Crystal Rose (4 page)

“What other body but the Aeldra would shepherd the
community?” Taminy asked in return. “Who else would be qualified? You know the
people’s needs. There’s no reason why the Aeldra should not continue to elect
the Ren and mind the affairs of his people. I didn’t come here to govern the
Hillwild, Eldress Levene, but to renew a Covenant.”

The Eldress nodded, looking thoughtful. “And to ready the
young Malcuim to govern. He’s a good boy, that one, but rash, stubborn,
fox-clever . . . for boon or bane.”

The absent Eyslk chose that moment to put in her appearance.
It was Eldress Levene’s pleasure to tease her gently for her cleverness in
lighting the fire without a tinder box.

While the two bantered, Taminy’s gaze roamed to the fire.
Boon or bane, indeed. The Eldress had no way of knowing that in describing
Airleas, she had also described his father. Colfre Malcuim’s cleverness had
connived to disaster and his rashness had made him a willing puppet for Daimhin
Feich. Taminy could only pray Airleas had something his father had not—strength
of will.

oOo

The narrow outer corridor was empty and Airleas Malcuim
congratulated himself on that good fortune. His arms wrapped around the long,
swaddled package, he scurried the length of the hallway, down the narrow stone
steps at its nether end, and out into the small, dark courtyard. It was a
little-used yard; he knew that after several days of careful watching. Its only
other access was from the rear of the main kitchen and it occasionally hosted
the kitchen crews after-dinner chats, but little more than that.

Alone, Airleas laid his treasure out on a rough wooden bench
and unwrapped it, a smile hovering at his lips.

“Airleas! A sword! Oh, wherever’d you get tha’?”

He jumped and swore, twisting his head toward the kitchen
entrance. “Gwynet Alheart, you little weasel! How dare you sneak about like
that? And keep your voice down.”

Gwynet’s eyes were two pools of reproach. “I’m sure I’m not
a weasel,
Cyneric
Airleas. Nor was I
the one sneaking. And my voice
is
down . . . Where’d you get the sword?”

Airleas sighed. “I found it. In a leather satchel at the
bottom of a grain bin in the stable.”

Gwynet’s nose wrinkled in curiosity as she came down the
short flight of kitchen steps to hover at the bench. “What were you doing in a
grain bin?”

“I was pretending to hide from marauding Feichs, if you must
know. Learning the ways of a Hillwild warrior.”

Gwynet glanced again at the sword. “Surely it belongs to
somebody.”

“Surely it doesn’t. The bag was so old it was rotting away.

Whoever put it there must have forgotten all about it. So
it’s mine now.”

“But why, Airleas?” Gwynet touched the freshly polished
blade gingerly. “Why should you have a sword at all?”

“You said it, Gwynet. I’m
Cyneric
Airleas. A Malcuim.
The
Malcuim, now. If anyone is going to retake Mertuile and pry the Stone out of
Daimhin Feich’s hands, it must be me. I
have
to do that, or I’ll never be set before the Stone.”

“Do you know how t’use it?”

“Of course. I’ve had lessons in swordplay.” He didn’t add
that they were with a much flimsier sporting blade, a blade that weighed about
a quarter what this one did. “Besides, I watched the Claeg’s men practicing at
Halig-liath. They gave me some pointers, too. Here, I’ll show you.”

Clutching the sword in both hands, Airleas moved to the
center of the little courtyard. There, he closed his eyes. The mountain
fortress dissolved away and he stood in the Great Hall of Mertuile beneath the
House banners. That was a fitting place to face Daimhin Feich, for it was here
that his father’s treacherous Durweard had taken up a crossbow with the intent
of murdering Taminy-Osmaer, while Colfre Malcuim, who should have been
defending her with his life, cowered behind his throne.

Airleas Malcuim would not cower, would not run, and would defend
Taminy-Osmaer to his last breath. He brought the sword up, saluting his
imaginary foe, then swung it in a circle over his head. The blade caught air
and sang. It was a magical sound to Airleas and his blood rose in harmony. He
danced and bobbed, following the blade around and around.

In moments, he had Feich on the run and was backing him
against a wall. Good thing, too, for his found weapon grew heavier with every
swing.

Slash!
He caught
the flat of Feich’s blade and ripped it away. Now, in for the kill.

