Crystal Rose (45 page)

“Now, why do you laugh? I think that’s very brave. That’s
the sort of thing Raenulf would have done. It’s the sort of thing a Cyne might
do.”

“I didn’t even have a sword, mistress! Or know how to use
one.”

“What matter? You have far greater strength than a sword
arm—I can tell.” She looked at him very directly, eyes assessing. “I have my
share of the aidan, you know. I can tell that you do, too. You’re a fountain of
it, Cyneric Airleas. Strong, like Raenulf, and brave. You’re more ready than
you think. More man than many that have made the Crask-an-duine.”

They had come to Deardru’s house by now and entered a small
fenced yard.

“I have something I want to give you, Cyneric Airleas, if
you’ll accept a gift from me.”

“I . . . What sort of gift?”

“Wait a moment and I’ll show you.”

She went ahead of him to the little house and disappeared
within while he stood in the tiny front yard, wondering at how four people
could live in a place that was no bigger than his mother’s suite of rooms at
Mertuile. He glanced up over the house’s eaves at the stark castle molded to
the mountainside. Even there, his world was extensive, if lacking in luxury.

The door swung wide and the Mistress an-Caerluel reappeared.
She held out her hand and placed in his an amulet hung on a thong of braided
hair.

“A catamount,” he murmured. “That’s the Hageswode totem.”

“Aye. It belonged to Raenulf. It will draw courage to you
and increase and preserve your valor.”

He rubbed the hair between his fingers. “Whose is this?”

She smiled. “Mine. It will bind the protection to you while
the amulet helps you focus your aidan and your courage.”

“But it was your husband’s, mistress. Are you—?”

She closed his fingers around the totem. “Take it. It should
go to another young man so like Raenulf.”

“Shouldn’t Eyslk have it?”

“Eyslk is Catahn’s now, more than she is mine. Take it, with
my blessing.”

He thanked her, amazed by the gesture, bemused by her words,
but feeling suddenly much older than his nearly thirteen years—much closer to
his Crask-an-duine.

He was standing there alone, studying his prize when someone
called his name from the lane. He looked up to see Broran by the narrow gate
and quickly settled the amulet over his head.

“The Ren Catahn is looking all over for you,” Broran
informed him when he emerged into the road. “He wants to see what you’ve
learned of swordsmanship. I think he’s got a few things he wants to show you
himself.”

Airleas caught his breath. “Do you think I’m ready to learn
from the Ren?”

Broran shrugged and began walking toward Hrofceaster. “Ready
as you’ll ever be, I reckon. You’re not bad,” he added. “You learn pretty fast.
When you want to.”

They walked for a while in silence, then Broran said, “So,
what words did the Mistress an-Caerluel have for you?”

None of your business
,
was what he wanted to say, but more than that Airleas wanted Broran’s good will
and so, he said, “She told me about her husband, Raenulf. What a brave man he
was . . .” He shrugged.

“What was it she gave you?”

Reluctantly, Airleas drew the amulet from beneath his jacket
and was rewarded when Broran’s tawny eyes nearly started out of his head.

“That’s a Hageswode totem.”

Airleas nodded. “I know. She said it would draw protection
to me and focus my courage. She said I reminded her of Raenulf Hageswode.”

Broran snorted. “You’d do better,” he said, “to focus your
brain. Courage is a grand thing, but a well-taught aidan is better and wisdom
in using it better still.”

Broran was right, of course, and Airleas could make no
comeback.

“Raenulf Hageswode,” Broran told him as if compelled to
explain his advice, “was a wild man. He cared naught for wisdom or learning or
patience or anything but danger and a good fight.”

“Catahn’s never said that of him.”

“Catahn wouldn’t, but it’s true. Catahn was always pulling him
from the fire, but Raenulf liked the heat too well. Died because of it.”

“You know so much,” Airleas remarked, half-taunting.

“Ought to. My da served with Raenulf up at Moidart. They
were cousins. Da was there when Raenulf died. Brought his body back and all.
Brought that—” He gestured at the amulet bobbing over Airleas’s breast. “—as
well, to the brave man’s widow.”

Airleas swallowed. “Catahn said he was a brave man. That he
died in battle.”

“Oh, aye, he did that. And he started the battle that killed
him. Took an encampment of Deasach corsairs in the foothills. Single-handed.”

