Taminy (59 page)

“Forgive
me, friend. I shouldn’t make a joke of that.”

Feich
merely inclined his head, then left the Cyne to his writing.

Colfre
sighed. He really did feel better. Airleas would be brought back and the
Malcuim line would continue. Daimhin Feich had promised it and therefore it
would be done.

Colfre
took another sip of the cider and bent back to his testament.

The mystic Beloved, before concealed by the
veil of words, is now revealed to the eyes of men. I bear witness, my friends,
that the benediction is complete, the testimony fulfilled, the proof
demonstrated, the sign given. Let all now see what your efforts in the path of
the Meri will unveil and accomplish. Divine grace has been bestowed on you and
on all that dwell in the Land of Shadow and Light. Sing duans of praise to the
Spirit of All Worlds.

— from the Testament of Bevol

Blood
thundered in his ears. Daimhin Feich listened, heeding its siren call. He
wondered at the strange visceral elation he felt just strapping on this sword.
He had never worn one, save for ceremonial purposes, and this was no ordinary
sword—it was a Malcuim sword, worn, so legend said, by the Malcuim himself. It
was a sword intended for fighting, and Daimhin Feich had every intention of putting
it to that use.

He
strode the corridors of Mertuile with a new vigor this morning. A vigor the
black banners and bundles of dead flowers that festooned the halls could not
dampen. He was Regent to Airleas Malcuim, Cyneric if Airleas failed to take the
Throne. Dark joy bubbled in his breast, threatening to make him laugh. That
would be inappropriate now, with Mertuile in mourning; he would laugh when he
stood before the Stone and felt the Circlet on his head. A Feich on the Throne!

He
began to whistle a tune, but Mertuile’s empty interior threw it back at him
misshapen. He stopped whistling.

In
the lower hall, the Abbod Ladhar met him, along with his own cousin, Ruadh,
commander of his fighting force. One was dressed for travel, the other for
battle.

The
Abbod’s face was screwed into a disapproving mask and he glowered fiercely. “Why
do you insist that I accompany you on this war crusade? My place is here.”

“To
comfort the mourners?” Daimhin asked. “To pray for the soul of your poor dead
Cyne? His soul is wherever it deserves to be, Abbod. With the souls of other
men who have taken their own lives. Your place is with those living, those who
will march to free the Cyne’s heir from the clutches of the Taminist evil. Your
place is beneath the banner of the Meri, facing that evil. Or do you fear
facing it?”

“I
fear no man, nor woman, nor Wicke. But the period of mourning is not passed. It
has barely begun.”

“Mourn
on the road, Abbod. Now, we ride to Halig-liath.” He passed through the door
his cousin held open for him, out into the morning Sun that slanted over
Mertuile’s landward wall. The gates to the outer ward were open and, through
them, he could see the ranks of horses and men that were now at his command. He
smiled, letting his earlier elation rise to a boil within him. Sensual, it was.
He felt heat fan out from his groin and listened, again, to the song of blood
in his ears. A quest. A crusade. And it would end at Halig-liath.

It
was not Airleas Malcuim he thought of as he and his hundreds rode east.

oOo

The
Feich forces were arrayed before the gates of the Holy Fortress. Regent Daimhin
Feich rode at their head with Ruadh Feich at his side. Behind them, the Abbod
Ladhar glowered from the back of a sturdy horse, the Malcuim standard
fluttering overhead. Beside it, on a second staff, the Star Chalice was borne
aloft.

This
was a bit of grandstanding that did not sit well with the Abbod, but to Daimhin
Feich, it added a twist of historical irony to his crusade. Centuries before,
another army had rallied to face down another Malcuim heir, using the same holy
relic to confound his forces. Now, as then, hundreds had rallied. Not only
Feich, but Feich allies—southern Eiric, for the most part, to whom the Osraed
were a nuisance and the idea of supernatural intervention, an anachronism. For
the Feich it was a return to the glory days. The days when the great House was
a thorn in the side of whatever Malcuim happened to sit upon the Throne.

Daimhin
Feich, Regent and would-be Cyneric, turned to glance up at the standards aloft
behind him. He would tear down that Malcuim emblem soon, replace it with his
own. But for now, the Feich crest appeared only on the arm bands of the troops
massed behind him.

He
moved his mount forward, all the way to the shadow of Halig-liath’s gates. The
heavy oaken doors were open, but the portcullis was down. The Ren Catahn stood
behind it, Iobert Claeg at his side.

