Taminy (33 page)

The
letters were full of the chatter of Nairne, telling him what his family thought
he’d want to know about the furor Osraed Wyth’s announcement had caused, about
the Cirkemaster’s daughter having the Gift and being a candidate for
Prenticeship, about how the Hillwild Ren, Catahn, had come up with an entire
classroom full of candidates, which included his own daughter, the Renic
Desary.

It
was the longest letter, the one from Orna, that brought him the most disturbing
tale. Osraed Bevol’s choice of wards had once again plunged Halig-liath into
controversy. Orna described in detail the gossip resulting from Ealad-hach’s
attempted test of Taminy-a-Gled, adding her own opinion that the old man must
be daft to suspect such a brave and obviously gifted cailin of being Wicke. He
was not to tell Ma or Da, she confided, but she had sought Taminy’s company
herself and heard and seen some truly wonderful things. She enumerated.

Leal
must have groaned or gasped for he felt Buach’s eyes suddenly on him.

“Trouble
at home, Osraed?”

“Oh
... you could say. One of the Osraed has accused a local girl of being Wicke.”

“Oh,
aye!” The Aelder’s sallow face lit with enthusiasm. “That’s the news come in on
the galleys, too. All over the waterfront, that. It’s true then, it’s in one of
your letters?”

Leal
nodded and Buach grinned. “There was an official packet for the Abbod, too, and
one for the Cyne. The boatman thought they must be about the acceptance of
girls at Halig-liath. Did your letters mention that, too?”

“The
Ren Catahn’s daughter is a candidate, according to my father.”

“God-the-Spirit,
a Hillwild Renic at the Academy! These are interesting times ...” He glanced
coyly into Leal’s face. “So what do you think, Osraed ... of girls at the Holy
Fortress?”

“I
think it’s a great thing.” He thought of Meredydd, then. Meredydd, who had
wanted, above all else, to be Osraed; who had wanted, failing that, to come
heal the wounds of Creiddylad’s poor. He supposed, in some way, he was here in
her stead.

“A
great thing,” he repeated and cleared his plate from the table.

oOo

Cyne
Colfre sat in his favorite place, breeze rippling his dark hair and teasing the
corners of the paper spread before him on the stone table. His eyes caressed
the inked lines of the sketches lovingly; they were his, he had put them there
himself with an architect’s delicate skill. The design was his own and he
fancied it carried such distinction that, generations hence, architects and
students of art would look at it and say, “Ah, now that was Colfrian. Classic
Golden Cusp. A fine work.” They would see the power and grace in those lines
and marvel that such a thing, such an aerie, could stand ...When it ought to
soar. He smiled, not looking up even when he heard the footfall on the pavilion’s
stone walkway. He knew the stride.

“So,”
he said, without glancing up, “how is our Abbod today?”

“Our
Abbod is in quite a state.” Daimhin Feich gave a cursory bow and seated himself
on one of the stone benches.

“Our
Abbod is always in a state, what with one thing and another. What’s the excuse
of the day?”

“You
won’t like it.”

The
Cyne glanced up from his drawings. “The boy again?”

“‘The
boy’ has sent a letter to the Apex at Halig-liath. An urgent letter.”

Colfre’s
expression was wary. “Not a progress report, I gather.”

“The
Abbod thinks not. It was sent out with a special seal rune—something even the
Abbod was loathe to tinker with. The letter was directed to the eyes of the
Apex Osraed only.”

“I
thought the Abbod spoke to the boy.”

“He
did, but I gathered from his report that the conversation was far from
satisfactory.”

“He
said he rattled him.”

“He
said what he thought you wanted to hear. He also said the boy seemed
ambivalent. On further prodding, I got him to admit that our littlest Osraed
has gotten Fhada inflamed again. According to Ladhar, he was openly hostile
during that last visit.”

“Damned
Osraed pups! Every time we’re sent a new one we must go through the same
nonsense. Every one of them comes to Creiddylad full of ideas and voices and
impertinences. Every one of them wants to dabble in government.”

“Well,
the Cyne has traditionally had an Osraed as close advisor. Malcuim
well-established it, and every Cyne since has upheld the practice ... because
the Meri desires Her emissaries and institutions to have a voice in governing
Caraid-land. You’ve been somewhat remiss in that area ... at least, where
Halig-liath is concerned.”

“Damn
Halig-liath. I need no advisor. And I will not beg permission for every move
from some ... bedazzled schoolboy.”

