Taminy (21 page)

Colfre
took a deep breath, clenching his hands into fists. “No, I believe you, Osraed.”

Yes,
he did believe, Leal reflected as he left the Cyne’s company. But it was an
uneasy belief, ebbing and flowing; hot then cool, then hot again. It disturbed
the new Osraed that his Cyne was so ambivalent. He had thought that of all
Caraid-land’s citizens, the Cyne must surely be firmly established in the Meri’s
Covenant. How, otherwise, could he effectively uphold it? How, otherwise, could
he hope to hold his realm together?

Disturbing,
too, was the message he had delivered. He returned to his lodgings in the abbis
at Ochanshrine, striving to banish his misgivings and concentrate on the task
now at hand.

My Children! The prime purpose of Religion
is to defend the interests and foster the unity of all people. Make it not a
vehicle for discord.

— Utterances of Osraed Gartain
Verse 1

“Where
were you yesterday?”

Iseabal
stopped, half across the Mercer’s Bridge, and glanced back over her shoulder.
Aine-mac-Lorimer was hard on her heels. A little further behind, Doireann
Spenser hurried to catch up.

“What
do you mean?” Iseabal asked and turned toward them, shifting her shopping
basket from one arm to the other.

“You
didn’t go to the Bebhinn,” accused Doireann, dark eyes reproachful.

“Well,
no, but ...How do you know that and why should you care? I thought Taminy’s
doings were all silliness to you two.”

“Aye,
they are,” Aine said. “But we wanted to see what it was she did that made you
go all wiggly in the head.”

“Aye,”
breathed Doireann. “What did she do?”

Iseabal
was suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation.
If I tell them, I’ve as good as told the whole town.
She glanced
away across the bridge. “I have to go. Mother is waiting for these things.”

“We’ll
walk with you,” said Aine, and put action to word. “Now, give tell, Isha. Where
did you off to, if not the Bebhinn?”

Iseabal
pecked at a loose twist of reed on the handle of her basket. “She invited me to
supper.”

“You
went to her house? Did you see her room?” Doireann’s eyes were huge. “Were
there magical things there?”

Aine
snorted volubly. “Doiry, you’re such a child sometimes. Of course there was
nothing ‘magical’ there.”

Iseabal
stared hard at the cobbles beneath her feet. “There were wonderful paintings
and weavings on the walls—with feathers and flowers.”

“What’s
magical about that?”

“There
was a crystal.”

That
stopped all three of them in their tracks.

“A
crystal?” repeated Aine. “A Rune crystal?”

“Oh,
Aine, is there any other kind?” Doireann was agog. “Was it hers?”

Iseabal
nodded. “She called it Ileane, the Light Bearer.”

“And
did she Weave with it?”

“No.
Not while I was there, but ... she let me hold it and ...” She colored,
remembering how the stone had felt in her hands—warm, alive almost.

“And
what?” Aine demanded.

“It
glowed.”

“Glowed?”
Aine’s expression wavered between amazement and scorn and she spluttered like a
dry tap. “You actually picked it up? What an idiot thing to do, Isha! She might’ve
cast an inyx on you while you were touching it.”

Iseabal
glanced at her askew. “I thought you said Taminy’s talk of Weaving was all
frivol.”

“Yes,”
agreed Doireann, “you did say that.”

“Well,
I-”

“What
did it feel like?” Doireann asked.

Iseabal
shivered a bit, recalling. “Oh, it was warm, Doiry,” she said, putting her face
close to the other girl’s. “And smooth. And deep down inside it, there was this
beautiful golden light. Like ...” She glanced around, making sure no one was
eavesdropping from the Tanner’s doorway. “It looked like the Osmaer crystal,
only smaller.”

Aine
blurted a rude noise. “You’ve never seen the Osmaer!”

“I
have. At Solstice Fest my tenth birthday. Papa took me down to Ochanshrine
special to see it.”

“Aw,
you were a baby, then. How can you even remember?”

“Even
you’d remember the Osmaer, Aine, if you’d ever seen it. It’s that beautiful.
And it glows, too, when the Osraed come near it. It glowed for my father when
we stood looking at it.”

She
tucked her basket close and began walking again. Doireann hustled to keep up.

Aine
lagged behind. “So will you go tomorrow, Iseabal, Cirkemaster’s daughter?” she
called. “Will you go to your magicky place?”

