Taminy (15 page)

“Perhaps
we need to remind the Cyne that the Covenant requires the Hall to sit with the
Crown on all national issues.” suggested Osraed Kynan.

“I
say we must go further.” said Tynedale. “We should indicate those issues which
may not be decided by the Privy Council.”

“That,”
said Bevol, “would be most of them.”

Ealad-hach
made a sound eloquent with frustration. “The Cyne is no ignoramus. He knows
what things may be dealt with by his Privy Council and what things must go to
the Hall.”

“I
am sure he knows,” said Tynedale. “But if we do not seek to document the limits
set on that institution, it may begin to exceed them and assume duties
covenanted to the Hall.”

“Covenanted.
Yes, exactly,” said Ealad-hach. “The Covenant stipulates that national and wide
regional issues are to be decided by representative government. Colfre knows
the Covenant. Surely we can trust him to abide by it.”

Bevol
lifted an eyebrow. “The way we can trust him not to interfere with the
celebrations of the Cirke? He has participated, unbidden, in the Waningfeast
rite. The Farewelling has not been missed by a Cyne since the last year of the
reign of Siolta the Lawgiver, yet Colfre has seen fit to pass it two Seasons
running. And the Grand Tell has been waived for the first time in history. Even
in the Season of Siolta’s murder, Cyneric Thearl and the Cwen Mother saw the
newly Chosen at Mertuile despite their grief. Yet this year, with no more
reason than a delicate diplomacy, our Osraed remain at home and the Osmaer sits
in her place at Ochanshrine.” Bevol’s voice was gentle, empty of anger, but
filled with a passion intended to persuade. “Brothers, if it were one thing or
another—only the sipping of wine from the Star Chalice, only the raising of the
Privy Council to handle matters reserved to the Hall—then I would not suggest
that perhaps we must offer our Cyne closer guidance.”

“He
will not like it,” said Ealad-hach.

“Hardly
germane,” countered Tynedale. “I hold with Bevol. I believe we must reply to
this dispatch immediately and seek to define the limits of the Privy Council
lest they seek to define their own ... and ours.”

Bevol
called for a vote in which only Ealad-hach gave a negative tell. It was
decided, then. A response would be drawn and sent to Creiddylad with the new
Osraed Lealbhallain on the mid-week packet.

The Spirit is found in the soul when sought
with truth and self-sacrifice, as fire is found in wood, water in hidden
springs, cream in milk, and oil in the lamp.

This Spirit is hidden in all things, as
cream is hidden in milk. It is the source of self-knowledge and self-sacrifice.

This is the Spirit of all, which men call
God.

— Osraed Haefer Hillwild
Commentary and Observations

His
mother and sisters cried and covered him with hugs and kisses. He returned them
with fervor, realizing again how complete a change he was making in his life.
He’d felt it first while packing—that sense of something slipping away. When he
had closed the door to his room that morning, he recognized the symbology of
that ordinary act. It was not a happy recognition.

The
new Osraed, secure in his faith and purpose, was eager and prepared; the boy,
leaving the security of his home village for an unfamiliar city, was anxious
and sorrowful. And now, standing on the docks with his family around him,
Lealbhallain-mac-Mercer knew what it meant to be torn.

“Well,
son.” His father’s eyes said that he, too, was caught between gladness and
loss, “I guess I need not tell you how proud I am this day. That a son of mine
be found acceptable to the Meri ...” He gazed again at the stellate mark on
Leal’s forehead and shook his head in wonder.

“Does
it matter that I’ll not be taking on the trade?” asked Leal ingenuously.

Giolla
Mercer laughed. “Ah, the girls will do fine by the trade. You’ve something more
important to do with your years than tending a shop, however fine a shop it
might be. You’ve done well, Leal. But you don’t need me to tell you that.”

Leal
laid a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Oh, you’re wrong, da. I
do
need you to tell me.”

They
left him then, amid more tears and smiles and exhortations to be warm and
well-fed and happy and to listen well to the Meri. He could promise them that
much, at least. He watched them out of sight, his eyes lingering on the corner
where sat Iain Spenser’s public house, then turned to where the Osraed Bevol
and Eadmund awaited him.

Bevol
handed him a small leather portfolio, hand-tooled and gilded and fastened with
a gold clasp. Leal took it delicately, somewhat in awe of being asked to take a
missal to the Cyne.

