Crystal Rose

The Crystal Rose

Book Three of the Mer Cycle

Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

www.bookviewcafe.com

Book View Café Edition
May 21, 2013
ISBN: 978-1-61138-261-7
Copyright © 2013 Maya Kaathryn Bohnhof

Detailed Map of Carald-land

Detailed Map of Gyldan-Baenn

To Jo Sherman for discovering me way back when and for teaching
me the virtues of weasels on a stick, to Jim Baen for being the best first book
editor a girl could have, to my absent soul sister, Cynthia McQuillan, and to
Ray Bradbury who taught me the love of words.

I miss you all.

To my families, as always. You know who you are.

To my cohorts at Book View Café for being an amazing and
supportive group of colleagues and friends.

And to Bahá’u’lláh, as always.

The mystic Beloved, before
concealed by the veil of words, is now revealed to the eyes of men. I bear
witness, my friends, that the benediction is complete, the testimony fulfilled,
the proof demonstrated, the sign given. Let all now see what your efforts in
the path of the Meri will unveil and accomplish. Divine grace has been bestowed
on you and on all that dwell in the Lands of Shadow and Light. Sing duans of
praise to the Spirit of All Worlds.

— from the Testament of Osraed Bevol

Blood thundered in his ears. Daimhin Feich listened,
heeding its siren call. He wondered at the strange visceral elation he felt
just strapping on this sword. He had never worn one, save for ceremonial
purposes, and this was no ordinary sword—it was a Malcuim sword, worn, so
legend said, by The Malcuim himself. It was a sword intended for fighting, and
Daimhin Feich had every intention of putting it to that use.

He strode the corridors of Mertuile with a new vigor this
morning. A vigor the black banners and bundles of dead flowers that festooned
the halls could not dampen. He was Regent to Airleas Malcuim, and Cyneric if Airleas
failed to take the Throne. Dark joy bubbled in his breast, threatening to make
him laugh. That would be inappropriate now, with Mertuile in mourning; he would
laugh when he stood before the Stone and felt the Circlet on his head.

A Feich on the Throne! He began to whistle a tune, but
Mertuile’s empty interior threw it back at him misshapen.

He stopped whistling.

In the lower hall, the Abbod Ladhar met him, along with his
own cousin, Ruadh, commander of his fighting force. One was dressed for travel,
the other for battle.

The Abbod’s face was screwed into a disapproving mask and he
glowered fiercely. “Why do you insist that I accompany you on this war crusade?
My place is here.”

“To comfort the mourners?” Daimhin asked. “To pray for the
soul of your poor dead Cyne? His soul is wherever it deserves to be, Abbod.
With the souls of other men who have taken their own lives. Your place is with
those living, those who will march to free the Cyne’s heir from the clutches of
the Taminist evil. Your place is beneath the banner of the Meri, facing that
evil. Or do you fear facing it?”

“I fear no man, nor woman, nor Wicke. But the period of
mourning is not passed. It has barely begun.”

“Mourn on the road, Abbod. Now, we ride to Halig-liath.”

He passed through the door his cousin held open for him, out
into the morning Sun that slanted over Mertuile’s landward wall. The gates to
the outer ward were open and, through them, he could see the ranks of horses
and men that were now at his command. He smiled, letting his earlier elation
rise to a boil within him.

Sensual, it was. He felt heat fan out from his groin and
listened, again, to the song of blood in his ears. A quest. A crusade. And it
would end at Halig-liath.

It was not Airleas Malcuim he thought of as he and his
hundreds rode east, but she who had taken him—Taminy-a-Cuinn, Wicke.

oOo

The Feich forces were arrayed before the gates of the Holy
Fortress. Daimhin Feich rode at their head with Ruadh Feich at his side. Behind
them, the Abbod Ladhar glowered from the back of a sturdy horse, the Malcuim
standard fluttering overhead.

Beside it, on a second staff, the Star Chalice was borne
aloft. It was a bit of grandstanding that did not sit well with the Abbod, but
to Daimhin Feich, it added a twist of historical irony to his crusade.
Centuries before, another army had rallied to face down another Malcuim heir,
using the same holy relic to confound his forces. And now, as then, hundreds
had rallied.

Not only Feich, but Feich allies—southern Eiric, for the
most part, to whom the Osraed were a nuisance and the idea of supernatural
intervention an anachronism. For the Feich it was a return to the glory days.
The days when the great House was a thorn in the side of whatever Malcuim
happened to sit upon the Throne.

Daimhin Feich, Regent and would-be Cyneric, turned to glance
up at the standards aloft behind him. He would tear down that Malcuim emblem
soon, replace it with his own. But for now, the Feich crest appeared only on
the arm bands of the troops massed behind him.