Airleas lunged, his feet sliding on the stone foundation at
the bottom of the kitchen steps. Over-balanced, he pitched face first onto the
stone risers, releasing the sword in a desperate effort to catch himself. He
sprawled on the steps, bruising body and spirit. He heard Gwynet squeal, but
the sound of the sword striking stone never came. What he heard, instead, was
laughter—loud, raucous laughter.

He scrambled to his feet, rubbing his bruised elbows.
Another boy stood above him on the kitchen steps, shaking with laughter, the
sword propped carelessly on one shoulder.

Bristling at the open mockery in the tawny eyes, Airleas
gathered his Malcuim dignity and held out his hands. “May I have my sword
back?”

“
Your
sword? And
where would a midge like you come by a weapon like this?”

“It’s mine.”

The boy lowered the sword and gave it a careful glance.
“This is a Hillwild blade, midge. Made at Moidart, by the crest.” His thumb
brushed a design worked into the blade just below the hilt. “No one gives a boy
a weapon like this. I’ll just take it back to the armory where it belongs.”

Stung, Airleas lunged, his hands grasping, but the larger
boy was quicker. He leapt from the steps, landing behind Airleas in the yard . . . still laughing.

Airleas spun on him. “Give me the sword! It’s mine. I found
it.”

“You’ll never make a decent swordsman if you give up your
moves in your eyes like that. That ogre you were play-fighting almost got the
best of you, midge. You’re lucky I came along.”

“It wasn’t an ogre. And I only lost my footing. Give me back
the sword.”

“Sorry, midge.” The boy turned to go, the sword flung over
his shoulder as though it weighed nothing at all.

“Don’t you know who I am?”

The boy paused. “Ah, let me guess—you’re the Ren Morgant of
Moidart in disguise. I’d pictured you as a larger man, Ren . . . and older.”

“I’m Airleas Malcuim—Cyneric of Caraid-land. Head of my
House. Son of Cyne Colfre Malcuim and Cwen Toireasa. And you will give me that
sword.” He put all the authority he could behind that.

The taller boy merely looked amused. “So, you’re the Malcuim
brat. Well,
Cyneric
. All the more
reason for me to keep this dangerous toy. I’m sure our good Ren Catahn’d be
madder’n a treed catamount if one of his royal guests got nicked up.”

Chuckling, he resumed his journey cross-court toward the
covered flight of narrow steps Airleas had descended earlier.

Uncertain, Airleas glanced aside at Gwynet. She still stood
by the bench, her face radiating amazement. His pretensions to Malcuim dignity
evaporated. Gwynet was the only person he knew who looked up to him. The only
one in all of Airdnasheen who treated his station as if it mattered. To look
foolish before Gwynet . . .

The young Cyneric launched himself at his adversary’s
retreating back, catching him not quite unawares. The boy flung the sword away
and met him face to face, falling beneath him in a grapple of arms and legs.
Gwynet squealed again and was silent.

Airleas knew more of wrestling than he did of swordplay,
which was fortunate, because the enemy was a strapping lad who left the young
Malcuim only the advantages of quickness and flexibility. He used them as best
he could, managing to trip his opponent and get a lock on his neck before
superior strength sent him flying end over end.

Snarling and snapping like wild foxes, they met again,
struggling and straining one to fell the other, ending up again in a scrabble
of arms and legs. Airleas got another neck hold and wove his legs with the
other’s, pinning him. It gave him a moment of respite in which to wonder how one
determined a winner in these affairs.

A hand on his collar rendered the quandary academic. Airleas
found himself dangling well above the ground, glaring into his adversary’s
dunnish eyes. The two boys were at once separated and connected by the same
things—a pair of huge arms and a broad expanse of chest.

“Hold, both of you!” The roar of the Ren Catahn’s voice was
enough to rattle Airleas’s teeth. “What in the name of all holy are you about,
Broran Hageswode? Have you no idea who you’re scrapping with?”

Airleas’s feet touched down, but the hand on his collar
stayed.

“Says he’s Cyneric of Caraid-land,” snarled Broran, trying
to shake hair from his eyes.

“Happens, he
is
Cyneric of Caraid-land,” Catahn agreed. “A cousin of yours, too, a few dams
removed. It won’t do to assassinate your blood relations.” He set Broran down.
“Now what’s this about a sword?”

“Here, master. This is the sword.”

Airleas and Catahn both turned. Behind them, Gwynet stood,
the Moidart blade clutched in two hands. Its point dug into the dirt between
her feet, the sword was taller than she was.

