Crystal Rose (46 page)

oOo

For two days Iseabal had slept, rocked in the luxurious
confines of her gaudy little wagon. She had wakened hungry once and been given
some corn cakes and honey with hot tea. Some part of her registered that the
food was delicious and nourishing, but she didn’t care. She was exhausted of
mind and body, drained of spirit. On the second evening, early, she woke again,
sensing the stillness of the wagon and the bustle of activity around it. She
gathered her senses, pulled them back from some half-lucid dream in which she
walked the woods and hills of home, unfettered and cleansed.

The wagon rocked gently and someone parted the rearward
curtains and entered. It was not the solid Feich matron who had been tending
her; the silhouette was too slender and decidedly male.

She tensed, jerking upright on her fleece-covered mattress.

The figure raised a hand. “Please, don’t take fright. It’s
only me—Sorn.”

She relaxed, but only slightly. The young Deasach had
visited her once at Mertuile. She had been terrified of him at first, but the
warm voice had soothed her and she had sat with him at the fireside, drinking
mulled cider and talking. He had told wonderful stories of his boyhood in the
court of his father, of his sister’s coronation upon the loss of their parents
in a storm at sea, of his falcon and pet lynx. She, in turn, had spoken of
Nairne and her family, of Taminy and Aine. He had seemed pleased to listen. The
cider had the potency of wine and she carried no memory beyond the warm fire
and Sorn’s watchful black eyes.

“Poor child,” he said now. He’d called her that before, too,
though he was not more than a year or two older than she. “Poor child, you look
spent. Shall I leave you to sleep?”

“I only just woke,” she said. “I’ve slept for days, I
think.”

“Then you must be hungry, yes?” At her nod, “I’ll have
dinner set out for you in my tent. First, you must refresh yourself. A bath,
yes? A hot bath. Scented with the petals of desert roses. Would you like that?”

“I would, thank you. Is . . . is Daimhin Feich . . . ?”

Sorn came closer to the edge of her pallet, his long,
slender fingers prying hers from the fleece covering she unwittingly wrung.

“No, no, dear Iseabal. I have saved you from Feich. He will
trouble you no more—I swear it.”

She didn’t believe him for a moment. Surely there was
nowhere in the universe where Daimhin Feich was not. He was even in her dreams,
turning them to nightmares. She had all but suffocated her aidan in fear of his
loathsome touch—in fear that he could truly turn it to his own use.

“You try to trick me. He’s here.”

He gripped her hands more tightly. “No! I promise you, he is
not. Listen, Iseabal—I made a bargaining with Feich. The aid of the Deasach I
made in part dependent on his granting me your care. You are in my keeping now,
Iseabal. Feich is set on other aims. If you touch my mind, you’ll see I tell
the truth. Trust me, Iseabal. Am I not speaking truly?”

He sat beside her, silent for a moment and, at last, she put
out a tiny feeler of the aidan. Feich . . . was ahead of them on the shore rode,
riding post haste to El-Deasach.

She made herself relax. “Feich will reach El-Deasach before
we do.”

He nodded. “By days, perhaps. By the time we reach my
sister’s capitol, he will be so busy with his great plans he will not even
notice you.” He put a hand to her face. “He will not lay hands on you again.”

She put her hand over his in a wave of gratitude. “Thank
you. I’m in your debt.”

“He terrifies you so?”

She shuddered. Terror was such a weak word when it came to
Feich and his appetites. She had only just ceased to feel bruised and torn.

Sorn was reading her face in the twilight leaking through
the curtains behind him. He shook his head. “A monster, that one. I will try to
help you exorcise his demon. You are an open wound. I promise you this: in my
hands, you will heal.”

She was bathed in scented water, dressed in a soft billowing
gown of pale saffron silk with a warm felt overcoat of cinnamon, and taken to a
black tent at the heart of the camp. It was a large tent. It was clearly
intended for more than one person, yet Sorn Saba was its only occupant. Upon a carpet
of thick fleeces, lay a single, low pallet, its mattress thick and soft.

