Taminy (37 page)

He
breathed in his awe. The Osmaer crystal. He knew it was that, though the shape
was wrong; the Osmaer was not shaped like a rose. But this was the Osmaer,
nonetheless. He reached out a tentative hand.

The
darkness turned inside out, whirled away and regathered itself in a different
form. Leal shook and shivered, blinking his eyes and struggling to make sense
of his surroundings. He was standing on a tall place—a hill, a tower—and
looking toward Nairne. Halig-liath sat upon its cliff top like a great, squat
beast, dark and waiting. But as he watched, a light sprang up, radiant, from
the ramparts—a brilliant, piercing light that appeared, at once, in the shape
of a crystal and a rose.

Leal
flew from his hill, sucked toward the crystal-rose as if by a silent
whirlwind—a wind composed of his own passion. He turned as he ascended, his
eyes finding all of Caraid-land laid out below him as if upon a gigantic,
living map. And beyond Caraid-land, the Sea. He paused in his flight. The Sea
was changing its color, roiling from blue-green to gold-amber, frothing in all
the hues of the Sun’s journey across the sky. Like molten gold it beat upon the
shores of Caraid-land and rose up in boiling waves and over-ran the dry land.
Leal watched, horrified, as Mertuile and Creiddylad disappeared beneath the
swell; as every village and settlement, every estate and manor, every farm and
stead, every hill and valley and mountain was inundated, swallowed up.

Over
the place where Caraid-land had been, the water boiled as if with great heat,
as if a battle of giants raged beneath the golden tide. And then the water
began to subside and the tops of the Gyldan-baenn thrust above the waves,
gleaming, golden, as if the molten Sea had coated them. But in the valleys ...

Leal
looked away. There would be death. Corpses would lie in the low places of
Caraid-land and ruins would litter her slopes. Most especially, he could not
bring himself to look at Nairne, at Halig-liath, at the place where the
crystal-rose had been. He screwed his eyes tightly shut, hearing the beginnings
of Caraid-land’s mourning—a high keen that lay, weeping, upon the wind, that
swelled into a great, grieving wail.

Leal
came upright in his bed, hands clamped over his mouth. His own throat had been
the source of that horrible sound. He sweated, chill, and wondered if anyone
had heard him.

oOo

Ealad-hach
rubbed his arms briskly. Chill this morning ... or was it just him, reacting,
again, to the events of the past days? He smiled—lips parting, tight, over
fierce teeth. Victory. He had her now. It was a matter of time. Couriers had
gone already, birds had been dispatched to the northlands, a Summonsweave had
been performed for those who could sense such things. The Osraed Body would
decide her fate and, by the time it convened, he would be strong and well-able
to repeat the Weave that had unmasked her.

Taminy-a-Cuinn.

His
smile spasmed and folded down at the corners. He shivered, rubbing his arms
harder. Hunted. He was hunted now. He could feel eyes on him, constantly. The
eyes of her minions, he was certain. He had revealed her and she had spread her
dark mantle over him—a mantle full of the eyes of demons. They snatched at him.
They would try to prick him, hole his Wardweaves and suck out his soul. His
eyes moved furtively about the sunny room. In the corners ... yes, you had to
be careful of corners.

A
tiny noise at the door brought his eyes up sharply. Osraed Wyth stood there,
gazing at him through his great, sad eyes.

Ealad-hach
pressed his lips tight together. “Yes? What is it?”

“The
Ren Catahn is here.”

“Catahn?
Whatever for? I thought he’d gone back up to Hrofceaster.”

“He
wants an audience with the Council.”

“Oh?”
Ealad-hach felt suspicion curl in his breast. “And why are you the messenger,
Osraed? Could not a Prentice have carried this Tell?”

“Yes.
But I wanted to bring it. Catahn says he’s had a ... a vision.”

“Catahn?”
Ealad-hach uttered a rude, barking laugh. “So now we’re to be plagued with
Hillwild sorceries, too, eh?”

Wyth
shifted from one foot to the other. “Catahn wouldn’t be Ren if he wasn’t
Gifted, Osraed. The Hillwild prize prescience just as we do.”

“Prescience!
Pretense
, is more like. So ... the
Ren wants me to hear of this vision of his, does he?”

“He
wants the Council ... and Bevol.”

“Bevol
is suspended—as you would be, if I had my way.”

Wyth
pulled himself fully upright. “I am Chosen, Osraed.”

