Taminy (13 page)

“And
still do,” said Wyth. “But ... do the other Osraed feel this is appropriate?”

“I
didn’t make the decision unilaterally. The Triumvirate appointed you these
rooms by unanimous vote.”

Wyth
sat down on the tiled bench. “I’m grateful. Thank you.”
How inadequate words
are
,
he thought, running fingertips over the bright glazed tiles.

“So.”
Bevol dropped down across from him, hands on knees, beard and hair turned to
hazy flame by the falling shafts of sunlight. “What will your first task be?”

In
Wyth’s head an aislinn book opened and he read what was plain upon the page. “I’m
to study the histories and the Holy Treatises and collect all writings
pertaining to the Covenant. Then they shall all be brought together in one
place and organized.”

“And
safe?” Bevol suggested.

Wyth
frowned. “And safe, yes. And available to all who would read them.”

“Ah,
if only all could read them. It is a fair portion of our populace, even in this
day and age, that cannot or will not read.”

“The
Cirke-school in Nairne does well.”

Bevol
made a moue with his lips. “Well enough, yes. But not all villages lie in the
shadow of Halig-liath. They have not the resources or the will, often enough,
to teach what needs to be taught.” He tapped his chest. “My commission that, in
part. To teach those outside these walls. A sometimes difficult task that all
the vigorous cleirachs and ministers in Caraid-land cannot move forward.” He
shrugged. “Would you have your sons at school when they ought to be tilling the
field or minding the shop? And as to daughters—hoo!—Gwynet’s lot is not as
unusual as it ought to be. And in Creiddylad, take the problem and multiply it
by the stars. Leal will have his young hands full, there, I can tell you ... You’re
wandering, Wyth. Is the old scir-loc boring you?”

“Huh!”
Wyth snapped out of his blur-eyed reverie. “I’m sorry, I ... I was thinking of
Meredydd and ... Taminy.”

“Ah.
Those two cailin offer much material for thought.”

“Is
it very strange for you, Osraed Bevol, to have her in your house? To sit with
her at table? To-to speak with her face-to-face? You received your Kiss from
her, your knowledge, your duan—and now, here she is-”

Bevol
shook his head. “Not the same.”

“But
Meredydd-”

“Whom
you love.”

“Whom
I love ...” He glanced up at the older man, feeling as if his soul sat naked in
his eyes. “How do you reconcile it? In your mind—in your heart?”

“How
do you?”

“I
don’t. That’s just it. What I feel for the Meri must be pure. It must be. But
what I felt for Meredydd—forgive me for saying it, Master Bevol—but I can’t
think that was pure. There was so much of my self in it. So much of pride and
envy and-and other things.”

“Possessiveness,”
said Bevol, then, “Desire?”

Wyth
sighed. “In a word.”

“And
you don’t desire the Meri?”

Wyth
recalled the night, the gleaming Something that would not be seen, that touched
him and spoke to him, unspeaking. “What is the right answer? I ... yes. I
desire the Meri, but-”

“And
well you should,” said Bevol, all but pouncing on the words. “Well you should.
I shall be the first to admit that I desire Her. I hunger for Her touch, thirst
for every drop of knowledge or wisdom or compassion—every drop of light She
cares to bestow on me. Passion, Wyth. In a word. That’s the substance of the
Covenant you are commissioned to protect. It would shock Ealad to hear me speak
of passion and the Meri in one breath, but tell me if that is not what She
demands of us. Eh? Am I wrong, Wyth? Is that not what She demanded of you?”

Wyth’s
face burned and his eyes swam with salt dew. “Yes. Oh, yes, but-but then, when
I think of Meredydd-”

Bevol
leaned across the circle and laid a hand on his knee. “Meredydd will not exist
again for another hundred years, Wyth—or more. Not as you knew her. The girl
you knew exists only in your heart—in your mind.” He sat back and shook his
head. “In all truth, she will never exist anywhere else, because when
Meredydd-a-Lagan walks out of the Western Sea a century from now, she will be
changed. Oh, you would know her, but she might not know herself. Skeet put it
very aptly: What must it be like to be dumped back upon the earth after living
in the Sea? What must it be like to have to walk, where before you have darted
like a silkie?”

