Crystal Rose (16 page)

He was about to ask her what he should do about the weaving
of his own thread when the Ren Catahn came and sat next to her and speared
Airleas with his strange amber eyes.

“Boy, you’ve some desire to learn swordsmanship?”

“I . . . I did, sir. I’m not so sure now.”

“Aren’t you?” Catahn glanced aside at Taminy.

“No, sir, at least . . . I’m of the mind that there are more
important things. Like learning the Art and—and statesmanship.”

“Oh, aye, that.” Beneath the Hillwild’s thick beard, the
corner of his mouth curled upward. “I’d likely not know anything about that.”

Airleas’s face flamed and he tried to remember if he’d ever
said aloud the thoughts he’d had about Catahn’s ability to lead civilized men.
He decided he hadn’t, which gave him a new appreciation of the Ren’s aidan.

“I imagine, sir,” he said carefully, “that you do. I believe
I could learn volumes from you.”

Catahn grinned at him. “Aye, well. I’ve things I can teach
you, I reckon, when you’re sincere in that belief. For now, I’m asking about
the sword, not the Throne. Have you any interest in learning that?”

Airleas looked to Taminy, trying to read her, to gauge her
reaction to this. Was this a test of some sort? If he admitted he still
harbored a yen to learn swordplay, would he fail the test?

“What do you think, Mistress?” he asked her.

“I think Catahn is asking you, not me. I’ve no interest in
learning the sword. I doubt I’ll ever have need of one.”

“Will I?”

“You may.”

“Then, I suppose the answer is: It might be a handy skill
for a Cyne to have. After all, I may have to lead men into battle someday.”

Taminy lowered her eyes and Airleas felt his heart take a
long sickening slide toward his stomach. Had that been the wrong answer? “I-I-I
mean . . .” Flustered he stopped the garbled flow of words. “Is it wrong to
fight, Taminy? The Ren Catahn is a fine swordsman; so is The Claeg.”

The Ren made a humming noise in the back of this throat.
“So, I imagine, is Daimhin Feich. Every man in every Noble House is trained to
the sword. Every man, woman and child in the Gyldans learns to handle one—the
bow and the dagger as well.”

Daimhin Feich. Airleas’s hackles rose. “Well, if Feich is
learned at swordplay, shouldn’t I be? Won’t I someday have to face him? Fight
him?”

“Do you imagine this will take place in the Great Hall with
lights blazing and citizens watching and the rules of proper swordplay being
observed by all?” There was a tang of irony to Taminy’s words and Airleas
blinked at her in surprise.

That was exactly the way the scene always played out in his
mind. His ears burned and the sounds in the large stone hall seemed suddenly
amplified out of all proportion to the number of people dining there. It
wouldn’t be that way, he realized. Daimhin Feich would play by no one’s rules
but his own, and the chances of his attack being open . . .

Taminy sighed. “Airleas, there is nothing wrong with you
knowing how to defend yourself against attack . . . both physically and through
the use of your aidan. This is not a perfect world. This is not a sane or safe
time. Catahn has brought to my attention that your use of the sword has been
just what you called it—swordplay. That, I think, will do you more harm than
good. Your aidan is strong, but it is yet undisciplined. I think Catahn can
teach you something about discipline. I think you should learn from him.”

Airleas lowered his eyes, trying not to show how much the
thought excited him. He would learn to be a warrior after all. Maybe he would
even mark the Crask-an-duine before he left Hrofceaster. He stabbed a chunk of
stew meat and stuffed it into his mouth, barely aware of the flavor.

Catahn nodded. “In the morning then—fourteenth hour. Meet me
and Broran in that little courtyard beyond the kitchen.”

Airleas nearly choked on the plug of meat. Gasping, he
grabbed for his mug of water and gulped down a mouthful. While he was
indisposed, the Ren gave him a stone-faced stare, got up and headed for the
kitchen.

Taminy, meanwhile, watched him painfully regain his
composure.

“What’s wrong, Airleas?” she asked quietly, when he’d
stopped coughing.

“Broran?” He hated that he sounded whiny, but there didn’t
seem to be anything he could do about it.

“Why not Broran? Catahn says he’s an excellent swordsman.
Probably the best to teach you the basics and serve as a sparring partner.”

“But he’s . . .”

“He’s what?”

“He’s just a-a boy.”

“He’s about a year older than you are. He’s marked his
Crask-an-duine. By Hillwild reckoning that makes him a man.”