Feich
spoke to the lowland Chief. “A twist in history, this, old friend—that Feich
and Claeg face each other across defenses.”

“Aye,
well, it was inevitable. The Claeg do what they believe is right. The Feich do
what they think is profitable.”

Feich
chuckled. “Barbed words, Claeg.”

“May
they draw blood.”

“I
must speak to the Cwen Toireasa and the Riagan Airleas.”

From
behind the sill of the gate, Toireasa Malcuim heard the words and came out to
face him, with Airleas on her left and Taminy on her right.

Feich’s
pulse kindled when he saw them, and he dismounted, coming to stand before the
portcullis. “This is absurd,” he said. “I merely wish to reason with you,
mistress. Can’t we do without further barriers between us?” He gestured at the
heavy wood and iron grille that separated them. “Your men have their bows aimed
and ready. What could we do against them?”

Taminy
turned her head and glanced behind her. The portcullis rose ponderously.

“Thank
you.” Feich dropped his gaze to Airleas. “I bring you sad news, Airleas. Your
father, Cyne Colfre Malcuim, is dead. You are now Cyneric of Caraid-land.”

The
boy’s face paled, but he showed no other sign of emotion. “We know,” he said. “We
felt him die.”

Feich
moved his narrowed eyes to Toireasa’s face, fighting the urge to look at
Taminy. “I regret to say that he died by his own hand. Your desertion destroyed
him, madam.”

The
Cwen shook her head. Her gaze on him was hard and cold. “I destroyed nothing,
Daimhin Feich. It was you who destroyed him. You who deserted him. You who
passed him the cup of betrayal. This-” —she nodded toward the soldiers arrayed
behind him— “this is forever and always what you have wanted, is it not?”

Feich’s
insides cooled at her words. What did she know of a ‘cup of betrayal?’ He only
just kept his eyes from seeking Taminy’s reaction. “You mistake me, mistress. I
had nothing but the good of my Cyne at heart. And the good of Caraid-land. That
good can only be served by the return of the Cyneric Airleas to Mertuile to be
set before the Stone.”

“Under
whose regency?”

“Under
my own. By the Cyne’s decree. Ask Osraed Ladhar, if you don’t trust me. He
witnessed the act and counter-signed the document. For the sake of this land,
which we both love, I beg you, Cwen Toireasa—let Airleas return to Creiddylad
with me. Let him be set before the Stone as is his right.”

Toireasa
smiled wryly. “Ah, Goscelin’s dilemma. To be parted from her child, or to hold
him fast to her side.”

“Goscelin
had no choice, mistress. You do. I offer it to you.”

“And
the alternative?”

Feich
gazed around him at the hills above, the town below, the long slope, meadows
and woods behind. “This land is divided, torn by dissension and strife. Blood
flows. Lives are lost. Mistress, Airleas is a symbol of Caraid-land’s unity. If
he is not at Mertuile, Caraid-land is a headless corpse, thrown to merciless
eaters of carrion.”

“Then
let him return to Mertuile with me. Let Taminy Weave her will in Caraid-land
and let its wounds be healed. Let Taminy complete her purpose—to renew and
unify Caraid-land as it has never been unified before.”

Feich
did look at Taminy now and the hatred that had collected in him over the weeks
roared for release. Her face blanched as his eyes touched it, and he knew
without doubt that she could feel the black emotion roiling within him.
Something else sprang to join it, something that burnt its way up from his
groin, scorching him. Self-disgust followed—disgust that his own body could
betray him so thoroughly. He knew what she was—anathema.

“She
will Weave her will in chill hell and nowhere else.”

“Then
you return to Mertuile empty-handed.”

“You
deny your son—Colfre’s son—his birthright. He is a Malcuim-”

“Yes,
and so am I. And I shall behave like one. Cowardice ill-befits a Malcuim Cwen.
I will not give my son and Colfre’s into your hands, Daimhin Feich. In your
hands he would become a pawn ... as Colfre was.”

Beside
Toireasa, Taminy stirred, returning Feich’s gaze. His innards squirmed. “Then
you shall be declared outlaw—all of you. Heretics like her.” He pointed at
Taminy, and sought the faces of those behind the trio in the archway. “I’ll
have you declared Wicke. You’ll be hunted down like vermin wherever you go. Fed
to the waves or the flames. You’ll watch your husbands and wives and children
die horribly before your eyes. Is that what you want? Cyneric Airleas, is that
what you want for your mother?”

