Crystal Rose (44 page)

“Can’t, Aine Red? Can’t? I didn’t think you knew the word.
If we leave them here, they’ll surely be killed.”

They freed every prisoner in the Mertuile gaol block. And
Aine did cloak them through lamplit halls and dark, past guards and guests and
gatekeepers. She did not think about those left behind until she and Saefren
and their two dozen or so charges were safe on the dark wharves above
Saltbridge.

Later, as they took secret passage upriver in boats piloted
by the father and brothers of a Carehouse Aelder Prentice, her mind and heart
flew to them—Abbod Ladhar, whose secret dungeon they could not find, and
Iseabal, whose own body now served as a prison. Sitting at the rail, staring
sightlessly over the black flow of the Halig-tyne, Aine did not even realize
tears were falling till a hand brushed them from her cheek. She blinked and
looked up into Saefren Claeg’s face.

“For Iseabal?” he asked and she nodded. He crouched next to
her at the rail. “She told you the Meri would take care of her, you said.”

Again, she nodded.

“Then it seems to me you must believe her.” He put a hand on
her shoulder, its warmth melting through the fog-damp layers of her clothing.
“Have faith, Aine.”

He have the shoulder a squeeze, then turned his eyes out to
the river.

She followed suit, wondering a little that he should be
consoling her with advice on faith.

“Oh, and thank you,” he murmured, eyes still on the water.

“Welcome,” she whispered and laid her head wearily on the
rail.

oOo

Sleep. Dear God, but he wanted sleep. Long ago he’d ceased
to feel his legs and feet and the water had spread through his clothing like
oil through a wick, chilling him to the marrow. What parts of him were not numb
ached horribly.

When the water had risen to his chest he had been forced to
stand. His legs had barely held him then; his sodden clothing freighted him
down, the chains he wore tugged at him, there was no wall for him to lean
against. It had been almost a relief when the water level reached his chest a
second time—it had at least buoyed him up somewhat.

Now he sat as the icy liquid fled, knowing he could not
survive another high tide. He had prayed much, wondered if the Taminists had
had sufficient time to escape or hide, and strove to make his peace with God.
He could now admit he did not understand all that had transpired since
Taminy-a-Cuinn had been brought to Creiddylad. He now realized he had been swept
along on the currents of events he could in no way control—like this insidious,
freezing tide he was powerless to stop from sucking the life out of him. What a
petty conceit to think he was master of his fate or anyone else’s. He was not.

He pondered his own actions, realizing he had been at least
in part responsible for Daimhin Feich’s rise to power.

Responsible, too, perhaps, for Cyne Colfre’s death. A death
he now suspected had been at Feich’s hand. He wondered if, in warning Fhada of
Feich’s intention to raid Carehouse, he had paid on his debt of sin or added to
it.

“Do you doubt that choice, Ladhar?”

He looked up. The Osraed Bevol sat, not three feet away,
perched, it seemed, on a jag of native rock—or perched above it in the ether.
He shimmered within an Eibhilin veil, his Meri Kiss bright as the first evening
star. And what surprised Ladhar most of all was his own lack of surprise at
seeing him.

“Ah, Shade, so you now haunt this spot, do you?”

“No more than you do.”

“I’m chained here by these.” Ladhar raised his wrist
manacles, rattling the chains that anchored him to the floor. “What binds
you
here?” He glanced around, uneasily,
certain the receding water would reveal Bevol’s mouldering corpse.

“My body? You won’t find it. It’s gone the way of all flotsam.”
The spirit, if that’s what it was, inclined its head toward the outer wall of
the dungeon. “Well, there may be a few bits left. The grating down below is a
bit clogged in places.”

Ladhar blanched, though he doubted he could become much more
bloodless. “This is the effect of exposure, I suppose,” he murmured, “or
hunger. Perhaps both.”

“You are what binds me here, as you put it,” Bevol told him.
“You’re still uncertain that what you did for Fhada and his companions was the
Meri’s will and pleasure.”

“Surely you understand my uncertainty.”

“I do. But be consoled, Ladhar. It was what you were
purposed to do. It was a great act of compassion and faith.”

Ladhar’s shivers were soul deep now and had nothing to do
with the cold. “On your word, I’m to accept this? On the say so of an
apostate’s ghost, I’m to believe that aiding Taminy-a-Cuinn and her brood of
heretics is my Mistress’ pleasure? And what, further—that Taminy is . . . the
Sign of the Meri among us?”

