Taminy (51 page)

He
wanted to commit violence on her at that moment. He wanted to rush the royal
platform and throttle life from the Lie. He wanted to shake her until she
dropped her facade and appeared as she surely must be—hideous, stark and
colorless. More than that, more—he wanted to beat the beautiful face to
horrible, bloody, truthful submission.

His
eyes swept the three corner galleries, searching for any face that showed
something other than whole-hearted acceptance of the Lie. What they found,
instead, was the face of the iron-gray woman, the woman who had panicked him so
at Halig-liath. Opaque, shuttered, her sheeny metallic eyes were depthless.
Before, he thought he had only mistaken her for a Wicke, now he knew her to be
one. And he remembered the name that went with that aging, ageless face—Lufu
Hageswode. The Gifted daughter of the Hillwild Renic, Bana-Meg, she had been
brought by her mother to Creiddylad’s environs that she might be of service to
the Osraed there. At the age of fifteen, she had become Mam Lufu, “Mother Love,”
called “The Solace of the Poor.” A saint, some said—a Wicke, the Osraed had
decided.

All
two centuries ago.

“Osraed
Ealad-hach, are you ill?”

He
woke his stunned being, whipped up his senses. “What, sire? Pardon. Pardon,
sire. The noise. It ... it disorients me.”

“I
asked you, noble Osraed, to lay forth your charges.”

“My-?
But sire, I haven’t finished with my evidence. You must hear-”

“We
have heard enough.”

“Sire,
she claims-”

“Order,
please!” Acting in his capacity as Durweard, Daimhin Feich stood and rapped his
staff sharply on the polished wooden planks of the royal dais. “The Cyne has
requested that you name your charges, Osraed.”

Ealad-hach
shook his head. Cold, frantic terror leapt to his throat. “Don’t you see what’s
happening? Sire, we are surrounded by Wicke! In the gallery there,” —he
pointed— “I have seen yet another of them! A woman who-!” He cut off, realizing
how absurd it would sound, and scrambled within to retrieve his dignity and
control. They must not think him a wild-eyed fool. If they had not yet heard
Taminy’s claims, they would think his ridiculous.

“A
woman who?” repeated the Durweard.

Ealad-hach
glowered. “You would not believe me.”

“Then,
name your charges,” Feich repeated.

“Very
well, Durweard. I charge this young woman with practicing the Wicke Craft, with
heresy, and with treason against the House Malcuim and the government of
Caraid-land.”

What
had he expected? That they might applaud him? That they would hum and haw like
ruminative wise men, then look calmly into his charges? He had not expected any
of those things, yet neither had he expected a complete breakdown of order.
That was what he got.

He
withdrew amid a roar of hostility, thinking,
So few. So few there are who see.

oOo

Osraed
Eadmund was well-acquainted with fear. It seemed he renewed the acquaintance
daily now, and he nodded at it again while Ealad-hach addressed the Assembly.
Seated next to Bevol among the other Osraed representatives to the Hall, he had
all but folded over in his chair when Ealad-hach turned to look at him—directly
at him—and tried to catch his eye.

He
felt no better now, as the elder Osraed removed himself from the speaker’s
dais. The public galleries were alive with hoots and cat-calls, giving the
great chamber an almost festive atmosphere, but through it all, Eadmund could
feel Ealad-hach’s hatred of Taminy unfurling behind him in a smoky black wake.
He found the hatred frightening, more so because he knew it was a shared thing,
being fed by some of the very men who occupied the Osraed gallery with him. He
was amazed at his own sensibilities; he could almost see the emotion as smudgy
tendrils reaching towards Taminy’s box. He wished he could Weave a shield
around it.

The
Cyne called up his witnesses. They told of miracles great and small—so many, so
frequently in the last week, the listeners must have been tempted to think, “Well,
of course, she performed miracles! What else would one expect her to do?”

Cyne
Colfre himself gave testimony as well, describing the Episode of the Rosebud,
which Ealad-hach had related somewhat lopsidedly as an attempt by Taminy to
dupe the citizens of Nairne. And he related the events at Ochanshrine, making
Eadmund break into a cold sweat and tremble like a newborn foal. He even called
upon Abbod Ladhar to corroborate his story. The Abbod did so, but grudgingly.

