Taminy (4 page)

Skeet
cocked his head pertly. “Mam Lufu weren’t the one summoned.”

Bevol
pointed at the tip of the boy’s nose. “Get on with the supper, Impertinence.”

He
left Skeet’s grin unanswered and went up to see Taminy. She was in her
chambers—chambers that had so recently been Meredydd’s—gazing out over the
fields at the front of the house. She turned from the window as he entered the
open door and sat facing him on the window seat.

“How
was the day?” he asked.

“It
was a cool day for Eightmonth,” she said and toyed with the fabric of her
skirt. “Gwynet drew fire this afternoon. Through that blue crystal I gave her.
She has a natural Gift.”

Bevol
nodded. “I suspected as much. And did you instruct her in its use?”

“I?”
She laughed self-deprecatingly. “I’ve not been able to croak so much as a
Sleepweave. You know that. I simply explained to her how the crystal worked.
She found it hard to believe the talent that drove it was her own. I told her
you would show her the use of it and not to ‘picture’ in it until then.”

“Picture
in it?”

The
girl’s porcelain pale face lit in a tender smile. “She paints a picture in her
mind, focuses it in the crystal and makes it real. Just like that. She’s been
weaving with dewdrops ... to keep from being beaten and to make herself not
mind the abuse.” Taminy shook herself visibly. “She’ll be expecting you to
speak to her about the crystals. Perhaps after supper-”

“After
supper would be a good time for you to speak to her about them, yes.”

The
girl glanced up sharply. “But Osraed, I cannot.”

“Have
you forgotten your history? Your culling standards? Your technical knowledge?”

“No.
You know I haven’t. I remember everything about the Art, except how to use it.
I can’t Weave. My duans are just unfocused ditties. I’m an empty vessel,
Osraed. I poured myself out into the Sea and the Meri took all of me. I don’t
begrudge Her that,” she added. “I don’t.”

“No,
child, of course not. But don’t discount yourself so harshly. You had a native
Gift. That will return, if slowly. Those who have gone before you are proof of
it.”

Her
eyes held such a roil of frustration and hope, of doubt and faith, that Bevol
was moved to go to her and gather her into his arms, awfully aware of what he
held there. A unique being was Taminy-a-Cuinn. A singular meld of young woman
and aged saint, of earthly frailty and divine virtue. She was a dust mote with
the properties of a star, a drop of the finite that had been breathed upon by
the Infinite. What did a man, even an Osraed, say to that?

“You
are Taminy-a-Cuinn,” he said. “You were chosen by the Meri to be Her Vessel.
Trust that She will not allow you to remain empty for long.”

“I
will trust, Osraed Bevol,” she murmured against his shoulder. “And I will try
to instruct Gwynet, if you desire it.”

“I
do. I do desire it. As I desire that you eat a good, healthy meal this evening.
At table with the rest of the family.”

She
leaned back from him and smiled. “I do like the sound of that word, dear
Osraed—’family.’ You make a duan of it.”

oOo

“So,
Gwynet, you’ve learned the use of a crystal this evening.” Osraed Bevol broke
bread into his stew and passed Taminy a secret wink.

“Oh,
no sir!” the child came back immediately. “I did something by accident complete.
I was only picturing and ...”

She
glanced at Taminy for assistance.

The
older girl smiled. “You summoned fire.”

“Oh,
no, mistress!”

“A
natural,” said Bevol, nodding. He speared Gwynet with sharp eyes. “But you’ll
have to learn control. Discipline. Taminy will teach you that. You’ll show that
old Tynedale a trick or two before you’re a Pilgrim.”

Gwynet
bowed her head, acquiescently. “Yes, Maister,” she murmured, and didn’t quite
hide her secret smile.

Skeet
set out a bowl of greens and slid into his seat, eyes jet-bright. “I did the
bartering in town today, Maister, as ever. I’ve wonderful cream scones for
breakfast.”

“And
wonderful gossip for supper, I’ve no doubt.” Bevol’s expression was wry. “What’s
today’s portion?”

The
boy served up Gwynet’s greens, then heaped up his own plate. “Nairne’s agog
over Meredydd, still.”

“Of
course. And likely will be till I’m in my grave and they can safely say I was
mad.”

