Crystal Rose Read online

  “Speaking of the Hall,” said the first man, “have any of you heard aught of their meeting?”

  “I heard the last attempt ended in a riotous roil,” said the graybeard. “The noble Houses are not falling in line behind our Regent, the Osraed are fractured and fractious—”

  “Give me a tell I’ve not heard!”

  “Aye, well. I heard from the Regent’s own scribe that other than a few Chieftains, only the Eiric and Ministers put in their appearance, and even they were fewer than ought to be. Looks as if our government has ground to a halt.”

  “Near tax time, too,” mewed the stout one. “Tsk! Such a shame. Come, let’s find us some hot cider—spend before Feich wakes up and duns us double.”

  Off the three of them went, chuckling.

  Leal sidled up to Haesel and pretended to be looking over her flowers.

  “They seem happy enough,” he commented.

  “Oh, aye.” The woman patted a lock of brown hair into place and surveyed the crowd. “Government may have ground down, as that one says, but commerce sure han’t. Things’ve settled a bit here, too. Looting’s down since the merchants got together and formed a vigilance group. Funny, though, how long it took ’em to come to the knowing that our Regent Feich is keepin’ all his guards to himself. Some of the old Malcuim regulars still patrol here, but not enough to keep these poor merchants from losing their goods. ‘Well,’ they says, ‘we’ll just have to defend ourselves.’

  “See, there’s one of the market guards now.” She dipped her head in the direction of a young man with restless eyes and a heavily knotted club at his side. “Thieves can’t tell the vigilants from any other body here. Makes ’em real careful, I wager.”

  She glanced at Leal’s face. “What’s the word from Cyne’s Cirke?”

  “Word is,” said Leal, “the Abbod is not Feich’s man, no more than he’s Taminy’s.”

  “Whose will does he bend to, then?” Haesel asked.

  “The Meri’s, he thinks. I only pray She will find a way to prove to him that he’s wrong.”

  oOo

  Daimhin Feich sipped his wine and reflected that it tasted much better when things were going well. The whole dinner had seemed a feast from the Eibhilin realm and he congratulated himself that he had only his own pretty diplomacy to thank for it.

  It was a dance, he thought. Show the right face to the Mediator, make the right requests; the cannon was secure. Dispatch worthy gifts to the Banarigh of El-Deasach and who knew what might be accomplished? Perhaps the illustrious Lilias, herself, would see fit to let him keep the cannon, or perhaps she would dispatch a gift to him in return—some fighting men wouldn’t come amiss.

  He’d lied a bit to Loc Llywd in saying he expected the Skarf and the Madaidh to fall in behind him. He was working on that, certainly, had gone straight to meet with the Chieftains of those Houses from his conference with the Deasach Mediator, had told them about the marvelous cannon and the alliance forming between the Feich and the Teallach and the Dearg. He’d hoped it would decide them, but both men hemmed and hawed and prattled about needing to convene a council of House elders.

  Fools. In their desire to stay on the sidelines as long as possible, they let destiny slip from their hands.

  Daimhin swirled the wine in his goblet. Through the golden liquid in its cut crystal he could see the dancing flame of one of the myriad candles that graced the dinner table. It reminded him of the Osmaer Crystal sitting aloof on its pedestal, sealed within its shrine.

  He recalled that little spark of luminance he’d called from it and felt for a moment as if hot honey flowed through his belly. The spark of desire. Then it was her face he saw in his golden wine—green-eyed, flax-haired Taminy. The Wicke who called herself Osmaer.

  He smiled. Woman and Stone were connected. The two were One.

  “Alright, cousin.” Ruadh’s voice was tinged with irritation. “You’ve been sitting there all through dinner with that cat-eat-cream grin on your face. I’m damn tired of waiting to find out what it’s pertinent to. So’s the Abbod, I reckon, eh, Abbod?”

