Crystal Rose (9 page)

He shivered, eyes darting. Had he heard those words or
imagined them?

In their feverish dance, his eyes caught a gleam of light to
the south, high over the Gyldan-baenn. He fixed on it, and before he had taken
two breaths, the light blossomed into a thing that was both crystal and rose
and yet neither. Golden, the spreading, translucent petals dripped glory onto
the tops of the mountains, strewing the snowy peaks with Eibhilin wealth.

Leal puzzled. Where was this? He tried to distinguish the
mountains, number them, name them, but they remained huge, dark and anonymous
beneath the spreading splendor. He remembered Catahn Hillwild and tried to
recall where his capitol lay among those titanic shapes, but could not.

Fhada! Fhada would know. If he could only wake.

Wake! He willed his eyes to open.

Wake!
He tried to
conjure a bright sunrise, a splash of cold water.

WAKE!

He sat up abruptly, brain reeling from the sudden charge of
warm energy that flushed him. The room was not dark, for someone stood beside
his bed with a lamp.

He blinked. No. There was someone by his bed, but there was
no lamp. The light he saw radiated from the figure itself.

He choked, suddenly unable to breathe. “Taminy! Mistress!”

She raised a radiant hand. “Peace, Lealbhallain.”

He felt peace. Like warm water, like soft sunlight, it
poured over him. He smiled.

“I’m sending you someone,” she said, and in that moment, he
saw Aine-mac-Lorimer as clearly as if she stood before him. A wash of
indecipherable sensation came with the vision. “Listen to her. Learn what she
has to teach. Teach her what she must learn . . . Be patient with her. She comes
with the Claeg.”

“Wha—?” Leal’s eyes stared into complete darkness. He was
surprised to find himself still lying flat on his back on his low pallet in his
room at Carehouse. Windowless, the chamber admitted daylight only through a
narrow aperture high on the western wall. In a flutter of stunned blinks, that
feature appeared as a gray, poorly defined rectangle. In the meager light, Leal
could see the solid shapes of his sparse furnishings.

He suspected it was near dawn, but it hardly mattered.
Regardless of the time, Fhada must be told of the aislinn. Leal scrambled to
find his boots and coat and hurried to the elder Osraed’s room. It took several
moments of tapping before a groggy Fhada let him in.

“Taminy-Osmaer has left Halig-liath,” he blurted, before
he’d even cleared the door.

“She—what? How-how do you know this?”

“I had a dream. An aislinn. She’s gone to the Gyldans.”

“Hush!” Fhada pulled Leal completely into the chamber and
shut the door firmly behind him. “Are you certain?”

Leal nodded emphatically—flopping unruly red hair
into his eyes—and rubbed his coated arms against a frenetic chill. The aislinn
still held him, rattling his teeth and quivering his innards.

“I saw the Crystal Rose high over the mountains. Then
Taminy, herself, appeared to me and told me she was sending Aine-mac-Lorimer to
Creiddylad to teach us.”

“To teach us what?” asked Fhada.

Leal scraped the suddenly empty insides of his mind. “I . . .
I’m not sure . . . No, wait. Yes! So we might speak with her as clearly as we
speak to each other now.”

The older Osraed peered at him in the mellow light of his
single light-bowl, then threw back his head and laughed. “My dear Leal, I hope
it’s somewhat clearer than that!”

oOo

Leal came down to breakfast to find an unusually somber
Osraed Fhada sitting in the small refectory, staring from the window. His tea
mug, clutched in both hands, was quickly losing the heat of its contents to the
chilly room.

“Your tea’s getting cold,” Leal told him when he sat down
with his breakfast some minutes later.

Fhada’s eyes dropped to the cup; Leal wasn’t sure he
actually saw it. “Daimhin Feich paid a visit to Ochanshrine yesterday,” he
said.

Leal set down his spoon. “And?”

“According to Osraed Eadmund, he entered the Shrine and
displayed some interest in the Stone.”

“Interest?” Leal shrugged. “He’s an unbeliever. What
interest could he possibly have in it, other than as a means of coronation?”

“He didn’t mention a coronation, at least not in Eadmund’s
hearing. He did express concern that the Crystal seemed . . . lifeless, dark. He
evidently regards it as a powerful talisman, regardless of his disbelief in its
spiritual significance.”

“But that . . .” Leal shook his head. “That’s
good
 . . . isn’t it?”

