Crystal Rose (37 page)

Feich’s curses ceased only when he had wrestled her into her
chambers and thrown her to the floor. She rolled among the fine fleeces before
the hearth, expecting that any moment blows would fall, but he didn’t touch
her. She pulled herself to a crouch before the dying fire and gazed up at him
where he stood, his back to the closed door, chest heaving, face red with
exertion and fury. He did not seem quite sane.

At the point Iseabal was certain he would lash out at her
either physically or through his aidan, he caught hold of his rage, closed his
glittering eyes and set trembling hands to his hips. Several deep breaths
later, he spoke.

“Well, cailin, I suppose I shouldn’t have expected you to
aid me willingly.”

“To harm Taminy?” Isha whispered. “No, never. But in this, I
could not aid you if I wanted to. Taminy worked through the Stone tonight, not
I.”

His eyes opened to fix her with a gaze like shadow on snow.
“Yet, you have a great Gift. I’ve seen you use it . . . to disappear as if made
of smoke. That is a trick I’d like to learn.”

Isha took a deep, steadying breath. “Would you have me teach
you?”

He chuckled. “No need, child. I have a tutor. A woman who
has taught me . . . a good many things—not the least of which is how to harness
the power of others. Or, rather, to assimilate it, to make it my own.”

Isha shifted uneasily among her fleeces. She’d learned no
such discipline and knew it was no part of the Divine Art. “You Weave . . .
without drawing on the Spirit? How is that possible?”

He was smiling at her now, looking impossibly relaxed. It
was a fiction—within him a fierce, nervous energy was building. It tingled in
the air around them, making it seem to move and flicker.

“I told you, pretty Iseabal. I draw on others to feed my
aidan. I draw on Ladhar’s stupid fears, on the Deasach boy’s brash pride, on
Blair Dearg’s stupidity . . .” The smile widened. “ . . .on his wife’s lust. But, you
see, I have learned to draw on much deeper wells. When I am one with Coinich
Mor, I am one with her aidan and it feeds into mine, makes it grow great and
deep.”

He wandered a few steps toward her—to the edge of her woolly
defense—his smile a warm, lazy lie. He squatted there, meeting her eye to eye,
reaching out to take a lock of her hair in gentle fingers and rubbing it
between them.

“Coinich Mor is a second rate Wicke, a petty sorceress with
barely a midge of power. You, on the other hand, are very powerful, indeed.
Powerful and disciplined and in touch—” He stroked the tip of her nose. “—with
Taminy-Osmaer, the most powerful source of all. And you are much more desirable
than Coinich Mor.”

The words made no sense to her. Even so, they inspired
terror. They were the last words he spoke to her that night before showing her
that to be fed upon by Daimhin Feich was to be devoured by darkness.

oOo

The Osraed Ladhar had
been praying for hours, yet dawn seemed no closer than when he had first
started. He lifted bleary eyes to the open arch of the eastern doorway of the
Shrine, certain that merely wishing it would cause the Sun to rise. The
corridor remained dark, but in it, obscured by the veil of incense . . .

Ladhar squinted. Vague shapes that might have been part of
the smoky pall seemed to hesitate within the open arch. They coalesced even as
he watched, wavering toward clarity. He made out two forms, and his heart and
soul leapt. Were these the helpers promised in his vision? Were these the
saints he awaited? A glance at the Osmaer Crystal assured him; there was fire
deep in its heart—a warm, gentle glow that grew and steadied with the moments.

He came to his feet, heart tripping over itself as it raced
to meet the visitation. “Pray enter, good spirits. I am in much need. Praise
Meri, you have been sent!”

There was a moment more of hesitation, during which Ladhar
thought he heard whispers from the aislinn-cloaked figures. Then they began to
move down the sloping aisle toward him, step by step. Odd that spirits should
exhibit such human movement. He had opened his mouth to offer another greeting
when the veil they moved in was whisked aside, leaving only the very physical
smoke from the censers around their too-human frames.

Ladhar staggered back a step, nearly falling over the bench
behind him. “Fhada. Lealbhallain. Why are you here? How did you get past the
sentries?”

The two glanced at each other, then took the last several
steps into the circle of the Crystal—a circle still lit by a wash of Eibhilin
radiance.

“I can hardly think,” Fhada replied, “that it matters how we
got past the sentries. Obviously we got past them. The point is, we are here.
To help.”

Ladhar’s face flushed with clammy heat. “To help? What are
you talking about?”