Skeet
passed the bowl to Taminy. “Ah, well, the Backstere has it you’re poor in the
head—torn by the talons of grief. Popular tale is she was magicked into a sea
snake or some’at. That’s the Backstere’s go at it. Lealbhallain the Loyal heard
none of that. He believes you, Maister, bow and bind. ‘She’s transformed,’ he
says, ‘made over out of Light.’ Brys-a-Lach, now, he says it’s all heresy,
either way: snake or silkie. Said she deserved to drown, he did.” He scowled
with sudden fierceness. “Called her a heretic ... and worse. Said the Moireach
Arundel was right about her seducing her boy, Wyth. Said she tried to seduce
him too.” He paused and glanced at Gwynet. “I’d’ve liked to cast a Wartweave on
him.”

“I’ve
no doubt,” said Bevol mildly. “Don’t let it upset you. When it’s old news it
will be supplanted by the new.”

“Aye!”
Skeet brightened, waving his fork in the air. “Has been. ‘Speaking of heresy,’
says the Backstere, ‘have you heard the rumors from the capitol?’ ‘Which ones,
says,’ Arly Odern, and the Backstere gives the tell of his uncle from
Creiddylad and some strangeness with the Cyne.”

“This
isn’t about those murals again.”

“Ah,
no. This is that tell you bid me keep my ears up for. Though, to all earfuls,
those murals are an eyeful.”

Bevol
shot the boy a warning glance. “You were giving a tell ...?”

“Backstere’s
uncle goes to the Castle Cirke in Creiddylad once a moon. And at last
Waningfeast, the Cyne just up and does this ceremonial.”

Taminy
looked up from her plate, eyes watchful. “What did he do?”

“He
up in the midst of the recitation of the Covenant and sips the Holy Water right
out of the Cup. Tells everyone the Meri moved him to it.”

“That’s
all he said?” asked Bevol.

“Well,
that’s all the Backstere said, anyway. Might’ve said more but for
Marnie-o-Loom. It’ll be all over the village by morn, like as not. Once the
Backstere’s got it-” He shrugged eloquently.

“Aye,”
Bevol agreed wryly. “Gossips nearly as well as he bakes.”

“You’ll
want to hear about Marnie,” said Skeet. “She was abroad the night we came home
from Meredydd’s Pilgrim Walk.”

Bevol
was all attention—for his supper. “Was she?” He glanced at Taminy, a sop of
stew-dripping bread in one hand. “And what did she see on this night of nights?”

“Cat
smug, that one,” opined Skeet. “Looks me over grand as a Moireach and says,
loud, so the whole shop hears, that she thought Meredydd had come home with us.
‘Two girls I saw,’ she says. ‘Bevol, and that boy and two girls—one little, one
big.’”

“Ah,”
Bevol nodded. “So now I’m hiding a humiliated Prentice under my roof, is that
her tell? I thought they’d all settled that Meredydd was dead or inyxed into a
myth.”

“Marnie’d
have none of that. Here she’d been, chewing on this tidbit for weeks and just
biding till she might uncork it. All a-sudden, Backstere’s got this tasty bit
about the Cyne—Marnie’d have to best that.”

Bevol
shook his head, chuckling. “Well, now. I wonder how long it will take for
Marnie to get her sly chatter up to Halig-liath?” He sighed, set aside his
napkin and eyed Gwynet’s near empty plate. “Sop that up child, and you and
Taminy will begin a study of rune crystals.”

What is seen in Nature in a flash of
lightning—That is Wonder.

That comes to the soul in a flash of vision.
Its name is Tighearnan, which means “Lord;” and Halig, which means “Holy;” and
Caoim-hin, which means “the lovable, the gentle.”

As Tighearnan, That should have obedience.

As Halig, That should have reverence.

As Caoim-hin, That should have adoration.

All beings will love the lover of such a
Lord.

— The Corah
Book II, Verses 51,52

“I’m
not made happy by this, Lealbhallain. If I’d my will in this, no son of mine
would go into such a den of ambiguity.”

“But
it isn’t your will I serve, father. I serve the Meri’s will.”

Giolla
Mercer could not help but find his boy a constant source of amazement. If
anyone had told him his timid, chuckle-headed child would return from his
Pilgrimage a diminutive but solemn adult—an Osraed, by the grace of God—he
would have pronounced that person daft. Leal’s new aura of quiet confidence
seemed to extend even to the tips of his unruly hair.

Now,
under the intense paternal gaze, the boy blushed right to the roots of that
hair, red on red, but continued to fold clothing into the hidebound case that
was his family’s farewell gift.

Giolla
Mercer sighed volubly and glanced about his son’s attic room. It would be empty
soon. “I know you’re right, boy. And I couldn’t be prouder of you, or more sure
of your path, but I can’t help but worry when I hear such things from
Creiddylad as are being whispered through Nairne these days.”

Leal’s
green eyes glinted. “Oh, I wouldn’t say they were
whispered
, da.”