The
child twitched as if Feich had poked him. He glanced from his mother to Taminy,
then set his eyes on Feich’s face. “If we deny Taminy-Osmaer, we’ll
live
horribly. A Malcuim does not poison
himself.”

“Your
father did. Day by day his soul writhed in torment because he believed in
that
.” His finger pointed at Taminy
again. “It tore him asunder in the end. Perhaps it was the Hillwild blood in
his veins that made him susceptible to pagan goddesses—that made him weak of
will and shallow of mind.” He glanced at the Ren Catahn, standing just behind
the three.

“Or
perhaps it was having a fox for a Durweard,” Catahn growled.

“My
father worshipped power,” said Airleas. “That’s what made him weak. And you
knew it. I don’t care if you call me a Wicke or a heretic. I love Taminy and I
love my mother. I won’t leave here no matter what you say. Go away, Durweard
Feich, and leave us alone. You can have the Throne and the Circlet if you want
them so much.” He looked up at his mother. “Can I go now? I don’t want to talk
to him any more.”

Toireasa
smiled into Daimhin Feich’s face. It was a smile fierce with pride. “You’ve
heard the Malcuim. Leave us.”

She
turned her back on him then, and prepared to usher Airleas away.

Desperate,
Feich leapt forward. “Airleas! Come to me! These women deceive you! They’ve
poisoned your mind. Your father made me your Regent. Trust me, Airleas, and
come to me!”

Airleas
turned back to give his father’s Durweard a scathing look. “You stink,” he
said.

Feich
made a move to draw his sword and follow the royals into the courtyard. Before
he had tightened his grip on the hilt, the portcullis crashed down again,
digging its sharpened tines into the earth. Feich jumped clear, swearing. When
he regained his poise, the Cwen and Airleas were gone and only Taminy faced him
from the other side of the grille, Catahn hovering warily behind her.

“You-!”
Feich moved forward again. He stopped at little more than arm’s length from
her, the portcullis bars creating a thick frame about her head and shoulders. “You
are a dagger in the heart of this land.”

“And
you are the man who directs the blade. Stop this now. Let Airleas and Toireasa
return to Creiddylad free. Let me pursue my mission in Caraid-land and the
wound will quickly heal.”

He
gazed at her a long moment, then nodded. “All right. I see that what you say is
true. My actions are a determining factor in what happens here. Yes. You may
return to Creiddylad a free woman.”

Taminy
smiled while, behind her, the Ren Catahn laid a hand to his sword hilt. “I have
changed since we last spoke, Daimhin. Then, I was caught at a crossroads,
stranded in a state of transition. Powers ebbed and flowed, awareness informed
me only fleetingly. I am past that now. And because I am past that, I know that
you lie. If Airleas were to pass into your hands, Regent Feich, he would
become, as his mother said, a pawn. As it seems his father was, as you intended
me to be. There is still pain in that memory. How close I came to allowing my
purpose to be consumed by yours. And for what—a flash of white heat, a touch of
warm flesh? That was an ordeal by fire, Daimhin. And I still ask, ‘Did I pass?’
Or did Osraed Bevol rescue me?”

Feich
jerked. “Bevol? Bevol is dead.”

“After
a fashion. Yet, he lives, after a fashion. You wouldn’t understand.” She shook
her head and he felt her sigh rush through him like a cool breeze. “I want so
to appeal to your spirit. I want so to speak to your conscience. But by all the
powers that vibrate in this great rock, I cannot reach either.”

Talk
of spirits and consciences made him squirm. “Enough nonsense. I have no choice
but to return to Creiddylad and have myself declared Cyneric.”

“You
already think of yourself as that.”

Feich
hurled himself against the barricade. It rattled only slightly, though he threw
his whole weight into the motion. “Wicke! Stop pretending to read my mind!”

Catahn’s
sword was out as he came to Taminy’s shoulder, ready to run Feich through—if
Taminy would allow such a thing, which she wouldn’t.

“Afraid
of me, Wicke? Does your trained bear dance attendance because you fear me?”

“Lady?”
Catahn’s intent was clear in his voice. He wanted to put an end to Daimhin
Feich.

Yes,
of course—he wanted to keep the Crystal Rose for himself.