Crystal Rose (19 page)

Aine glared at him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she
retorted, then grasped tight hold of her temper and shook it. “I’m sorry, but
you’ll just have to suffer my bad company all the way to Creiddylad.”

“It’s been months since you’ve seen your family, girl. Don’t
you want to stay?”

“Taminy wants me to go to Creiddylad—with you. Now.”

“So you’ll obey. Without question or thought. Have you no
sense of family, Aine-mac-Lorimer?”

Fire blazed in her head, making her face hot and prickly. “I
have every sense of family, Saefren Claeg. Only my family’s gotten much bigger
suddenly. My family in Nairne is safe and happy. My family in Creiddylad needs
me more.”

Saefren shook his head. “You lot boggle me.”

“Us lot?”

“Taminists. Do you know, my uncle firmly expects to find The
Gilleas awaiting us in Nairne with his chief Elders?”

“I know. Taminy said he’d be here.” She glanced back up
through the trees at Halig-liath, framed now by the golds and reds of autumn.
“He’s up there.”

She was both surprised and pleased by that freshly caught
knowledge, annoyed when Saefren’s chuckle of derision snuffed her pleasure.

“Like I said, you lot boggle me. Pretend all you like, Lady
Firepot. But you’ll soon find that all the make-believe in the world won’t make
it so. Your Lady’s talismans are empty and so’s Halig-liath, I’ll wager.”

Aine looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

He leaned toward her, making her wish she dared reach out
and yank him out of his saddle. “I’ve glimpsed the ‘messages’ Taminy-Osmaer’s
dispatched for the noble Houses. There’s nothing in them.”

Face flushing hot and cold, Aine faced front. What could he
mean—nothing in them? In a moment, indignity had settled on her and she prayed
time would speed so Saefren-the-Smug could sooner learn how wrong he was.

oOo

They entered Nairne along the up-river road from Lin-liath,
banners snapping. It seemed the whole town had come out to meet them. The
redhead’s parents appeared and literally dragged her from her mount in their
exuberance. Wasted on her, Saefren thought, though she returned tear for tear
and smile for smile.

The dark-haired beauty, Iseabal, was already shedding tears
of her own and begging to know if her own parents were at home. Finally, she
got word from some scrub-faced boy that her da was up at Halig-liath and turned
her horse cross-river. Iobert bid his men accompany her, and so they left the
Lorimer tribe by the wayside, still making much over their big, fire-breathing
daughter.

Once across the river, they caught a cross-road that ran
east up the flank of the holy hill and west past the village Cirke. Above the
autumnal glory of its surrounding grove of trees, the Cirke spire showed its
stellate crown. The Cirkemaster’s girl laid her pretty eyes longingly on the
place, on the woman who had appeared behind a gate in the low wall.

The girl raised her hand and waved, reining her horse toward
the Cirke grove. The woman turned away and disappeared beneath the trees.

His eyes on Iseabal’s pale, tragic face, Iobert Claeg turned
the column eastward and led up the long ridge to Halig-liath.

The gates were wide open—a thing Saefren thought peculiar
and fool-hardy under the circumstances. In the huge central courtyard, a bevy
of Osraed and Prentices met them. Foremost among these was the Cirkemaster,
Saxan, and the rotund, bird-eyed Tynedale.

Iobert Claeg had no sooner delivered the Cirkemaster’s
tearful daughter into his arms than he asked the man where he might find The
Gilleas.

Saefren felt his face burn warm with embarrassment. He
glanced away, making a point of ordering the horses fed and watered. When he
looked after his uncle again, the Claeg Chieftain was already halfway to the
main rotunda of the Osraed academy in the company of Tynedale, Saxan and
Iseabal. He trailed them to the Academy’s small sanctuary where they were met
by a handful of men in the purple and white of the House Gilleas.

Saefren didn’t know The Gilleas on sight, but his uncle
obviously did. He greeted the white-hair in the group and fell to conversing
with him in quiet tones.

Bemused, Saefren approached. The damn Wicke had been right.
Well, of course, she’d gotten The Gilleas here, but that didn’t mean the
summons had come by supernatural means. There were always pigeons.

Uncle had the satchel out now, and withdrew the Gilleas
scroll, placing it in the House Chieftain’s hands. “From Taminy-Osmaer,” he
said, and stood back to watch The Gilleas open the scroll.