Then,
Eadmund heard Durweard Feich’s voice making the ritual call to the Hall for
fair judgment. The hearing was over. The young Osraed shifted in his seat,
puzzled at the omission of Taminy’s claims—claims he had heard as clear as
Cirke-chimes at her inquiry, claims Ealad-hach had spelled out in stark clarity
in his letter to the Abbod. He glanced sideways at Osraed Bevol and saw that
the elder Counselor was already coming to his feet.

“Wait,
lord!” Bevol called. “Should we not hear from the cailin herself? Should not
Taminy be allowed to speak on her own behalf?”

The
public approved this loudly and many Assembly members added their overwhelming
and curious assent. The Cyne hesitated. Then, with a smile that could have
melted metal hearts, he gestured for Taminy to stand and address the Assemblage.

In
the public gallery, people crowded against the heavy wooden balustrade, holding
their breath. Durweard Feich, Eadmund noted, did more than hold his breath. He
gripped his staff so tightly his knuckles showed white. His eyes were on
Taminy, who rose as bidden and gazed around the hall, her own eyes seeming to
touch each face as they had done that day at Halig-liath.

She
spoke then, in a voice that was clear and sure. “I am Taminy-a-Cuinn of whom it
has been said, ‘She is a Wicke.’ I am not a Wicke. I was a Prentice at
Halig-liath during the reign of—”

Durweard
Feich and the Cyne both moved to snatch her attention. She glanced at them and
smiled. Eadmund almost smiled with her.

“I
was a Prentice at Halig-liath,” she repeated. “My father was Osraed and the
Council allowed my studies to please him, somewhat against their best judgment.
I am grateful to them for that. I was later expelled from Halig-liath by the
Osraed Council before I could complete my Prenticeship.”

The
audience hissed and grumbled at this; Cyne Colfre smiled and most of the Osraed
around Eadmund cringed and made sour faces.

“I
went on a forbidden Pilgrimage,” Taminy continued, then paused, face lowered as
if in reflection. When she raised her eyes again, tears sparkled there. “My father
returned alone and told the Osraed Council I had drowned, because they could
not be told the truth.”

Durweard
Feich came swiftly to his feet. “A sad tale, dear cailin. We now see how you
have suffered at the hands of the Osraed. Their cruelty does not bear further
hearing.”

Taminy
turned to him. “But I’ve not finished my Tell.”

“Let
her speak,” said Bevol quietly.

“Yes!”
The Ren Catahn stood among the royal guests. “Let her speak. Let us all hear
what she has to say.”

“Really,”
interrupted Cyne Colfre, “it’s hardly necessary. We can see she’s innocent.”

“Can
we?” shouted Minister Cadder. “Let her speak!”

It
became a chant. A chant Eadmund found even on his own lips. “Let her speak! Let
her speak!”

Durweard
Feich pounded his staff for order, but order could not be had. Friend and foe
alike roared for Taminy to continue. Feich gave up and sat down to glare
balefully at his Cyne. The moment he sat, the crowd quieted.

In
the relative silence, Cwen Toireasa, who had been only a bystander, looked from
her mute husband to his grim Durweard and shook her head. She gestured at
Taminy. “Go on, Taminy. You said it was thought you drowned. Since that was
obviously a lie, let us now hear the truth.”

Taminy
looked out at the Assemblage—the curious and the eager and the fearful and the
hateful and said, “I am Taminy-a-Cuinn, daughter of Osraed Coluim-a-Cuinn,
Cirkemaster of Nairne during the reign of Cyne Thearl. It was said of me that I
drowned a hundred years past. I drowned only in the Meri’s glory. I entered the
Sea of Light only to become one with it. I, Taminy-a-Cuinn, became and was
these hundred years, the Vessel of the Emerald Meri. I have returned as
Taminy-Osmaer—Divinely Glorious. That is my new name. That is my Station.”

The
room erupted. Not a body remained seated; not a soul remained calm.
Taminy-Osmaer brought a roar from the throat of the Hall that had never before
been heard. The Assembly of Caraid-land was reduced to a boiling rabble.

Amid
that turbulent sea, the Ren Catahn made his way from the southwest corner of
the Hall to where his daughter and Taminy stood. His face was dark with anger
and fear. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

It
was Osraed Bevol who quieted them. He came to the speaker’s dais and, climbing
upon it, waved the crowd to silence.

There
was more than mere will in his gestures, Eadmund knew. He felt the fabric of
the Runeweave, soft and silken. It sounded of pines playing the passing wind
and smelled of summer meadows. The crowd let itself be lulled.

