Taminy (56 page)

Wyth
would have been among them had he not now been on the Assembly. They had
deliberated for some hours both in their constituencies and with the general
membership, carefully drawing up their responses. Their responses were
two-fold; for the Hall was split over Taminy-a-Cuinn and no amount of miracle or
consultation or doctrinal exposition would mend the breach. Wyth’s testimony of
the Meri’s nature and of Taminy’s claims served only to confirm the already
confirmed. Those who believed her to be both Wicke and heretic were not at all
impressed.

While
the clear majority affirmed that Taminy possessed powers and insights which
could only come from the Eibhilin realm, they were not an overwhelming
majority, and the opposition could hardly pretend to be neutral. When all was
said and done, there were two implacable camps. Iobert Claeg would speak for
the assenters, while Osraed Ladhar represented the dissenting view.

By
sunset the Hall was aswarm with people and aswim in the warmth of their bodies.
The audience had been allowed to expand onto the floor between the Assembly
Galleries, leaving only a portion of the floor area before the royal dais for
the Speaker’s box.

To
Wyth Arundel, the babble of voices sounded like the utterances of the Bebhinn
many times amplified. They hushed as the Cyne appeared with Taminy at his side,
the royal family, his Durweard, and Desary Hillwild following.

Durweard
Feich called the Hall to order and gave a summation of the case of one
Taminy-a-Cuinn, claimant to the station of Osmaer. There was no one to whom the
Durweard’s words were news, and the faces turned up to him from the floor of
the Hall were eager for the proceedings to reach their climax.

As
was traditional, a spokesman for each group within the Hall rose and presented
the view of the constituency. Only tonight, the refrain was different. “We are
divided,” said the Osraed Ladhar. “We are divided,” announced the Minister
Cadder. “We, too, are divided,” agreed the Eiric Selbyr.

The
last to stand was Iobert Claeg. Clutching the hilt of a sword whose only
purpose was supposedly ceremony, he rose and glanced at the watchful faces in
his gallery. His eyes rested longest on Catahn Hillwild, whom he had invited to
sit next to him, then he turned to the Throne and announced, “We, the
Chieftains of the noble Houses of Caraid-land and of the free kindred of the
Gyldan-baenn are not divided. We offer up our lives and our loyalty to
Taminy-Osmaer—with one accord.”

And
so a Claeg, for not the first time in Caraidin history, brought down the roof
the Assembly Hall. The crowd, by and large, was jubilant, and the royals were
obviously pleased. Those who had reason to be uneasy, were—and Wyth could not
help but notice that Daimhin Feich was among them.

Odd.
Why would the Cyne’s man be uneasy in the face of success?

Iobert
Claeg remained standing during the uproar, waiting with rock-like patience for
the room to quiet. When, at last, it did, he continued. “I, Iobert Claeg, speak
now as representative of a clear majority of the General Assembly of
Caraid-land. We hereby declare that to the best of our determination,
Taminy-a-Cuinn’s claims as to her existence and nature are authentic and
faithful. We recognize her as Taminy-Osmaer, Voice of the Meri, and we await
her good-pleasure.” He then offered Taminy, seated at the Cyne’s right hand,
the deepest bow anyone had ever seen a Claeg perform.

To
the crowd and the Throne, this was reason for further celebration. People on
the floor had risen and, forgetting that there was another quarter unheard
from, began to dance about and sing. At this point, the Osraed Ladhar rose
ponderously to his feet and began to stamp in a slow, measured cadence. Other
members of his constituency followed suit until the great chamber echoed with
the sound of his army’s stationary march. Everyone in the Hall turned to look
at the dissenters; everyone quieted and waited for the march to end.

When
it did, Ladhar trundled to the lip of the Osraed gallery and addressed the
crowd. His face glistened with sweat, but the light of righteousness was in his
eye. Wyth, standing near him, saw clearly that he was a believer in his own
cause. The younger Osraed could hardly despise him for his words.

“I,
Osraed Ladhar-a-Storm, represent the minority of the General Assembly of
Caraid-land. We hereby declare that, to the best of our determination,
Taminy-a-Cuinn’s claims as to her existence and nature are incredible and
insupportable. We deny that she has any station that we, as members of the
Assembly, should recognize, and do declare that we believe her to be both Wicke
and heretic and the majority of this Council to be misled.”