Saefren folded his arms across his chest, eyes on the old
man’s face. The twine loosened and fell away, the scroll opened and the shard
of crystal rolled out into The Gilleas’s palm. The white brows furrowed as he
scanned the scroll. Saefren was vaguely aware of hurried footsteps behind him
in the aisle, but did not pull his eyes from the Gilleas Chieftain’s face.

Dark eyes glittered in the light of scattered globes as the
old man raised them to Iobert Claeg. “What is this?” he asked, holding the
talisman in outstretched hands. The surface of the scroll was as blank as it
had been when Saefren had seen it last.

There was a soft intake of breath at his shoulder and a
moment later, someone slid past him. It was flame-haired Aine. In a twinkling,
she stood face to face with the Gilleas Chieftain and lifted the little shard
of stone from his hand. The moment she touched it, the shard’s entire nature
changed. Before it had been stone, now it was fire. Before it had been
lifeless, now it blazed with kinetic light.

The village cailin held the living flame in her hand and
passed it back and forth over the empty scroll—and the scroll was no longer
empty. Words appeared there in characters of light. Saefren Claeg could not see
what they said, for they seemed to say nothing, but he knew his eyes were as
wide as everyone else’s.

Now, Morcar Gilleas’s face bore an expression of complete
amazement. His eyes scanned the scroll again, this time filling themselves with
the bright words. And when they had read, those eyes glittered with dew.
Clutching the scroll to his breast, the old man fell to one knee and kissed
Aine-mac-Lorimer’s hand.

The girl withdrew it immediately, the little crystal she
held leaking glory through her fingers. “Oh, no sir!” she cried. “You mustn’t
bow to me. I’m only Taminy’s student.”

Morcar remained on his knee. “If you are but a student, then
your Mistress must be great, indeed. These are her words? This is her fire?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Chieftain rose, his gaze going to the faces of his
Elders. The fire of the little shard had leapt to his eyes, and his teeth shown
in a fierce grin. “It is just as I remember—just as I told you. She is
Osmaer—living link to the Meri. Her voice, Her face. We, the Gilleas—Disciples
of the Meri—are now
her
disciples.”

oOo

Caime Cadder did not tremble as he made his way to
Mertuile the next morning. He did not quake as he followed his Dearg escort to
the throne room. Only there, in the presence of Daimhin Feich and his smirking,
irreligious minions, did he realize the import of what he intended to do. At
the point of quailing, he reminded himself that he had been given the dream.
Only he could act on it.

“And what may I do for you today, Minister Cadder?” asked Daimhin
Feich, his mouth drawn into that irritating half-grin.

He believes himself
superior
, Cadder thought.
Well, he
is
superior—a superior idiot.

He lifted his head and said, softly so as not to be
overheard by every gaping toady, “Actually, Regent Feich, I have come to
discuss what I might do for you.”

Feich’s brows ascended. “Really? And what might
you
do for me?”

The emphasis in that sentence was enough to make Cadder
bristle, but he hid his hackles and leaned closer to the throne in which the
usurper sat. “You intimated to Abbod Ladhar that you desire a Weaving stone . . .”

Feich’s expression altered satisfactorily and Cadder leaned
away again to watch.

“Let us move our conversation to a more private place,”
Feich said, and rose.

The courtiers were left behind; even the ubiquitous young
cousin remained outside the confines of the small but sumptuous salon he led
his visitor to. Once there, he turned to the cleirach, his pale eyes alight
with curiosity.

“You have brought me a rune crystal?”

Cadder nearly laughed. Was the man so daft as to think a
mere cleirach might lay hands on a Weaving crystal?

“That would not be possible, sir. Only the Chosen have
Weaving stones and every one is registered. To possess one, I would have to
steal it, and I am no thief.”

Feich frowned. “Then how can you help me?”

Caime Cadder’s resolve almost buckled, then, for he knew he
was about to cross over a sacred line. “Perhaps you have wondered where rune
crystals are found?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“There is a cave below Ochanshrine,” said Cadder. “The cave
in which Ochan originally saw the Meri. He took the Osmaer Crystal from that
cave. Every crystal bestowed upon a Pilgrim since that day was cut from the
same chamber.”

Daimhin Feich’s eyes lit once again. “The Cave of Ochan! I
had thought it merely a legend. There is some truth to the tale, then.”

