Crystal Rose (12 page)

Ruadh snorted. “Tell me, when we were at Halig-liath last,
did you notice the blackened areas on either side of the main gates?”

“Aye, I did that.”

“Do you know how they came to be there?”

Daimhin was wary of his young cousin when he was in one of
his professorial moods. Ruadh often forced him to reveal that his own knowledge
of military history was lacking.

“Not precisely. But I suppose you’re going to tell me
somebody tried to take them out with explosives or some such.”

“Diomasach Claeg, to be precise. He trailed Cwen Goscelyn
there after she absconded with little Thearl, and attempted, vainly, to blow up
the front gates of Halig-liath . . .” He glanced at Daimhin significantly. “. . . after the dear Cwen dropped the portcullis on ’im. The wood is oak, reinforced
with straps and rods of steel. Impenetrable.”

Daimhin sucked the inside of his cheek. Damn the brat for
reminding him how cleanly and unintentionally he’d repeated history with his
own unsuccessful doings at Halig-liath.

“That was nearly two hundred years ago, cousin. Weapons
technology has improved a great deal since then. Even I know that.” He leaned
across table and map, pale eyes glinting with zeal. “I propose to use a new
type of cannon with exploding ordnance.”

Again Ruadh snorted derisively. “And where do you propose to
come by such a weapon?”

“The Deasach.”

“The Deasach?” Ruadh repeated. “You’ve continued Colfre’s
negotiations with them?”

“I have.”

“Trusting of you to tell me.”

“Trust had nothing to do with it. Expediency was all. You
have your work; I have mine. No reason for you to become distracted from yours.
Anyway, I’m telling you now. There has been a Deasach commission in Creiddylad
since spring. You may have noticed them at Colfre’s funeral.” Ruadh nodded and
his cousin continued. “My intentions toward them are somewhat different than
our dear departed Cyne, however. He was looking for weaknesses in them,
something he could exploit with an eye to conquest.”

Ruadh’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Colfre? Colfre
Malcuim, Peacemaker? The Dove of Mertuile? You scandalize me. I’d suspect you
of such manipulations, but not Colfre.”

Daimhin inclined his head. “Thank you, so much, for your
vote of confidence. As it happens, I disagreed violently with Colfre’s
intentions toward the Deasach. I find their strengths much more interesting
than their weaknesses. They have, as I mentioned, some very progressive
military resources. They also have mineral resources and agricultural products
we don’t. On the other side of the coin, they would like expanded access to our
fishing waters and our markets.”

“Ah, a bargaining chip.”

Daimhin smiled and let himself be distracted by a luxurious
heat that tickled his bowels. “Oh, there’s more. The Deasach are a perverse
lot. They have no Cyne. All my meetings, indeed, all of Colfre’s meetings were
with a gentleman known as a Mediator. He is the representative of a sovereign
female ruler.”

Ruadh gaped. “A sovereign Cwen?”

“They call her a Banarigh—literally, ‘a woman ruler.’”

Ruadh’s brows drew together. “‘Bana,’ that’s a Hillwild
word, isn’t it?”

“Indeed. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? At any rate. I’m of
the thought that my face-to-face meeting with this important lady must be
accomplished in the near future.”

“You’d go there? To the Suderlands? Cousin, that’s taking an
awful chance.”

“Of what? Do you imagine that there are monsters behind
their rocks and bushes that are not also behind ours?”

Ruadh flushed as if that was exactly what he imagined. “Of
course not. It’s just that, well, we know so little about them.”

“I know that the Banarigh is a woman. Her Mediator describes
her as a ‘mature’ woman. I reckon that puts her between the ages of thirty and
sixty. He says she’s a beauty, although what that means to a Deasach may be
something incomprehensible to us. Frankly, I don’t care whether she’s a beauty
or as ugly as the backside of a pig. She’s female, and that means she will
ultimately succumb to flattery and charm.”

Ruadh puckered his lips. “Oh. The way the Wicke Cwen
succumbed?”

Anger, swift and black, rose from Daimhin Feich’s belly and
threatened to overwhelm him. He forced his hands around the arms of his chair
so they would not fasten upon Ruadh’s young neck or shake as they so
desperately wanted to do.

“Taminy-a-Cuinn is not a natural woman,” he murmured. “She
is a demon, spawned in chill hell. She has a stone for a heart and ice in her
belly.”