Ladhar’s
pronouncement was met with a barrage of jeers. The Cyne, obviously pleased by
that, rose languidly from his throne and came to the edge of the royal dais,
his hands raised as if to bestow a benediction on the teeming crowd which,
seeing him, quieted respectfully.

Colfre
smiled and spoke out in a loud voice. “Friends! The Osraed Ladhar and his
constituents have a right to their beliefs, however much they depart from ours.
There is but one more quarter to be heard from. The Lady Taminy-Osmaer will now
address this assemblage.”

There
was silence as Taminy rose and came to stand at the lip of the Cyne’s dais. All
faces turned toward her, faces of both friend and enemy. All waited eagerly or
anxiously to hear what she would say.

Pulled
as if by a magnet, Wyth slipped from the Osraed gallery and moved toward the
head of the Hall. He dimly perceived movement elsewhere, as well, but his eyes
were for Taminy this moment, and would not be pulled away. She looked out over
the crowd, and Wyth knew that each person in the room would feel that he or she
had been the special recipient of her gaze. Then she spoke.

“People
of Caraid-land, your Osraed have told you that we are in a Cusp. They have not
lied. This is the Golden Cusp, a time of challenge and of change. A time when
discerning truth from error is nearly impossible. A time when men’s hearts have
grown tepid and their minds are caught in the snares of tradition and
complacency. A time when mortals reach out their hands and attempt to wrest
sovereignty from the Eternal.”

She
glanced back over her shoulder toward Durweard Feich, who had straightened,
gripping the arms of his chair. When she faced the crowd again she said, “I am
Osmaer, living symbol of the New Order, center of the Covenant between God and
Meri, Meri and Man. My purpose among you is to refresh and renew and protect
your faith, to clear the dross from the mirrors of your souls.

“There
are some among you who doubt that purpose. I am saddened by that, but I cannot
judge you for what you truly believe—the Spirit will judge the depth of your
faithfulness. There are others among you who would subvert that purpose and use
it to your own advantage. I cannot judge you for your lack of belief—the Spirit
will judge the depth of your faithlessness.

“There
is a man among us,” she said, and both the Cyne and his Durweard leaned forward
in their seats, “who aspires to share my purpose. Who desires to stand beside
me and guide the souls in this room and beyond. Who wishes to hold Caraid-land
in the palm of his hand, like the jewel it is, and to possess it.”

She
turned and pointed to the throne and the man in it, the yards of pristine silk
in the sleeves of her gown making her look like some white, winged being
stretching itself toward flight. “Cyne Colfre is the man. He is now Cyne of
Caraid-land, lord of the House Malcuim, descendant of Cynes, but he would be
more. He would be Osric—Cyne over you all by divine right.”

She
gave the crowd a moment to assimilate that. Behind her, Colfre beamed. He came
to his feet amid the growing swarm of murmurs.

Then
Taminy raised her hands, bringing the crowd’s attention firmly back to herself.
“People! Listen to the words of the Meri: Neither Cyne Colfre nor any other man
shall be Osric of Caraid-land!”

Colfre’s
smile froze in place, then shattered as if struck from his mouth. He came to
Taminy’s side on uncertain feet.

Wyth
felt his muscles coil and he edged closer to the dais.

“What?
Why? Why have you done this? Have I not been faithful? Have I not believed?
Have I-”

“DEMON!”
The shout came from Daimhin Feich’s throat. He rose from his chair, face
radiating red fury, finger pointed at Taminy. “Foul demon!”

Wyth’s
body was a pillar of ice. The cry was suddenly in the air all about the hall as
people darted out of the crowd toward the dais—toward Taminy. There was hatred
in their faces; more terrifying still, there were weapons in their hands. Wyth
had none. Empty-handed he leapt to Taminy’s defense, praying he would reach her
with a Shieldweave before that maddened Cleirach could reach her with his pike.

Cries
of outrage rose all about him, the chamber seemed to spin and the floor to
shrug under his feet. He cut in front of the Cleirach, certain that any moment
the pike would be buried in his back. But it wasn’t, and he reached the dais
without harm. Desary Hillwild was there before him, struggling with Daimhin Feich, who was trying to push her over onto the floor
several feet below.