“Now
remember,” said Bevol, “that you do not need to wait for an answer to this, but
do give it directly into the hands of the Cyne and do tell the Abbod, Osraed
Ladhar, what it is you have delivered. And give him this.” The elder Osraed
produced a second, less ornate envelope and handed that to Leal as well. “This
will explain to our Brothers of the Jewel what the Cyne’s message contains.”

The
message resting in his hand, Leal felt an odd tingling run up his spine and,
for a moment, he looked at the other Osraed though a haze of shimmering motes.
He opened his mouth and said, “There are Osraed in Creiddylad who will be
displeased by this. They have lost the Touch and the breeze of inspiration no
longer blows unhindered through their souls.”

Bevol,
his eyes closed as if he savored the river’s perfume, nodded. “Yes. A hard
truth, though. We like to believe the connection can never be lost.”

“What
are you saying? How does Osraed Lealbhallain know of matters involving the
Osraed of Creiddylad?”

Leal’s
eyes returned to focus on Osraed Eadmund’s face. The older man was glancing
from him to Bevol in startled bemusement.

He
hadn’t felt the Touch, Leal realized, but Bevol had. He was stunned. Despite
the evidence of history, it had never really occurred to him that receptivity
to the Meri’s Eibhilin Light was something that could be lost. Perhaps once,
long ago, it might have happened but surely not in this age...

He
shivered.

Bevol
didn’t respond to Eadmund’s questions. His eyes holding Leal’s, he said simply,
“We have the lesson of history. Pray the Meri we are not destined to repeat
that lesson.”

History.
That had not been Lealbhallain’s strongest subject, but he knew the lesson
Bevol referred to. Only once in the history of the Osraed had the Light
guttered among the Meri’s Chosen. Once, during the reign of Cyne Liusadhe.
Once, over two hundred years before.

We like to forget that
, Leal reflected,
watching the river glide beneath the keel of the westbound barge.
We tell ourselves it cannot happen again.
Perhaps we blind ourselves. Perhaps it is happening already.

He
was cold, though the breeze from the water was not particularly chill. The boy
in him wanted to protest that he would not allow it to happen. He would go to
Creiddylad and wake the Osraed that slumbered there. He, Lealbhallain, would
wake the dead if necessary. But the boy gave way quickly to the man who calmly
determined to deliver his message and pursue his mission among Creiddylad’s
poor as the Meri directed, and to never, never lose sight of Her Light.

oOo

Standing
on Cirkebridge, Taminy let her gaze float upriver toward the quay. Along the
broad, slow-moving channel, warm stone took the Sun’s light and radiated it
into the balmy air. Old stone, new stone; a piebald coat of aging, mellow and
new, crisp patchwork. The art of mason and stonecutter reflected dreamily in
Halig-tyne’s slow, liquid ramble—from the intricately carved balustrade to the
rise of brick and beam storefront, the river mirrored all without prejudice.

Taminy’s
eyes welcomed the watery images. They were more familiar than the sharper,
clearer lines of the orderly storefronts. She felt like a child waking from a
recurring dream.

Oh, yes. I’ve had this dream before, of
walls that run upright and corners that meet sharply and sunlight that falls
straight down.

Upstream
at Cornerquay, the new Mercer’s Bridge cast its rippling, shadowy twin into the
flood. Taminy could just see a sparse, bobbing forest of masts off to the right
where the river curled lovingly at the feet of the palisades like a hearth cat.
Her eyes made the cliff-climb effortlessly. Flying, hawk-like up the ageless
expanse of rock, they crested just above the walls of Halig-liath, fluttered
with the banners, came to rest on the gleaming tile roof of the central
rotunda.

How I loved you
, she thought,
though I was not welcome
. Her mouth
made a wry twist.
Or perhaps
because
I was not welcome.

She
still loved Halig-liath. She loved all of Nairne, pain and joy.
A hundred years has changed you not at all.

Ah, not so. All of Caraid-land is changed
.

The
thought came from close by and far away. Taminy paused her own contemplations
to consider it, not needing to ask from whence it came. It was true, of course.
She could feel it. From the Osraed in their chambers, from the villagers
drifting past her on the bridge, from the Cirkemaster, from his daughter.

She
closed her eyes. Yes, even from the river, crawling beneath the bridge,
vibrating the stone beneath her feet.

“Taminy!”

