Lealbhallain gazed into the reddening face of his Cyne, his legs finally giving
in to the urge to shake. “I come only to deliver the message, Cyne, as the Meri
bids me. Learn the lesson of history and of your ancestors. Guard, Cyne Colfre,
against disunity and deceit.”

“From
what quarter, Osraed? From where will this deceit come? The Claeg? The Feich?
The Hillwild? I am opening relations with the Deasach. Will the deceit arise
there? And as to disunity ...”

Lealbhallain
could feel the Cyne’s concern, now, rippling from him like heat drafts from
sun-warmed stone. “I have only to deliver the message, sire,” he repeated.

“But
didn’t they tell you where these problems would arise?”

“They,
sire?”

“The
ones who gave you this warning to deliver. The Osraed Bevol and Eadmund,
surely.” Colfre’s disbelief struggled to reassert itself.

Leal
quashed it. “I told you, sire. This message is from the Meri.” He raised
fingers to the bright mark on his forehead, drawing the Cyne’s unwilling eyes
to it. He felt the other man recoil, sensed his conflicting desire to reach out
and touch the star, to assure himself that it was not merely painted there. “It’s
hot to the touch, sire. Do you wish to test it?”