“Yes
... but by what, I wonder?”

“The
Kiss cannot be falsified.”

“Anything
can be falsified if the right powers are applied ... or the wrong ones.”

“The
Meri gave me this.” He pointed to his brow.

Ealad-hach
shook his head. “Perhaps you believe that. I am almost persuaded that you do.
But, if you do, you have been misled. Betrayed, as we are all being betrayed.”

“No.”

“Your
mistress is strong, Osraed Wyth, but she is not invincible. The Meri will out.”

“Yes,
She will.”

“I
pity you.”

“And
I, you.”

Ealad-hach
shivered, but covered the twitching movement by coming to his feet and pushing
his stool back beneath his workbench. “Where is Catahn?”

“In
the small audience chamber.”

“Very
well, I’ll go to him. Have the others been informed?”

“They
will have been.”

Ealad-hach
approached the door, but was loath to pass near Wyth. He paused, quailing a
little beneath the younger man’s dark gaze.

“You’re
wrong,” said Wyth. “You’re wrong about Taminy, about Bevol, about me.
Caraid-land is in danger—we are all in danger—but not from her. She may be
Something we don’t understand, but she is not evil.”

“You’re
blocking my path, Osraed Wyth.” Ealad-hach raised pale eyes, trying, with every
ounce of himself to pierce Wyth Arundel’s poise. He felt a thrill of victory
when the young man dropped his gaze and stepped silently aside.

oOo

Wyth
returned to the chambers in which Taminy had spent the last several days. He
could think of nothing else he should do. She spent her time reading,
meditating, praying, and studying the courtyard from the window embrasure. She
was there when he entered, with a book she was not reading, staring through the
small panes at the rain-blurred sky.

Thunder
trampled through the clouds, their rumbling like hunger in their gray bellies.
The air was late-summer balmy and full of the tingle of electricity. There was
something else in the air, too, but Wyth could not name it. He wriggled within
his clothing and watched Taminy and marveled at how calm she was.

“I
wish I knew what they were going to do,” he said. “I wish I could do something
to prepare.”

Taminy
turned her face away from the window. “And what would you do? How could you
prepare, regardless of what they do? If they find me Wicke, which they might,
how would you prepare for it? And if they find me innocent, is preparation
needed? Even if they were to accept what I am and have been, what then?”

“But
... isn’t there a plan? I mean, doesn’t She have a plan?”

Taminy
smiled. “Of course She does.”

“And
are you part of it?”

She
nodded.

“Then
... ?” He made a futile gesture, wanting her to interpret it and reassure him
that everything was under the control of Someone much more powerful than he
was.

“What
they do is contingent upon their will. What we do is contingent both upon what
they do and what the Spirit and the Meri will us to do. The future must be
built moment by moment, Wyth.”

“But
you have the Sight-”

“I
see turmoil.”

“I
see it too, but surely the will of God-”

“The
will of God is known only to the Meri. That will is victorious, always, but how
and when depends upon us ... and them.” She nodded toward the thick, carved
door of her makeshift prison.

“If
the Meri won’t let us know what to do-”

“We’ll
know. Whether we do it or not is a matter of choice, for that is what we are,
Wyth, creatures of choice. Creatures of will. When our will aligns with Hers,
there is peace, there is wisdom and unity, there is the possibility of joy.
When it doesn’t ...” She shrugged.

Turmoil.
“What do you suppose they will do? There hasn’t been a serious charge of
Wickery brought against anyone since the time of Liusadhe. What ... what would
they do with a Wicke?”

Taminy
chuckled. “Odd, isn’t it—Ealad-hach is convinced I am some powerfully evil
creature and yet he expects me to be contained by four stone walls.”

Wyth
glanced at her sharply. She was smiling a girlish smile of pure humor. And she
was right; it was a ludicrous idea. He laughed for the first time in days. “There
isn’t even a decent lock on the door,” he said. “Anyone with a midge of the Art
and a crystal can get in-”

As
if to prove his words, the door opened, admitting Skeet and Gwynet. They had
food and drink and gossip with them and used all three to nurture the levity
Taminy had released into the somber place. As they ate, Skeet talked, his words
punctuated by peals of laughter, rain and thunder. It was all over town, of
course—Ealad-hach’s accusation before the Council—and the opinions about it
were as various as those carrying them. Marnie-o-Loom had it that Ealad-hach
was a senile old wind-bag and really ought to be ignored. The Spensers insisted
that he was right, as they’d always known. To hear them talk, they’d sensed
something wrong about Taminy from the beginning. Niall Backstere, meanwhile,
blithely passed gossip both ways, while the Lorimer family was irritatingly
silent.

