Crystal Rose Read online

  “Where is the sorceress now?”

  “Barricaded in a fortress in the foothills of the Gyldan-baenn.”

  “Halig-liath,” said Llywd and drew a tilt of surprise from Daimhin’s brows.

  “Yes. You’ve heard of it?”

  “The Holy Fortress? Of course, I have heard of it. The place is legendary even on the other side of the mountains. It is said to be impregnable.”

  Daimhin nodded, letting his mouth droop at the corners—but only the tiniest bit. “Aye. It has proven to be so. And that, Mediator, is one area where an agreement between our respective countries does seem relevant.”

  Now it was Llywd’s turn to display surprise. “You seek a military alliance?”

  Feich raised his hands. “Please. I would not be so precipitous or so bold. All I ask—all—is that you might lend us one of your great cannon. I am told they fire exploding ordnance. Mediator, such a machine is the only thing I can imagine to be capable of breaching the walls of Halig-liath.”

  Loc Llywd rose and began a slow circuit of their chairs. “This is important to you, obviously, or you would not admit your own lack of such a weapon.”

  “We are a peaceful nation, Mediator.”

  “Yes, well, I once had cause to doubt that. But . . .” He waved the comment aside. “. . . that is neither up nor down. What is important to us is commerce. Specifically, the opening of Caraidin markets to Deasach goods and the permitting of our ships in your fishing waters. What is our cannon worth in that regard, Regent Feich?”

  What indeed? Now that he was faced with the decision, Daimhin Feich was at a loss to know how to respond. It seemed so simple. Yes, he could say, whatever you want, only let me have the cannon. I will blow away the gates of Halig-liath, breach the walls, take the prize. The cannon must be had.

  Yet, when he opened his mouth at last, a saner voice came out of it. “We have nothing like this karfa of yours, nothing like that red fruit my Cyne was so fond of. I am willing to agree that such foodstuffs as are not grown in Caraid-land may be imported from El-Deasach.”

  “And the fishing grounds?”

  “I will agree that once my cause is complete, I and my . . . The government of Caraid-land will consider your proposals in all earnest. And Mediator, to show that I have no ulterior motives, I also agree to return the cannon to you upon the successful completion, or abject failure, of my mission to return Airleas to the Throne.”

  Llywd favored him once more with that dark, unreadable stare. Daimhin Feich smiled within. The man was not nearly so opaque as he studiously tried to be. That facade was only a detriment to those whose senses ended with the physical.

  “We are in agreement, Regent,” said Llywd at last. “I shall make arrangement for the immediate importation of the foodstuffs . . . and the weapon.”

  “And I will make arrangements for a document to be drawn up stating terms. It will be signed by all the appropriate parties, rest assured. I trust that you can work out the details with our Minister of Commerce.”

  Llywd inclined his dark head and Daimhin rose.

  “I wish to send some gifts to Banarigh Lilias. Is there anything in particular the lady favors?”

  Loc smiled, for the first time revealing some real emotion. “The Lady Lilias favors anything that displays the craftsman’s expertise; a handsome adornment, a splendid piece of clothing, a fine sword. Oh, and horses. The Banarigh is inordinately fond of riding and hunting.”

  Feich returned the smile. “A woman after my own heart. It sounds as if I can’t do wrong by sending her the very things I’d wish for myself.”

  “Well, Regent, doesn’t the Holy Book say that one is not truly faithful to God unless he desires for his brother or sister what he desires for himself?”

  Daimhin Feich was once again genuinely surprised. “It does indeed.”

  Odd, too, considering that the Deasach did not even worship the same God. He could only imagine the remark was part of Loc Llywd’s polite diplomacy.

  Once safely in his Mertuile-bound carriage, Daimhin could not restrain a chuckle. Here was a man much like himself, then, willing to mock his own faith by pretending to comprehend another’s. He began to like Loc Llywd.

  oOo

  Of the three minds caught in the sudden web of Lealbhallain’s Speakweave, he would be hard pressed to decide which was the most surprised by the event. With a jolt like lightning Leal and Fhada made contact with Osraed Eadmund and that poor soul, on his knees in prayer, fell over onto his nose.

  It was difficult, but Leal and Fhada were able to create the aislinn images and Eadmund was able to perceive them and comprehend.

