Taminy (17 page)

Aine
said nothing and the two went their way. Iseabal looked after, her brow
furrowed, while Taminy smiled.

“Cream
cakes!” she said, and led the way to the Backstere’s shop.

They
didn’t go to the pool after all, for the afternoon became cool and dark with
blue-gray clouds that threatened rain. Instead, Taminy invited Iseabal to
supper and, after a grant of permission from the Cirkemaster and his wife, the
three girls started up the road toward Gled Manor, carrying Marnie’s fine cloth
and blinking against a lusty breeze.

“Delicious!”
exclaimed Taminy. “Oh, delicious breeze!” And she laughed when it kicked up her
skirts and flirted with her hair.

Rain
began to fall, raising tiny puffs of dust in the roadway. The rhythm of it put
a song on Taminy’s lips and she sang it:

“Tiny, bright, jeweled, light—

Spilling on the ground.

Who has tilt the silver box

And sent the rain gems tumbling down?

Is that you, saucy breeze,

Playing tap-tunes on the leaves?

Does your mistress know you play

And toss her Eibhilin jewels away?”

“How
pretty!” said Iseabal. “You have a wonderful voice. Mama will want you in her
chorus, I know. Where did you learn that?”

“I
don’t-” Taminy began, then hesitated. I don’t remember, she’d been about to say,
but it seemed as if the moist breeze had blown memory back into her head with
the tune. “My mama taught it to me. It was our rainy day song. When I was a
little girl, we’d sit in the window casement of my room and sing the song to
the drops that fell on the Sanctuary roof. I remember how the rain would make
the slate of the roof look dark and stormy like the sky.”

Iseabal
glanced at her, eyes amazed. “Is your father a Cirkemaster, too? Or, I mean,
was he? I ... I’d heard ... that is, someone said you were orphaned.”

Taminy
nodded, fighting a sudden sense of vertigo and wondering if it showed.

Time. It’s like a corridor. I think I’m at
one end and suddenly—whisk!—I’m at the other, looking back at myself and
wondering, Who is that girl?

“I
can see the Sanctuary roof from my bedroom window, too,” said Iseabal. “When it
rains I pretend ...” She smiled shyly and lowered her eyes to the toes of her
shoes. “I pretend the roof is a sea snake’s back, long and streaming slick with
water, and that I’m riding high up among its great fins, all dry and cozy.” She
bobbed her head. “I mean, I used to pretend that. Child-ways. I’m too old now,
of course.”

“Never,”
said Taminy, tearing her eyes from the other end of the time corridor. “Never
be too old to ride sea snakes in the rain, Iseabal.”

They
were running by the time they reached Gled Manor. Running and laughing and
soaking wet. They erupted into the hall, swept up the stairs, and collapsed
into Taminy’s room, dropping packages and scurrying for towels. While Taminy
sat on her bed peeling off wet stockings, and Gwynet curled in the window seat,
Iseabal dried her hair and wandered. She marveled at the variety of books on
Taminy’s shelf, admired the hangings of calligraphies, and musical scores, and
glass-pressed flowers and feathers, and stopped stone still to stare at a
crystal set atop a wooden sconce.

She
turned from it to award Taminy a wondering gaze. “Is it yours?” she asked, and
when Taminy nodded, “May I ... may I hold it?”

“Of
course.”

Iseabal
lifted the crystal from the little shelf and turned it in her hands. “It’s
beautiful! So very beautiful. Pure, like rain and ... warm!”

Taminy
watched the other girl’s face bathed in lamp light, her eyes great and pale and
very like the crystal. She watched the crystal, too, and wondered if those
pale-pure eyes noticed the tiny pulse of light deep down among the converging
facets—a pulse that would have been there if every light in the room was
extinguished. The crystal knew, if Iseabal did not, what gifts might live in the
soul of a Cirkemaster’s daughter.

“Look
how it glows!” said Iseabal. “Does it have a name? Papa says the Osraed always
name theirs. His is Perahta—and, of course, I know about Ochan’s
Osmaer—everyone does. Does this one have a name?” She turned curious eyes to
Taminy.

“Ileane,”
Taminy said. “Light Bearer.”

“And
you Runeweave with it?”

“I
did ... once. It’s been a long time.”

“I
suppose I should believe that’s wicked. I suppose I should leave.”

“Do
you want to?”

