Taminy (53 page)

He
slipped out as he had come in—swift and quiet—leaving a silence behind him that
was as tightly woven as any inyx.

The
Cleirach Feanag swallowed noisily, straining silence’s fabric. “Is he right? Is
Osraed Bevol that powerful—that evil?”

Cadder’s
hooded eyes forfeited nothing of his thoughts. “It makes a certain sense.
Think, Feanag. The power she’s displayed are those of a consummate Weaver, not
a child barely old enough to be out of Prenticeship. Not a female. Even a Wicke
shouldn’t be able to field such power. But an Osraed ...”

“An
Osraed mighty and learned enough to be at Apex,” added Feanag.

“Yes.
I believe he may be right.”

“What
do we do?”

“We
do what the Durweard suggests; we attempt to sway our peers.” He clapped his
associate on the shoulder then, and hurried him from the room.

In
a seaward window embrasure, the curtains kicked as at a swift breeze. But it
was not a breeze that descended, on four feet, to the floor.

Airleas,
his face pale, turned to his companion, quivering a little in fear-dappled
rage. “What does it mean, Skeet? What was Daimhin saying?”

The
older boy’s mouth was set in a grim line. “Nothing but what he wanted those two
to understand.”

oOo

Daimhin
Feich watched his Cyne for several seconds from the shadowed doorway before
making his way out onto the bridge to the Blue Pavilion. He knew Colfre
well—better than anyone else did, including Cwen Toireasa. They had been raised
almost as brothers, for Colfre’s father, Ciarda, had been an egalitarian
monarch, loathe to separate his son from the children of the noble Houses.
Because of his father’s duties as Chancellor, Daimhin’s family had lived at
court; the two boys had chased through the same gardens, eaten at the same
table, and played the same games.

Daimhin
Feich looked at Colfre now and wondered if that was still true or if the game
had changed ... or if they had. And when? Could he trace Colfre’s erratic
behavior to his meeting with Taminy-a-Cuinn, or had it begun when he first
conceived of himself as the first Osric of Caraid-land? And at what point had
Colfre Malcuim begun to have secrets?

Daimhin
crossed the bridge, drawing a smile from his sovereign. And what is going on in
the royal head now, my lord? He did not return the smile. “Sire, the Pillars of
the Hall seem to believe they have come to some decision.”

Something
like fear flickered momentarily in Colfre’s light eyes but the smile barely
faltered. “They’ve reached agreement? I suppose I can’t be surprised.”

“Agreement?
I think not. But I’m told they’ve come to terms.”

Colfre
shrugged, not quite able to make the gesture nonchalant. “With?”

“They
won’t discuss that with us, sire. Why break centuries of tradition because of
one unprecedented event? They’ll announce in chambers.”

Colfre
said nothing, merely nodding his head like an old woman, again and again.

Frustrated
with his silence, Daimhin asked, “What if they condemn her?”

“Does
it matter? The people will condemn them, I will do likewise, and she ... she
will do whatever she does.”

“And
if they endorse her?”

“Then
she will endorse me.”

“And
the Osraed?”

“And
the Osraed, and the Osraed. What do I care for the Osraed?” Colfre leaned
forward on his bench, fist clenched before his face. “I have them, Daimhin.
Either way, I will remove them from power.”

“You
believe Taminy will confirm you as Osric?”

“Of
course she will.”

“If
Bevol desires it.”

“Whether
or not Bevol desires it.”

Daimhin
studied his lord for a moment, uncertain he wanted to ask about this sudden
certainty. But he did ask. “And what fills you with such certainty?”

Colfre’s
smile widened to a white gleam in the slight duskiness. “I have dreamed.”

Daimhin
was sure his face must look at least as blank as his mind had become. “Sire?”

Colfre
rose to face him, his face alight with a strange, eager, sweating wonder. “Last
night I dreamed. I dreamed I was walking in my gardens and saw a rose growing
there that surpassed all others in beauty. Its petals were clear, transparent
and golden. I went to pick it from the bush, but a raven flew down and tried to
pluck the flower from me. Before I could chase the wretched creature away, the
rose burst into flame. And I ... I was transformed into a dove—my namesake. I
spread my wings and flew above Mertuile. Then I woke. I didn’t realize what it
meant until the Assembly met this morning. I was afraid at first. I’m not
ashamed to admit it. But then, I realized it was supposed to happen that way.
The Rose burst into flame today, Daimhin. I will soon soar in the updraft of
those flames. I have but to let Taminy-Osmaer work her will, and I will be
Osric of Caraid-land.”