“Not on my word, brother. On the word of the water.” A
spectral hand gestured at the smooth, dark expanse between them—a surface in
which he cast no reflection, gleaming though he seemed to be.

Before Ladhar could respond—dear Meri, but his brain was
slow—the ghostly Bevol was gone.

The word of the water? Ladhar shivered, yawned and peered
down into the glassy flood. His own face peered up at him from the briny
mirror. A face lit by its own light—an emerald star fixed at the center of its
ample brow.

He marveled. It was decades since it had been so bright. He
recalled the words of the Taminist girl whose life he had spared—that she had
known the Taminist Osraed by their Meri Kisses.

“Like your own, sir,” she’d said, “but golden.”

Something warm and moist trickled down his cheek. He pressed
numb fingers to his brow and remembered mornings he had looked in the mirror
and barely been able to see it. He took a deep, pain-wracked breath.

“A benediction?” he asked the darkness. “Am I absolved?”

The tide sucked at him, gurgled among the rocks, hissed
through the grating. When he had despaired of an answer, Bevol’s voice came to
him again: “Sleep, Ladhar. You’ve earned your rest.”

oOo

“At dawn?” Ruadh wasn’t sure he’d heard his cousin right.
He blinked at him blearily and shivered in the cold of his room. “That’s only
hours away.”

“I’m well aware,” Daimhin told him. “I said dawn—I meant
dawn. I trust you’ll be fit enough to lead your men?”

“Yes, of course, I’ll be fit. But . . . you can’t have heard
from Sorn Saba yet.”

“We’ve no time and no choice, Ruadh. Ladhar is dead and that
mewling cleirach hasn’t been able to find the Stone at Ochanshrine, so I must
assume the Taminists have it and it’s on its way to Hrofceaster. I’ve lost
Claeg—obviously through Taminist Weavings—and my pretty guest’s Eibhilin powers
seem to have dried up. We’ve no recourse but to go to El-Deasach.”

“But the Banarigh—”

“Has either said ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ If it’s ‘yes,’ we get on the
trail with her reinforcements that much faster. If it’s ‘no,’ then I can
personally change her mind.”

Ruadh grimaced. “So certain, are you?”

“I’m certain I’ve nothing to gain by hanging about here,
waiting for the spring thaw. We ride to El-Deasach.”

“What of Creiddylad?”

“It will be held well enough by a minimum force. We’ll leave
most of the Malcuim men, about half the Dearg, and enough of our own to hold
Mertuile. Put your best lieutenant in charge of the garrison here. Elder Maslin
will be in residence, so he’ll likely want some of his own men about as well.”
Daimhin quirked an eyebrow at his cousin. “Does that meet with your approval,
Marschal?”

“Aye. Seems logical enough.” Truth to tell, Ruadh was glad
not to have had to think it out for himself.

“But . . . ?”

“I only wonder if . . .” Ruadh was reluctant to voice his
thoughts. “I wonder if you shouldn’t seek some compromise with the Taminists.
Bring Airleas Malcuim home on their—”

“No compromise!” Daimhin smote the table where Ruadh sat
huddled in his night clothes. “The Osmaer will be mine! Both the woman and her
namesake.”

Ruadh winced and rubbed his temples. “And when they are
yours?”

Daimhin straightened and moved to warm his hands at the
meager blaze in the chamber hearth. “I’ve been giving that much thought. It
occurs to me that I might consolidate my hold on Mertuile if I were to marry
the widowed Cwen.”

Ruadh shook his head . . . slowly. “You think Toireasa will
have you?”

“I think,” Daimhin said, fingering Bloodheart’s leather
pouch, “she will be enchanted with the idea.”

“I’ve heard she’s barren.”

“Taminy has healed worse conditions.”

“You
have
been
giving this thought, haven’t you? Of course, once your heir is of educable age,
I suppose Airleas Malcuim’s life will be worthless.”

Daimhin smiled at him over one shoulder. “I haven’t thought
quite that far ahead,” he said, then let the smile fall. “See to it that your
men are ready to march at dawn.”

And when my lovers ask you
about Me, then know that I am near. I hear the prayer of those that cry to Me.
Let them hear My Voice and trust in Me. And let them be led aright.