Fhada made wry face. “I’m not sure. Whether he believes in
the Stone may not be so critical as that he knows
we
believe in it. Eadmund said the Abbod seemed distressed over
Feich’s interest in the Stone. Perhaps he also sees the threat inherent in the
situation.”

“You mean that Feich might contrive to use our belief
against us—the way he did with Cyne Colfre? The Stone could . . . could become
his hostage.” Lealbhallain found it suddenly difficult to breathe. “Eadmund said
Osraed Ladhar seemed distressed . . . surely he can be counted on to protect the
Stone.”

“Can he? Can we be sure of that?”

Fhada left his stool and moved to dispose of his cold tea.
He poured himself another cup from the eternally steaming pot on the stove.

“Ladhar went with Feich to Halig-liath in pursuit of Taminy.
He’s a politically astute man. He knows what his presence at Feich’s side
implies: that the Osraed are acknowledging Feich’s right to be where he
is—ensconced in Mertuile. Leading what’s left of the Cyne’s forces. Placing the
Chalice on his battle standard.”

Leal glanced down at his cooling porridge. It no longer
seemed appetizing. “I must believe that what binds Ladhar to Feich is a shared
hatred of Taminy. A-a desire for order. If Ladhar is not acting out of loyalty
to the Covenant—as he perceives it—” If. That hardly bore thinking about.
“Might Osraed Eadmund be able to determine where the Abbod’s loyalties lie?”

Fhada shook his head. “I can’t ask the Taminist brethren at
Ochanshrine to place their lives in jeopardy. Their very presence there puts
them in enough danger. Ladhar already views Eadmund as a weak brother. If he
hadn’t been a member of the Osraed Council, and if the Osraed at Ochanshrine
weren’t suddenly so loathe to look each other in the eye, he wouldn’t have
lasted this long. The others are too junior to draw any interest. In pressing
for such information, they could very likely reveal their loyalties.”

Leal nodded. “And leave us with no contacts inside the
Abbis. We must get to Ladhar, Fhada. There must be some way to get to him.”

Fhada smiled wryly. “I’m too well known there. You might
walk up to the gates in your ritual robes and hope to pass without comment,
except for that Kiss.” He glanced pointedly at the bright golden star on
Lealbhallain’s brow. “Even drabbed, the color would give you away.”

“Still, Siusan’s theatrical cosmetics do a good enough job
at most times. As long as no one challenged me . . .”

“Good enough to go about in the street, perhaps. But to
enter Ochanshrine? Eadmund says they’re checking visitors very carefully at the
gate. However . . . if we were to, say, bump into the Abbod while he was about in
Creiddylad . . .”

Leal sat up straight. “That’s it, then. Eadmund can let us
know when he leaves.”

“We won’t see Eadmund for three days.”

“Then we must call to him in some way.”

Fhada raised his brows. “Infiltrate his dreams?”

“Why not?”

Fhada came back to the table and sat down next to Leal, eyes
intent on the boy’s face. “Do you think you could?”

“Together I
know
we could. We were able to weave a connection to Osraed Bevol.”

Fhada shook his head. “Bevol was a giant among Osraed. His
Gift was as bright and strong as the day it was given. He had knowledge neither
we nor Eadmund possess.”

“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately, Osraed?
Your Kiss is as bright as a moon. And Eadmund is also a believer.”

Fhada made a wry face, causing Leal to wriggle forward on
his stool. “Look, Fhada, if we didn’t have the capacity to Speakweave, Taminy
wouldn’t be sending us someone to help us discipline ourselves to do it. No
amount of discipline can make up for a nonexistent Gift. We may be weak, but
we’re not impotent.”

“Alright, alright. Supposing we could reach Eadmund and
either summon him here, or indicate what we want him to do. How does he tell us
what we need to know: when Ladhar leaves, where he plans to go?”

Leal was fairly hopping up and down on his stool. “He can
come here, he can Weave a reply, he can . . . run up a flag or send pigeons. It
doesn’t matter how he gets us the information; that’s up to him. He’s a
believer, Fhada, in the Meri—in Taminy. I think—no, I
know
—that bestows real power.”

Fhada’s brow furrowed.

“Have you forgotten how it was in the Great Hall that day?
Have you forgotten the-the blazing light, the sheer power of
these
?” Leal opened his left hand, and
the gytha
in his palm gleamed.

