Taminy (45 page)

Eadmund
nodded. “I’m exhausted, Osraed Ladhar. Will there be a room for me in the
Abbis?”

The
Abbod rose, his gaze steady and solemn. “Dear Brother, there is always a room
for you here.”

oOo

It
was a quiet room. She could hear no owls, no nightbirds, no chittering bats.
But if she stood in the open doorway to the balcony, she could hear the
pounding of the Sea far below Mertuile’s perch. That comforted.

The
night breeze carried laughter and song up from the outer ward. They arrived on
Taminy’s balcony as if thrown by the handful, like rose petals—sweet,
unreachable. She could smell the roses, too; their perfume lifted from the Cyne’s
gardens and mingled with the scents of Sea and city.

She
shivered because the breeze carried the chill of the Sea and because she was
alone—cut off from Bevol and Skeet. She could sense them, below and away,
separated from her by Mertuile’s stony bulk. The distant laughter seasoned the
aloneness, made its taste sharper, more pungent. Taminy left the balcony and
closed the glass-paned doors. The laughter was gone, but she could still feel
the rhythm of the Sea.

She
went to the little trunk she had brought up from Halig-liath and took from it a
carved and inlaid box. It was a small box, just big enough for Ileane to nestle
in its velvet nest. Taminy took the crystal out and gazed at it, while it, like
a pet intent on pleasing its mistress, displayed its Eibhilin finery and played
with the light. Ileane was all she had of her past. All that was physical. Oh,
well, there was this body, too, but the soul that animated it had changed
considerably since it last walked and talked and felt.

The
crystal shimmered, bathing her face in its glow, warming her palm with its
vibration—a little stone dog, wagging its tail.

You don’t need that, you know
.

Joy.
Sudden and complete, it washed over her. She was flooded with it, drowned in
it. “I know,” she said and took her eyes from the crystal. A cloud of golden
light roiled in the center of the huge bedchamber. Formless, ever-moving,
never-ending mist. A Mist like the Sun.

You were lonely
.

“No
longer.”

And will be again
.

“I
know.”

But there’s much you don’t know and would
like to. Questions you want to ask, but won’t.

Taminy
smiled. “A conceit, I suppose, to say I am content with the Will of God ... and
Yours.”

Even the content may be curious.

“Yes
...What happens now?”

The
Mist curled about itself in silence, shedding little bits of its splendor over
the rich carpet, leaving gleaming trails to fade against the pale ceiling.

They speak of Cusps—the Cyne, the Osraed.
Yet, so few understand the nature of a Cusp. In this time, as in no other, the
entire Creation stands at a crossroads. Every soul has been called. Some have
heard a Voice, others an inarticulate cry, others only an annoying whisper.
They have been called to a peak, a forking of paths, a choosing. Some of these
souls understand that, but even they may fail to see the nature of the choice,
or who must make it. If it were My choice, it would be one thing. If it were
yours, perhaps only a slight variation. But it is not My choice, or yours,
Sister. Nor is it strictly the Cyne’s nor his Durweard’s nor his Cwen’s. It
lies not with the Council, or the Body, or the Hall. The Abbod Ladhar cannot
make it, nor can the Osraed Bevol, nor any other single human being. For the
Cusp is choices upon choices, woven through and into and over each other until
a pattern emerges and a new fabric is created. I am the Weaver. And all these
souls provide the thread. I add My own thread to the weaving, now, and I guide
the shuttle, ever mindful of the patterns.

Taminy
nodded. Patterns. She saw them and knew that the dominant pattern was Colfre’s.
At this moment.

Colfre will not succeed ... in the end. But
I cannot promise he will not succeed in the beginning. The destiny of
Caraid-land lies in a handful of threads. I will Weave Mine, also. We will
Weave it, ever mindful of the Pattern.

The
bright cloud faded then, leaving behind its after-image like an echo of sweet
music. Taminy curled up upon the great bed, knees to chin, arms hugging her legs,
and rocked to a Duan only she could hear. The pattern of Caraid-land was
uncertain, but she was not. The Cyne’s castle was a place devoid of
contentment, but she was content. She was more than content; wrapped in the
ghost-fragrance of the Meri’s presence, she was happy.