“How
is Aine?” asked Taminy. “Has anyone said?”

“Closed
up in her room, seeing none,” Skeet said. “Not a peep out of her. Maybe not a
peep into her, either, for what her ma and da seem bent on protecting her.”
Skeet leaned across the table toward her as if someone who oughtn’t might
overhear. “I’ve heard she’s to have an audience with the Council before the
Body meets.”

“I
tried to see her,” said Gwynet. “Her ma was kindly enough, but she wouldn’t let
me.”

“Ah,
now, here’s a noodle you’ll be interested in!” Skeet fairly bounced in his
chair. “Seems Brys-a-Lach and young Phelan have had a falling out and Phelan’s
place has been usurped by Scandy-a-Caol.”

Wyth
blinked. That was an interesting piece of gossip, if for no other reason than
that Phelan and Brys had been inseparable since he had known them. He’d had to
separate them in class several times for behaving as if no one else existed. “That
is odd,” he murmured and glanced at Taminy. “Do you think Phelan was sincere in
his attachment to you?”

She
didn’t answer him, in fact, he thought she might not have heard him. She was
gazing at a point in mid-air, her brows drawn into a slight frown, her eyes
bemused.

“Taminy?”

She
shook herself. “Sorry, I ...There’s something ...”

He
nodded, some inner sense coming to sudden life. “I feel it, too. That is, I
feel something. A sort of-of quivering in the air.”

She
came to her feet, glanced at him oddly, then moved to the window, peering down
through the panes. Before he could guess her intent, she pulled the window
open, admitting rain and a clammy breeze, and leaned out, eyes on the narrow
stone walk that ran beneath the window one long story down. For an instant,
Wyth was taken with the absurd conviction that she meant to jump or fly from
the window. He hurried to her side, looked where she looked.

There
was someone standing below them on the walk—a girl with a wild mass of black
hair and eyes like jet. He could see those eyes because she was staring up at
them, her face glistening with rain, her riding breeches and jacket
water-stained. She made no gesture, spoke no words, only gazed upward while her
eyes filled with water that may or may not have come from the sky. The air
around her seemed to shimmer, to pulse.

Distrusting
his eyes, Wyth blinked, but the shimmer persisted.

“Who
is she?” Taminy asked, finally, her voice barely louder than the breeze or the
soft whisper of rain.

“Her
name is Desary,” Wyth told her. “She’s the Ren Catahn’s daughter.”

“Hillwild,
then,” said Taminy and smiled. “Of course.” She held out her hand, then, beyond
the window frame. Held it out palm downward as if bestowing a blessing.

The
Hillwild girl’s lips parted soundlessly and she ran, disappearing into the
fortress where the walkway met the wall. A moment later, she reappeared with a
man the size of a small mountain. A man whose hair sparkled with interwoven
jewels and whose broad shoulders were mantled by a leather cape. The Ren
Catahn.

He
joined his daughter on the walk below Taminy’s window—joined her in staring
upward, while she, holding up her clasped hands, fell to her knees.

“My
Lady,” she said in a clear voice. “My Lady of the Crystal-Rose!”

oOo

It
was just one more proof—as if he needed any more proof—that the Osraed were
inept. In a week’s time the entire Osraed Body would sit in judgment at a Wicke
trial. A Wicke trial. How antiquarian. There hadn’t been any real Wicke trials
since the heady days of Liusadhe. There had been mutterings—there were always
mutterings—but no trials had taken place.

“Interesting
tidings, aren’t they?” Daimhin Feich watched his Cyne’s face with amusement
spread across his own. “One lonely little heretic—and a girl, at that.”

“According
to this,” —Colfre waved the letter brought to them that morning by Abbod
Ladhar— “she was aided and abetted by Osraed Bevol.”

Feich’s
brows twitched. “Does that distress you?”

“Why
should it? He was my father’s advisor, not mine. Although he tried to advise me
once upon a time. I believe he gave it up as a bad job and scurried off to
Halig-liath to sit at Apex.” Colfre shook his head. “It’s the Cusp, you know.
It makes them see heretics and Wicke everywhere. It makes them jump at their
own shadows.”