Taminy (43 page)

“Osric.”
He whispered the word lovingly. Divine Ruler. He would be that. All eyes would
see him as that. All hearts would love him as that. Only one obstacle remained
between him and that blessed title—the Osraed of Halig-liath.

Taminy,
whoever or whatever she was, would help him remove it.

oOo

The
shore, the docks, the riverside promenades, all teemed with agitated bits of
color. Skeet made a deft little sign over his heart. “All the people!” He
glanced up at Taminy. “You’ve an audience again today, mistress.”

She
quivered inside—quivered like that thrumming mass of curiosity onshore. Osraed
Bevol’s hand tightened on hers; she squeezed it back, anchoring upon it. They
debarked under the scrutiny of countless eyes. Necks craned, fingers pointed,
mouths babbled. The “Wicke of Nairne” was now “the Cyne’s Wicke,” and Colfre
let his stewardship be known by personally escorting her ashore and to the open
carriages awaiting them on the dock. He seated her on the high rear seat of the
first carriage and took up a place beside her. The Durweard Feich took the
second carriage with Bevol and Skeet, while guards kept the crowds at bay.

From
her high perch, Taminy looked down into a sea of faces, curiosity eddying
around her in rising waves, threatening to overwhelm. She pulled her senses
away and glanced aside at Cyne Colfre. Without, he was the essence of calm
dignity, regal savior of the maligned village girl, upholder of Caraidin
justice. Within, the gleeful boy paraded, waving, growing drunk on the
inquisitive stares. His eyes burned with a fire so hot Taminy could not bear to
look at it. She turned her head away and sought the spires of Mertuile. She
found them, held them with her eyes until the carriage hove onto the Cyne’s
Way. Its cobbled miles were lined with more citizens from every level of
society. Beggars rubbed shoulders with Eiric and forgot to beg; merchants
pressed close to paupers and neglected to disapprove. Taminy scanned the faces
in wonder, then turned her eyes to her destination.

Ahead,
high up on its jag of rock, Mertuile sat enthroned, awaiting her arrival.
Towers soared above their protective walls, wearing sheaths of pale marble and
crowns of precious metals, beaten smooth and gleaming by craftsmen’s skill.
Gold, silver, copper shone in a diadem of blinding splendor beneath the blue
Malcuim banners.

Colfre
looked down at her and murmured, “Welcome to my Jewel, Taminy.”

The
staring crowds did not dwindle until the entourage was secure within the castle’s
inner ward. Only then, when the inner portcullis fell to behind them, were they
without hordes of onlookers. But there were watchers, still; servants peered
from their doorways and children from their corners; soldiers threw sly glances
from a pretense of disinterest. And somewhere, high up, a pair of eyes—no,
two—looked down in curiosity and suspicion, respectively.

Taminy
raised her eyes to the facade of the great edifice. There, in that window
...The watchers withdrew—suspicion, then curiosity—and Durweard Feich came to
hand her down from the carriage.

They
placed her in rooms off a broad, muraled corridor far removed from the chambers
Osraed Bevol shared with Skeet. It was the royal wing, the Durweard assured
her, and left her alone in a bedroom the size of the entire upper floor of the
manse at Nairnecirke. There was a long balcony on which to stroll, but Taminy
quickly discovered it was open to the view of a large portion of both the inner
and outer wards of the castle. She sat—in the window seat, because the couches
and bed would have swallowed her—and waited for Mertuile to make a move.

oOo

“I
wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t believe me,” Leal said, willing his feet to
move faster up the cobbled way.

“I
believe you, Osraed Leal!” Fhada panted and glanced up at Mertuile’s towering
flank. “God bless me, I think I even knew he was here. I dreamed last night for
the first time in years.”

“Oh,
you’ve dreamed, Osraed Fhada, but last night you let yourself remember.”

Fhada
graced his young companion with a sharp glance. “It wiggles my insides when you
say things like that, Leal.”

Leal
blushed, realizing he had spoken without thinking. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“No.
Don’t apologize. It’s good for me.”

The
had puffed their way up to the outer gatehouse by this time and presented
themselves to the Gatekeep. Leal spoke, being less winded than his companion. “The
Osraed Lealbhallain and Fhada to see the Osraed Bevol.”

“Osraed
Bevol?” repeated the Gatekeep.

