Crystal Rose (13 page)

“Ah, yes. The rather large
mullih
with the prodigious scowl.”

“Pardon?”

Llywd smiled. “No, pardon me. Occasionally, my mind becomes
lazy and neglects to reach far enough for the Caraidin term. A ‘holy man,’ I
suspect you would call him.”

Daimhin Feich would not call Ladhar that, but there was no
reason Loc Llywd should know it. He merely nodded.

“He is your religious leader, then?”

“Yes, he is. And that is testimony to his spiritual strength,
I can tell you. The Wicke struck at the very heart of our religious order,
seducing even the most learned, the most devout, then casting them aside when
they no longer pleased her.”

“She sounds extraordinarily powerful, your Wicke. How do you
imagine you can defeat her and win back the Cyneric?”

“By making allies of those who can aid me in my cause. The
Abbod Ladhar, as I mention, is a man of great spiritual power. There are others
who were able to withstand the Wicke’s evil.” He paused and looked into his
half-empty cup. “Then too, we must field superior physical forces. I have among
my allies the Houses Dearg and Teallach. I expect that the Skarf and the
Madaidh will soon join us.”

“Where is the sorceress now?”

“Barricaded in a fortress in the foothills of the
Gyldan-baenn.”

“Halig-liath,” said Llywd and drew a tilt of surprise from
Daimhin’s brows.

“Yes. You’ve heard of it?”

“The Holy Fortress? Of course, I have heard of it. The place
is legendary even on the other side of the mountains. It is said to be
impregnable.”

Daimhin nodded, letting his mouth droop at the corners—but
only the tiniest bit. “Aye. It has proven to be so. And that, Mediator, is one
area where an agreement between our respective countries does seem relevant.”

Now it was Llywd’s turn to display surprise. “You seek a
military alliance?”

Feich raised his hands. “Please. I would not be so
precipitous or so bold. All I ask—all—is that you might lend us one of your
great cannon. I am told they fire exploding ordnance. Mediator, such a machine
is the only thing I can imagine to be capable of breaching the walls of
Halig-liath.”

Loc Llywd rose and began a slow circuit of their chairs.
“This is important to you, obviously, or you would not admit your own lack of
such a weapon.”

“We are a peaceful nation, Mediator.”

“Yes, well, I once had cause to doubt that. But . . .” He
waved the comment aside. “. . . that is neither up nor down. What is important to
us is commerce. Specifically, the opening of Caraidin markets to Deasach goods
and the permitting of our ships in your fishing waters. What is our cannon
worth in that regard, Regent Feich?”

What indeed? Now that he was faced with the decision,
Daimhin Feich was at a loss to know how to respond. It seemed so simple.
Yes,
he could say,
whatever you want, only let me have the cannon. I will blow away the
gates of Halig-liath, breach the walls, take the prize. The cannon must be had.

Yet, when he opened his mouth at last, a saner voice came
out of it. “We have nothing like this
karfa
of yours, nothing like that red fruit my Cyne was so fond of. I am willing to
agree that such foodstuffs as are not grown in Caraid-land may be imported from
El-Deasach.”

“And the fishing grounds?”

“I will agree that once my cause is complete, I and my . . . The government of Caraid-land will consider your proposals in all earnest. And
Mediator, to show that I have no ulterior motives, I also agree to return the
cannon to you upon the successful completion, or abject failure, of my mission
to return Airleas to the Throne.”

Llywd favored him once more with that dark, unreadable
stare. Daimhin Feich smiled within. The man was not nearly so opaque as he
studiously tried to be. That facade was only a detriment to those whose senses
ended with the physical.

“We are in agreement, Regent,” said Llywd at last. “I shall
make arrangement for the immediate importation of the foodstuffs . . . and the
weapon.”

“And I will make arrangements for a document to be drawn up
stating terms. It will be signed by all the appropriate parties, rest assured.
I trust that you can work out the details with our Minister of Commerce.”

Llywd inclined his dark head and Daimhin rose.

“I wish to send some gifts to Banarigh Lilias. Is there
anything in particular the lady favors?”

Loc smiled, for the first time revealing some real emotion.
“The Lady Lilias favors anything that displays the craftsman’s expertise; a
handsome adornment, a splendid piece of clothing, a fine sword. Oh, and horses.
The Banarigh is inordinately fond of riding and hunting.”