  A miracle, Leal thought.

  The good Osraed’s amazement washed over them again and again with his increased comprehension. He astonished them, as well, by conjuring the image of the Abbod Ladhar at Cyne’s Cirke. After some trial and error, Eadmund, by focusing on a simple calendar, was able to make known the critical information: the Abbod Ladhar planned to be at Cyne’s Cirke that very day.

  oOo

  The sanctuary was silent as the sunlight that fell from its high windows in almost solid beams; pigeons mimed shadow plays behind the leaded panes, voiceless. No noise from the plaza penetrated this far. Even the gears of the old water clock, hidden behind the wall of the nave, were silenced.

  It made Leal want to sneeze.

  He did not sneeze, however, or cough or make any other inappropriate noise. He could not chance being heard, not chance being seen until he wanted to be. He had been waiting here for hours, easing his impatience by pretending to be back in school taking a test, asking himself questions for which he had to formulate complex answers.

  It wasn’t unbearable, the waiting. He wasn’t completely alone, after all; Fhada was at the back of the sanctuary somewhere, also hidden from sight, Weaving his own means of combating boredom.

  It was during his fiftieth drill on the course of the Battle of the Crystal that Leal at last sensed movement in the outer corridor. A tingle of anticipation and dread coursed up his spine. In a moment, he knew, he would hear voices, for Abbod Ladhar was not alone.

  Before he could question his own certainty of that fact, he heard them, seemingly engaged in an argument; Ladhar and another man—a man whose presence generated an odd, prickly heat like . . . like fear.

  “He must be either a friend or an enemy, Abbod, he cannot possibly be both.”

  The stranger’s voice came from the doorway. Leal would see them only if they progressed down the aisle to the Altar.

  Ladhar spoke then—that voice he knew intimately. “Of that I am aware, Caime. He simply will not allow me to divine which. He speaks to me as if I were a partner, a friend, and yet . . . I feel him laughing, mocking. He is the most confusing individual I have ever known.”

  “He was intensely loyal to Cyne Colfre. I don’t doubt returning his heir to the Throne is the most important thing in Feich’s life. Men so driven can seem . . . confused in their other loyalties.”

  There was a long, pregnant pause during which Leal could hear only the sharp click of town shoes and the swishing of fabric. In a moment he would see them.

  “You set store by his loyalty to his Cyne, do you?” asked Ladhar at last. “You might not if you saw how he manipulated the provision in Colfre’s last writ that he be made Cyneric if Airleas should prove irrevocably delinquent. I can’t help but wonder if the same wiles went into securing the Regency.”

  Just within Leal’s sight the two stepped up to the Altar and stopped. Recognition of the spare man at the Abbod’s side nearly cost Leal his concealment. It was the cleirach who had flown at Taminy in the Assembly Hall with a spear in hand.

  Leal found a name for him—Minister Cadder. A horrid black heat arose in his breast and his face felt scorched. He would have to do a year’s contrite praying to shed the guilt of the thoughts he was having. If there was ever a person Lealbhallain-mac-Mercer wanted to do violence to, it was Minister Caime Cadder.

  T
hose poisonous lips were moving again and the young Osraed in his quiet rage could barely force himself to listen.

  “You say he manipulated the Cyne’s writ of Regency? Have you proof of this?”

  “Proof? Caime, I was there. Feich brought me over from Ochanshrine himself, saying the Cyne was dying. When we arrived at Mertuile, he told me I was needed to witness a writ of Regency. En route to the Cyne’s salon, Daimhin Feich voiced his fear that Airleas was lost—that even if he could be returned, he might still be under the sway of the Wicke, might never be free of her.”

  Cadder’s already gaunt face somehow managed to look even more sunken. “I pray the child is not yet completely lost, Abbod. He’s only a boy. Surely if we get to him in time—”

  “Oh, yes—if.”

  “Daimhin Feich was Cyne Colfre’s Durweard; more than that, he was a lifetime companion. Given the power of the Wicke, his fears are surely understandable. By God, I know I share them. How do you imagine you were manipulated?”