—Osraed Ochan
Book of the Covenant #99

Today Airleas’s solitary walk fetched him up in Airdasheen
again, gazing around at the snow-covered roofs of the clutter of houses and
tiny shops. There were no streets as such in the village, but only narrow
avenues paved with slate or granite block that converged on a central village
circle. In the warmer seasons there was an open air market here; now there was
only a large patch of snow much used by the village children.

Airleas watched them cavort among the drifts, building them
up and exploding them gleefully in turns. They glanced at him cautiously, never
full on, making him feel alien. He turned away, breathing deeply of the frosty,
smoke-laden air and caught a whiff of something baking. The aroma drew him
across the village circle to the Backstere’s shop, the carefree laughter of the
children following him.

The shop was warm and smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg and
apples and . . . He gave up trying to catalogue the smells and drank in the
wonderful, if limited, array of buns and breads and little cakes.

From behind a long table in the center of the front room,
the Backstere smiled at his visitor. “Fresh cinnamon baps today, lad,” he said.

Airleas liked that—“lad.” It made him feel . . . normal. He
grinned at the Backstere. “I’d like two of those, please, and a sugar cake.”

He held out a handful of coins, which the Backstere took
after a moment of hesitation. Airleas gathered up his prizes, stuffed the baps
in his pocket and began nibbling on the sugar cake. The door opened behind him,
letting a draft of cold air into the shop and jingling the little silver bell
tied to the latch. He turned to see Eyslk’s mother, a basket on her arm.

Seeing him, the mistress an-Caerluel smiled and inclined her
head. “Good-day, lord.”

“Good-day, mistress,” he said and found that he also liked
being called “lord.”

Mistress an-Caerluel bid the Backstere good-day and
conducted her business with him, trading eggs and herbs for baked goods. Then
she turned her attention to Airleas once again.

“Are you enjoying your stay here, lord?”

Enjoying? Airleas had never thought of his tenure here as
something to be enjoyed as much as something to be suffered.

“There are things I like about Airdnasheen,” he admitted
diplomatically. “But . . . I wish I could do more.”

“Do more?” repeated Deardru, her dark eyes glinting
humorously. “What might a boy your age do more of?”

Airleas drew himself up, mustering his dignity. “I’m
Cyneric, mistress. I should be doing more to . . . to take back my father’s
throne—to set things right in Caraid-land.”

Deardru smiled and shook her head. “How like my first
husband you are. Raenulf was ever ready to rise up and defend the land of his
ancestors—single-handedly, if necessary.”

“You speak of Raenulf Hageswode, mistress? The Ren Catahn’s
elder brother?”

“Aye. He was a brave man. A brave boy, too.” She smiled
again. “Like you.”

Airleas flushed at the praise. “How old was he at his
Crask-an-duine?”

Deardru began moving toward the door, drawing Airleas with
her smile. “Well, let me see.” She opened the door, letting in a gust of chill
wind, and stepped out into the snow with Airleas at her heels. “I was thirteen
at the time; I suppose he must have been almost fourteen. I’ll never forget how
proud of him I was. I knew he would be my husband even then.”

“Almost fourteen,” Airleas murmured. “Older than I am.
Catahn was only twelve when he did it. I guess that’s why he’s Ren.”

Deardru’s face clouded momentarily. “Raenulf was . . . more
headstrong than Catahn. He was a man of action. Where Catahn was inclined to
sit and think and agonize over his decisions, Raenulf was impulsive, even as a
boy. The village elders and the holt Council thought him brash, even cocky. He
wasn’t. He was merely braver than they were, more willing to take risks for
what he believed in.” She glanced at Airleas obliquely. “I imagine you’re a bit
like that—ready and willing to fight for what you believe to be true. Ready to
act on your beliefs.”

“I am,” said Airleas. “I am ready to fight—to take action,
only . . .”

“Only?”

Airleas studied the sloping, snow-covered lane that led
toward Deardru-an-Caerluel’s house. How to put it into words . . .

“Only I’m not really ready yet. Not for the kind of fight
I’ll need to wage.”

Deardru’s eyebrows rose. “Who tells you this?”

“Well, Catahn and Osraed Wyth and mother and . . . and Taminy.”

She shook her head. “So little faith they have in you?”

“Oh no, it’s not that. I’m not ready. I’ve so much to
learn—from all of them. I used to think about sneaking away. I even tried it
once. I was going to make my way to Creiddylad—raise an army on my way.” He
laughed.