Leal pressed forward, a pup’s eagerness sparkling in his
eyes. “Daimhin Feich means to lay hands on the Stone of Ochan—to control it as
he tried to control Taminy. You know this.”

“How do you know what I know?” Ladhar growled. “How do you
dare suggest—”

“The knowledge has been given to us,” Leal persisted.
“Daimhin Feich is a danger to the Stone, to you, to all you hold dear. As
loathe as you are to believe it, Abbod,” the boy added, insolently, “those are
the same things we love. The Meri has sent us to your aid. Give us the Stone
and we’ll see that Daimhin Feich never touches it.”

Ladhar’s body shook, evading his best attempts at control.
“Ah, but your sly Mistress will, won’t she? That’s your plan, is it? You knew
of the aislinn I have received or—dear God, worse!—you caused it! Was it you
who put the idea into my head that I would be sent aingeals to help me?”

The idea was stunning, but made a certain perverse sense.
More than that . . .

“Ah, now, Lealbhallain, now, I recognize the voice that
spoke to me out of that vision, the cold eyes that pierced me as I prayed. It
was Bevol, whom I thought dead! Bevol is the one who controls you! Admit it!”

The two exchanged a look of sheer astonishment and Ladhar
flushed in triumph. “Aha! I’m right! Bevol lives! Hiding in that filthy warren
of yours, no doubt. Collecting heretics and Wicke to himself, pledging them to
her service. Tell me the truth, if you’re able, Fhada. Is this not so?”

Fhada was not able to tell the truth as Ladhar now perceived
it. “Abbod, Bevol is dead—taken by stealth and force at Daimhin Feich’s order,
butchered and fed to the Sea.”

Ladhar rejected that tell. “And
his body lost forever, no doubt. Convenient. You couldn’t tell me where it is
or show it to me.”

Fhada blinked as if a strong light had been shone in his
eyes and said, “In the depths of Mertuile there is a chamber, open to the Sea
by vents and sluices—”

Blood rushed from Ladhar’s face and extremities as if sucked
through a hole beneath his feet. “Enough! I’ve heard of this chamber. Believe
me, I’ll go there and expose your tell for the lie it is. Daimhin Feich would
never have dared to murder an Osraed of Bevol’s stature. After all, he expected
Bevol to be discredited—”

“How so?” asked Fhada. “Cyne Colfre had taken Taminy into
his house and his heart, insofar as he was able. Bevol was Taminy’s champion. A
persuasive champion, if the reaction of the Hall was any indication. A threat
to all Daimhin Feich held dear.”

Ladhar put up his hands. “Past history. You try to confuse
me. Get out of here, before I call down the guard. There are Malcuim regulars
here now, you know.”

Fhada nodded. “Yes. We walked past them on our way in.
Listen to us, Osraed. Do not dismiss us so quickly.”

“Why should I not?”

“Can you deny that Feich is a threat to the Crystal, to the
Throne, to the fabric of our society?”

“I . . . I do not deny it, but he is a threat I can handle.”

“He has powers,” said Lealbhallain, his verdant eyes on the
Stone. It turned them to topazes and his hair to flame.

“I have seen them. They are . . . limited.”

“They are stronger than you think, Ladhar,” said Fhada.
“Strong and capricious and uncontrollable.”

“He lacks discipline. He has no real training.”

“Which makes him even more dangerous. Perhaps he would be
less a danger if you were to teach him some discipline—or have you already
tried and failed?”

“I wouldn’t teach him to squat in the privy!”

“Will you let him have the Stone?”

“I . . .”

“He will take it.”

“I won’t let him take it. I will Weave a Ward for it.”

“Please, let us hide it,” said Lealbhallain, begging now.
“Replace it with this. He need not know.”

Ladhar’s eyes widened at the sight of the crystal the boy
clutched in his hands. It was identical to the Osmaer in every way.

“Where did you get that? Whose crystal is it?”

“Bevol’s.”

Quivering, Ladhar sat hard upon his bench. “You mock the
Osmaer.”

“We try to save her.” Lealbhallain moved to sit beside him,
cradling Bevol’s accursed Stone in open hands. “From Daimhin Feich, Abbod.
Think of it. Look into your heart. Your soul. Tell me you don’t see the danger
here.”

“Oh, I see the danger, boy. As well I see that you have
given me a choice that is no choice.”

“Still, you must choose.”

Ladhar snorted. “The lesser of two evils? That is a choice I
decline to make.”