It was there they sat before a large, brass brazier and ate
spicy Deasach food and drank spicy Deasach karfa. The tent was golden with
lamplight and ornamentation—a mask and odd dancing figurines. The warmed air
smelled pleasantly of food and spice and incense from the coals. They spoke, at
length, of many things. She asked about the golden mask and figurines and Sorn
told her of ancient ritual and belief. This was his father’s death mask, and
these, his family’s patron spirit, Jamla, known for her grace and passion on
the battlefield, in the dance, in love. Sorn had added this last, glancing at
her shyly.

Fruit was brought and wine, which Iseabal refused; the
waljan did not drink intoxicants, she explained, but the karfa was
lovely—wonderful. He ordered that a fresh pot be brought. The evening passed
gently, pleasantly—but the honeyed fruit and hot karfa seemed to take its toll
on Isha’s reserves of energy. Heavy-eyed and heavy-headed she heard less and
less of what Sorn said, understood her own answers not at all.

He, solicitous, massaged her hands, her neck and shoulders,
speaking to her softly all the while in that sweet, warm, patient voice. His
mother used to massage his aching muscles, he told her.

She could name no point at which she realized her senses
were no longer hers to command, when she knew the fruit and the karfa—possibly
all the food—had been laced with intoxicants, though none as potent as Sorn’s
voice, gently ordering her body to comply with his. She knew only that in the
end, what Sorn Saba required from her was no different than what Feich
demanded. It was less painfully gotten, that was all.

Sometime in the black of night, she came back to herself and
was lost immediately to confusion. Chaos broke like ocean waves beyond the
black walls of the tent, bearing a flotsam of curses, cries and the metallic
clash of swords.

Beside her, Sorn jerked to awareness, scrambling for
clothing. His hand fell heavily on her shoulder.

“Light!” he whispered urgently. “Make light! Now!” He shook
her.

Shivering with fear, she cupped her hand and brought an inyx
to mind; a tiny ball of light formed in the palm of her hand. In its glow,
Sorn’s eyes were huge and wild.

He had risen, pulled on his leggings and was scrabbling
about his saddle for a weapon when the tent flap parted admitting a swarm of
light and two men dressed in cloaks of deep crimson with edging of patterned
yellow. One stood with sword drawn, the other carried a light-globe atop a
wooden staff.

Iseabal stared, trying to comprehend who these Weavers of
light might be.

Sorn came up from a crouch, a sword in one hand and what
looked like a tiny cannon in the other. The leader of the marauders raised his
free hand.

“Put down the weapon, boy. We’ve come only for the girl.”

Far from pacifying Sorn Saba, the words inflamed him. His
face twisted in a leer of rage, he fired the little cannon. It discharged with
a roar and a flash of fire, shattering the light-globe and plunging the tent
into darkness.

Iseabal screamed as Sorn leapt upon her, pressing her to his
side. She felt cold metal at her throat.

“Hex them!” he cried. “Set a spell on them!”

Movement ceased and a voice out of the dark said, “Iseabal,
I am Rodri Madaidh. I mean no harm to you. Here is my proof.”

From the place where the voice rose a light appeared in the
shape of a star—a gytha—on the palm of this stranger’s hand.

Seeing it, Iseabal sobbed in relief—but her relief was
short-lived. Sorn’s sword bit into her neck and his body shook with fear and
rage. His intention was clear.

She raised her marked palm to his face. A flash of Eibhilin
fire flared from it. Sorn cried out and flinched, and Iseabal twisted away from
him, purple flames dancing before her eyes. His sword lashed the darkness where
she had been, and in a sudden flurry of motion, blade met blade.

Sobbing, Iseabal cringed by the tent wall, listening to the
sounds of a battle that was over almost as soon as it had begun. When another
light-globe was at last brought into the tent, Sorn Saba lay dead upon its
carpeted floor, his blood soaking the fleeces.

Iseabal could only sit and stare at his body until Rodri
Madaidh came to her side, his bloodied sword sheathed. He placed a cloak about
her and knelt at her side.

“I’m sorry, child,” he said. “I hadn’t meant to kill him.”

“I thought he was a friend,” Iseabal murmured irrelevantly.

The Madaidh encircled her trembling shoulders with his arm
and brought her to her feet.

“Even the aidan can be lied to,” he observed, “as it also
can lie. Now, we must be away from here. Your Mistress is anxious for your
return.”