Ruadh whistled. “Dear cousin, such passion! Was it her you
dreamed of the night you nearly set your rooms on fire?”

Daimhin twitched. He’d nearly forgotten. Oh, not the
dream—he’d never forget that, for he’d written it down on waking—but the
overturned lamp . . .

“What do you know about it?”

“I’m the one who heard you screaming your lungs out,
remember? What were you dreaming about? Or won’t you tell?”

“It was a simple nightmare. I . . . I dreamed I fell from my
horse during a hunt.”

Ruadh shrugged. “Yes, well, if I were you, cousin, I’d
remove anything breakable, flammable or sharp from the vicinity of my bed.”

“I’ll do that. Now, are we agreed on a course of action?”

Ruadh eyed him. “You want me to gather our forces for the
march?”

“Aye. And I want the Teallach summoned. I’ll let you draft
the message to them. Please be diplomatic. Have their liaison send it out
immediately. And tell him to use his fleetest pigeon.”

“What about your Deasach cannon?”

“I’ll speak to the Mediator about it today. If it must come
to us later, that’s fine. Halig-liath will fall. One way or another.”

He meant to go to the Deasach Mediator straight away, but
with Ruadh gone, Daimhin Feich found himself lethargic. The nightmare still
haunted him with its fire and fury. The face in the crystal mocked him. He
found himself recalling his visit to the Shrine of Ochan, recalling the way the
Crystal’s heart had leapt with flame when he drew near.

He suspected it was his presence the Stone reacted to for
the old Abbod had clearly been astonished and dismayed at the display. The
implications were startling. It suggested his gift for reading people, for
moving them, directing their actions, was more than the intuition of a bright
mind, more than the homely, utilitarian thing he’d once believed it to be.
Though he’d never even held a Weaving crystal in his hands, he now felt the
flicker of power within him. The Crystal felt it too.

Did the Wicke?

He rose from the long polished table and wandered the edge
of the carpet it sat upon, tracing the pattern of braided gold at the
perimeter.

Was the Osmaer woman connected to the Osmaer Crystal? Did
the little flame he’d called from the Stone of Ochan, locked within its holy of
holies, find an echo in the heart of the woman barricaded behind the walls of
Halig-liath?

The thought amused him. The two connected. If he’d summoned
that much fire from the Osmaer without conscious effort, what could he do if he
half-tried? A curious thought, and one worth pursuing. His siege of the sacred
might then take place on two fronts at once.

oOo

Daimhin Feich met the Deasach Mediator in an elegant
private parlor in Creiddylad’s finest Inn. He had invited the man to Mertuile
several times, but had never been able to get him to do more than pay a brief
visit. He supposed it was the constant threat of mischief at the hands of a
displeased citizenry that kept Loc Llywd from accepting his hospitality. That
or the fear that to appear cozy with a Feich might prove injurious to a
relationship with any future Malcuim Cynes.

Those were valid concerns and Daimhin no longer pressed the
issue. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic within Mertuile’s confines,
anyway; any excuse to leave them was to be anticipated.

Loc Llywd welcomed him cordially, but with a diplomatic
reserve that Daimhin found vaguely irritating. He hated formality; it precluded
satisfactory knowledge of the opposing individual, allowed them to hide behind
protocol. Only when someone ceased to be that which they represented and became
an individual could he really get his hands on them. Llywd the Taciturn was not
likely to allow that.

They sat at opposite sides of a table made of glowing
cherrywood and laden with little cakes on fine porcelain and an urn of some hot
aromatic beverage Daimhin Feich had never before tasted.

“We call it
karfa
,”
Llywd told him in lightly accented Caraidin. “We find it . . . braces the body
and sharpens the mind.”

Daimhin smiled, lifting his cup. “Always a good idea before
negotiations.”

“There are really no negotiations to undertake,” said Llywd.
“I am ready to sign a preliminary trade agreement. I was ready before your Cyne
met his unfortunate end. All that stands between El-Deasach and Caraid-land
enjoying commerce is the agreement of our respective rulers.” He paused and
laid upon Daimhin the full weight of his dark gaze. “The rumors about the state
of Caraid-land’s leadership are disconcerting, to say little. One tale has it
that The Malcuim’s young heir is dead, another that he turned heretic to your
religion and ran to the hills, yet another that he is hiding from someone at
court who means to do him the same violence that took his father’s life. There
are any number of people who believe Caraid-land is now leaderless.”