Iseabal
spun about, a finger to her lips. “Hush you, Aine Red!” She took three steps
back to the taller girl and met her eye to eye. “You’ve no call to shout out to
the whole town what innocent pastimes I take up.”

“Innocent!
Silly, you mean.”

“And
so what, Aine-mac-Lorimer? So what if I’ve a silly midge in me? Shall I shout
on you because you’re wiggly over Terris-mac-Webber?”

She
surprised a giggle out of Doireann and a grunt of dire fear out of Aine. She
used that as her walking line, turning on her heel and forging on.

Again,
she found Doireann beside her and Aine somewhere just abaft.
I’ll never get home
, she thought.

“What
do you do there?” Doireann asked. “In the pool glade, I mean?”

“I
just listen. Watch.”

“But
...” Doireann glanced over her shoulder at their burnished shadow. “But what
does she do?”

Iseabal
was torn. She savored the secret, anticipated savoring the telling of the
secret. “She ... called birds down from the trees and they drank water from her
hand.” She tried to keep her voice nonchalant, but the memory of that, of those
enamored birds falling from the safety of their trees, still sent a thrill
through her, and the words came out hushed.

“Called
them?” repeated Doireann, and behind them Aine said, “What? What did you say?”

Feeling
suddenly trapped and traitorous, Iseabal shook her head and hurried her step. The
two yammered after her, Doireann whining, Aine blustering, until she had made
the safety of the Cirkeyard. Before the Sanctuary she stepped and faced them. “If
you think this is all so silly, Aine-mac-Lorimer, why are you harping on me? I’ve
no love of your teasing and taunting.”

“I
wouldn’t taunt you, Isha,” Doireann gushed. “I don’t think it’s at all silly.”
She turned her dark-bright gaze to Aine’s flushed face. “She says Taminy called
birds down out of the trees and made them drink from her hand.”

Aine
scowled. “You’re making this up of fool’s cloth.”

“No,
I’m not. I saw it. I was hiding behind a bush and I saw it. But she knew I was
there and she called me out.”

“Called
you?” echoed Doireann.

Aine
scowled, her face a near match for her hair. “What kind of birds where they?
How did she call them?”

Iseabal
glanced up to see the Cirkewarden watching them from where he tugged weeds from
the ground. Blushing, she herded her two companions up the Sanctuary steps,
through the narthex and into the sanctum. There, she sat herself down on a
bench before the altar and turned as the others slid in after her, their eyes
never leaving her face.

“She
was sitting above a pool by a little waterfall,” Iseabal said. “She took some
water in her hand and held it up and two birds came down and sat on her hand
and drank the water.”

Aine
was still frowning. “But how did she call them? Did she sing to them? Speak to
them? Did she Runeweave?”

Iseabal
shook her head. “She held up her hand and they came.”
So did I
, she didn’t say.

“Where
they ... real birds?” asked Doireann tentatively. “Or were they Eibhilin birds?”

“Eibhilin
birds!” snorted Aine incredulously. “And what would you know of Eibhilin
anything?”

“Nothing,”
Doireann returned, voice sharp. “That’s why I asked.”

“They
were physical birds, living birds.” Wouldn’t Eibhilin birds be real birds? “There
was a black bird and a red one.”

They
were silent for a moment, then Aine said, “She’s a Wicke, Iseabal.”

Iseabal
felt her face go numb with sudden cold and her heart jump and run. She clutched
the basket in her lap. “She’s not a Wicke. She’s just different. Special. She
must be or she’d not be in Osraed Bevol’s house.”

“Meredydd
was in Osraed Bevol’s house. Look what became of her.”

“Oh,
Iseabal,” breathed Doireann, her voice a hushed breeze in the old stone hall. “Aine’s
right. Maybe old Marnie isn’t such a loon. Maybe, somehow, she is Meredydd,
back from the dead.”

“Doireann,
you’d drive an Osraed to tears with that pagan twaddle.” Aine’s eyes shifted to
Iseabal’s colorless face. “But if she’s got Meredydd’s ways, she’ll come to no
good end. And you know it. Your father would cry Wicke if he knew.”

“No,
he wouldn’t. He never cried Wicke on Meredydd.”

“Meredydd
didn’t do secret magics in the woods.”

“How
do you know?” asked Doireann. “Maybe she did and we never knew.”

“Taminy
is not a Wicke,” repeated Iseabal.

“Oh
no, of course not,” said Aine. “I imagine the birds just like her very much.
What else did she do?”

Wriggling
inside, Iseabal shrugged. “She instructed Gwynet about herbs and history.”