“He
arrived this morning from Nairne with Cyne Colfre and Taminy—the-the girl ... ?”

The
man nodded. “Oh, aye. Well, Osraed, all due respects, but I’ve had no orders
about visitors for the Osraed.”

“Well
then, be so good as to ask, would you?” Fhada smiled affably. “This is very
important.”

The
Gatekeep nodded again and called to one of his men to run courier for him. Meanwhile,
he escorted Leal and Fhada into the outer ward and bid them sit in a small
garden area along the wall.

“Is
it my imagination,” asked Fhada, “or are we drawing more attention than we
usually would?”

Leal
swept the broad outer area of the castle, eyes sharp. Fhada was right; around
and about Mertuile’s little warren of shops, eyes fixed on the two Osraed and
mouths fluttered.

“What’s
happened?” Fhada asked. “Can the rumors about the Wicke be true? Or ...”

Leal
glanced at the elder Osraed. “Or is it a smoke screen?”

“He
would like us to take less notice of his doings in the Cirke, I’m sure. You
know this girl, Leal. Do you think she’s Wicke?”

Leal
shook his head. “I know her hardly at all. But if Osraed Bevol is her champion,
then she’s no Wicke.”

“Good
enough,” said Fhada, and leaned back against the slats of the bench they
shared.

“The
courier,” Leal murmured as that gentleman hastened toward them cross-court.

“Begging
pardon, Osraed,” —the man bowed deeply from the waist, his eyes darting
nervously back over his shoulder— “but the Cyne’s Durweard bids me tell you
Osraed Bevol may receive no visitors. At least, that is, until after the
General Assembly meets.”

“The
General Assembly?” Fhada repeated. “To try an alleged Wicke?”

“To
try them that tried her in Nairne’s my guess, Osraed.” The man reddened. “But
that’s only a guess of mine. Based on hearsay. I’m sure the Cyne will make an
announcement. But until then, his guests are receiving no visitors.”

Guests,
not prisoners. Leal rose.

Fhada
echoed the movement. “When’s the Hall scheduled to convene? ...A guess will
suffice, sir,” he added, when the guard hesitated.

“A
week from today, Osraed Fhada. Giving the members time to arrive.”

“What
about the time it takes to give the Call?”

“Call’s
been given, Osraed. Two days ago.”

“Two
days,” Fhada repeated as he and Leal wandered back to Care House. “Colfre was
in Nairne two days ago.”

Leal
nodded. “Pigeons,” he said. “Magic pigeons.”

“Do
we go to Ladhar?”

“Would
it do any good?”

Fhada
sighed. “How impotent I feel. Is there nothing we can do?”

“We
are Osraed,” Leal said, and felt it in his gut for perhaps the first time. “There
is always something we can do. If they will not let us see Bevol face to face,
then we will see him aislinn to aislinn.”

As
if by silent consensus, the two walked faster.

oOo

Taminy
felt the approach long before the door opened, sensed the war between curiosity
and courtesy and a peculiar bristling resentment. Several times resolve
wavered, but at last it won out and there was a tentative knock at her chamber
door. The door opened before she could respond, though, and she turned her head
to see a boy standing there, regarding her with an expression that was at once
eager and sullen. He was about eleven, she guessed, and had thick, dark hair
and tawny eyes that appraised her boldly. Resentment smoldered in those eyes.
She rose to meet it, coming to stand demurely in the center of the chamber.

“You
must be Airleas,” she said.

“Riagan
Airleas ...And you must be Colfre’s Wicke.”

“I’m
no one’s Wicke.”

“You’re
pretty,” he said, and did not mean it as a compliment.

“You’re
angry. Can you tell me why? I haven’t done anything.”

He
smiled—or rather smirked—his mouth curling wryly. “You don’t have to do
anything. Colfre will do it all.”

“You
don’t call him ‘father.’”

“Why
should I? He’s less a father to me than Daimhin is.”

“I
see.”

“I
doubt it.” He stepped into the room. “Are you a Wicke?”

“I
already told you—no.”

“You
said you weren’t anyone’s Wicke. There’s a difference. So, you aren’t a Wicke.
You can’t do inyx?”

His
disappointment was so obvious, Taminy couldn’t repress a smile. “I didn’t say
that. I can Weave.”

“But
that makes you-”

“No.
There’s a difference.”

“Show
me.” He folded his arms across his chest, eyes narrowed.