Then
Bevol held up his hands and cried, “Have you nothing to say? Are you wordless,
able to utter only animal sounds? Perhaps you are all bewicked, your mouths
woven shut by this hideous creature?” He gestured at Taminy, who still stood in
her box, her expression unchanged.

Osraed
Ladhar rose ponderously to his feet and grasped the rail before him. “I will
speak. Do you endorse this cailin and her claims, Osraed Bevol?”

“I
do.”

A
murmur traversed the galleries.

“Then
you are misled, Brother, for she makes a heretic of you.”

There
was some assent to that, but it had gained little momentum before Catahn
Hillwild halted it. He took several long strides away from Taminy’s box into
the middle of the floor.

“The
Hillwild,” he said, “stand behind the Lady of the Crystal Rose, ready to serve
her. We, too, endorse her and her claims.”

Eadmund’s
entrails clutched painfully as a sweep of vertigo passed over him. The Crystal
Rose! That was her emblem emblazoned in this early morning’s sky. And hadn’t he
known it?

He
vaguely heard the Osraed Lealbhallain and Fhada endorse Taminy, saw the two of
them pale and sweating, step away from the press of bodies in the guest
gallery. He felt his own body move, felt it rise to unsteady feet. What should
he do?

“I
don’t understand her claims,” protested the Eiric Selbyr, and from the Minister’s
northern gallery, the Cleirach Cadder cried, “What need to understand them?
They are pure, lying evil!”

Arguing
broke out then, as Eadmund tottered among his peers. Sides and exception were
taken in loud voices and words eloquent and ineloquent. Dizzied by the swirl of
dissension, Eadmund made his way to the rail of the western gallery.

“Please!”
he choked, then cleared his throat. “Please!” Eyes turned to him, snarls died
to growls. “Why must we do battle over this girl? The Covenant of the Meri is
clear; we will not be left unguided in the face of evil. That same Covenant is
equally clear on the nature of evil: Evil cannot undertake the causes of good.”

“Do
you say,” asked Ladhar from beside him, “that she is good?”

“I
say,” said Eadmund, and was sure he must melt under Ladhar’s gaze, “that she
has Woven miracles in the presence of many, myself included. If these miracles
produce good results, then their source must, itself, be good. If they produce
ultimately evil results, then, and only then, can we condemn their source as
evil. Have her miracles produced good results or ill?”

There
was some shoving in the public gallery and a woman’s voice cried, “Good! She is
good!” A chorus of other voices joined in.

Ladhar
roared. “Her miracles have brought disunity and uncertainty to the members of
this Assembly, to the members of the Osraed Body, to this entire country. That
is pure evil!”

“But
are those the ends?” argued Eadmund. “Are those the ultimate results of her
work? Can we say, now, that she will not cause us to consider our own works and
strive harder to perfect them? If she is of God, she must prevail, and in
fighting her, we wrong her and we wrong God. If she is not of God, she will
soon destroy herself, for evil does, ultimately, destroy itself.”

He
made the mistake of glancing into the Abbod’s face and his words failed him. “Please
... can’t we just leave her alone and-and wait to see what happens?”

From
the floor, Bevol leveled a finger at him. “Feeble! Lukewarm! You vacillate,
brother! You hide behind your fears!”

Yes, I do
! cried Eadmund’s silent
spirit.
I do hide
!

Bevol
continued to rebuke him. “Such half-hearted rejection is unworthy of the Meri’s
Chosen. Look at her, man!” He smote his fist on the balustrade of the speaker’s
box with a loud crack that caused the entire chamber to jump. “Study her.
Interrogate her. Test her, if you will. But by the God of the Meri, decide
about her!” He came down from the dais and strode the floor, reproving each of
the four Assembly galleries. “Dismantle everything she has said and done,” he
told them. “Sift through it. Tear it apart and put it back together again.
Then, Pillars of the Hall—THEN—either reject her,” —he swung to point an
out-thrust finger at Taminy— “or accept her.”

“Study
her? Test her?” Caime Cadder launched himself out of the Ministers’ gallery and
onto the floor, advancing toward Bevol and Taminy. “Ludicrous! A waste of our
time! Pillars of the Hall, listen to me—Bevol distracts you with rhetoric.” He
came face to face with Bevol before Taminy’s box. “Distracts you from the one
pertinent detail in which this girl is lacking.” He turned to point a trembling
finger into Taminy’s face. “This girl bears no Kiss! The Meri has never touched
her!”