Taminy (18 page)

“The
outposts? But those have been empty for years,” objected Eadmund. “Decades.”

“Well,
they’re empty no longer. They’re provisioned and they’re populated.”

“But
flying no banners, I presume.”

“No,
Osraed Bevol. Not a scrap of cloth on any standard. But the forces are there
and they crossed Feich land to get there. Now, as the Feich are a jealous lot,
I would expect them to know when pack trains cross their lands and, as the Cyne’s
Durweard is a Feich, I would expect the Cyne to know what the Feich know.”

“Gauging
your strength,” mused Bevol. “Why, I wonder? To know how many men he may call
upon to raise an army?”

“Why
would he not come straight about it and ask after our forces?”

Bevol
raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps because he wants no one to know he plans to raise
a fighting force?”

Catahn
considered that. “Aye. He is talking cozy with the Deasach. Perhaps he doesn’t
trust them. Or perhaps it’s the Hillwild he doesn’t trust. I want to know the
whichever of it, Osraed. My folk are nervous with this cat-footing. And they’re
angry on other counts, as well.”

“Yes,”
said Bevol, glancing again at the petition. “I see the schools are not being
kept up.”

“Ah!
The schools!” The Hillwild’s face reddened. “That’s the rawest of it, Osraed.”
He moved to perch on one corner of the chair opposite Bevol. “Two years have
passed in which we have petitioned your Brothers of the Jewel for teachers, for
books to fill our wisdom halls. None have come. They seem content to abandon us
to ignorance.”

“Surely-”
began Eadmund, but a look from the Hillwild hushed him.

“Only
the Meri remembered us last year, sending several of Her Chosen to us. But it
is not enough. Our schoolrooms are crowded beyond their capacity. What teachers
we have are unable to take in all the children, and some of the best of those
sent to us afore time have been recalled to schools in Creiddylad and
Lin-liath. Our Cleirachs have called upon the elder children to teach the
younger, but some holts have no teachers at all. None. If their children will
be taught, they must travel to a village or holt that has a school. And, to add
salt to the wound, the Cyne has raised our Mercer taxes. Our petitions fall on
deaf ears.”

“A
grave matter,” Bevol agreed. He took a deep breath. “I think perhaps we,
ourselves, must arrange for the Cleirachs you need. We have, also, Aelder
Prentices who may be assigned as teachers. They are not full Cleirachs, but
their knowledge should serve you well.”

Eadmund
uttered a cough of protest. “Osraed Bevol—forgive me, but—without the approval
of the Hall and the Cyne—not to mention the Brothers of the Jewel—how can we
presume ...I mean, it is their responsibility to assign Cleirachs to the
schools.”

“It
is a responsibility they have obviously defaulted on. If they are not willing
or able to undertake it, then we must. By the Meri’s Kiss, we must. We will
inform them of what we are doing, of course. And—of course—we must inquire why
they are not doing it ...And why it never reached the floor of the Hall.”

Eadmund
shifted in his seat. “But should we not at least petition-”

“That
is precisely what the Ren Catahn is doing, Eadmund—petitioning. But now the
Hall will not hold session until only God and the Cyne know when. Our only
other recourse is to remand these plaints to the Privy Council.”

Eadmund
wrinkled his nose and Catahn let out a bark of humorless laughter.

“And
have them disappear!” said the Hillwild scathingly. “That’s another issue,
Osraed. The Privy Council no longer has Hillwild membership.”

“What?”
said Eadmund weakly. “Why not?”

“Ren
Rhum was our appointee. You recall him, Osraed Bevol—he was from Alt-Reelig.
Aye, well, his brother died and he took his family and went up home to bury him
and set his affairs in order. At the end of a six-week, he was curried a missal
from the Cyne and Council saying he was too long gone and had been replaced by
an Eiric of the Saewode.”

Bevol
frowned. “And his second? Surely he had a hand-picked alternate?”

Catahn
watched one huge hand flex and clench on the table top. “Luthai. Dead by
drowning a month after Rhum left. Her family was sent home—they were lodged
within Mertuile, so they had no recourse.”

“Well,
of course, they’d have had no reason to stay, would they?” asked Eadmund
weakly.