“Single—!” Airleas gasped. “But—”

“Sought out their camp in the middle of the night and slit
two Deasach throats before the alarm was raised. Then off he ran—or tried to.
Meant to lead the corsairs back to his comrades, da figures, only he never made
it. Of course his men tried to rescue him. Three of them died too.”

Airleas bristled, not wanting Broran to be right about his
newest hero. “Says your da.”

“Says my da,” Broran repeated emphatically. “You know you
shouldn’t wear that without showing it to Taminy. Mistress an-Caerluel is no
special friend of hers . . . or Catahn’s.”

“Oh, and does your da know all about that as well?”

Broran reached out a hand and stopped him roughly. Airleas
expected the youth to mount some defense of his father, but instead, with an
expression sober as any he’d ever seen on Osraed Wyth’s face, Broran said,
“Take the amulet to Taminy, Airleas. Let her decide whether it’s a Weaving you
should carry about you.”

oOo

They had left before dawn, a long column of mounted men,
silent amid the pale jingle of bits, the creak of leather, the muted tack-tack
of cloth-wrapped hooves. Once on the beach outside Creiddylad’s west-facing Sea
Gate they had paused only long enough to unbind their horses’ feet, then moved
off smartly southward, the roar and rush of surf covering the thunder of their
movement.

Now, as the Sun climbed in the sky, they were miles from the
city, streaming south along the shore at a brisk trot. Very soon they would be
crossing Madaidh land, and Daimhin Feich gave some thought to attempting to add
some Madaidh men to his forces, but the Madaidh, he knew, were stubborn loners.
It was enough that they could be counted on for their self-serving neutrality.
They would provide a physical buffer between his forces and the Taminists in
the hills beyond Creiddylad. The aislinn buffer would be provided by Coinich
Mor.

The sound of a horse moving at a gallop through moist sand
brought Feich’s attention to the dunes along their landward flank. Beside him,
his cousin Ruadh roused himself from a near stupor and glanced away toward the
rock-strewn sands where a horseman in Feich colors had now appeared.

He grunted. “It’s Correch.”

The rider was upon them in a moment, reining in his mount
along side Ruadh. “The caravan is well away, lords,” he reported. “It rolls
over an hour behind on the cliff road. The cannon slows things up a bit.
Surely, we don’t plan to take it up into the mountains with us?”

“We won’t need it in the mountains,” Daimhin told his
kinsman. “We have stronger weapons. But I promised to return the cannon to the
Deasach, and I keep promises to prospective allies, Correch. It shows good
faith.”

Correch shrugged. “It’s nothing to me, I’m sure. As long as
it’s not holding up the main column. It only seems we might have needed it to
defend Mertuile.”

Ruadh chuckled, rubbing his eyes. “It’s not a defensive
weapon, Correch. That cannon is intended for breaching walls and laying waste
to villages. Which makes me wonder a bit why the Deasach had it cast.”

Daimhin raised his eyebrows. “To attack Caraid-land, you
suppose? You could be right. With Colfre’s militaristic designs, they may have
had reason to suspect they needed it, but I have taken steps to see that they
do not need to fear us. We will not war with the Deasach when it is better to
be their allies. Better to be on the butt end of that cannon than to stand
before its muzzle.”

Glancing ahead, he caught sight of a rune post. “We’re
almost within Madaidh lands. Prepare to run up the standards. I want them to
know who crosses their territory.”

They did mount their standards shortly after that—the
Feich’s black raven on its field of yellow and, flanking it, the Malcuim and
Dearg pennants—clasped hands on green and a red hand on a white and yellow
field respectively—but going before them was the standard Feich most wanted to
catch the Taminist eyes when at last they reached Hrofceaster. There was no
banner to play on the stiff breeze. At the top of the long, brass-jointed pole
gleamed the Star Chalice—the Cup of Cynes—from which every legitimate ruler of
Caraid-land had drunk his oath of office. Filled to the crystalline rim with
sunlight, its delicate facets overflowed, spilling rainbows into the morning
air.

Beneath it in a gold and silver casket rode the false
Osmaer. Only Daimhin Feich and a handful of his confidantes knew it was false,
and they could be trusted not to speak of it. The Madaidh would not know, nor
would the Deasach. He was riding to crown a Cyne at Airdnasheen; it remained to
be seen whether the Cyne would be Malcuim or Feich.