Daimhin
did not need to ask if he truly believed that—the answer was written plainly in
Colfre’s face. Whether he really believed it or not, he wanted to and therefore
would.

Colfre
rubbed his palms together. “Shall we hear their decision?”

“Sire,
in view of what you’ve told me, I think it might be a good idea if we waited
until morning.”

“Why
so?”

“We
should formulate how we will respond in each eventuality. And we should discuss
the options with Taminy.”

“I
told you, Daimhin, we don’t need to do that. She’ll know what to do. We’ve only
ourselves to worry about.”

Daimhin
bit back his frustration. “Of course. Then we shall plan only for what we need
to say and how to say it. There is, too, a third possibility—by far the most
likely. And that is that the Pillars will agree within their respective groups,
but not as a whole.”

“So
much the better. Divided, they look like a directionless rabble. It will be
obvious that the Spirit does not guide them.”

Daimhin
nodded. “I see, lord. Yes, of course, we must prepare for that eventuality
also.”

“We
will be prepared for any eventuality, Daimhin.”

Daimhin
Feich nodded again and managed a conspiratorial smile. He left his Cyne’s
presence knowing that if they were to be prepared for any eventuality, he would
have to see to it.

oOo

Bevol
folded his stole onto the foot of the bed and coiled his prayer chain atop it.
The crystal caught fire from the bedside lightglobe, winking into the
semi-darkness of the chamber. “I’ll take a walk before I retire, Pov,” he said.

“Yes,
Maister.” Skeet bobbed to his feet.

Bevol
smiled. “Alone.”

The
boy’s lips compressed. “Then you’ll be taking your crystal, surely.”

“No
need.”

Dark
eyes flitted to the window and back. “Maister ...”

“Pov-Skeet,
you’ve acquitted yourself well these years. My Weard and companion, worthy
protégé ... son. Strange, the way the Meri answers prayer. Childless, I have
had more sons and daughters than most two men. You” —he pointed at Skeet’s
nose— “were a particular surprise.” There was no answering grin. He didn’t
expect one. “You’ve made safe those papers, have you?”

“Aye.”

“Good.
I wouldn’t like to think someone could sneak in here and snatch them while I’m
out strolling. This castle isn’t a friendly place. Still, you know who your
friends are.”

Skeet
didn’t reply, but merely looked at him with unreadable eyes. He sighed and held
out his arms. The boy flew into them and clung, reminding Bevol—if he needed
reminding—that there really was a boy, after all, beneath Skeet’s peculiar
poise.

Anomalies—I am surrounded by them.

“Be
safe, Maister.” The voice was muffled against Bevol’s robe.

He
chuckled. “I am always safe, Skeet. Always.”

He
closed the door behind him, but did not, for a moment, imagine that it would
create a barrier to Skeet. Those eyes would be on him, regardless of walls or
doors or circumstances.

He
eschewed the floral gardens this evening and made his way leisurely along the
battlements on the seaward side of the castle. He was in no hurry; the sea air
was to be savored. The sky was still red to the West and he was no more than a
silhouette against it—a shadow drifting toward absorption by the coming night.

He
sensed before he heard the approach of others. They came along the walk from
the shadows of one great tower, stealthily, they imagined.

“Good-evening,
gentlemen,” he greeted them, and couldn’t help but chuckle at the surprise in
their half-masked faces. “Will you join me in my walk?”

Has My patience made you bold and my mercy
made you careless? In search of fire, you follow your passions along
treacherous paths. You eschew the Sun in favor of a manmade flame. Do you think
Me unaware?

— The Book of Pilgrimages
(Osraed Aodaghan)

The
house was neither spare nor lavish, its neighborhood neither poor nor rich.
Both were unremarkable, but Iseabal was thrilled, nonetheless, by the thought
that, here, she would meet others who believed in Taminy-Osmaer. They went to
the front door, which surprised Iseabal. Somehow she thought they ought to be
sneaking through darkened alley-ways to secret chambers.