She
slept then, and in her dreams she stood before a great, world-filling Tapestry
and in her hand she held a golden shuttle which she plied with a Weaver’s care,
ever mindful of the Pattern.

Light the lamp of affection in every
gathering; delight every heart; cheer every soul. Care for the outlander as for
your own and show the stranger the same compassion and tenderness you give to
your beloved companions. If someone cause you pain, give him healing medicine.
If he give you thorns, shower him with sweet herbs and roses.

— Utterances of Osraed Lealbhallain

Haesel
the Sweep worked the Merchants’ Rows most mornings, coming out just at sunrise
to make her rounds and collect her pocketful of coins. This morning she had
plied her broom and brushes along the Cyne’s Way because she had heard that,
this morning, the Cyne’s Wicke would go to Ochanshrine. The Cyne’s Way
merchants had heard it too, and wanted their shops gleaming and sootless for
the Passing. Haesel could see the outer gates of Mertuile clearly from here,
and would know the moment they opened. The royal entourage would pass this way,
would turn at this corner to go north to the crossing of the Halig-tyne at
Saltbridge. It would slow here and turn, and then ...

Haesel
glanced over at the front stoop of the shop which walkway she now swept.
Huddled against it was what might be taken as a pile of discarded clothing; it
was not that, it was Losgann, her son. He was six years of age and had neither
walked nor stood fully upright for half that time. But today the Cyne’s Wicke
would be abroad and Haesel would see to it that she stopped here. The Sweep
would beg, she would grovel, she would throw herself before the carriage if she
had to, but the Wicke would stop and the Wicke would see Losgann.

“Mama?”
His voice was transparent as the dawn sky.

“Yes,
Losgann?”

“Mama,
I’m awful thirsty. Is there water?”

“I’ll
ask it of the shopkeep,” she said and did, though the man docked her payment
for it. She gave Losgann the whole cup, though she was thirsty herself, and
went back to sweeping and waiting.

It
was mid-morning, and Haesel was scrubbing the cobbled steps of another shop,
when the gates of Mertuile opened and the Cyne’s retinue exited. She
straightened, muscles complaining, and stretched, watching the gleaming
carriage with its hedge of mounted soldiers make its way through the Cyne’s
Market to the Cyne’s Way. It was a sparse hedge today—only four men—and they
rode behind the carriage as a rearguard. Even at this distance, Haesel could
distinguish the Wicke; she was a spot of sunlight, golden amid the more sedate
blues of royalty.

The
Sweep returned to her work, one eye on Losgann, sitting, now, in the shadow of
the steps where early patrons would not see him. He was wondering, she knew,
why he was not in his classroom at Care House. She had tried to make it seem a
grand outing.

“Oh,
but you don’t want to miss the passing of the Wicke!” she had told him when he
pouted and said he would miss his friends. “Why, there’ll be a festival on the
Cyne’s Way this morning—vendors and tricksters and musicians—you’ll see.”

And
there were musicians. She could hear them now, and her street corner was
beginning to fill with people; a couple wheeled out a cider trolly, a man had
set up a brazier and laid out chunks of skewered meat on its blazing coals.

Losgann
lifted his head, sniffing after the cooking meat, and Haesel felt in her
pocket, counting the coins there. She palmed a pair of claefers and held them
out to her son. “Here, Losgann, go buy yourself a nice bit of meat.”

He
snatched the coins, then paused, looking up at her with dark eyes. “Are you
sure, mama?”

She
whisked her hand at him. “Go. Go! Can’t let a nice festival pass by without we
join in.” She smiled, but the smile slipped from her lips as she watched his
painful, stooped and rolling hobble away from her toward the brazier-man.

She
could close her eyes and see a morning three years ago—a morning not unlike
this one, with its burnished sky and fresh sea breeze. She had had a flower
cart then, a brightly painted little trolley decorated with hearts and dancing
couples and pictures of young men giving gay posies to their favorite cailin.
She had felt almost in control of her life then, for the first time since
Losgann’s father—another woman’s husband, she learned too late—had abandoned
them finally.

That
morning, with her beautiful cart full of even more beautiful blooms, with
Losgann playing at her skirts with a little flying bird-toy she had bought him,
she had felt whole and happy. Gentlemen bought her flowers for their ladies and
ladies bought them to pretend they were from gentlemen.