Beware, beware that you
never seek revenge, even against those who cry for your life’s blood. Beware,
again, that you offend not anyone, even if he is wicked or wishes you harm.
Never look upon the souls, turn your eyes to their Creator. Never look down at
the dust; look upward, instead, and see the brilliance of the Sun, which causes
even the darkest earth to gleam with light.

—Utterances of the Osraed Gartain, #27

The city of Kansbar glittered like a jewel between beach
and sandy hills. It was a city of light—polished stone of red, white, gray and
gold gleamed from the facade of every major building. With evening, the streets
warmed with illumination cast from bowls of liquid fire ensconced on the walls
of buildings or hanging from metal posts.

Daimhin Feich had been entranced by its beauty for the first
several hours he and his entourage gazed upon it from a balcony in the palace
of Deasach’s ruling family, but, as he awaited the presence of Lilias Saba, the
beauty cloyed and he felt only impatience.

He and Ruadh and their contingent of elders had been ushered
to a room of such alien opulence as to make Mertuile, sumptuous as it was, pale
in comparison. There they had been stabled for hours, fed on strange dishes by
elegant servants, waiting for the Banarigh Lilias to greet them.

When Feich was certain he must begin making rude demands or
go mad, her castellan arrived to usher them into the throne room—if it could be
called that, for there was no throne, only a dais with a billowing couch and an
extravagance of pillows, all wildly colored. There was no one on the colorful
cloud, and Feich found he once more had time to admire the chamber and take in
its opulence.

It struck him then, as he eyed banners and streamers and
garlands of rich-hued silk against snow white and sand walls, that this was
exactly the sort of tactic he would use to deal with those he wished to impress
with both his riches and his arrogance. The thought aroused equal parts
irritation and amusement and he laughed aloud, drawing odd looks from his own
party and the palace guards as well.

The Banarigh entered then, and Daimhin Feich’s hilarity died
in his throat. In this room of dancing color, she was a dark, mysterious
jewel—a jet, an onyx. The gown she wore was the black of a starling’s wing,
shimmering from emerald to amethyst with her every move, making it appear that
her waist-length hair carried the same shifting colors. As she mounted the dais
and sat upon her couch, Feich realized that, through some artful use of dye, it
did.

She was smiling at him, acknowledging the bold caress of his
eyes. Her full lips parted in a gesture that suggested thirst and she said, in
a voice like dark, red wine, “You are Daimhin Feich.”

All others were excluded from that gaze and Feich gladly let
them fade. “I am, and I have no need to assure myself that you are the Raven.
Your portrait—I carry it with me—cannot but insult you. It lies in saying you
are merely beautiful.”

She laughed—a deep, throaty ripple of sound that heated
Feich’s ears. “Flatterer.”

“I would love to flatter you more, Raven, but we have come
on an errand of great urgency.”

She held up one bronze hand. “Do you need these others to
speak of your urgency, Regent Feich?”

He glanced at the Dearg Chieftain, the Malcuim Elder and
Ruadh. “No. Not at all.”

“Then come. Let us speak privately.”

She rose from her couch-throne and moved before him to a set
of marvelous doors inset with panes of smooth, filmy crystal. None of the
guards about the dais moved a muscle.

She turned back at the glazed doors and looked to her
castellan. “See to the comfort of my guests and their men. House the Elders in
the palace, along with such private servants as they may require.”

The man bowed smartly and moved to usher Feich’s associates
from the chamber.

Raven-Lilias was also moving again, through the doors into
the corridor beyond. Feich followed, restraining an eagerness that made his
innards tremble.

The corridor into which he passed was extraordinary. Stone,
cut to the thickness of a man’s arm, formed arches of iridescent white that
crossed and recrossed overhead as if woven by a giant’s hands. Between the
graceful arcs, through cunningly shaped glass, the night sky shone, alive with
stars. The outer wall of the corridor was made of the same transparent stuff,
and through it Feich could see the streets of Kansbar sloping away to the
moonlit sea. Along the length of this incredible, gleaming tunnel, plants of
verdant green, bearing huge, scented flowers, draped or billowed or grew
stately from polished brass containers.

Lilias the Raven began to walk along the way, beckoning
Feich to follow. “Now, speak to me, Daimhin Feich.”

Her accent was thicker than her brother’s—a thing of great
charm to her companion, who smiled at her and begged her to call him Daimhin.
She agreed with a slight inclination of her head, a shimmering rainbow ripple
of hair.