“But he’s not. I mean, at home my weapons tutor was a man of
the House Madaidh—one of the young Elders.”

“Yes—so?”

“Well, Broran isn’t.”

Taminy looked at her half-empty plate. “Broran isn’t a
nobleman, you mean.”

“I . . . yes. That’s what I mean. I’ve always been taught by
nobles, cleirachs . . .”

“I see. Never a commoner.”

He shook his head.

“Then what am I?”

Airleas’s eyes fairly bugged out of his head. “You’re
Osmaer!”

“I’m also a commoner.”

“Your father was an Osraed.”

“I see. What about Catahn? You’d learn from him.”

“He’s the Ren of all this holt. He’s The Hageswode.”

“And that’s why you’d learn from him, Airleas? Or from me?
Because we have titles: Osmaer, Ren?”

Airleas sincerely wished he had never opened his mouth. He
was wrong. He knew that intellectually, but it didn’t alter the fact that he
was a Malcuim at heart. By God, he was
The
Malcuim. And a Malcuim never took lessons from commoners.

Her eyes were all over him; he was surrounded, out-flanked.

“Tell me about Ochan-a-Coille,” she said.

He opened his mouth on the legend, ready to parrot it; it
was ingrained in every Caraidin mind. “In his fifteenth year, Ochan, son of—”
His voice died in his throat.

Son of the Cyne’s Woodweard—the man who tended his forest
lands.

He stared at the fork in his hand, another piece of meat
already impaled there. He said, “Ochan, a commoner, went to The Malcuim, who
was Cyne by might. Ochan-a-Coille, a commoner, was chosen by the Meri to be Her
first Osraed. Osraed Ochan, taught The Malcuim how to be Cyne by
right
.”

Airleas raised his eyes to Taminy’s face again, praying to see
the light of approval there.

“You have been taught,” she told him, as the Hillwild Ren
reseated himself at her side with a plate overladen with food, “that there are
classes of men and women. That how you are born or how you marry determines
your worth or worthiness. Unlearn this, Airleas. It is a lie. Broran is a
Hageswode and your kinsman, but even that is irrelevant. Whether he be a
Hageswode or a Madaidh or a Mercer or a Smythe, Broran has something he can
teach you. That is what matters.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he murmured and comforted himself that at
least she was not angry with him. He’d never seen her angry and didn’t think he
wanted to.

oOo

“So what is she like, this Wicke of Catahn’s?”

Eyslk, laying out the lovely, thick violet cloth that would
make the dress for her Crask-an-bana, glanced up in confusion. “Wicke? Whoever
can you mean?”

“Don’t be dense, girl. I mean your mistress. The woman he
has you serving day and night.”

Flustered by her mother’s apparent hostility, Eyslk wallowed
among possible replies.
She’s not Wicke,
mama
or
I serve her because I want to
or . . . “She’s lovely.”

Deardru-an-Caerluel rolled dark eyes and chuckled. “I can
see that, child. I meant what sort of woman is she—or should I say ‘girl’—I
hear she’s no older than Desary.”

“I meant she’s lovely,” said Eyslk. “She’s . . . brave and
full of compassion and love. And she’s . . . sad.”

“Sad? Why ever sad? She’s got Catahn and you all wrapped
about her. Not to mention having a handful of lowland Chieftains and the Cwen
and Cyneric of Caraid-land among her baggage.”

“You’ve heard the tell, Mama. How can you ask?”

“Oh, aye—the poor little orphan girl, everyone she knows
dead an age, whole world on her shoulders, and all the Cyne’s men against her.
Sort of a fish out of water, isn’t she?”

Deardru smiled at her own play on words and Eyslk cringed,
finding the close kitchen suddenly over-warm.

“Please, Mama, don’t say such things.”

Deardru tipped her head back, smile twisting wryly. “Why,
because your magical Mistress might hear me? Strike at me?” She leaned forward
then, her hand stopping Eyslk’s anxious tugs on the unresisting material.
“Remember, daughter, before you pity the woman too much, that she can Weave her
every want. More than you or I can do.”

Eyslk lowered her eyes to the fabric she’d been stroking and
smoothing for the last several minutes.

Her mother chuckled. “Ah, but she’s teaching you, isn’t she,
the beautiful Wicke? Someday you, too, will reek of magic.”

“She’s not a Wicke, Mama. She’s Osmaer.”

“But she is beautiful, isn’t she?”

“You’ve seen her.”

“Only from a distance. I suppose our mighty Ren is smitten
with her.”