Cadder bit back a caustic reply. “The legend is entirely
true. Ochan’s Crystal exists; his cave exists. And it is the only source of
Weaving stones.”

“Then you will get me one.”

“I? No, Regent, I cannot. To do so would be to . . . to
violate my oath of service to the Osraed. However, I can tell you how to get
into the cave without being observed.”

“And in doing this, you will not be violating your oath of
service?”

Feich’s evident amusement nearly cost Cadder his poise. He
bit down hard on his wretched pride, on his revulsion at giving a Weaving stone
into such hands as Daimhin Feich’s.

“I have no Gift, sir. No . . . talent for the Divine Art. It
is clear that you do. At the very least, you have sensed the danger posed by
the Wicke of Halig-liath. You recognize her as the source of an immense and
palpable Evil—a dark Power. I, personally, believe such a thing is hinted at in
our Scripture, yet the wise among us seem not to recognize those references.
Therefore they do not recognize the threat.”

“The wise among us . . . You mean Osraed Ladhar, I suppose.”

Cadder put a hand to his breast. Within, his heart clenched
with sorrow. “My master regards Taminy-a-Cuinn as a heretical trickster. He
refuses to grant her more power than that.”

Daimhin Feich’s expression darkened. “Perhaps she does not
invade his dreams, Minister. She does mine.”

“And mine,” Cadder told him. “That is why I am willing to
act so . . . incautiously. I understand—that is, it was given to me to
understand—what forces she is capable of marshaling if she is allowed to get
her hands on the Crystal she has so blasphemously made her namesake.”

The bright Feich eyes pinioned him where he sat. “Do you
believe that is her intention? To wrest the Stone of Ochan from its Shrine?”

“Isn’t it obvious? She has named herself for it. She has
laid hands on it, to my personal humiliation and injury. And in my vision—last
night, it was—I saw her hovering over it like a bird of prey. Most horribly of
all, she has the Malcuim heir in her clutches. Caraid-land cannot be whole as
long as Airleas Malcuim and the Osmaer Crystal are separated. He must be set
before it to be Cyne. She knows this. She knows they must be reunited. And she
must believe that when they are, she will be the ultimate victor, for she will
have the Stone and the Cyne in her embrace.”

Daimhin Feich’s eyes did not waver from Cadder’s face. “Is
it that important, do you think, that a Malcuim be set before the Stone or,
indeed, that anyone be set before it?”

“How can you ask that? The coronation of a Cyne is no mere
symbolic rite, Regent. The power that unifies Caraid-land flows through the
Crystal. It has always been, and must always be, bound to the Malcuim line. So
it was ordained when the Meri sent Ochan-a-Coille to the first Malcuim. He did
not go to the Claeg or to the Feich or to the Madaidh or to any other House.
The Stone will seek a Malcuim to guard it and The Malcuim is in the hands of
Evil.”

His eyes fell to the clenched fist he had raised between
himself and Feich. He lowered it. “The Evil must be stopped.”

Feich nodded, eyes narrowed. “Indeed, Minister, she must.
You fear you may have erred in coming to me. Fear no longer. Your vision is
true. Your instinct has served you well. As you perceive, I too, am visited by
aislinn visions. And, as you so perceptively note, I have a small Gift for the
Art. I can only believe that it has been bestowed upon me for the protection of
Caraid-land. But if I am to fight this Evil we both recognize, I must be armed.
Tell me, Minister, how I am to obtain my crystal.”

oOo

Saefren Claeg settled himself into a low sling chair next
to his uncle. After so many nights spent on the on the hard, freezing ground of
the trail—a trail made dangerous by the fall of early snow—to be bathed and
curried and taking a soft seat next to a roaring fire was a luxury to be
savored, though his enjoyment of their comfortable room in Halig-liath’s
visitor’s quarters was dampened a bit by the cool pressure of Uncle Iobert’s
eyes.

They hadn’t spoken since their lengthy consultation with the
Gilleas. The upshot of that consultation had been that the Gilleas elders would
accompany The Claeg to Creiddylad, there to petition Daimhin Feich to willingly
return Airleas Malcuim to the Throne—on Taminy-Osmaer’s terms. First though,
there were other stops to make to deliver the Osmaer’s messages and gather
House support.

“So,” Saefren said, finally breaking the silence. “Tomorrow
we make for the Jura holdings. Do you think Mortain Jura will also be won?”