Haesel
hadn’t heard the commotion in the street, hadn’t sensed the odd confluence of
wind and wildness that sent Losgann’s toy bird into the street and a jagger’s
dray into a frenzy—she was helping a young lady choose a bouquet to match her
fine new dress—but she heard the shrill scream of a child and the raw cursing
of a man. That was when she had turned and seen Losgann lying in the street with
the great, wild horse prancing too near his head, fighting the man who
struggled to hold it.

The
jagger brought the boy to her, crumpled and torn, like the little bird she had
held in her hands during the endless drive to the doctor. The jagger was kind,
but there was little he could do once he had delivered them there. As it
happened, there was equally little the doctor could do.

Haesel
turned her head, glancing through a blur of tears up the Cyne’s Way where the
royal retinue had disappeared behind street-hugging buildings. The flower cart
was gone; she couldn’t work and care for Losgann. Yet, money was needed to pay
for the doctor—the doctor whose skills could not mend the shattered bones in
the boy’s leg and pelvis.

“Mama?”

She
turned at the tug on her skirts. Losgann smiled up at her, panting a little and
holding out a wooden skewer with a fist-sized chunk of meat on it. He clutched
a second one in his other hand.

“Look!
He gave me two! One for me and one for you.”

It
was an unexpected and welcome kindness. Haesel was famished. She glanced over
at the vendor, who touched the brim of his hat and smiled. “Did you-?”

“I
said thank you, mama.” Losgann rolled his eyes and bit into his chunk of seared
meat.

The
corner was becoming more and more populous. Before the crowd grew too thick,
Haesel tucked her bucket, broom and brushes under the steps of the shop she’d
been cleaning and called Losgann to her. She wiped his hands and face with her
apron, telling him, when he complained, that the Cyne mustn’t see her son with
charcoal smeared across his face. Her heart beat faster now. She could sense
the crowd’s anticipation turning uphill. When she could hear the sound of horse
hooves on the cobbles, she wended her way to the edge of the crowd.

“Oh,
lift me, mama!” begged Losgann. “Lift me so I can see!”

She
did lift him, high up in her arms so his head was above hers. “Do you see her,
Losgann? Do you see the Wicke Lady?”

“Yes!
Oh, mama, she’s pretty ... and very young.”

Haesel’s
eyes followed his and she bit at her lip. The girl in the carriage was young.
Too young, one would have thought, to be a powerful Wicke. Her resolve
trembled. But no, she must take this chance.

The
carriage drew close; the Cyne on his high seat waved and smiled while, beside
him, the young Wicke sat and gazed at the crowd. They were in the intersection
now, and the driver turned the horses northward.

Haesel
moved swiftly. She was in the road squarely before the horses before Losgann
could utter a surprised squeak.

“Stop,
please! Stop, please! I beg you! Lady Taminy—my son. Look at my son!”

The
Cyne stood up in the carriage and gestured for her to move aside.

“Mama!”
Losgann wailed.

“No,
sire. Please! Let the Lady see my son.”

Men
on horses attempted to surround her and drive her back. Desperate, she squeezed
herself between the lead horses of the Cyne’s team. Losgann shrilled again as
Haesel twisted, trying to see the Wicke. The girl was looking at her and she
had her hand on the Cyne’s arm and her lips were moving, though Haesel couldn’t
hear what she said because of the crowd noise and the hammering of her own
heart. She felt someone grasp her arm and found herself staring up into the
face of a Cyne’s-man.

“Please!”
she begged, but was wrenched from between the horses. Losgann began to sob.

“Here!”
a man’s voice shouted. “Bring her here.”

Wonder.
She was brought round the carriage to stand with the Cyne and his Wicke gazing
down at her. She dared not look into the Cyne’s face, but the Lady Taminy’s
welcomed her to look. Her heart stumbled madly over itself.

“What
is it, woman?” the Cyne asked. “What do you want?”

“It’s
my son, lord. Losgann.” She shifted the crying child higher on her shoulder. “Three
years back, he was run down by a dray and his leg crushed. Twist it is, mam.”
She turned her plea to Taminy. “So twist, he can scarcely walk and he’s never
free of the pain. If you could but try—if you could but snatch the pain away
...”