Feich returned the smile. “A woman after my own heart. It
sounds as if I can’t do wrong by sending her the very things I’d wish for
myself.”

“Well, Regent, doesn’t the Holy Book say that one is not
truly faithful to God unless he desires for his brother or sister what he desires
for himself?”

Daimhin Feich was once again genuinely surprised. “It does
indeed.”

Odd, too, considering that the Deasach did not even worship
the same God. He could only imagine the remark was part of Loc Llywd’s polite
diplomacy.

Once safely in his Mertuile-bound carriage, Daimhin could
not restrain a chuckle. Here was a man much like himself, then, willing to mock
his own faith by pretending to comprehend another’s. He began to like Loc
Llywd.

oOo

Of the three minds caught in the sudden web of Lealbhallain’s
Speakweave, he would be hard pressed to decide which was the most surprised by
the event. With a jolt like lightning Leal and Fhada made contact with Osraed
Eadmund and that poor soul, on his knees in prayer, fell over onto his nose.

It was difficult, but Leal and Fhada were able to create the
aislinn images and Eadmund was able to perceive them and comprehend.

A miracle
, Leal
thought.

The good Osraed’s amazement washed over them again and again
with his increased comprehension. He astonished them, as well, by conjuring the
image of the Abbod Ladhar at Cyne’s Cirke. After some trial and error, Eadmund,
by focusing on a simple calendar, was able to make known the critical
information: the Abbod Ladhar planned to be at Cyne’s Cirke that very day.

oOo

The sanctuary was silent as the sunlight that fell from
its high windows in almost solid beams; pigeons mimed shadow plays behind the
leaded panes, voiceless. No noise from the plaza penetrated this far. Even the
gears of the old water clock, hidden behind the wall of the nave, were
silenced.

It made Leal want to sneeze.

He did not sneeze, however, or cough or make any other
inappropriate noise. He could not chance being heard, not chance being seen
until he wanted to be. He had been waiting here for hours, easing his
impatience by pretending to be back in school taking a test, asking himself
questions for which he had to formulate complex answers.

It wasn’t unbearable, the waiting. He wasn’t completely
alone, after all; Fhada was at the back of the sanctuary somewhere, also hidden
from sight, Weaving his own means of combating boredom.

It was during his fiftieth drill on the course of the Battle
of the Crystal that Leal at last sensed movement in the outer corridor. A
tingle of anticipation and dread coursed up his spine. In a moment, he knew, he
would hear voices, for Abbod Ladhar was not alone.

Before he could question his own certainty of that fact, he
heard them, seemingly engaged in an argument; Ladhar and another man—a man
whose presence generated an odd, prickly heat like . . . like fear.

“He must be either a friend or an enemy, Abbod, he cannot
possibly be both.”

The stranger’s voice came from the doorway. Leal would see
them only if they progressed down the aisle to the Altar.

Ladhar spoke then—that voice he knew intimately. “Of that I
am aware, Caime. He simply will not allow me to divine which. He speaks to me
as if I were a partner, a friend, and yet . . . I feel him laughing, mocking. He
is the most confusing individual I have ever known.”

“He was intensely loyal to Cyne Colfre. I don’t doubt
returning his heir to the Throne is the most important thing in Feich’s life.
Men so driven can seem . . . confused in their other loyalties.”

There was a long, pregnant pause during which Leal could
hear only the sharp click of town shoes and the swishing of fabric. In a moment
he would see them.

“You set store by his loyalty to his Cyne, do you?” asked
Ladhar at last. “You might not if you saw how he manipulated the provision in
Colfre’s last writ that he be made Cyneric if Airleas should prove irrevocably
delinquent. I can’t help but wonder if the same wiles went into securing the
Regency.”

Just within Leal’s sight the two stepped up to the Altar and
stopped. Recognition of the spare man at the Abbod’s side nearly cost Leal his
concealment. It was the cleirach who had flown at Taminy in the Assembly Hall
with a spear in hand.

Leal found a name for him—Minister Cadder. A horrid black
heat arose in his breast and his face felt scorched. He would have to do a
year’s contrite praying to shed the guilt of the thoughts he was having. If
there was ever a person Lealbhallain-mac-Mercer wanted to do violence to, it
was Minister Caime Cadder.

Those poisonous lips were moving again and the young Osraed
in his quiet rage could barely force himself to listen.