By late afternoon it became obvious that the Madaidh were
not interested in his train. Nor did anyone else seem to be, though they were
watched after by fishermen and villagers at times during the day. Just before
twilight, they bore inland, crossing the dunes and low hills to meet the shore
road. Ahead, still at great distance, was the seaward tail of the Gyldan-baenn
and the border between Caraid-land and El-Deasach.

They camped the night in the heart of Madaidh, but the only
word from that House was a messenger sent to assure them safe passage and
God-speed. It nettled Daimhin Feich that Rodri Madaidh could not be bothered to
visit him face to face, but Coinich Mor was there to absorb his ill humor and
offer comfort.

They were on the road the second day at dawn, and it was
just shy of mid-day when riders were seen to be approaching from the south. It
wasn’t long before the flowing black robes of Deasach corsairs could be discerned.
The handful of riders—a mere half-dozen—spurred their mounts forward along the
road, advancing on the column at a gallop.

Ruadh drew his sword and started to call up a guard, but
Daimhin stopped him with a leisurely hand.

“Stay cousin. It’s our friend, Shak Saba.”

“How can you be sure?”

Daimhin smiled, feeling the aidan’s power ripple deliciously
in his breast. “Simply know that I can. Halt the troops.”

Ruadh shouted and raised his gloved hand. Behind him, the
cavalcade came to a ragged halt. The advancing riders were upon them in
moments. As Daimhin had said, they were lead by Sorn Saba, who pulled up beside
them, a look of puzzlement on his face.

“Regent Daimhin! Why do you ride for El-Deasach? I expected
to find you at Mertuile awaiting my return.”

“Much has happened since you left, Sorn. Let us ride away a
bit and I’ll tell you of it.”

He reined his horse aside a measure of yards, Sorn Saba
following him. When they were out of earshot of the men, Daimhin pulled up and
turned to the Deasach.

“Since you left Mertuile, the Osmaer Crystal has been taken
from Creiddylad by Taminists.”

“Your Great Crystal stolen?” murmured Sorn. “But how?”

“Our Abbod turned traitor and put it into their hands. He
paid with his life, but that doesn’t answer the fact that the Stone is
gone—presumably on its way to Airdnasheen. I felt we could wait no longer. If
your sister has refused our alliance, I must seek to change her mind
personally. Tell me, Sorn, what is her answer?”

Sorn smiled. “As I suspected, she was eager to accept your
plea for alliance once I explained your situation . . . and added my own plea. Of
course, there is still the matter of the gifts . . .” His eyes swept the column,
seeking sign of the tribute.

Daimhin smiled wryly. “Of course. A matter you may take charge
of personally, if you wish. The caravan bearing my gifts to your sister . . . and
yourself . . . is some distance behind us on this road.”

The youth’s eyes gleamed. “Some distance?”

“Half-day’s ride, no more. The cannon determined their
pace.”

Sorn grinned. “I suppose I shall just have to take charge of
the train and see if I can speed it up a bit. Half-day’s journey, you say.”

“Perhaps less.”

“Then I shall be with the beautiful Iseabal tonight in my
black tent. I will show her paradise,” he promised.

Daimhin chuckled. “That ought to provide her a welcome
change. I imagine she’s weary of her tour of hell.”

“Surely, you belittle your own charm, friend Daimhin.”

“Charm? I made no attempt to show her any.”

The boy made a clucking sound with his tongue. “An oversight,
my friend. One may often have by charm what he cannot take by force.”

The remark echoed in Daimhin Feich’s head long after Sorn
Saba and his men had galloped away toward Creiddylad with a Feich escort. Even
now he felt suspicion curl in the back of his mind.

Perhaps he had let the young Deasach fool him. Perhaps the
boy had hidden fey powers of his own and had manipulated Feich into letting the
girl go. Perhaps the boy would now draw from her the power he had been denied . . . and perhaps he was just overly full of suspicion. Sorn Saba’s philosophical
comment might have been just that—the romantic rumination of a lusty young man.
Still, Daimhin Feich could not help but hear words behind the words and
wondered if the Deasach fancied himself able to charm from
Iseabal-a-Nairnecirke something more than willing surrender to his lovemaking.

When they camped tonight, he decided, he would ask Coinich
Mor if there was any way he could know for certain.