Crystal Rose (3 page)

Daimhin Feich was a man in conflict where Taminy-Osmaer was
concerned.

oOo

He was hunting.
Flying over the ground on a fantastic black horse so powerful thunder rolled
from beneath its hooves and assaulted the sky. He gripped the reins in both hands,
feeling the tension of the animal’s massive neck, the superb, nervous lightness
of its mouth on the bit. Between his legs the broad, muscular back rippled with
unimaginable power.

Sensual. Heat invaded
his belly, wrapping hot fingers around his heart. He tightened his hands on the
reins, his thighs on the horse’s barrel. The animal responded with a forward
surge, its hooves leaving the ground as if in flight.

He laughed in complete
delight and the horse turned its great head to look at him. An eye as pale as
his own fixed him, sending a chill up his spine. In that reckless moment he
understood that he was both the horse and the rider of the horse. The animal
was an extension of Self; it was he who held the reins and he who breathed fire
and struck lightning from the earth.

Beyond exhilaration,
he soared, barely taking in the world around him—an aislinn world, he now
realized. Shapes flickered past, looking vaguely like trees, rocks, brush.

A hunt. Of course. He
hunted. And the Object of that hunt lay somewhere ahead in this strange and
wonderful realm.

His gaze strained
ahead now, to where the path opened into a corridor of giant trees, light
falling like golden snow through the dense lace of branches. The end of the
corridor was indistinct, dark, a mysterious destination that resisted approach.
He willed himself to reach that dark forest heart and it began to grow before
him. Deep green, it was, emerald, like a spot of night in the depths of a
daylight wood. Less and less sunlight filtered through the trees as he rushed
toward it and a veil of mist rose to obscure his way. Though he knew he still
rushed forward, he felt time stretch like a lazy cat, drawing his senses out,
prolonging each moment, underscoring each hoof/heart beat.

He was upon it then—in
a breath, in an eternity. The emerald deep swallowed him whole. It was a
distorted place of shadows and glimmers of light that danced just beyond the
eye’s grasp.

He was drawing near
the Hunted. Hard by the end of his quest. He could feel her, smell her, taste
her. He reached up over his shoulder and found the crossbow there. Fingers met
cold metal and smooth, hard wood and he chilled at the touch.

But no, this was
wrong. He hunted with a longbow. His hand tightened on the curve of ash wood,
felt the notch where the bowstring lay, taut.

Yes.

He dropped the reins,
knowing the horse to be obedient, and pulled the bow into his hands. A quiver
of arrows lay along his left thigh. He took one up and nocked it, eyes roving
ahead.

In the deep a soft
light quivered—a fitful flame. There! The Prey. He couldn’t see her, but he
knew she was there at the heart of the flame. He could feel her through the
thick air, smell her on the wind, taste her on the tip of his tongue.

How impersonal a bow
seemed in the face of that intimacy. A sword would be better. No, a dagger. He
looked at the thing lying across his palm, blade sharp, glittering.

Yes.

With a crack like
close thunder, time ceased its stretching and lunged, hissing, into a blaze of
light. The Universe roared and the great, black beast he rode spasmed beneath
him. He took up the reins again. Fought for control. But the horse’s mouth no
longer responded to his touch. The Universe reeled, roaring crescendoed, light
blinded.

Then it all winked
out—snuffed like a candle flame between fingers—leaving an echo of light and
sound and sense, a nightmare after-image.

oOo

His breath left his body in a gasp; he sucked it up again
on a sob of frustration and lay sweating in his bed, blankets tangled around
his limbs, his fist clenched painfully on nothing.

He disentangled himself, shivering—not an ember glowed in
the huge hearth—and moved to light a lamp. His hands stopped short of their
goal and, for a moment, he feared the dream had followed him. Before him in the
black night of his bed chamber hung an image. It moved where his eyes moved as
if burned into them: A crystal. A face. No. A crystal, and within the crystal,
a face.
Her
face—sweet, beautiful,
treacherous.

A sigh slipped between his lips before he could drag it
back. The hand that reached for the lamp now quivered toward the mirage;
fingers grasping . . . nothing.

Sudden hatred wrung a howl from him. He swung at the black
air, hitting the unseen lamp and sending it to the floor in a spray of broken
glass and fragrant oil.