Eyes
open, she turned her head to see Gwynet’s bright head bobbing toward her from
Cirkeside, wending her way around a cluster of chatting women, a pony cart, a
puff of sheep. She paused at the sheep to pat noses and caress wool, and smiled
at the young shepherd as they swept past her like low-lying clouds.

“Am
I late?” she asked, breathless. “I don’t mean to be, but Master Tynedale had a
raft of books to carry.”

“Hmmm.
And a story to tell, too, I’ll wager,” Taminy said, tapping the girl’s
sun-pinked nose. She turned and began to walk toward Greenside.

Gwynet
fell into step beside her—two to her one. “Oh, and he did! All about how
Ruanaidhe’s Leap got to be called tha’.”

Taminy’s
brows ascended in mock dismay. “Oh, well, there’s naught like a fine tale of
murder and suicide to fill a child’s head.”

“It
was powerful sad,” said Gwynet. “Poor Cwen Goscelin—to have to watch her dear
husband murdered right afore her eyes. And poor little Riagan Thearl—to lose
his da so.”

And what of your da, child
, Taminy
thought,
whom you never knew? Poor you—but
you’d never think it.

“Cyne
Siolta was a very good Cyne wasn’t he?”

“Yes,
I believe he was.”

“Aye.
Master Tynedale says so too.” Her feet dragged as she spoke. “He says he was
one of the very best Cynes ever.... Why would Ruanaidhe want to kill him?”

“Now,
Osraed Tynedale must surely have told you that.”

“Oh,
well, yes. For his Uncle Haefer locked up in Halig-liath. But tha’s just the
scum reason, in’t it?”

Taminy
glanced at her sharply. “The scum reason?”

“Like
the scum stuff tha’ floats atop a bog puddle. The real is underneath, in’t it?
I figure that were Ruanaidhe’s toppermost reason—the one that come out of his
head first. But Halig-liath’s no kind of prison and his uncle were happy there,
which Ruanaidhe must’ve known, too, for he spoke with him not a sevenday before
he went off and murdered Cyne Siolta.”

“Then
why do you think he killed the Cyne?”

Gwynet
stopped walking to ponder that. “Not for his uncle. For himself, I think. ’Cause
he was grieving.”

“Grieving?
For what?”

“For
the loss of his uncle. He must’ve known the Hillwild was prenticed to the
Osraed and that he meant to take the Pilgrim Walk. Well, Haefer Hillwild was
the Meri’s then, sure as could be. Dead to Ruanaidhe,
like. He’d no more lead his men into battle with Her Kiss on his soul. Angry,
the young Hillwild must’ve been at tha’ and powerful grieved. And so he gave
his anger to Cyne Siolta who’d put his uncle away from him. And he passed on
his grief to those who loved Siolta as he loved Haefer Hageswode.” She paused,
nodding, then said, “How raw to know, in the end, that it could nowise stop the
hurting. All that grief and he put the biggest burden on himself. He lost all
and every. Poor Ruanaidhe.”

She
put her hand upon the bridge wall and leaned out to peer over into the water running,
thick, below. “Do you think he really trans-ported into a river silkie like as
they said?”

Poor Ruanaidhe
, thought Taminy. “Transformed,
you mean,” she said aloud. “And in a hundred and forty-five years I doubt five
people have cried for Ruanaidhe Hillwild. But you—you cry for everyone.” She
put a hand on Gwynet’s shoulder and pressed it. “Bless you, Gwynet.”

“Am
blessed, mistress,” she murmured, shooting her a sideways glance. “And greatly
so.” She looked back at the water. “You know these things, mistress Taminy—did
Ruanaidhe the Red become a river silkie?”

“What?
And ruin a perfectly good legend? You must wonder along with everyone else.”
Taminy grasped Gwynet’s shoulders and turned her toward the Greenside shore. “Walk,
or we’ll never get our errands done.”

They
visited the Mercer’s first, for candles, cook pots and oddments, then the
Tanner’s for some shoes and, last of all, they went to the shop of the Webber,
Marnie-o-Loom. The shop had belonged to Marnie’s aged grandfather when Taminy
had last set foot in it. And, here, there was change. The cloth that hung on
display on wall or rack, that lay folded soft on table and in window, was
finer, showed more variety of color and pattern than the old Webber’s. Marnie
was a wonder at her craft. The shop walls had been covered in places with cloth
that was skillfully attached with glue or varnish of some sort. And the floors
had the gleam of polished new pine and were covered with a riot of hand-loomed
rugs.