Catahn
gave the Osraed a look that drained any remaining color from his cheeks. “Funny
thing, that. Her eldest son was love-bound to a daughter of the Eiric Cinge—a
new member of the Assembly, as you may recall. The wedding has been cancelled.
By order of the Privy Council, according to Luthai’s widower. And that’s the
unseen, Osraed.” Catahn poked the leather scroll with a stout finger. “You will
not find, in our plaint, mention of all the Hillwild courtiers who have been ‘excused’
from their posts, nor of all the marriages between Caraidin and Hillwild that
have been ... postponed. How may we petition about that?”

He
hauled himself up from the table and paced back to the windows. “It galls me,
Osraed. He seems bent to cut our ties, one by one. In the name of the Gwyr, how
can he, when his own mother—aye, and his own grandmother—were Hillwild?”

Bevol
sighed and sat back in his chair. Worse and worse. “We have already sent a
message to Cyne Colfre,” he told Catahn, “expressing our conviction of the dire
need to convene the Hall before Harvest. We can only hope he will respond.
Until then, we will send you such teachers and books as we can locate or spare.
About the other matters, we can do nothing ... but pray.”

“Is
there no Weave you can perform, Osraed, that can unravel these matters?”

“Ah,
we may look, Catahn, but we may not touch.”

The
Hillwild nodded. “Nor can we, without appearing disloyal to the House Malcuim.
Aye, more bite to that beast—I am blood-bound to this Cyne of ours. There are
times I wish I was not.”

oOo

Wyth
was preparing to mount his horse when his mother came riding up the estate road
and into the front court of Arundel, hair flying, eyes a-light, cheeks flushed
to rose. She startled him in more ways than one; just to see her look like that
was a revelation. His memory provided him no picture of her that contained such
life. Not even in his dreams had she ever seemed so vibrant.

He
watched her pull up and dismount while, behind her, a second horse and rider
galloped into the forecourt. It was the Eiric Iasgair—a widower some years
younger than the Moireach. Wyth was startled anew at the keen interest in the
other man’s eyes as they followed her ... and at his own lack of jealousy.

The
Moireach approached him, laughing, arms out. She embraced him and gave him a
motherly peck on each cheek. “Wyth! You’re not just coming in!”

“Just
going out. Master Bevol has asked me to dine with him this evening at Gled.”

A
slight frown curled between her brows. “Then you won’t be having supper with
us?” She glanced back at her riding companion, now dismounting from a bay mare.
“Aidan was so hoping to hear your Tell. He was in Tuine during Tell Fest.”

“Some
other time, perhaps, Mother. Master Bevol was most insistent.”

The
Moireach made a dismissive gesture. “Surely, you don’t need to call him ‘Master’
anymore. After all, you’re his equal now.” She laughed charmingly for the Eiric’s
benefit, tossing him a winsome smile.

Wyth
shuffled uncomfortably. “Mother, I may be an Osraed, but I doubt I shall ever
be Bevol’s equal.”

“Nonsense,
Wyth. You’re newly chosen. Bevol-a-Gled is an old man. Besides, the Meri called
you Her son. She drew you into Her waters. There’s glory in that, Wyth,” she
added, smiling up at him and touching his cheek. “Your light shines so brightly
...”

He
glanced uneasily at Eiric Iasgair, blood flushing his face. “Mother, please, I—”

“You’re
too humble by far. Everyone says so. Surely you don’t have to bow and scrape
and curry favor to Bevol-a-Gled.”

Wyth
tried not to feel the anger coiling in his heart. He pushed her hand gently
away from his face. “I have never curried favor to any of the Osraed, but I owe
Master Bevol all my respect. Besides, I need to consult with him about my work.”
He patted the thick portfolio tucked beneath his arm.

His
mother glanced at it, new eagerness leaping in her eyes. She laid a hand on the
polished leather. “Oh, do stay for supper. You can tell us all about your work.”

Wyth
felt his face flush yet again and wondered if he could possibly get any redder.
“I’m sure the Eiric wouldn’t be interested.”

“Oh,
but I would, Osraed Wyth.” The other man assured him. “But please, don’t
trouble yourself on my account. I’ll hear of it some other time—at your
convenience, of course.” He finished with a courtly bow of his head.

Wyth
smiled, relieved. The courtesy was sincere. “Perhaps tomorrow evening, Eiric
Iasgair—if that is convenient for you?”

“If
the Moireach is amenable.” He looked to Brighid Arundel.

She
smiled, but beneath the smile seethed fierce frustration. Wyth felt it as heat
beating against his face. He stepped back from the furnace.