Feich relaxed back into his chair with an effort. “Nothing
could be further from the truth.”

“What is the truth, Durweard Feich? Who leads this country?”

“Presently, sir, I do.”

“And indefinitely?”

“That is something I am working on. Even as we speak, steps
are being undertaken to return a Malcuim Cyne to the Throne of Caraid-land.”

“Then—”

“Then the first of the tales is a vicious lie. Airleas Malcuim
is not dead. He lives. The second is also untrue. He did not turn heretic. But
unfortunately . . .” Daimhin sighed deeply and rose, cup in hand. He moved to the
hearth, feeling the heat of flame on his face, the eyes of the Deasach on his
back. “Unfortunately, his mother did.” He turned back to face the Mediator,
wearing an expression of great concern. “Cwen Toireasa was seduced from the
path of true faith by a dazzling Wicke who convinced her to kidnap her own son
and place him in the hands of his enemies.”

“A Wicke? A magical being, this is?”

Daimhin nodded. “Magical, yes. A woman. A young woman,
beautiful of face and form, hideous in spirit. A woman who Weaves potent magic,
confounding even our most learned Osraed. She mesmerized our Cwen. And, Mediator
Llywd, I must be honest with you—this creature even laid her infernal hands
upon the spirit of the Cyne. He was a broken man when he died—by his own hand,
more’s the shame. And I, dear God—!” He broke off to draw a tremulous breath
and blink suddenly teary eyes at the ceiling where firelight danced with shadow
and muted sun-dapples. “I nearly followed him, so great was my own
entanglement.”

Llywd watched his performance silently, eyes cryptic, sheeny
as jets. Only a tightening around the corners of his mouth betrayed any
emotion—but there was no such thing as a trivial betrayal.

“You say you were embroiled with this sorceress?”

Yes, this had been the right gambit, after all. This talk of
sorcery and Wicke, this baring of the presumably embarrassing secrets of a
younger man’s soul—this might drag Loc Llywd from his diplomatic distance.

Daimhin raised his head, straightened his back. “I was. I
fancied myself in love with her. Mediator, you can have no idea—!” He put the
keen of frustrated passion into his voice. “She was so young, so-so fragile and
innocent-seeming. I had no idea until it was too late that beneath that facade
was an ancient monster. I, who had set out to seduce her—yes, I admit that:
believing her to be an innocent seventeen year old girl, I tried to beguile
her. But in the end, the seducer was himself seduced. I chose not to follow my
Cyne into oblivion, Mediator Llywd, but I understand all too well what drove
him there.”

Llywd’s dark face was unreadable. “You admit much to a
stranger, Durweard Feich.”

Daimhin returned to his chair and leaned forward in it,
every line in his body speaking of urgency. “I admit it in the hope that the
stranger will become an ally. Understand me, Loc Llywd. I am a man with a
cause. This talk of trade agreements and commerce is—pardon me—but it is
irrelevant. Before he died, Colfre Malcuim made me Regent to his absent son.”
He uttered a bark of mirthless laughter. “He so believed I would bring the
child back to him while he lived. I failed him. I didn’t bring Airleas back.
The Wicke had so torn the fabric of loyalty in Caraid-land that I was unable to
raise more than a token force. And at that, I didn’t raise it in time. Colfre
died bereft. I am sworn to keep my promise to him, Mediator. I have but one
duty at this moment: To bring Airleas Malcuim back to Creiddylad and set him
before the Stone of Ochan. To place the Circlet upon his head. If I can avenge
the death of his father, so much the better, but even that is of less
importance than tearing Caraid-land’s rightful Cyne out of the grasp of this
insidious monster.”

“What you are telling me, if I understand you, is that any
treaties between our two lands must await the successful return of your . . .
Cyneric—that is the correct term?”

Daimhin nodded. “What I am telling you is that any treaties
between our two lands is dependent upon his return.”

Llywd scratched his clean-shaven jaw. “There was a rumor
about that you had declared yourself to be Cyneric of Caraid-land.”

Daimhin made certain his expression suffered not so much as
a facial tic. “There is a provision in the testament of Cyne Colfre to the
effect that if, for some compelling reason, Airleas is unable to take up his
place on the Throne, I will be next in succession. I did not suggest this
provision to the Cyne. It was the recommendation of the Osraed Ladhar, Abbod of
Ochanshrine.”