Iseabal
shook her head, dragging rain-heavy hair across her shoulders. “No.” She set
the crystal back on its sconce and came to perch beside Taminy on the bed. “I
did run out on Meredydd. I didn’t want to, but I did.” She glanced over at the
crystal. “Aine thinks it’s all so much frivol, or at least she’d like me to
believe she thinks that. And to Doireann, it’s all impossibly wicked. My father
felt sorry for Meredydd. He wanted me to befriend her so I could help save her
soul. I didn’t want to save her soul—I mean, I didn’t think it needed saving—but
I couldn’t be her friend while Aine and Doireann teased, and Brys-a-Lach
threatened that my own soul was at risk, and my father waited for me to steal
Meredydd away from her Weaving and visions.”

She
pulled her knees up and buried her face between them. “It was too much,” she
said, muffled. “I tried to talk to mother about it, but all she’d say was, ‘I
imagine your father’s right, Isha. The poor cailin’s spirit wants saving.’”

“She’d
likely say the same of me,” said Taminy.

“Aye.”

“But
you’re not running from my house.”

“No.”

“And
why not?”

Iseabal
raised her head. “I don’t know,” she said. She glanced, again, at the crystal,
Ileane, then back into Taminy’s face. “I don’t really know. Maybe I’m a little
more wicked now. Or ... a little less a coward.”

Taminy
smiled and took the other girl’s hands. “I’ve some dry clothes you can wear,”
she said.

Below
stairs, the front door opened and Osraed Bevol called and the three girls
scurried to dress themselves for supper.

When the Pilgrim shall have fulfilled the
conditions inherent in the name, “Who Seeks Us,” that one shall know the
blessing inherent in the words, “We shall guide in our Way.”

—Osraed Ochan
Book of the Covenant, compiled by Osraed Wyth

Wyth
Arundel flexed his cramped hand and stretched. His shoulders felt as if someone
had been pummeling them. He closed his eyes, rolled them behind burning lids,
then bent to examine his work. The lettering was good, but his hand was
cramping horribly. He glanced up as a Prentice laid a set of freshly
transcribed pages beside him on the library work table.

“Here,
Osraed Wyth. Here are my pages and Fairlea’s, too. Ready for proofreading.”

Wyth
smiled. “Thank you, Peagas. You’ve done very good work—both of you. Why don’t
you take a break now?”

The
Prentice bobbed respectfully, glowing at having earned the new Osraed’s smiles
and praise, and hurried away to relieve his companion.

“How
goes the work, Wyth?”

Wyth
raised his eyes to see Osraed Bevol regarding him from the other side of the table.
“Slowly, Osraed Bevol. The Prentices are a great help, but there is so much to
get through.” He rubbed his stiff fingers. “I don’t suppose you know a Weave
that will copy these pages without us having to write them out by hand.”

Bevol’s
brows ascended. “I don’t know of one. There’s a Runeweave for the printing of
books, of course, so the text is clear and the ink won’t smudge or fade.” He
eyed the neatly scripted pages. “I don’t suppose anyone has ever had need of
such an inyx. The old books are journals, added to year upon year and the only
copies are made wholesale. I doubt anyone has ever had a job quite like this
one—extracting pieces of the text ...Why don’t you invent your own Weave?”

“I?”
Wyth nearly laughed. “I, invent a Runeweave?”

Bevol
shrugged. “Why not? You’re entitled. Heh! Quite literally. And if you want to
be finished anytime soon ...”

Wyth
followed his eyes to the stack of Holy Books and Osraed Treatises waiting to be
read. “Yes. And I must be done soon.” That was a troubling thought and made him
raise his eyes to Bevol’s, seeking some reassurance. He got none.

“Yes,
I believe you must.”

A
Prentice scurried to present himself, then, and informed the Osraed Bevol that
his presence was requested in the small audience chamber.

“It’s
the Ren Catahn, Master,” said the boy awfully. “The Osraed Eadmund is already
with him. I understand it’s about the General Assembly of the Cyne’s Council.”

“Ah,
yes. This is no surprise. Tell Eadmund I’ll be there immediately.” He turned
back to Wyth. “Supper tonight, Wyth?”

Heat
raced across Wyth’s face, followed by an intense chill.
Oh, yes
! he thought. Oh, no! “I ... I don’t know if ...”
If what, you idiot?

Bevol
was smiling at him. “She overwhelms?”

Wyth
could only nod. “I don’t know what to think of her. I don’t know ... how to
behave.” He glanced about the library. “Does anyone else know who-?”

“No.
You and I and Pov-Skeet. Gwynet, too, but Gwynet is too young, I think, to
understand what that means.”