Feich
seemed amused. “May I remind you that this bedazzled schoolboy has the Meri’s
Kiss planted indelibly on his brow?”

Colfre
shook a finger at him. “Not indelibly, Daimhin. Not at all indelibly. When I
was a boy, Osraed Ladhar’s Kiss was as bright as the moon. The years have
dimmed it. They will dim this Osraed Lealbhallain’s as well.”

“May
be, but he could raise a lot of dust in those years, my lord.”

“Ungrateful
wretch. I’m feeding his orphans—can he begrudge me the right to determine what
ceremonies are played out in my own Cirke?”

“Ah,
now that seems to be the point of contention, sire. The orphans are more
particularly yours, while the Cirke, for all it was built by your ancestor, is
still God’s. Osraed Lealbhallain thinks you’ve got it backwards.”

“And
what would he do if I cut Care House off again? I’m sure I could find some
excuse to leave them to their own devices.”

Feich
shook his head. “A bad idea, sire. Passion is not something we want to arouse
in our Osraed.”

Colfre
stood abruptly. “I’m sick of dealing with them, Daimhin. Sick of cat-footing
around them, avoiding them, placating them, trying to ease them out of government
...”

“Well,
that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re trying to ease them out of their
covenanted and traditional role in the Court of the Caraidin Cynes. I don’t
doubt they drag their feet. The Chiefs, Eiric and Ministers of your General
Assembly haven’t been terribly pleased with the scarcity of meetings, either.”

“They’re
represented on the Privy Council—they can be mollified.”

Feich
brushed some lint from his leggings. “Some of them can. I’m not too certain
about the Claeg.”

“Hang
the Claeg. Heh! That would’ve been done centuries ago, but for the Osraed’s
merciful intervention. The Claeg are passive now, at any rate. Surely you can’t
expect any trouble from them? They’ve got a man on the Privy, anyway.”

“Who
only attends to nag about how often the Assembly is not meeting. Besides, the
Osraed have men on the Privy, as you so colorfully put it. Osraed Ladhar, for
one.”

“You
think they’ll be satisfied with that? No. But they will have to be. This Cusp
is a sign, Daimhin. A sign that their power is waning and the power of the Cyne
is waxing. I will be rid of them. Those damn burn-brows will not tell me what
my Privy Council may or may not adjudicate on, or dare to assign top Cleirachs
to some verminous tribe of Hillwild. Let them sit in their fortress and mutter
inyx and gaze at the stars. Let me rule Caraid-land as I was destined to.”

“What
will you do? You will no doubt be embroiled with the Osraed Body shortly.”

“The
Cusp, Daimhin, will do it for me. I know what this Cusp means—better than they
do, I sometimes think. They’ll be at their weakest now, chasing Wicke, seeing
signs and portents in everything. An opportunity will present itself, Daimhin.
My opportunity. And when it comes, I shall take it.”

Men shall be hindered from loving Me and
spirits shall be shaken when they utter My Name, for minds cannot comprehend
Me, nor hearts hold Me.

— The Corah
Book I, Verse 50

The
gossip had not stopped, though now it took on a different tone—a variety of
tones, in fact, as the citizens of Nairne struggled to make sense of the
reported results of Ealad-hach’s test of Taminy-a-Gled. There was not a soul
who didn’t know about it, who hadn’t compared their version of the tell with
their neighbor’s, swapping details until no one could recall what they had from
whom.

Several
embellished versions were carried quayside and given into the keeping of the
galley crews. They could take their pick of the litter and did, carrying, each
his favorite version—or a combination of versions—down river to Tuine and
Creiddylad.

Taminy
heard the various embellishments with chagrin and wry bemusement; the unadorned
truth seemed startling enough without bringing in Eibhilin voices and
lightnings and thunders. Most bemusing of all was the windfall effect of
Ealad-hach’s attentions. Taminy was suddenly the cynosure of Nairne’s youth,
especially her young females, while mothers who had previously suspected her
now seemed to think her a fine and fit tutor for their girls.

She
mused on that now, feeling the slant rays of late summer’s afternoon sun on her
skin, hearing the chatter of her companions and the passage of their bodies
through the wild wheat that grew between Nairne and the Bebhinn Wood. In the
eyes of that village, Ealad-hach’s attempt to condemn her had, instead, removed
the shadow of suspicion. Whatever the differences in the accounts of the
Cirke-dag incident, there was one overwhelming agreement: Taminy had woven with
Lin-a-Ruminea’s crystal, seated on the Cirke altar stone. And she had done it
before credible witnesses. If that did not prove her to be other than a Wicke,
nothing could.