Wyth
pondered that long after Bevol had gone, his thoughts full of Taminy. It seemed
an odd notion to have, and he hoped it was not, in some way, sacrilegious, but
it occurred to Osraed Wyth Arundel that after a hundred years of swimming, one
would find walking extremely difficult.

oOo

“Tell
me again why you’ve no classes this afternoon.” Taminy was inspecting the Cirke
spire with its gleaming stellate crown and Gwynet could not see her face.

“Because
Master Tynedale said he had a Council and trusted no one else with our lessons.
So, we were free to do whatever.”

Taminy
chuckled. “Oh, guileless child! I know every word of that is true, and yet you
still have such a cloud of guilt about you.”

Gwynet
scuffled in the dirt of the path and gave the Cirke an apologetic glance. “I
come here to study and learn,” she said. “I promised Osraed Bevol I’d study
hard today.”

Taminy
bent to look her in the eyes. “But Osraed Tynedale gave you a free afternoon,
Gwyn. Take it.”

Gwynet
drew a dusty circle with her toe. “I never had a free afternoon. It feels
guiltful.”

Taminy
straightened and made a clucking noise with her tongue. “Gwynet, you’re a
little girl.”

“Yes,
mistress.”

“But
you don’t even know what that is, do you?”

Gwynet
squinted up at Taminy’s face, but her expression was lost in the bright sky.
She said such odd things at times—like that, about not knowing what a little
girl was.

“Look,”
said Taminy. “If we have a lesson today, will you feel less guiltful?”

Gwynet’s
heart gave a triple leap. “Oh, aye, Taminy. Oh, I would like tha’ greatly.”

“All
right. But first-” She turned her head toward the Cirke. “I’d like to visit the
Cirke a bit. Look at the manse.”

Gwynet
blinked up at the large stone and timber building with its sloping walls and
its frosted, stained and crystal windows. “You lived here,” she recalled and
wondered at how long ago that was.

“I
did. And it seems not to have changed much, but for some new timbers and that
window.” She pointed. “That window’s been replated. And of course, there are
more graves now.”

Gwynet’s
heart cringed from the wistfulness in the older girl’s voice and quickly took
her hand. “Will you show me, mistress?”

Taminy
favored her with a wonderful smile and led her on into the Cirke yard, past the
Sanctuary and alongside the pretty stone manse with its great, wide porch and
up-tilted eaves and dormer windows. It looked very different from the
Sanctuary—newer, Gwynet thought.

“Two
hundred years newer,” said Taminy from beside her and Gwynet shivered to know
that her thoughts had been heard.

There
was a breathlessness about Taminy as they walked about the house. She was all
over it with her eyes, her lips parted as if to speak, though no words came
out. When they’d come round to the front of the house, which was set at a right
angle to the Sanctuary, the front door opened and someone stepped out onto the
shadowy veranda. Taminy froze at the bottom of the steps and grasped the person
with her gaze.

For
a moment, Gwynet was sure the older girl would cry out; she had the most
anguished expression on her face. Why, she thought, she thinks it’s her da. The
thought made her intensely sad.

“Daeges-eage,
cailin,” said a deep, warm-ember voice. “May I be of service?” The man came out
to the top of the steps into dappled sunlight that gleamed, patchwork, in his
honey-colored hair,

Gwynet
felt Taminy relax, and relaxed herself, gazing up at the man’s great height.
She smiled.

He
returned the smile, shifting his eyes to Taminy. “Ah, wait now! You’re the
young woman Osraed Bevol introduced at the Tell Fest. Taminy, isn’t it?”

She
nodded. “Yes, sir. It’s Taminy.”

“Well,
Taminy. I’m Cirkemaster Saxan. Welcome to Nairne.”

“Thank
you, Osraed, Gwynet and I were just ... looking about. Is it all right if we
enter the Sanctuary?”

“It’s
always open, dear girl. You may enter it whenever you wish.” He studied her for
a moment, then chuckled. “Imagine that Marnie, thinking you were Meredydd. You’re
nothing like her to look at.”

“Did
you know her well?” Taminy asked.

The
Cirkemaster nodded. “Since she was born. My wife attended her birth. Our own
daughter is only a few years older.”

“Were
they friends?”

“When
they were younger. But after Meredydd’s parents ... died, after she’d been up
at Halig-liath awhile, that all changed. Everything changed for Meredydd then,
and I can’t help but think ...” He paused, looking uncomfortable.

“What,
sir?” said Taminy gently, almost inaudibly. “What do you think?”