The young heretic gazed up at his elder, resignation in his
eyes, the sign and symbol of his heresy bright upon his brow.

Fhada, gazing back, shook his head. “You make a choice in
not choosing, Abbod. You make Feich the victor by your inaction.”

“If,” Ladhar said, barely understanding why he said it, “if
this matter is so vital, so grave, why do you not force me to part with the
Stone? Why do you not take it from me unwilling?”

Lealbhallain rose. “That isn’t the Meri’s way, Abbod Ladhar.
You know that. Violence is the way of evil.” With another glance at Fhada, the
boy held Bevol’s crystal out to him. “If you will not let us take the Stone, at
least let me give you this one.”

“What am I to do with that?”

“Replace the Osmaer with it before Daimhin Feich returns.
Hide the Osmaer in some safe place.”

When Ladhar made no move to take the crystal from the boy’s
hands, he laid it in the Abbod’s broad lap.

“Don’t let him get his hands on the Stone, Osraed Ladhar.
For love of the Meri, don’t let him.”

They left him then, and were wrapped in their aislinn veil
before they reached the outer corridor. The weak light of dawn rippled with
their passing.

Ladhar opened his mouth to give alarm, but uttered no sound.
It would do no good. The guards’ eyes would not penetrate the Weave of the
heretics’ inyx. Besides, he no longer had the strength. Instead, he sat and
stared at the thing in his lap—Bevol’s crystal. Aiffe, it was
named—“life-giver.” Ironic, since its master was dead.

He laid a hand to the facets. Beneath his fingers, the stone
warmed, emitting a soft glow. Still, Ladhar shivered, wrapped in the chill of a
dank, sea-fed chamber below the foundations of Mertuile.

oOo

Dawn brought storm, if only to Daimhin Feich’s soul.
Lightning lashed his mind and thunder shook his bones. He was beset by demons;
he was in the company of aingeals and saints. They shrieked at him; they sang
to him, and when he emerged from the cacophony, leaving even the quiet sobs of
the Cirkemaster’s daughter behind a closed door, he was certain of his
invincibility.

And hungry. God-the-Spirit, but he was hungry! He returned
to his own rooms long enough to bathe and change his clothing, then he ordered
up a breakfast fit for two men. Ruadh came down while he was eating, but didn’t
stay. With a mumbled “good morning,” he slunk off to the kitchen to scavenge a
meal.

“Not hungry,” he said.

Jealous, Daimhin thought, savoring his tea. Everything
tasted glorious this morning. His senses were sharper, clearer. Sounds, sights,
smells—all held a pungency he had never known. He basked in all of it, knowing
without looking in any mirror, that he fairly glowed.

“So . . . you had the child.”

He glanced up from his tea. Coinich Mor stood at the end of
the table, smiling at him, the bruises on her face a soft pattern that
contrived to look more gold than yellow. The smile annoyed him. Somehow, he had
been hoping she would snarl and snap at him when she learned of his new
conquest.

He nodded.

She returned the nod. “You think you no longer need Coinich
Mor?”

“I suppose I could still make use of an able tutor.”

“Make use of an able tutor,” she parroted. “The girl
satisfied you so with her virgin tears and innocent screams? I had thought you
more worldly than that.”

“The girl is a fountain of Eibhilin power. While it’s true
the fleshly satisfaction was . . .” He paused to search for the right word.
“ . . . meager, there was abundant compensation for its lack.” He took a deep
breath, stretched his muscles, feeling every ripple. “I tingle with the
energies she gave up. They pulse in my blood, race through my mind. Can’t you
feel it, Coinich? Can’t you see it in me?”

He stood, imagining how he must look to her with Eibhilin
potency leaking through every pore. He laughed and the Wicke laughed with him.

“Oh, I see, Regent Feich. I see more than you imagine.” She
shifted her shoulders in a manner that brought his attention to her full
breasts—as it was intended to do, of course. “You can yet make use of me,
lord,” she murmured, and let him see the flame in her strange eyes.

He moved around the table to her side, aware, with every
stride, of the power flowing through him. She watched him, smiling her
cat-smile, her eyes caressing. Her desire was a drug, a euphoric, and he
savored it as he savored all else on this extraordinary morning.

He stopped close enough to her that their bodies just
touched, cloth kissing cloth, heat mingling with heat, her spice wrapping him
pleasurably. She gazed up into his face, telling him wordlessly that he could
have her right there upon the table if he wished and to hell with whoever might
find them.