“Airleas found it in an old leather bag in the stable,
master. He wanted to use it to retake Mertuile.”

Catahn was surprised into a sharp laugh, Broran sniggered,
and Airleas thought he would sink into the earth.

Still smiling, the Hillwild Ren fetched the weapon from
Gwynet’s hands, lifting it easily with one of his own. “Well, Cyneric Airleas,
I once had similar thoughts about this sword. Oh, not that I’d take Mertuile
with it, but that it’d prove I was battle-ready. That I was a man just in the
having of it. But I stole it, you see, so it proved nothing of the sort.”

“You
stole
it!”
repeated Airleas.

“Aye. I was of an age with you boys, head full of tales I’d
heard about the Battle of the Banner, aching to prove myself a hero. Round
about that time, we had a bit of trouble with the Deasach. My Aunt, who was
Renec then, took me over to Moidart to a Council. While I was there, at loose
ends and looking for trouble to get at, I saw this sword. It belonged to the
daughter of the Ren Gaineamh. Her name was Geatan. She was thirteen and she’d
just celebrated the Crask-an-Bana. I thought her the most beautiful, brave and
wonderful woman I’d ever seen.

“I snuck the sword from her room, leaving a thistle-rose in
its place, and I thought of a grand scheme. With Geatan’s sword, I’d take up
arms against the southern harriers and become a hero to my people. Then I’d be
worthy to take the Crask-an-duine and then, once I was a proven man—
then
I’d ask young Geatan to marry me.
And, of course, I’d make a grand gesture of returning her sword.”

“But you didn’t,” Gwynet observed.

“Well, the theft was noticed, which should’ve been no
surprise to me, and the talk of her parents about it chilled me so, I decided I
must try to put it back. But I couldn’t. There were guards everywhere I turned
that night and the next morning we were bound for Airdnasheen. I carried the
sword home, knowing I’d never be able to use it, and feeling an idiot. I buried
the damn thing at the bottom of that grain bin over twenty years ago. I figured
never to see it again.”

“Might she forgive you if you returned it now?”

Catahn’s eyes seemed to lose their focus momentarily. “Oh,
that lady’s long dead, Gwynet. She died when our daughter was twelve years old.
I never did tell her about the sword, though she might’ve known, she was that
fey. I suppose Desary should have it, now.”

Airleas’s heart sank. “What would Desary do with a sword?”
he asked.

Catahn’s brows rose. “Fight, if the occasion arose. Of course,
she already has one of her own . . .”

Airleas took his eyes from the weapon only long enough to
let them plead with Catahn.

The Ren ignored him, glanced from one boy to the other and
asked, “Why were you fighting over this?”

“He,” said Airleas, glaring at Broran, “tried to take it
away from me.”

Catahn turned to Broran. “Why did you do that?”

“He was like to have killed himself, Lord. He was dancing
all over with it, slash and bash, and barely able to hold it up. I was afraid
he was going to hurt himself. I was coming to bring it to you when he jumped
me.”

Catahn grinned. “Yes, and it appeared Gwynet brought me none
too soon. The Cyneric had you at a loss. Now, I’ll be taking this sword with
me. And I want no more fighting between you boys. Broran, I’m sure you’ve got
duties. Airleas and Gwynet, you’d best attend to your studies.”

Catahn left the courtyard with the sword in hand; Airleas
followed it with his eyes until he could no longer see it.

Nor was his longing lost on Broran. Grinning, the Hillwild
brat dusted off his jacket and saluted Airleas with a mocking bow. “Pardon,
Cyneric Midge, but as my lord says, I’ve duties.”

Cyneric Midge
.
Airleas wanted to rage and make Broran take back the taunt, but at the moment,
it was all he could do not to cry.

oOo

I feel I should
speak of time, but time has lost its meaning. So, I will not say we have been
here for so many days, weeks, months. (Can it have been months?) But the
seasons progress here, and that has meaning.

Autumn in Nairne meant
crisp mornings and evenings, balmy-cool days, the smell of sun-drying leaves
and harvest. There is little to harvest here and the trees never lose their
glossy needles. Here, there is only the pulling to of shutters and the
delicate, chilled fragrance of pine. The wind howls up the passes below
Airdnasheen and whistles through the spires above the Ren Catahn’s fortress,
and I hear winter in the song.