  Abbod Ladhar’s porcine face reddened. “I did not imagine, Minister Cadder. I was manipulated. Daimhin Feich planted in my mind the idea that another Cyneric should be appointed in case of Airleas’s default. One moment I was discussing the Regency with Feich and the next, I was pressing Colfre to make that godless wretch his son’s surrogate.”

  “Dear God! Do you—? You’re not suggesting he Wove?”

  “Hell’s ice, Caime! Of all the appalling . . . I would never suggest . . .”

  Ladhar’s face quivered like jelly and fear stood out in his pale eyes. He turned away from the cleirach and moved his bulk to the Altar.

  “Absurd,” Leal thought he said, but knew beyond doubt that his fear was real.

  At the Altar, the Abbod turned back to his companion, smiling. “Your imagination is amazing, Caime. How in the name of all holy can you even think an unbeliever might possess the Gift?”

  The cleirach admitted, blushing, that it was a ludicrous thought and the two men set to discussing the Cirke-dag worship.

  Leal found himself beyond belief as they calmly planned a series of small counterfeit miracles to awe the worshippers: Smoke balls and little Fireweaves to amaze; the chiming of the wind bells at an auspicious moment; and, if those things were not bad enough, an Osraed would fall to his knees and fabricate an aislinn vision which, Ladhar implied, would be no more than some whirling lights appearing around the Crystal.

  When Leal was woozy from what he’d overheard and despairing that he would ever have a chance at Ladhar, the cleirach left to fulfill some errand, leaving the old Abbod on his own. Leal didn’t wait, but came to his feet, stepped from behind the rows of benches and approached the other, shedding his timidity as one sloughs sleep.

  “Abbod.”

  The Osraed Ladhar turned, his expression going from blandly benign to utter disbelief. “You! How do you dare speak to me? How do you dare show yourself—here, of all places!”

  He glanced up the broad aisle, made an indecisive move in that direction and halted as Osraed Fhada appeared, wraith-like, from of a row of benches between Ladhar and the open doorway. Face purpling horribly in the ruddy-gold glow from the stained windows, the Abbod wavered.

  “What is it you want? Have you come to kill me? Be quick about it then, but know that you will not go unpunished. The Meri will scourge you through all eternity for such an act.”

  Fhada, advancing slowly down the aisle, shook his head. “We’ve neither the desire nor the means to harm you, Abbod. We came only to talk. To speak to you about the things that have befallen Caraid-land and to express our concern about what is yet to come.”

  “I’ll tell you what is to come,” barked the old Osraed, and his jowls shook like the wattles of a hen. “Airleas Malcuim shall be liberated from your Taminist comrades and placed upon the Throne. Then, I swear, you will all be hunted down and destroyed like the disease-carrying vermin you are.”

  “At whose command shall this be done?” asked Fhada. “Surely you don’t expect young Airleas to order it.”

  “His Regent will order it.”

  “Ah, yes. Daimhin Feich, the man you just accused of manipulating you into voting him surrogate Cyneric.”

  The Abbod’s face paled. “You heard—?”

  “Everything,” said Lealbhallain.

  Ladhar’s head swiveled, tracking him. “I don’t know what you imagine you overheard—”

  “That you suspected yourself to have been the victim of Feich’s manipulations, just as Cyne Colfre was. Abbod, if you believe that, surely you must see that Feich didn’t perform those manipulations without reason. He seeks to take the Throne.”

  “And what is that to me?” asked Ladhar. “Do you imagine I have some great loyalty to the House Malcuim? I have not. My loyalty is to the Meri. I care very little whose buttocks grace the Throne of Caraid-land as long as their owner does not seek to undermine everything I hold dear. Only the Meri’s grace saved us from having that Wicke holding court at Mertuile. If Airleas Malcuim cannot be brought out of her influence permanently, then I will support Daimhin Feich. Whether it’s him or some distant Malcuim cousin at Mertuile, it makes no difference to me. Either is far better than having a little Taminist parked there.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Fhada. He moved to stand below the Altar just far enough from Lealbhallain that Ladhar still had to twitch back and forth to watch them both.

  “What do you mean, am I sure? Taminy-a-Cuinn would have Airleas destroy the Osraed.”