“I
empathize,” Wyth murmured, then furrowed his brow in puzzlement. No, he was
more than puzzled. “You mean none of the other Osraed know her?”

Bevol
shook his head.

“But
... how can that be?”

Bevol
shrugged. “It simply is. Supper?”

Wyth
licked his lips. “Thank you ... yes. I’ll come.”

When
Bevol had gone, Wyth tapped the lightbowl on his work table and watched the
glow eddy and pulse. No one else knew. How could they not when she was a
magnet? No, not a magnet—a crystal.

Someone
rustled among the shelves behind him, breaking into his rumination. Flexing his
fingers, he bent back to his work.

oOo

Osraed
Bevol found the Ren Catahn Hillwild in the small annex to the Osraed council
chamber, pacing before the tall windows and worrying the beaded sash of his
leather shawl. He was a big man, blocking the instreaming sunlight and casting
a long, broad shadow across the polished wooden floor. He turned at Bevol’s
footfall, sunlight glinting from the gold and silver filigree woven into his
burgundy-black hair and beard, and flashing from the neat row of cuffs that bound
a braided sidelock.

Bevol
held out his arms in greeting. “Catahn! Your presence honors the place and
cheers its people.”

The
Hillwild lord awarded him a wide smile, rendered especially brilliant by its
dark frame of beard, and moved to smother him in a bear’s embrace. “Bevol! God’s
Eyes, but it’s good to see you! Pity we have not more pleasant things to
discuss.”

Bevol
stepped back and glanced to where Osraed Eadmund sat at a small table, grimly
shuffling papers. “Perhaps we should sit and discuss these unpleasant
things—the quicker to deal with them.”

The
Osraed seated himself at the table, but Catahn’s haunches had no more than
grazed the velvet cushion before he was up again, pacing.

“Our
Cyne ignores us,” he said. “He stoppers his ears and blinkers his eyes and
turns from his own mountains to look to someone else’s seas and valleys. And if
that were not enough, he insults us, slights us.” He stopped pacing and faced
the two Osraed. “He forgets himself, Chosen Ones. He forgets his duty to the
Hillwild.” He motioned at the roll of leather among the papers on the table. “We
have inquiries, petitions, plaints which have waited months to be taken up in
the Hall. Some of these issues have lain since last Assembly. And there, they
were set aside as if they were of no consequence. The education of our
children,” he added, “is of consequence!”

Bevol
pulled the leather scroll about so he could view its contents. He glanced at
Eadmund. “Have you copied this?”

Eadmund
shook his head. “I thought we should first discuss it. If there are
modifications to be made-”

“Yes,
yes, of course. Catahn, are you certain about this business with the Caraidin
scouts?”

The
big man nodded with a jingle of ornamentation. “There are no finer trackers
than the Hillwild of Hrofceaster. They know how to read signs. The Cyne’s men
are scouting our villages, watching our holts.”

“But
to what end?” asked Eadmund. “Have you confronted them? Asked them what they’re
about?”

The
Ren laughed, teeth flashing white in his dark face. “Oh, aye. Some’ve been
faced off. They pose themselves as vagabonds, oddjobmen. Then off they go. And
they dog us, going from village to village, from holt to holt. Watching.” He
gritted his teeth in a grimace; Bevol thought he even growled. “We do not like
being watched.”

“What
do you suspect them of?” Bevol asked.

The
Ren’s queer amber eyes narrowed. “If the Cyne was not my own kinsman and
covenanted ally, I would say they were assessing the strength of my
fortifications, estimating my forces.”

Eadmund’s
face went white. “Why should he-? Is there a chance they might not be the Cyne’s
men?”

In
answer, Catahn Hillwild reached beneath his shawl and pulled out a pouch.
Holding it upside-down, he let a piece of metal the size of an ambre fall to
the table with a clatter.

Bevol
picked it up and turned it in his hands.

“Sash
clip,” said Catahn.

“Yes,
and bearing the emblem of the House of Malcuim,” murmured Bevol. “Caraidin
Guard.”

“It
might have been stolen,” conjectured Eadmund. “Or perhaps the man who lost it
is an ex-soldier.”

“Aye,
either thing might be possible,” admitted Catahn. “But though they claim to be
rough men, they speak a mighty fine tongue in private speech. And of their
clothing, only their cloaks and tunics and boots are rough. I have it on good
authority that what they wear close to their skin is fairer by far. Then there
is the fact of their origins. My men have back-tracked several of their
parties. They’re coming up from the old outposts in the foothills.”