Crystal Rose (34 page)

As the weight of his companions’ regard fell upon him, Feich
reined his temper in further, leaning back in his chair with studied calm.

“Now, we may talk. Plan. Ruadh, how long would it take a
force the size of this one to make Airdnasheen—given the slow going?”

Ruadh frowned. “From here or from Creiddylad?”

“From here, of course. It would be a waste of time to return
to Creiddylad. We can surely provision ourselves locally.”

“You heard the Osraed, cousin Daimhin; the trail is
impassable. That western approach is difficult in fine weather. In snow—”

“Are you so dim you don’t see that the Osraed of Halig-liath
will say whatever they must to protect their Wickish mistress? The passes—”

“Are closed, Daimhin Feich. Even as Osraed Saxan said.”

Feich turned the full force of his gaze on Iobert Claeg, who
looked back at him with veiled . . . amusement! He read it as clearly as if the
man had laughed aloud. A wave of mixed pleasure and annoyance washed through
him.

“And how is it you are so certain of this?”

“We came down from Hrofceaster not a month past. The trail
was barely passable then. Since then it has snowed a good deal more—according
to the report from Claeg.”

“For what reason were you up at Hrofceaster not a month
past, Iobert?”

“That, Regent, is a matter of House business. Our lands
brush the hem of the Gyldan-baenn. It is in our best interest to have certain
treaties and agreements with the Ren Catahn.”

“Agreements that include treason against our ruling House?”

The clink of cutlery, soft as it had been, ceased
altogether.

Iobert Claeg leaned back in his chair and regarded Feich
with sudden and frustrating opacity. “I will take it that this latest set-back
has left you emotionally distraught, Regent, and ignore the challenge in that
question. The Claeg have not always been faithful to the House of Malcuim—”

“To say the least.”

“Neither have the Feich,” Iobert reminded him. “But I swear
upon my House’s honor that we are loyal to Airleas Malcuim in all things. I
give my personal pledge that I will defend him with my life.”

“Did you know Airleas was at Hrofceaster, then?”

“If I did, would I have expected to find him here?”

Feich smiled, cursing his capricious aidan; he could no
longer read the other man at all. He scanned the stern, bearded face without
success and suspected he was being intentionally blocked.

“Then you will ride beside me into the Gyldan-baenn to bring
him home?”

“No sir, I will not. Nor shall any man of my House. The
passes are deadly. I will not sacrifice my men on a fool’s errand. Airleas
Malcuim is safe at Hrofceaster until spring.”

“Safe? In the hands of Evil? Among apostate Osraed and Wicke
and Hillwild traitors? You underestimate the danger of his situation.”

“You underestimate the danger of the trail to Airdnasheen.
The Claeg withdraw from your company.”

“Aye, and the Graegam,” said that Elder.

“And the Jura.”

“And the Gilleas.”

In the silence that followed that string of pronouncements,
Daimhin Feich thought he could hear his own blood boil. He turned his head so
as not to touch the curious eyes of the young Deasach Marschal, and addressed
his own allies.

“Will you, too, join these men in their cowardice?”

The Dearg, a boulder of a man with flaming red hair, scowled
so deeply his brush of brow obscured his eyes. “The Dearg join none in
cowardice. We pledged to you. We stand by you. To Hrofceaster!” He raised his
cup and drank of it, but his challenge was echoed only by his own kinsman.

Across from him, The Teallach was shaking his head. “I find
myself of a mind wi’ t’Claeg. ‘Tis a foolhardy idea. Morose for us, who’re used
to milder climes and terrain. My men are untried a’the sort of campaign you
propose, Daimhin. The journey alone is near impossible, ne’er mind that you’d
have ’em wage war at its end. The boy’s no doubt safe up there.” He jerked his
chin at the Gyldan-baenn, whose oppressive presence Feich could feel through
the very walls. “If they’d meant to kill ’im, they’d’ve done’t. I pledge you,
if you but wait till spring, the Teallach’ll be with you.”

Frustrated, enraged, Feich smote the table with the flat of
his hand, making crockery and cutlery leap. “Spring will be too late! Do you
not understand the danger of leaving the Cyneric in the hands of that Wicke?
She perverts him! Even as we sit here debating, she bends him to her evil
will—as she bent his mother, as she bent his father. She aims to make a puppet
of him—a tool for her own purposes. If we wait till spring to reach him,
Airleas Malcuim will be fit only for the fire. More to the point, Caraid-land
may be in a similar condition. If we are not to put Airleas Malcuim on the
Throne, then who shall we put there?”