“But that was all
her
doing, Leal. We had no part in that.”

Leal clutched his friend’s sleeve, leaf-green eyes gleaming
no less brightly than his gytha. “No, you’re wrong, Fhada. We
did
have a part in it. We were channels.
Imperfect, but usable. That’s what she’s trying to teach us, don’t you see?
That we really do have the Gift, and that there’s more to it than we dared
dream. We may need training to use it fully but, Fhada, it’s there to use.”

Fhada looked down at the hand on his sleeve. After a moment,
he met Leal’s eyes. “Well,” he said, “I don’t suppose it would hurt to try.”

oOo

It was dark yet, and a chill, damp wind twisted the Claeg
banner around and around its standard, making the standard-bearer curse and his
horse dance nervously over the flagstones of Hrofceaster’s main courtyard.

It was going to be a gray day—colorless—and that suited
Aine-mac-Lorimer just fine. A bright flower or a ray of sunlight would have
thrown her into a fury; she wanted the weather to agree with her mood. Only
that agreement kept the fury under control.

Damn Wyth Arundel, anyway! Not even offering a word of
regret or argument at her leaving. Not that he should be expected to argue with
Taminy, but he might have uttered a gasp of protest, a moan of disappointment.
But no.

“You’ll want them to leave with the Claeg, then,” he’d said.
Like she was a piece of mail, a bit of baggage, a-a
nothing!
And she’d been stupid enough to think he looked wistful
when Taminy first made the announcement—no, the request. A request she had no
choice but to honor. Taminy’s requests were like that.

Catching the rebellious tenor of her thoughts, Aine
blanched.

Not that she begrudged Taminy
anything
. She’d go to the ends of the earth for her. Die for her,
if necessary. It was just so humiliating to think that Wyth thought so little
of her . . .

She was going to go to futile tears in a moment and prayed
for something to save her from that.
Something
turned out to be the strong sensation that someone was watching her.

She raised her eyes. Standing not ten feet away was a young
man in Claeg colors holding a large, fractious horse by its bridle. He was
regarding her with the most brazen, bald, humiliating directness. Though he was
obviously some years her senior, she returned the look with equal brass, her
face flaming.

He smiled. It was a harsh smile, not at all friendly or
welcoming. “That’s quite a shade of red, cailin,” he said. “You’ll be hard put
to hide in Creiddylad.”

He meant her hair, of course, although her face was by now a
near match for it. Furious, Aine strode right up to him and peered into his
eyes. They were peculiar eyes—as colorless as the morning, if not quite as
chill. Camouflage. He thought he could hide behind them.

Odd thought.
She
tossed it aside and said, “I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself,
sir. And I’ll have you know I’ll do no hiding in Creiddylad.”

“Oh, brave words, little one. I’ll remind you of them when
you’re quaking beneath your bed some night.”

“I don’t quake,” Aine said, which was a lie, because she was
quaking now, albeit with indignation. “And I don’t hide. And I wouldn’t have
you within twenty miles of my bed!”

It took Aine only a second to realize how that must have sounded
to her adversary. Though the realization came only because she could suddenly
read the trickle of wry humor that oozed from him. Her face felt absolutely
scalded.

The young man made an odd clicking sound with his tongue. It
put her in mind of a fox smacking its chops over a fat young hen.

“My, my!” he murmured. “An outraged virgin. My first. No
need to worry, Firepot, I value experience above sport.”

“Sport!” Aine clenched her fists hard enough to drive her
nails into her palms. “You’re beyond luck that I don’t know an inyx for making
a man’s tongue drop out of his head. But I do know who to give tell of your
cheek. I’ll tell The Claeg.”

“Oh? And what will you tell him?”

“That one of his men was rude, insulting, mocking—”

“Cavalier? Insolent?” He was chuckling openly now.

“You won’t laugh when he bastes you for it.”

“Ouch! That sounds rough. I’ve never been basted.”

“Well, then, it’ll be a new experience for you. I hear you
value experience.” She turned on her heel (gracefully too, she thought) and
marched to where Iobert Claeg was preparing to mount his horse.

She hadn’t a chance to reach him before the whole column
mounted and began to swing into line. She was ushered to her own horse, where
Taminy and Iseabal and a knot of well-wishers waited to exchange good-byes.
Then she was whisked into tearful embraces, loaded with small gifts to put in
her pack, patted on the back, kissed on the cheek.