Eyslk caught the venom in her mother’s voice and was
repulsed by it. “You’d have to ask Uncle his opinion of her, Mama. I only know
what
I
think.”

She gathered up her fabric then, folding it hastily against
her chest. “I’ll take this to Gram Long for sewing. There’s cakes for Da’s
supper in the pantry.” She bolted from the kitchen, ignoring her mother’s
amused glance.

“Eyslk.”

Halfway into their small parlor, she paused, clutching her
fabric.

“Don’t forget your jacket. It’s chill out.”

“No, Mama,” she said and made good her escape.

oOo

Airleas lunged, arm thrusting upward, swinging inward. He
grunted, throwing himself into the thrust, allowing himself an instant of satisfaction
that he had performed the move exactly as Broran had shown him.

Satisfaction was short-lived. The blade caught Broran’s
parry and spun out of his hand—for the fifth time that morning. He scrambled
after it, pride and face in flames, eyes averted from Broran’s smug grin and
Gwynet’s ever-watchful eyes.

“Not bad, Cyneric. The move looks good enough, but you’ve
got to keep a better grip on the hilt.”

“Before, you told me I was holding it too tightly,” Airleas
complained.

“You were. And I didn’t say you should hold it tighter. I
said ‘get a better grip.’ Don’t try to block my blade, try to gate it. Grip
tight; wrist flexible.”

Trying not to look at Gwynet, who watched from the bottom of
the kitchen steps, Airleas retrieved his sword and held it out, wrist wobbling.
“Flexible? How’s that supposed to work?”

Broran scowled. “I said
flexible
not
limp
. Hell’s wind, but you’re
stubborn, midge. If you’d rather not learn what I have to teach you—”

Smoke curled in Airleas’s heart. “Don’t call me that. I’m
not a midge.”

“No, you’re the Cyneric Malcuim. And I’m just a lowly
mountain boy. I know what you think of me, Cyneric Airleas. And you’d best
believe I’m no happier teaching than you are learning. But Catahn’s lady wants
me to tutor Your Loftiness, and that means Catahn wants me to. I obey my Ren,
but I can always tell him you just aren’t learning.”

The embers in Airleas’s heart burst into flame. “You
wouldn’t!”

Broran’s wide mouth pulled into a tight smile. “I surely
would. You’ve a head as hard as iron, Your Worthiness. You know the difference
between a limp wrist and a flexible one, you’re just pretending to mistake me.
I don’t want to teach you anymore than you want to learn.”

He turned and started to walk away, moving past the gawping
Gwynet as if she weren’t there.

“I
can
learn, damn
you! I’m
not
pretending!”

Knowledge of his own lie added more heat to Airleas’s fire.
Damn Broran for seeing through him!
Damn
him! He spat the thought in full fury, feeling it as a rush of physical heat
that flowed from the crown of his head and radiated from his eyes.

Broran stopped and snapped around to face him as if jerked
on the end of a chain. His face, drained of its normal ruddy color, was cloud
pale below his tawny hair.

Beside him, Gwynet gasped in open-mouthed amazement.
“Airleas! Don’t!”

Airleas, face flaming, dashed his hot gaze to the ground.

Broran shook himself and took a backward step away. “You’re
an evil boy, Airleas Malcuim,” he said, and fled to the kitchen.

Airleas might have sneered and called the older boy a
coward, but he was caught in the talons of a cold so complete he thought his
soul had frozen. Gwynet came to him, bombarding him with concern and distress.

He could only blink at her and whisper, “What did I do?”

She stopped toe to toe with him, looking into him through
his eyes.

“What did I do?” he asked again.

“You
Wove
,
Airleas. But . . . it wasn’t a good thing.”

“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t. Don’t tell Taminy,” he pleaded.

“Oh, Airleas, she already knows.”

oOo

Eyslk-an-Caerluel rose from sleep in a bubble of
happiness. Yesterday she had seen Gram Long’s pattern for her Crask-an-bana
dress, had seen the wonderful material cut and pinned. Today she knew the
sewing would begin. She was glad to contemplate a day of service up at the
fortress, for otherwise she would surely be in Gram’s hair all day, watching
every stitch.

Now she kept her mind on the trivial—heating water for her
ablutions, picking out warm clothing, braiding up her hair. She was in the
kitchen putting on water for tea when her step-father came in, broad, handsome
face worried and tense.

“Eyslk, it’s your mama. She’s taken ill.”