“Should
have been. The tale of the Cyne’s artistic pursuits doesn’t bear repeating.” He
hesitated a moment then added, “Nor, I’d say, does Marnie-o-Loom’s tell of
seeing Meredydd-a-Lagan home from Pilgrimage.” He watched his son’s usually
expressive face and felt a sense of loss in its new opacity. Not even out the
door, his boy, but no longer at home. “You don’t believe it, Leal?”

“That
Meredydd’s here and hides? No, da. She wouldn’t hide from me. The Osraed Bevol
wouldn’t let her hide. I believe the Osraed’s tell. But I don’t pretend to
understand what it means.”

Giolla
Mercer nodded and did not betray his own beliefs. If Osraed Bevol was mad, it
would come to light in God’s own time. “So,” he asked, managing a
conversational tone, “have you heard when you are to give the Pilgrim’s Tell?
Will you go before the Cyne?”

Leal
shook his head. “I’ve heard we may give the Tell at Halig-liath this year. The
Cyne’s a busy man, according to the Osraed at Court. He wasn’t at Farewelling.”
He didn’t say “again,” thinking it too critical. “Though there was a letter
from his Durweard, bidding us good journey.”

Giolla
frowned. “Last Season he sent up a man, at least, to say that he was ill. There
was no excuse given for that letter. Merely ‘urgent business at court.’ What
can things be coming to in Creiddylad that our Cyne can’t even be bothered to
meet his new Osraed face to face? Over six hundred years the Cyne’s been
hearing the Tell at Castle Mertuile. An age of tradition and Colfre sneezes it
away in two years time.”

Leal
grinned. “Well, there, you see? That must be why the Meri assigns me to the
capitol. I’m to keep an eye upon the Cyne for Her. Yes, I can see clearly that
Creiddylad needs Osraed Lealbhallain-mac-Mercer desperately.”

Absurdly
pleased to see the impish glint in his son’s eye, Giolla Mercer laughed aloud
and tried not to think how much he would miss the boy when he was gone.

oOo

Taminy
saw the Osraed Bevol and his small would-be Prentice off to Halig-liath after
breakfast, then retired to the garden behind Gled Manor. The sun shone on the
heights above Nairne, warming the centuries-old stones of the Academy and
dusting the eons-old rock beneath it with a blush of rose. She could just make
it out through the garden’s clustered trees—the rounded walls of the central
rotunda, a bit of slate gray roof, a glisten of aged pines.

Memory.
Odd, how it could evade you when you reached for it and overtake you when you
glanced aside. She could hear Halig-liath in mind’s ear; the scuff and clatter
of dutiful feet—fewer now in the summer months when only the first year
students attended; the chatter and laughter of young voices; the atonal song of
the morning bells calling assembly. She could see, too, the upturned faces, a
myriad eyes raised to the Osraed Gallery, waiting to hear invocation from the
lips of the Apex of the Triumvirate, Convener of the Divine Council.

Osraed
Kinsel had been at Apex in her time at Halig-liath, a position Osraed Bevol now
held. She had never been able to please Osraed Kinsel—or so she’d thought. Yet,
when others had decried her as Wicke, he had been the only one to reserve judgment.
The only one to suggest that the Meri should condemn or absolve her of the
charge.

She
listened to the drowsing silence. Yes, she could hear them now, the bells; like
the shimmer of sun on water, translated to sound. In a moment, the small
aspirants to Prenticeship would gather for prayer and morning song.

Lift up, lift up heads, hands and hearts.

The Meri wills the day to start.

Raise up, raise up heads, hearts and hands.

The Meri wills us understand—

Toward the Light we ever turn.

Her Knowledge is the lamp we burn.

She
found herself humming the pretty little melody and broke off, smiling, but
rueful. Oh, the things one remembered ...and oh, the things one forgot.

She
rose and crossed to where a climbing white rose twist itself about a thick oak.
Dew sparkled in its petals—gems for the dawn, her mother had always called
them. A heart-thorn of pain pricked her. Mother and father were gone now—their
bodies returning to the earth, their spirits loosed in Realms she could no
longer reach. They had been so near not that long ago, but in shaking the Sea
from her flesh, it seemed she had shaken their souls from her embrace.

Blinking
back tears, she turned her eyes from the roses and sought the Sun in the green
of Bevol’s garden. It was there, lying amid a veritable platter of
jewels—emeralds most of them—scattered in the grass. The lawns blurred to
velvety splendor for a second, but a blink made it be grass again. No, self
pity was unforgivable in a place of such beauty and peace. Doubly or triply so
for one who knew what Taminy knew, had been where she had been.