The room went silent again save for the creak of leather and
the crackle of flame. Then Iobert Claeg rose.

“If you contemplate setting yourself up as Cyneric, I and
mine will resist you to the last man. Be assured our allied Houses will offer
similar resistance.”

He glanced down the table at Mortain Jura and the Elders of
the Houses Graegam and Gilleas. They gave assent without hesitation.

“If it is anarchy you dread, Regent Feich,” The Claeg
continued, “if it is disunity you fear, making yourself Cyneric without public
abdication by The Malcuim would be . . . ill-advised. I return to Creiddylad
tomorrow, my men with me. If you desire provisions for your . . . mission, Claeg
will supply you with what it can.”

He left the room, his supper all but untouched. Mortain Jura
and the Elders of the Houses Graegam and Gilleas trailed him like a pack of
trained dogs. Feich watched them through a hot, black swell of hatred. They had
checked him while he had sat back in false confidence, anticipating anything
but this.

The Teallach and Dearg Chieftains and Elders had stayed to
finish their meal; it was to these allies that Feich now turned his attention.
“What say you, gentlemen? Is Caraid-land to be leaderless until The Claeg and
his allies see fit to aid me in returning Airleas Malcuim to the Throne?”

The Teallach finished off his wine and cleared his throat.
“Again, I’m forced to agree wi’ Iobert. You are Airleas’s Regent, Daimhin. If
you do your job well, Caraid-land should not suffer. We need no Cyneric. We
have one, though he seems t’ave been misplaced.”

He patted at his beard with a crumpled towel, then left the
table, taking his own Elders with him.

At length, The Dearg spoke. “Perhaps we should make our
plans tomorrow. Surely, sleep would be the best medicine tonight.”

Feich shook his head. “No, Eadrig. Thought is the medicine
this situation needs—meditation upon our next course of action, upon our
resources.”

“You’d do well,” offered Blair Dearg, pride soaking every word,
“to consort with my wife on these matters. She has sharp sight, that one.”

Feich growled. “And yet did not see
this
!” He smote the table again, making the Elder jump right along
with the tableware. “Rest assured, I will consort with her, Elder. Indeed, you
may go to her this moment and send her to me.”

Blair Dearg glanced at his Chieftain, who answered him with
a bare raising of one garish brow. The Elder left immediately on his errand.

“I, too, will give this matter some thought,” The Dearg
remarked and removed himself from the table as well. “In the morning we’ll hold
council.”

“By morning, I will be in need of no man’s counsel,” Feich
murmured as the door closed at his ally’s broad back.

“What do you intend to do?” Ruadh asked. “Iobert Claeg is
right about those passes. Winter is come early this year. A small party might
make it along those narrow trails, but a battle company—and with that
cannon . . .” He shook his head. “If we were to try to go up now, our losses would
be too great to bear. It would not be a fighting force that arrived at
Airdnasheen, but a funeral procession.”

Feich eyed his cousin with disgust. “You too? I never
thought you a coward, Ruadh.”

The young man colored deeply. “I am not a coward. But my men
come first in my estimation. I’ll not sacrifice even one of them to your . . .
ambition.”

Feich became suddenly aware that this interchange was being
watched on by another pair of eyes. Alien eyes. In the moment he recalled Sorn
Saba’s presence, the young Deasach said, “There may be an alternative to this
suicide, Regent Feich.”

Whatever else Saba had been going to say was interrupted by
a knock at the chamber door. Feich scowled. Could Coinich Mor be here so soon?
But the nervous energies that leaked from beyond the portal were not Coinich
Mor’s. They belonged to an unknown.

“Come,” Feich called, and the door swung open to reveal a
strapping young man—Saba’s age or younger—dressed in the short robes of an
Aelder Prentice.

“Who might you be?”

The youth stepped into the room, carefully bringing the door
to behind him. Broad shoulders back, golden head up, he displayed a handsome
face whose expression completely belied the roil of anxiety Daimhin Feich
sensed beneath.

“Regent Feich, I am Aelder Prentice Brys-a-Lach, Prentice to
the late Osraed Ealad-hach. I have information I believe may be of help to
you.”