Stunned to silence, he trembled, listening for the movement
of his guards in the corridor, struggling to rein in his rage.

The door rattled. “Cousin?”

Ruadh. He dragged in a cleansing breath. “It’s all right.
I’ve only broken a lamp.”

“Shall I call a servant to clean it up?”

Stupid brat, I said I
was all right
. “No. It can keep. Leave me.”

There was a moment of silence, then the soft scrape of
leather on stone.

He was cold now, his shivering born of chill, rather than
rage. He flexed his fingers, still tight from gripping the aislinn reins. When
next he hunted, he promised himself, he would control his mount. He would
choose the right weapon. He would finish the Hunt.

One walks upon the Shore;
One glides beneath the Sea.
In the water meet the twain
Who never met and meet again.
In the water they combine
The human soul and the Divine.
Humanity is glorified,
Divinity personified—
The dance of glory to and from
One to return, One to become.
One glides beneath the Sea;
One walks upon the Shore.

—The Meri Song
Book of the New Covenant

The room was gray this early. Though murky light entered
through the three tall windows along the northern wall, it was not strong
enough to bring the rich array of tapestries, arras and carpets to vivid life.
A row of light-globes sat above the east-facing hearth, two more hung on either
side of the fur-covered couch opposite the windows. All were unlit and the
hearth was cold.

On the threshold, Taminy took in the empty chamber with
something like relief. She raised her hand, palm out, to the dark globes. They
lit, blue-gold flames dancing, seemingly suspended in whorls of mist. On the
walls, furniture, and floors, colors leapt from sleep; golds, reds, verdant
greens—all the colors of midland foliage. All the hues Taminy would have left
behind in coming to Hrofceaster, were it not for Hillwild artistry; were it not
for Catahn.

Taminy smiled at the thought of the Hillwild lord. He was
easily her fiercest supporter, her most imposing ally and her most ardent
devotee. It had taken her weeks to break him of bending the knee to her. She
had yet to teach him not to call her ‘Glorious Lady’ with every other breath.
And as he treated her, so did his people.

As if I was Cwen
,
she thought, moving to the firebox by the hearth. That was Toireasa Malcuim’s
station, not hers. It was a station she could not imagine growing accustomed
to.

“They’ll always treat you that way.”

Hands full of kindling, Taminy turned. “Skeet. Will you help
with this fire or just stand there pecking at my thoughts?”

The boy moved from the doorway, face unsmiling, unboyish.

“You’re more than Cwen, Taminy-Osmaer. Catahn knows that.
His elders know that. Toireasa is Cwen of Caraid-land; you are its soul.”

Taminy bent to arrange the kindling, not caring to look into
Skeet’s eyes. She knew he was right, the little old man. Knew that in her hands
was the fate of the House Malcuim and, through it, of the Caraidin people.

“And Airleas is its spirit,” she said. “I feel for the
boy—to have his childhood end so suddenly, so cruelly.”

“If he’d grown up here, his childhood would’ve been over
long since. In Creiddylad, he’d’ve stayed a child past time. Colfre was a young
man; were it not for Daimhin Feich, he’d still be on the Throne. Maybe Airleas
is better off here.”

Taminy smiled, rising from the hearth to brush at her
skirts. “Pov-Skeet, you know as well as I do the truth of that. He may not see
it now, but Hrofceaster is no mean place to become a man.”

“If the Ren Catahn is any measure,” Skeet added.

Taminy turned to look at him. “Such a sly tone. Don’t you
like Catahn?”

Skeet’s dark eyes widened. “Why, Mistress! I should say I
like him very well, indeed. He’s a prodigious man.”

The observation coaxed laughter from her throat. It felt
good to laugh.

“Mistress! What are you doing? God-the-Spirit, the fire!
Now, now—you oughtn’t touch that!”

The Eldress Levene scuttled into the room like a fretting
hen, bobbing and clucking, while Taminy, errant chick, scooted away from the
hearth, dropping the log she’d been holding.

Skeet cackled.

“You really mustn’t do for yourself, dearest Lady,” chided
the older woman. “Where’s Eyslk? She should ha’ been here to start this. Not
like her to be so lazy.”