“You say he manipulated the Cyne’s writ of Regency? Have you
proof of this?”

“Proof? Caime, I was there. Feich brought me over from
Ochanshrine himself, saying the Cyne was dying. When we arrived at Mertuile, he
told me I was needed to witness a writ of Regency. En route to the Cyne’s
salon, Daimhin Feich voiced his fear that Airleas was lost—that even if he
could be returned, he might still be under the sway of the Wicke, might never
be free of her.”

Cadder’s already gaunt face somehow managed to look even
more sunken. “I pray the child is not yet completely lost, Abbod. He’s only a
boy. Surely if we get to him in time—”

“Oh, yes—if.”

“Daimhin Feich was Cyne Colfre’s Durweard; more than that,
he was a lifetime companion. Given the power of the Wicke, his fears are surely
understandable. By God, I know I share them. How do you imagine you were
manipulated?”

Abbod Ladhar’s porcine face reddened. “I did not imagine,
Minister Cadder. I
was
manipulated.
Daimhin Feich planted in my mind the idea that another Cyneric should be
appointed in case of Airleas’s default. One moment I was discussing the Regency
with Feich and the next, I was pressing Colfre to make that godless wretch his
son’s surrogate.”

“Dear God! Do you—? You’re not suggesting he
Wove
?”

“Hell’s ice, Caime! Of all the appalling . . . I would never
suggest . . .”

Ladhar’s face quivered like jelly and fear stood out in his
pale eyes. He turned away from the cleirach and moved his bulk to the Altar.

“Absurd,” Leal thought he said, but knew beyond doubt that
his fear was real.

At the Altar, the Abbod turned back to his companion,
smiling. “Your imagination is amazing, Caime. How in the name of all holy can
you even think an unbeliever might possess the Gift?”

The cleirach admitted, blushing, that it was a ludicrous
thought and the two men set to discussing the Cirke-dag worship.

Leal found himself beyond belief as they calmly planned a
series of small counterfeit miracles to awe the worshippers: Smoke balls and
little Fireweaves to amaze; the chiming of the wind bells at an auspicious
moment; and, if those things were not bad enough, an Osraed would fall to his
knees and fabricate an aislinn vision which, Ladhar implied, would be no more
than some whirling lights appearing around the Crystal.

When Leal was woozy from what he’d overheard and despairing
that he would ever have a chance at Ladhar, the cleirach left to fulfill some
errand, leaving the old Abbod on his own. Leal didn’t wait, but came to his
feet, stepped from behind the rows of benches and approached the other,
shedding his timidity as one sloughs sleep.

“Abbod.”

The Osraed Ladhar turned, his expression going from blandly
benign to utter disbelief. “You! How do you dare speak to me? How do you dare
show yourself—here, of all places!”

He glanced up the broad aisle, made an indecisive move in
that direction and halted as Osraed Fhada appeared, wraith-like, from of a row
of benches between Ladhar and the open doorway. Face purpling horribly in the
ruddy-gold glow from the stained windows, the Abbod wavered.

“What is it you want? Have you come to kill me? Be quick
about it then, but know that you will not go unpunished. The Meri will scourge
you through all eternity for such an act.”

Fhada, advancing slowly down the aisle, shook his head.
“We’ve neither the desire nor the means to harm you, Abbod. We came only to
talk. To speak to you about the things that have befallen Caraid-land and to
express our concern about what is yet to come.”

“I’ll tell you what is to come,” barked the old Osraed, and
his jowls shook like the wattles of a hen. “Airleas Malcuim shall be liberated
from your Taminist comrades and placed upon the Throne. Then, I swear, you will
all be hunted down and destroyed like the disease-carrying vermin you are.”

“At whose command shall this be done?” asked Fhada. “Surely
you don’t expect young Airleas to order it.”

“His Regent will order it.”

“Ah, yes. Daimhin Feich, the man you just accused of
manipulating you into voting him surrogate Cyneric.”

The Abbod’s face paled. “You heard—?”

“Everything,” said Lealbhallain.

Ladhar’s head swiveled, tracking him. “I don’t know what you
imagine you overheard—”

“That you suspected yourself to have been the victim of
Feich’s manipulations, just as Cyne Colfre was. Abbod, if you believe that,
surely you must see that Feich didn’t perform those manipulations without
reason. He seeks to take the Throne.”