“Just
Gwynet? Or you, too?”

Iseabal
came swiftly to her feet. “Taminy is not a Wicke, Aine Red. And if you spread
such malicious gossip about Nairne, I shall never speak to you again as long as
we both draw breath.”

“I
don’t gossip, Iseabal-a-Nairnecirke. I’ll not spread any tales about your dear
Wicke.”

“Don’t
call her that!” whispered Iseabal fiercely, then jumped half out of her skin
when the door between the Cirke and the manse squeaked open.

“Iseabal?
Well, whatever are you girls doing out here? And where are my eggs and cheese?”
Iseabal’s mother, Ardis, Mistress of Nairne Cirke, stood in the open doorway to
the far right of the broad altar, hands in her apron pockets, a bemused frown
playing between her brows.

Iseabal
leapt to take her the basket of goods. “I’m sorry, mother. We ... we just got
talking. Here—everything you asked for. Oh, and Mistress Chandler put in some
bright red finger-tapers she made. She wants to know if they don’t burn cleaner
than the regular ones. She says they oughtn’t drip either.”

“Well,
that would be a source of amazement. And very sweet of her, too.” The
Cirkemistress searched her daughter’s face. “I’d appreciate your help in the
kitchen in a while. I’m making a special bread for supper this evening, and the
Warden’s brought us some lovely game birds to dress.”

“Oh.”
Iseabal glanced aside. “Of course, mama.”

“What’s
wrong, dear?” her mother asked, then glanced up at the other girls who now
stood silently before the altar. “Did you girls have plans for this afternoon?”

Iseabal
stared at the basket in her mother’s hands. “I was ... I was hoping to visit
Taminy ...”

“Well,
why can’t Taminy visit you? She’s had you to supper once; why don’t you return
the courtesy? Father and I would like to know her better. I’ve only met her in
passing, you know. In fact, why don’t you invite all the girls? There’s more
than enough on those rock hens to feed us all.”

Iseabal’s
eyes flicked up to her mother’s face and found nothing there but friendly
interest. She put a smile to her own lips. “Thank you, mama.”

Her
mother gone, Iseabal stared hard at the carved oaken door as if the pattern
might be instructive. It wasn’t. She turned back to her companions.

“I’d
love to take supper with you, Iseabal,” cooed Aine, her eyes glinting golden in
the hazy, glass-filtered sunlight. “Of course, I’ll have to go ask my mam.”

“Me
too,” said Doireann.

Aine
smiled and folded her arms across her chest. “You were going to spend the
afternoon in the woods listening to Wickish tales, weren’t you, Isha? Well,
maybe we’ll hear some tonight at supper.”

Doireann
glanced at her friend. “She wouldn’t talk Wickish before a Cirkemaster, would
she?”

“Don’t
be daft, Doiry. Of course, she wouldn’t. But it could be interesting, anyway.
Come on, let’s go ask our permissions.”

Iseabal
watched the two of them leave, consternation roiling in her breast. She wanted
to see Taminy. She didn’t want an audience for the visit. The thought of all
those eyes—the benign eyes of mother and father, the watchful eyes of
friends—and quaked at the thought. She could just neglect to ask Taminy to
supper, then tell her mother the other girl had been unable to come ... which
would be a lie.

She
was ashamed to have thought it. She turned to the altar beneath its tall,
light-filled window, begging forgiveness. The shimmering splash of brightness
that represented the Meri drew her eyes upward.

Am I to believe that Taminy is wicked? Is
Taminy wicked?

Perhaps
it was inspiration, perhaps it was her own impious imagination, but she felt
suddenly, certainly, that the answer to that question was “no.” She contented
herself with that and went to help her mother in the kitchen.

oOo

Cirkemaster
Saxan slid into his seat in one if the galleries of the Osraed Council Chamber
and leaned toward the aging peer sitting to his left. “What has happened,
Osraed Parthelan? Why is the Body called to a special assembly?”

The
older man glanced at him through rheumy eyes and sniffed audibly. “It’s rumored
that this is the young one’s doing.”

“Osraed
Wyth?”

“Aye.
A Prentice of Faer-wald’s let fall that the boy wishes to make significant
changes in the running of Halig-liath—though he’s not, himself, on the Council
...”

“You
mean ... the Meri wants to make changes in policy?”

“So
he says. Upstart. Didn’t even consult with his elders. Just opens his young
yawp and says there’re changes to be made.”