“Please, Eldress, you needn’t curtsey. And I came early
today. I didn’t ring for Eyslk. I rather intended to be alone for a while . . .
in the quiet.”

Eldress Levene paused in her fire-making and blinked at
Taminy. “God’s Breath, Lady! It never came to me that you’d like to be left
alone in the mornings.”

Taminy’s hands flew out in reflexive apology. “Oh, please,
Eldress, I didn’t mean—It’s only that occasionally I like to come here and
meditate. It’s a lovely room.”

The other woman’s face suffused with pleasure. “Why thank
you, Mistress. It was done all for your joy . . . Now, now, where’s the tinder
box?” She poked along the rough mantle piece, looking for the box of flints.

“Eyslk usually asks me to start the fire,” Taminy said.

The Eldress was aghast. “Eyslk
asks
—?”

Taminy laughed. “Please don’t fault Eyslk. She caught me at
it one morning. I admit it’s a guilty pleasure of mine.”

She moved back to the hearth as she spoke and held her hands
out to the pile of unlit wood as if a fire was already there to warm them. In a
moment, a red glow appeared among the kindling. In another, flames leapt—gold
and white—to consume the wood.

“You see, it’s really much easier for me than for poor Eyslk
with her flints.”

The Eldress nodded, eyes casting back the glow of the
flames. “A good, practical bit of Weaving, that.” She shifted her eyes to Taminy
then, head tilted questioningly, asked, “Would you like me to leave you a bit,
Lady? I can return in your time.”

“Not if you’ve some business for me, Eldress.”

Taminy retreated to the couch from which she now “held
court” as Skeet put it. She preferred to think of it as consultation and had
even convinced Catahn that the couch, which had once sat on a raised platform,
be on a level with the other furniture in the room.

Eldress Levene approached her (curtseying again) and seated
herself in a facing chair. “If it please my Lady . . . Taminy,” she corrected,
when Taminy would have reminded her, “the Aeldra have consulted this past eve
and have raised some questions.”

Taminy gestured with her left hand, bidding her to continue.
The Eldress’s eyes followed the gesture, seizing on the blessed mark—the
gytha—glowing from the palm like a tiny flame.

“We have certain rites, Lady Taminy, which have been held in
the heart of these mountains since time known. We are born and named, cross
from childhood into adulthood, marry, give birth and die. All these things we
mark and celebrate. And in between, we plant some and harvest some and mark the
passing of the seasons. We revere the Gwyr, too, as you know, and celebrate Her
rare appearances. We lay before you these things, these rites and ask . . .”

The Eldress paused, glancing aside at the silent Skeet. She
was troubled, clearly. “These are ancient rites—”

“And sacred,” said Taminy. “They remind you that you are the
Hillwild and that these things have shaped you, nurtured you, become part of
your relationship with the Spirit.”

The Eldress’s relief was evident. “You’d not have us give
them up?”

“No, Eldress. Why would I?”

“Some have tried to persuade us that these things are
superstition. That we should leave them and worship as do the people of the
lowlands.”

“They worship as they worship; you worship as you worship.
The Spirit isn’t interested in the form of your worship, but in its sincerity.”

“They say the Gwyr is a heathen spirit, unrelated to the
Meri and Her God. They say our God is not their God.”

They
. “The Osraed,
you mean?”

“Aye, and others.”

“The Gwyr is a window to the world of the Spirit. There is
only one Spirit. There are many windows through which to see It.”

The Eldress considered that. “Yet, each window offers a
different view. How does one see the Spirit entire?”

“One finds a Door and enters it.”

The Eldress nodded. “You are the Door.”

Even now, Taminy could feel a part of herself shrinking from
that truth—but it
was
truth.

“Here, now, for you, I am the Door.”

Eldress Levene slid from her chair to her knees, bending her
forehead to the floor. “Blessed Lady! Last night I dreamed of a doorway filled
with light. I see it again this moment.”

“Rise, please,” Taminy murmured, uncomfortable with the open
adoration. “Rise and look at me. You have another question.”

The woman raised her head, but remained huddled on the
carpet, her wool pantaloons billowed about her like gray clouds. “The Council
of Elders also wishes to know if it should continue to guide the affairs of
Airdnasheen.”