“That
perhaps Osraed Bevol shouldn’t have disturbed the natural order of things.
Should have let Meredydd live a normal girl’s life. She wasn’t allowed to be as
other girls, and they resented that and were suspicious of it. Poor Meredydd
was outcaste. Not a girl in Nairne would befriend her. Not even, I’m ashamed to
say, my own Iseabal. And it wasn’t Meredydd’s fault. None of it was Meredydd’s
fault.”

“But
Osraed, how could she have lived a normal girl’s life with her Gift? Surely,
that alone would set her apart? Wasn’t Osraed Bevol right to teach her how to
use it?”

“It
might have been more merciful if he had taught her how
not
to use it.”

“And
would it be merciful to teach a bird how not to fly? Or a child how not to walk
and talk? No, sir. It’s beyond that, even. It would be as if you tried to teach
someone—anyone—not to eat or breathe. It would be impossible.”

The
Cirkemaster studied Taminy all over again. “You seem to know much about
Meredydd’s Gift.”

“I
know she had it. And I know, from what Osraed Bevol has told me, that it was
natural as the color of her eyes. How can something given by Nature—which is
the hand of God—be against Nature’s order? Wouldn’t it be truer to say that
Meredydd’s Gift set her against
man
’s
order of things?”

The
Cirkemaster crossed his arms and shifted his weight against a wooden porch
column. “It would,” he said. “But look what it availed her. She sought to claim
the Sea and the Sea claimed her.”

It
was not said unkindly, and looking up into his eyes, Gwynet saw wistfulness and
wondered at it.

“I
can think of worse things,” said Taminy, “than to be claimed by the Sea.”

They
took their leave of the Cirkemaster then, for which Gwynet was grateful. She
had felt so much and understood so little of what went on over her head.

“Was
that the Cirkemaster’s daughter?” she asked as they climbed the steps to the
Sanctuary. “The girl in the doorway?”

“Yes,
I imagine it was. Iseabal, he called her—’dedicated to God,’—but she won’t be.
They won’t let her be. She’ll be dedicated, instead, to her husband and her
children and a nice, tidy business or craft. They’ll let her weave cloth, but
not inyx. Never that.”

Gwynet
glanced at her friend questioningly. The words were spoken in quiet, measured
tones, but another person might have shouted them, they were so unquiet with
pain and anger.

They
sat side-by-side on the first bench before the altar.

“Who’re
you angry with, Taminy?”

“No
one. It’s no one man or woman’s fault. It’s the way of things. The way it’s
always been.”

“Perhaps,”
reasoned Gwynet, “if the Meri had chosen a little girl to carry Her first
message-?”

Taminy
shook her head. “There would have been none to listen. Had a girl pounded upon
the gates of Mertuile and begged to see the Cyne, the guards would have scoffed
at her, or worse. And if she had shown them the great crystal, they would have
merely taken it from her and given it to the Cyne themselves to improve their
own lot. No, Ochan got to the Cyne because he was the young, strong son of the
Cyne’s Woodweard.”

“But
in the history it says Cyne Malcuim’s cwen, Mairghread, was a great spirit in
the Land. Tha’ she in—, em, influ—”

“Influenced?”

“Aye!
How she made great and wonderful things happen for the Land in th’ early days.
How she studied under Ochan and fed the hungry and helped heal the sick
and-and—”

“Helped,
Gwynet. Influenced. You notice it didn’t say that she healed the sick.” There
was a hot green light burning in Taminy’s eyes. “And let me tell you that she
did those things. She did heal. She did make things happen. She, herself. She
was as much Osraed as Ochan, but history wouldn’t give the Tell of it.
Caraid-land in those days, Gwynet, was as much Mairghread’s realm as it was
Malcuim’s and as much Ochan’s as either. They ruled together, the three, but
history’s eyes look over it, and history’s mouth talks around it.”

She
turned her face to the altar and was silent again, with one of those great,
heavy silences that drained all the life out of a person.

Gwynet
leapt to draw her out of it. “I’d like to heal and Weave great and helpful
things, mistress Taminy. And see wisdoms and speak what I see. I do pray you’ll
teach me.”

Taminy
looked down at her hands, fingers spread over her knees. “I’m not sure I’m the
right person to teach you those things. What I can’t do myself-”

“Oh,
there’s oceans of stuff you can teach me, Taminy! Like herbals and duans and
how not to burn down the house.”