When
the door was opened to them, their escort, Haesel, held up her left hand,
exposing the palm to the master of the house. A greeting was given and, one by
one, the Nairnians passed through the portal, each showing his or her palm to
the doorkeep.

That
turned out to be a portly, greying gentleman with a ruff of wiry beard and a distinct
twinkle in his eyes. He told them his name was Grimnis. Iseabal liked him on
sight.

The
others were in a large candle-lit inner room. They seemed unsurprised that
Haesel Sweep had brought new faces with her, but only looked up with friendly
curiosity when she and the master of the house led them in. Of great surprise
to Iseabal was that the leader of the group, or at least its present focus, was
an Osraed. The man was younger than her father, but similar in build and
carriage. He greeted them cordially, seeming especially pleased to see another
Osraed, then introduced them around the group.

There
were eighteen of them, all told—old, young, rich, poor and in-between—and
Iseabal felt as if she knew each and every one of them and had for a very long
time. It was an odd feeling; though her eyes told her their faces were
unfamiliar, her spirit informed her otherwise.

The
tall, spare Osraed, Fhada, explained that they awaited a decision; the Hall
would confirm that it believed Taminy to be Osmaer, or it would reject her.

“And
if they reject her?” asked Saxan. “What will you do then?”

Fhada
smiled. “We don’t know. But we’re sure to receive guidance. Each of us, from
the moment She spoke to us, has received guidance. If not for that, we would
never have been able to find each other.”

A
commotion from the hallway preceded the arrival of the Osraed Lealbhallain.
Iseabal and her companions had little chance to react to his unexpected
presence, for everyone else in the room at once clamored for him to speak.

He
did speak, blinking in disbelief at the familiar faces he saw. What he said
was, “There’s been no decision. Osraed Bevol has disappeared.”

oOo

“I’m
very sorry about your friend.” Cwen Toireasa trailed elegant fingers over the
marble balustrade. Her eyes, shadowed with concern, searched the grain her
fingertips traced as if the answer were there. “With your Gift, can’t you tell
what’s happened to him?”

Taminy
shook her head, not quite rousing herself from her own contemplation of the
glen in which they strolled—a place with a tiny stream and a fish-filled pond
that reminded her of her forest glen at home. But this glade was enclosed
within tall gray walls; only the air here was free.

“It’s
as if a door closed, cutting off all light and sound. He’s gone.”

The
Cwen’s face paled. “Do you think he’s dead?”

“I
don’t know. I’ve never felt another person’s death before—not really. Before,
when I was ... the Vessel, death only made people clearer—stronger.”

Toireasa
gazed at her with wonder. “Death is not an end?”

“Not
to the Meri. Not to the Spirit.” She watched her fingers twist the sash at her
waist. “My parents died while I was in the Sea. I felt them each grow in
brilliance at the moment they fled their bodies. I felt them touch on me with
joy. I was joined to them, linked—indissolubly, I thought. Until I stepped out
of the Sea. Then they were muted to whispers and I was alone. Except for Osraed
Bevol and Skeet and Gwynet. Now, there’s only Skeet, and the Cyne won’t let me
see him.”

The
Cwen laid a hand on Taminy’s shoulder. “Do you know who has done this? Is it
... my husband who’s caused Osraed Bevol to disappear?”

Taminy
shook her head. “I don’t know, mistress. I sense hostility beyond the walls of
Mertuile ... and within them. I don’t think any one man is responsible.”

The
Cwen nodded. “I’ll arrange for you to see Skeet. Colfre need not know—nor
Daimhin Feich.” She glanced across the glade to where servants prepared
refreshment beneath the carefully supported boughs of a gnarled conifer. “Tea’s
ready now,” she said, and turned.

There
was a shout from somewhere above them—a commotion high up on the inner wall.
Distracted, Taminy turned, shielding her eyes against the Sun. There was
movement amid the bright light, venom amid the movement. Something whistled
through the air and Cwen Toireasa screamed. Taminy’s world tumbled suddenly end
over end as someone hit her, knocking her to the ground. Sound warped into a
cascade of shouts and screams. Then she was being dragged bodily toward the
castle.

She
had Woven a Ward without thinking about it. Now she strengthened the shield,
making her assailant gasp and let loose of her.