Then
a hand overshot Wyth’s shoulder. It belonged to the wild-eyed Minister.
Grasping for Taminy’s arm, he caught the folds of her sleeve and, for a
sickening moment, Wyth feared he would wrench her from the platform. He reached
up his own hands, struggling to break the hold the other man now had on Taminy’s
wrist. He could feel the other’s weight upon his back, hear his hoarse yelling
in his ear.

“Demon!
Die, demon!”

People
milled frantically about them while, above them on the royal dais, Daimhin
Feich turned hate-filled eyes on Taminy and raised his staff to strike her.
Light, sharp and clear and painful, exploded from Taminy’s body, and from her
forehead the Meri’s Kiss shone like a great, blinding jewel.

Feich
dropped his staff. The Cleirach wailed in agony and fell away from Wyth’s back.
In the confusion, Wyth was able to drag himself up onto the dais, where he
stood shoulder to shoulder with Desary Hillwild and others that appeared like
wraiths about them. He glanced wildly about, squinting in the glare of Taminy’s
glory; there was Aine-mac-Lorimer and Iseabal-a-Nairnecirke and even her
father, Saxan. There were others he knew and more he didn’t know, and all were
coming to stand in the radiance of Taminy-Osmaer.

Their
enemies, seeing this, raised their weapons and pressed forward, trying to
shield their eyes. The Cleirach with the pike clambered onto the dais and
raised his weapon over his head. The Ren Catahn appeared behind him, sword
drawn, his arm cocked for a strike.

“NO!”
Taminy’s voice washed over them as if in chorus. “No, Catahn, there must be no
blood spilled on my behalf!”

She
raised her left hand. Beside her, Aine-mac-Lorimer echoed the movement, and
from their palms shot two agonizingly glorious beams of light. They smote the
Cleirach in the eyes and all but felled him. The others around Taminy followed
suit. One by one, they raised their left hands. One by one, they added to the
streams of glory until the royal dais gave birth to a sunrise.

Wyth,
amazed by the sight, tentatively raised his own hand. Exquisite energy coursed
through him, bringing tears to his eyes and a cry to his lips.

“Here!
Here!” He heard the shouts and tried to discern their source.

From
a doorway at the back of the royal dais, a man in dark leathers beckoned. The
Ren Catahn, seeing him, called out, “Lady, to the door!” And to his daughter, “Get
her to the door!”

Their
response was immediate. Still encircling Taminy, her little group of followers
began to press backward toward the exit. As they retreated, the people on the
floor came on, friend and foe alike. They crowded the edge of the dais,
reaching their hands out as if they could feel the substance of Taminy’s glory.

Seeing
them advance, Cyne Colfre raised his royal skirts and disappeared behind his
throne. His wife, the Cwen, and his young heir, remained seated, watching. But
Daimhin Feich was not willing to either flee or stand aside. Eyes streaming, he
glanced wildly about, until his search was rewarded.

Flanking
the Cyne’s throne were two bowmen. Feich leapt upon the nearer of them and
wrested his weapon away. Whirling, he brought the crossbow up, seeking a target
among the bodies surrounding Taminy-Osmaer. Taminy willingly gave him one.
Cleaving the ranks of her companions as if they were the waves of the Sea, she
brought herself into Feich’s sights.

Unbelieving,
he lowered the bow. “What are you?” he asked. “Tell me that before you die.”

She
spread her arms wide as if to embrace him. “I am your Beloved, Daimhin Feich.”

He
raised the bow again, sliding away the safe-latch. But something drew his eyes
upward toward the darkened windows. His face paled, and horror scrolled across
it. Lips drawn back in a snarl, he roared aloud and fired his bolt at the empty
air. High above, a window shattered. Daimhin Feich dropped the crossbow and
ran.

Beneath
a shower of glass, Wyth and his companions fled.

With
Ren Catahn and a phalanx of armed Chiefs as their rearguard, they funneled
through the open doorway, finding their path lined with fierce-looking men in
the colors of the House Claeg. The grizzled warrior who led them was Iobert
Claeg, himself. They were escorted swiftly through to the outer ward where a
teeming crowd had gathered—a crowd which even Mertuile’s Great Hall could not
hold.

Impatient
to hear of Taminy’s acceptance, people pressed upon the gates of the inner ward
hoping to hear a word from those more privileged. Instead, they saw the object
of their desire whisked into their midst surrounded by armed men. Crying out,
they put out hands to touch her, strained to catch a glimpse of her radiant
face as she passed by.