He moved his mount forward, all the way to the shadow of
Halig-liath’s gates. The heavy oaken doors were open, but the portcullis was
down. The Ren Catahn, leader of the Hillwild, stood behind it, the Chief of the
House Claeg at his side.

Feich spoke to the lowland Chief. “A twist in history, this,
old friend—that Feich and Claeg face each other across defenses.”

“Aye, well, it was inevitable. The Claeg do what they
believe is right. The Feich do what they think is profitable.”

Feich chuckled. “Barbed words, Claeg.”

“May they draw blood.”

“I must speak to the Cwen Toireasa and the Riagan Airleas.”

oOo

From behind the sill of the gate, Toireasa Malcuim heard
the words and shivered. Grasping her son’s hand, she willed her feet to move
her forward. They behaved as if rooted to the cobbles.

Someone took her other hand, flooding her with strength. She
smiled.

Oh, to feel this
strong and resilient, always.

With Airleas on her left and Taminy on her right, she went
out to face Daimhin Feich. His eyes gleamed when he saw them, and he
dismounted, coming to stand before the portcullis.

“This is absurd,” he said. “I merely wish to reason with
you, mistress. Can’t we do without further barriers between us?” He gestured at
the heavy wood and iron grille that separated them. “Your men have their bows
aimed and ready. What could we do against them?”

Taminy turned her head and glanced behind her. The
portcullis rose ponderously.

“Thank you.” Feich dropped his gaze to Airleas. “I bring you
sad news, Airleas. Your father, Cyne Colfre Malcuim, is dead. You are now
Cyneric of Caraid-land.”

The boy’s face paled, but he showed no other sign of
emotion. “We know,” he said. “We felt him die.”

Feich moved his narrowed eyes to Toireasa’s face. “I regret
to say that he died by his own hand. Your desertion destroyed him, madam.”

The Cwen shook her head, keeping her gaze on him, hard and
cold. “I destroyed nothing, Daimhin Feich. It was you who destroyed him. You
who deserted him. You who passed him the cup of betrayal.
This . . .” — she nodded toward the soldiers arrayed behind him
— “this is forever and always what you have wanted, is it not?”

oOo

Feich’s insides cooled at her words. What did she know of
a “cup of betrayal?” He only just kept his eyes from seeking Taminy’s reaction.
“You mistake me, mistress. I had nothing but the good of my Cyne at heart. And
the good of Caraid-land. That good can only be served by the return of the
Cyneric Airleas to Mertuile to be set before the Stone.”

“Under whose regency?”

“Under my own, by the Cyne’s decree. Ask Osraed Ladhar, if
you don’t trust me. He witnessed the act and counter-signed the document. For
the sake of this land, which we both love, I beg you, Cwen Toireasa—let Airleas
return to Creiddylad with me. Let him be set before the Stone as is his right.”

Toireasa smiled wryly. “Ah, Goscelin’s dilemma. To be parted
from her child, or to hold him fast to her side.”

“Goscelin had no choice, madam. You do. I offer it to you.”

“And the alternative?”

Feich gazed around him at the hills above, the town below,
the long slope, meadows and woods behind. “This land is divided, torn by
dissension and strife. Blood flows. Lives are lost. Madam, Airleas is a symbol
of Caraid-land’s unity. If he is not at Mertuile, Caraid-land is a headless
corpse, thrown to merciless eaters of carrion.”

“Then let him return to Mertuile with me. Let Taminy Weave
her will in Caraid-land and let its wounds be healed. Let Taminy complete her
purpose—to renew and unify Caraid-land as it has never been unified before.”

Feich did look at Taminy now and the hatred that had
collected in him over the weeks roared for release. Her face blanched as his
gaze touched it, and he knew without doubt that she could feel the black
emotion roiling within him. Something else sprang to join it, something that
burnt its way up from his groin, scorching him.

Self-disgust followed—disgust that his own body could betray
him so thoroughly. He knew what she was—anathema.

“She will Weave her will in chill hell and nowhere else.”

“Then you return to Mertuile empty-handed.”

“You deny your son—Colfre’s son—his birthright. He is a
Malcuim.”

“Yes, and so am I. And I shall behave like one. Cowardice
ill-befits a Malcuim Cwen. I will not give my son and Colfre’s into your hands,
Daimhin Feich. In your hands he would become a pawn . . . as Colfre was.”

Beside Toireasa, Taminy stirred, returning Feich’s gaze. His
innards squirmed.

“Then you shall be declared outlaw—all of you. Heretics like
her.” He pointed at Taminy, and sought the faces of those behind the trio in
the archway. “I’ll have you declared Wicke. You’ll be hunted down like vermin
wherever you go. Fed to the waves or the flames. You’ll watch your husbands and
wives and children die horribly before your eyes. Is that what you want?
Cyneric Airleas, is that what you want for your mother?”