  Fhada shook his head. “Taminy wanted only to renew the Osraed, to make us pure and whole and strong again. Yes, I know you’d argue that. Let me ask you this: What would Daimhin Feich do to the Osraed? What does he intend for the religion of the Meri?”

  “He intends that it be left alone, in our hands. He’s an unbeliever. He doesn’t care about our doings for any spiritual reason, I know. But he does care that the Osraed institution is his best chance of controlling the hearts of the people—”

  “When Taminy has won so many of those hearts to herself?” asked Leal.

  “Taminy is no longer here. People will soon forget the supposed miracles she performed. We will win those hearts back through miracles of our own.”

  “Ah, yes.” Fhada nodded his mop of curls. “With Fireweaves and little smoke balls and colorful lights. Do you imagine that can compare with making a broken body sound or bringing real Eibhilin light into a soul?”

  The Abbod reddened. “We will win those hearts back.”

  “And what will Daimhin Feich do with them once you have done that?” asked Fhada. “Do you think he will let you keep them?”

  “Where are your loyalties, Abbod Ladhar?” asked Leal, taking a step forward. “You say they are with the Meri. If that is so, they cannot be also with Daimhin Feich, for his loyalty is to himself alone.”

  “I am Osraed,” Ladhar answered. “My loyalty is always to the Meri—alone. I also believe in Her power. If Daimhin Feich threatens to undermine Her religion, She will thwart him, just as She thwarted your Wicke Cwen. She will raise up Her forces—”

  “She already has,” Leal observed, “and you fight us.”

  “I will never believe that. I am at Apex of the Osraed Council now. I will appoint my Triumvirate and, as the tools of the Meri’s will, we will destroy the forces of the Wicke. We will restore Her religion and renew it, purge the unworthy from our ranks, recover the prestige of our institutions. If Daimhin Feich stands in the way of that, we will see him destroyed as well.”

  Leal and Fhada’s eyes met in a silent exchange. Then, with one accord, they began to withdraw toward a side entrance.

  The Abbod Ladhar watched them depart, mute.

  oOo

  Safely away from Cyne’s Cirke, Leal reflected on what he had learned. Of one thing he was absolutely certain; Abbod Ladhar was no toady to Daimhin Feich. Not knowing Taminy, he might despise her, but he was not an enemy of the Meri’s, merely a misguided defender. Perhaps, if he could be convinced that Fe
ich was not to be trusted . . .

  Leal pulled himself out of his reverie enough to note his surroundings. He had separated from Fhada lest Ladhar send someone after them, and now stood on the edge of the marketplace.

  He tugged at his forelock, making sure it covered his forehead and aimed a small obscuring Weave at the heavily camouflaged Kiss on his forehead. When he’d left Carehouse that morning it had been a muddy green-gold stellate smudge. He prayed it still appeared so, then dove into the crowds.

  It seemed to him that people were a little less on edge today than they had seemed the last time he’d been out. A week ago, now. He lingered by knots of gossip, to glean any news from Mertuile. Regent Feich had been seen about in the dead Cyne’s carriage. Some thought that an outrage, some thought it was his due—all had seen the bans proclaiming his Regency.

  Leal wended his way through flocks of market-goers, side-stepped strolling merchants and performers, passed by bright tents and stalls, eyes peering, looking for a certain little flower cart. At last he spied it and made his way over to where another of Taminy’s followers, Haesel Sweep, now pursued a new and flourishing business. Around the cart was a knot of well-dressed gentlemen engaged in animated discussion of the muddy affairs of state.

  “Still,” opined one stout fellow, “to be a Regent without a Cyneric is a pretty meaningless station. It’ll be of extreme interest to see how all this turns out.”

  “Who’s to say there’s no Cyneric?” asked an older gentleman with a long gray beard. “I reckon that whole story of Airleas Malcuim’s kidnap to be just so much piffle. Good God, all that about Eibhilin fires and Hillwild hordes. Pah! A bunch of hysterical old women must’ve come up with it.”

  “Do I look like an hysterical old woman?” asked a third man. “I was there. Granted I was at the back of the public gallery, but I saw what I saw. That young woman whipped fire and lightning all over the place. It was a thing of awe. And there were Hillwild all over as well. But it was Iobert Claeg who helped the girl escape. I saw him myself, leading her out of the Hall.”