Acceptance
was not universal. Iseabal’s mother still was cool toward her and Terris wouldn’t
look her in the eye. But today, incredibly, her entourage included Doireann Spenser
and Phelan Backstere. There were other new faces, as well; Wyvis and Rennie had
brought friends and Orna-mac-Mercer now found the woodland more interesting
than the business that would someday be hers.

As
to the parents, if they knew where their young spent some long afternoons, they
expressed no great distress. All knew that if Taminy’s methods were unorthodox,
her teaching must be straight from the Books—Osraed Bevol said so, and that was
nowadays acceptable.

“My
little brother is Osraed,” Orna had said. “My da said he’d not be surprised if
we shared a talent. And, well, if I’ve got a midge of the Gift, I’d like to
know.”

She
had a midge of the Gift, as it happened. It hadn’t had the refinement of her
brother’s, nor native strength of Iseabal’s, but then she’d never been
encouraged to develop it. She would be good at the Heal Tell, Taminy thought,
and might show a talent for natural divination. The farmers hereabouts wouldn’t
fault that.

Phelan,
now ... well, what he had was an eyeful of curiosity. If Taminy-a-Gled was not
Wicke, then what was she? He devoured everything she did and said, partly, she
realized, because he was spying for Ealad-hach.

Doireann,
too, was a kettle bubbling with anticipation—and something else. Something
quick and nervous Taminy could not quite put a name to.

She
could see the Cirke spire now, just peeking above the top of the next grassy
hill. The mellow sun washed the high cupola with rose-gold, staining the blue
slate roof purple. In a matter of minutes, the Divine Artist would dip His
brush again and mute the vivid hues even further.

“I
think the light of your Weave must have shot right up through the tower.”

Taminy
glanced away from the Cirke to meet Doireann’s shy smile. “Oh, I doubt that.”

The
other girl fell into step with her as they drew toward the crest of the long,
low rise, her hands clasped behind her back, her eyes bright and cheeks rosy
from the uphill walk. “Whatever was Osraed Ealad-hach thinking to confront you
in the Cirke? Could he really have thought you a Wicke?”

“Quite
a few people thought me a Wicke, Doiry.”

“Aye.
Like Aine.” Doireann swished her skirts back and forth. “I still can’t believe
she brought that horrible runebag in to the Sanctuary ...Did you know she had
it?”

Taminy
laughed. “I knew somebody had something! That smell was enough to curl up my
hair.”

“Or
straighten mine,” Doireann agreed, grimacing. “But did you know Ealad-hach
meant to test you?”

Taminy
recalled a dream—the fiery collision of wills, heart-stopping and unavoidable. “I
knew something was coming. Some confrontation. I thought it would be Ealad-hach
simply because he seems to hate me so.”

“Oh,
you terrify him! I mean, I think you do. And that snouty Brys-a-Lach and” —she
smiled— “that silly Terris. But I’m not afraid.”

Taminy
studied the shining face. Not quite true, she thought but said, “I’m glad of
that.”

“Tell
me, Taminy ...” Doireann hovered closer to her side. “ ... can you read a body’s
mind?”

The
thought pulled a shroud over Taminy’s head. Fog. Or woolen wadding.
That’s what I live in, here
.

Once
all minds, all hearts, all souls had been open to her gaze and she would read
them and rejoice or lament—mostly lament. Hearts held lamentable things in
these days when Her Kiss faded from a man’s brow like a bad dye, or tarnished
like silver in sea air. Days when men turned their minds to how the Divine
might profit them and the Cyne stretched his standard out over the Cirke. It
should be a relief not to know the thoughts behind the words and the smiles and
the psalms of praise—not to fully sense the machinations behind the manner.

It
was not a relief.

Can I read minds? About as well as I can
read a book through a wad of fleece.
She opened her mouth to say it when
there was a shout up ahead at the top of the hill. Iseabal stood there, and
Rennie and Wyvis, pointing down the opposite slope. She could hear the dull
thunder of a horse at full gallop before she crested the hill. She waited
there, at the top, till the flame-haired rider met them, pulling her mount to a
hurried stop.