“Indeed? Why should you care to be of help to me? I thought
you lot had all thrown in with Taminy-Osmaer.”

The boy’s face blazed with sudden anger. “She killed my
master. She imprisoned him in Halig-liath and then, when he would not submit to
her, she murdered him.”

“Your master—this Osraed Ealad-hach you mentioned?”

“Yes, lord.”

Feich nodded. “I remember him. He led the fight against her
among the Osraed and accused her before the Hall. A brave man. A righteous
soul.”

“Yes, lord.”

Feich gestured at him. “Speak, then, Brys. What information
have you?”

The young man glanced anxiously at Ruadh and Sorn.

“Don’t mind them. They’re my closest advisors. Speak.”

“You met with the Triumvirate today.”

Feich nodded.

The golden cheeks flushed. “No sir. You met with three
Osraed who only fancy themselves to be the Triumvirate. Only Osraed Calach has
any right to his position. Osraed Tynedale took the place of my dead master on
seniority alone. Osraed Saxan was voted in by a pack of traitors. All true
Osraed have either fled Halig-liath or lie low in fear, pretending loyalty to
the new order. The three men you met today are Taminists.”

Feich sat back, lacing long fingers over his flat
mid-section. “That fact did not escape me.”

The youth’s blue eyes widened. “You knew? And yet did
nothing?”

“Of course I knew. Those blinding Kisses they sport are
ample evidence of their apostasy. But what was I to do? I was surrounded by
their allies . . . which included several of the Chieftains and Elders in my own
party. Is this your great news, Brys-a-Lach? If so, I am disappointed.”

“Ah, no sir. I came to tell this: These false Osraed are not
yet able to Speakweave directly to their Mistress. They commune with her
through a girl from the village—one of her waljan.” The last word was a sneer.

Feich sat up. “Really? This is most interesting. Who is this
cailin and where may I find her?”

The youth smiled. “She is Iseabal-a-Nairnecirke, lord,
daughter of the Osraed Saxan. And she is at Nairne Cirke this night with her
mother.”

oOo

She had tried to talk to her mother again about Taminy and
it had ended, again, with her mother barricaded in her room and Iseabal in
tears outside the door. Over the weeks that had followed her return to Nairne,
Isha and her mother had slowly mended their relationship; where there was love
between souls, there was a path between them as well, a path both had been
eager to tread. But with the return of familiarity and intimacy, Iseabal had
sought to make her mother understand what was now the center of her
existence—her love and loyalty to Taminy, her belief in the New Covenant Taminy
embodied.

Ardis-a-Nairnecirke did not want to understand, did not
want, even, to accept or acknowledge or hear about Taminy-Osmaer.

So, the path of love between mother and daughter had to be
cleared again and, again, trodden. This time they had gotten closer than
ever—or so Isha had thought—but then she had brought up the dread Subject, and
her poor mother had fled from her in fear for her own soul.

At the top of the stairs Isha sat, drying tears on the
sleeve of her sous-shirt, thinking perhaps she should tap at her mother’s door
and apologize and promise never to bring the Subject up again—never to even
speak of her daily trips up to the Holy Fortress to work with the waljan there.

She turned her left hand palm up in her lap and gazed,
blurry-eyed, at the bright gytha. The gytha terrified her mother, so most of
the time she kept it muted, using a mere thread of her aidan to do so. It made
her want to sob all over again to think that she might never be able to share
what was now the most essential part of herself with her own mother. If it were
not for her da . . .

Ripples. Dark ripples in the Eibhilin All that surrounded
her.

She sat up.

Approach. Someone at the center of those ripples was drawing
physically near. Her heart began to pound. She could sense him coming up the
road to the Cirke, entering by the gate, skirting the manse—a living well of
darkness.

She quivered, frozen at the top of the stairs. What should
she do? She was in danger, she knew it. She saw herself in the mind of the dark
one; she was the object of his search. In that moment, she knew him—Daimhin
Feich—and knew that he must not find her here. She moved, finally, bolting down
the stairs and into her father’s study.

The room was dark and smelled of dust and ashes. Her mother
had closed it off after her father had gone up to Halig-liath. The door was
locked from the outside, but the little lock was nothing much to Iseabal. She
stood in the darkened room and sensed the ripples lapping at her home, heard
the sounds of booted feet on the verandah and the ringing of the bell outside
the front door. She made her mind very still and open and waited.