Taminy
laughed, delighted by his audacity.

The
boy lifted one foot, then lowered it, unwilling to give in to a display of
temper. “Why is that funny?”

Taminy
sobered with an effort. “Sorry, Riagan Airleas. What would you like me to do?”

His
arms unfolded into an uncertain gesture. “I don’t know. What can you do?” Then:
“Make a-a catamount appear ... there.” He pointed at the carpet between them.

“A
catamount? Oh, I think that would be dangerous.”

“Oh,
well ... a buck deer, then.”

“On
this lovely carpet?”

“You
can send it away again, right after.”

“I’ve
never Woven a buck deer. I don’t usually use the Art that way.”

“Then
how do you use it?”

“For
healing, for seeing the unseeable, for warding against ill.”

He
considered that. “Can you show me what my father’s doing?”

“That
could be almost as dangerous as the catamount.”

He
glared at her, mouth open to retort, but she stilled him with a gesture. “Look,”
she said and stepped onto the carpet, her toes just touching the outer edge of
a great, round medallion pattern woven into its center. She held her hand out,
palm down, and closed her eyes.

Colfre.
She sought him. Found him one floor below. Her eyes opened and she began to
sing, using words from a tongue more ancient than most Caraidin knew. “
Chi mi ...Chi mi ...Chi mi na Colfre. Chi
mi, clares, nam Malcuim Cyne
.”

Beneath
her palm, motes of light rose and fell as if the dust were illumined, moving in
sourceless sunlight. The boy’s golden eyes seemed to reflect those motes,
following their slow coils in fascination. The motes took on color, solidity,
form. In three breaths, no more, they could both see the white-clad figure
gamboling in a haze of light, surrounded by a riot of color—face, sweat
polished, eyes gleaming.

“The
murals.” Airleas stepped back from the aislinn, his fascination collapsing into
feigned boredom. “You can make it go away now.”

“Airleas,
what are you doing in here? Make what go away?”

The
woman in the doorway was beautiful. Petite, she had hair the color of honey and
eyes of liquid blue. Those eyes were now focused on the image suspended between
Taminy’s palm and the carpet. “So, you are Gifted. I hadn’t believed it.”

Taminy
withdrew her hand, dissolving the aislinn, and bowed her head respectfully, but
the Cwen Toireasa took no notice.

“You
shouldn’t be here, Airleas,” she told the boy. “Please go down to dinner now.”

“It
won’t be ready, yet.”

“Please,
Airleas.”

“Yes,
mother.” The Riagan gave Taminy one last glance, then obeyed, slipping out past
the Cwen, who continued to regard her with a cool, blue gaze. “My husband tells
me you were falsely accused of being Wicke.”

“Yes,
mistress.”

“Yet,
you perform this ... display before my son.” She gestured at the empty air
above the carpet.

“I
am, as you said, Gifted. That does not make me Wicke.”

The
Cwen smiled tightly. “That would disappoint my husband. He’s half Hillwild, you
know. He quite fancies Wicke. More than that, I believe he sometimes fancies he
is one. “She turned to go, but paused just outside the door. “It doesn’t do to
disappoint Colfre Malcuim. But perhaps you already know that.”

“I
don’t understand you, mistress.”

The
Cwen laughed. The sound was humorless and flat. “Please, girl, don’t pretend
with me. You insult both of us.”

She
disappeared down the corridor, leaving Taminy to puzzle over her antipathy.

oOo

The
mid-day meal was a tense experience and Colfre was glad to at last be able to
lead Taminy away from the table and show her his domain. She was interested, he
thought, but not as impressed as a young village girl should have been.

He
showed her the Goscelin mural; she behaved as if she’d seen it before. He
supposed he should have expected that. He took her to the Blue Pavilion; she
said only, “It’s very beautiful.” He told her the design was his; she
complimented him on his cleverness and artistry. That pleased him, but
throughout their tour, he felt as if a barrier existed around her—a shroud of
cool light that held her aloof. At last, he took her for a walk along the top
of the inner curtain and began to speak to her of the future.

“In
a week’s time,” he said, “the General Assembly will meet. Do you understand
why?”

“You
want them to find me innocent of heresy.”

“I
want? Is that what this is about, do you think?”

“Isn’t
it?” She stopped walking and leaned against the parapet, gazing down into the
outer ward.