“Of
course,” the Moireach said and laughed again, falsely. “And I’d forgotten you
might have another reason to frequent Gled Manor.” She turned coy eyes to the
Eiric. “There’s a girl there. A fair-haired cailin with blue eyes. One of
Osraed Bevol’s foundlings. I dare say she’s the attraction at Gled, not some
fusty old scholar.”

Mention
of Taminy as if she were no more than a village flirt was enough to stir Wyth’s
blood to rebellion. “Osraed Bevol is far from fusty, Mother,” he said, moving
quickly to mount his horse. “And Taminy ... Taminy’s eyes are green.”

The
Moireach feigned surprise—no, not feigned, Wyth realized. Her surprise was
quite real. “By the Kiss! It amazes me you recall their color at all. That
tells a deep tale.”

Wyth
swung his leg over the saddle. “I have to go. I’ll be late if I don’t.” There
must be a Rune for keeping mothers at bay. “I look forward to our supper with
pleasure, Eiric Iasgair. Until then. Good evening, Mother.” He swooped to give
her cheek a quick peck, then gathered up his horse and rode away.

“And
who is this Taminy your son so is enamored of?” he heard the Eiric ask as the
two led their horses toward the stable.

“Oh,
some marsh bird Osraed Bevol loosed at Tell Fest. The local boys are agog. A
great improvement over his last obsession. At least this one’s not a Wicke.”

Wyth
willed his mount to a canter and got swiftly out of earshot.

oOo

During
supper Wyth alternated between staring at Taminy and trying not to look at her
at all. He had to concentrate to keep track of the conversation, made a fool of
himself several times (he thought), and spoke in non-sequiturs.

When
the meal was over, Gwynet and Skeet cleared the table while Wyth gathered up
his portfolio with an eye to soliciting Osraed Bevol’s help with his
manuscript. But Bevol, begging his indulgence while he helped the youngsters
with the dishes, disappeared, leaving Wyth alone in his study with Taminy and
the suggestion that he show her his work.

Hugging
his portfolio to his ribs, Wyth now hovered awkwardly at Bevol’s workbench. A quick
glance up into Taminy’s sea green eyes spurred him to action with a spasmodic
little hop. He flopped the folio onto the table top and unclasped it too
quickly, sending a flurry of loose papers over the polished surface. Taminy
gathered them up and ordered them while he dithered without direction.

“You
have a fine hand,” she said, returning the pages.

“Thank
you. I’m dreadfully slow, though. The Prentices help, but, well, that’s really
what I was hoping Osraed Bevol could help me with—an inyx that would allow me
to copy sections of books onto the fresh pages without having to re-inscribe
them.”

“Oh,
like a Printweave, you mean.”

He
nodded. “Yes, but it’s just a paragraph here and a half-page there. And
sometimes the originals are so faded or the printing is so cramped ...” He
pulled open a small volume and showed her a finely penned entry. “You see how
small this script is? And, of course, it’s in a different hand than some of the
others ...” He patted a second book, more slender, but wider and peeked at her
out of the corner of his eye. “You ... you wouldn’t happen ...I mean, I’m sure
you must ...Do you know an inyx you could teach me that would help?”

To
his utter astonishment, she laughed. It took him a moment to realize there was
little humor in it, just a wry sense of resignation.

“No,”
she said. “I might have aspired to invent such a thing once, but now ...I think
you’re best off doing it yourself.”

Wyth
abandoned work on the puzzle she presented. “Yes, well, that’s what Bevol said
too, but you see, I’ve never actually originated a Runeweave of my own. Truth
to tell, I’ve never even successfully modified one. Weaving was never my strong
suit. I was always better at the Dream Tell. I can only imagine that’s why the
Meri, well ...”

A
fleeting smile strained the corners of her mouth, but her gaze was
disconcertingly direct. “I somehow suspect She looked deeper than that. You’re
Osraed now. There are powers bestowed with that Kiss, Wyth.”

“As
I well know. Dear God, I can sense anger through walls and joy across miles.
And you ...” He hesitated, lost in his own impertinence.

“And
I?”

He
wriggled uncomfortably, wishing he’d better control over his tongue. “I can
sense you constantly ... day and night. I sense something I can’t describe.
Something I don’t understand ... and-and sorrow. I sense that, too. I don’t
understand that any better.”

She
nodded, her eyes on the books and the pages and the open portfolio. “The theory
here,” she said, tapping the topmost page of text, “should be the same as a
Printweave, except, of course, you wish to enlarge the print, yes?”