  The old Osraed, apparently lost in his own thoughts, looked up from his half-empty plate and nodded. “Yes, of course, em—it’s good to see you looking so happy.”

  Daimhin took another sip of the sweet, thick wine. “I am happy and I’ll tell you why. The cannon is ours.”

  Ruadh raised his glass to his cousin in silent applause, but the Abbod could only stare vacantly and murmur, “Cannon? What cannon?”

  “The one that’s going to blow the doors of Halig-liath to the skies.”

  “What?” Now the old boar was clearly dumfounded.

  Daimhin was both amused and irritated. “I’ve convinced the Deasach to lend us a marvelous new machine of war. A cannon—three horses in length—that fires explosive ordnance. With it, I intend to go up to Nairne and, by fear or force, bring back Cyneric Airleas.”

  “And destroy Halig-liath?” gasped Ladhar. “No. I won’t have it. Attacking an Osraed institution—”

  “At this juncture, Abbod, Halig-liath is no longer a legitimate Osraed institution. It is taken over by the Wicke and her disciples. I intend to give it back into your hands. Consider it a gift expressive of my . . . regard.”

  Ladhar’s full lips puckered mutinously. “And Taminy-a-Cuinn?”

  “I intend to bring her back to Creiddylad and drown her. She should never have escaped the Sea in the first place; she will not do it again.”

  The large Osraed took a deep, noisy breath. “I’d rather see her burned. It’s more certain.”

  “Abbod, there is, in the depths of Mertuile, a chamber which admits the Sea. There is always at least one hand’s width of water covering the floor and, as the tide rises, so does the depth of the water in the cell. When the tide is high, sea water fills the chamber to a depth of four feet.”

  “Four feet of water,” said the Abbod, “will not drown a woman who is over five feet tall.”

  Feich smiled. “Everyone must sleep, Abbod. Even the wicked.”

  Ah, the implications had sunk in; the Abbod’s chubby face was gratifyingly pale. Daimhin almost thought he’d beg mercy for the poor girl, but in a moment, he’d squared his massive shoulders and fixed his face with stern determination.

  “That could take forever.”

  “Why do you care how long it takes? The longer it takes, the more time you’ll have to visit her and listen to her screams and pitiable cries for help.”

  “God’s mercy, Daimhin!” Across the table from the Abbod, Ruadh shook himself. “I had no idea you were such a blood-thirsty monster. Surely you can think of a quicker, saner way of putting the girl away.”

  “Not one I would enjoy so. I would like very much to hear her beg me for mercy. I look forward to it.”

  Ruadh threw back some wine and grimaced. “Well, don’t expect me to enjoy it with you. I think it’s beyond cruel. I also think it’s a dreadful waste. If the late Cyne’s portrait of her has any truth in it, your Wicke is an astonishing beauty.”

  Daimhin snorted. “That portrait only hints at the truth, Ruadh. But you see, that’s part of her guile. Her face seduces a man’s eyes; her voice, his ears; her craft, his soul. Ah, see how our friend, the Abbod, shivers? He knows it’s true, don’t you, Abbod?”

  “I do. I’ve seen it happen to many, yourself included. Which is why I maintain, more strongly than ever, that her death should be quick. Terrible, terrifying, but quick. A lingering death gives her too much opportunity to Weave her wiles on you all over again.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Daimhin easily. Easily, because he had no intention of placing Taminy anywhere near that wretched sea-pit. That would be, as Ruadh so aptly put it, a dreadful waste. “There are iron rings set into the floor. I shall simply shackle her to those. The first high tide will set your mind at ease.”

  And what will it do to your soul, old man? he wondered. You speak so glibly of quick deaths. I wonder if you’ve ever witnessed one.


  The Abbod seemed somewhat mollified, and so Daimhin proceeded down an intersecting path of conversation. He drew his brow into a careful frown.

  “Your reminder of her cunning disturbs me, Osraed. I’ve tried to put out of my mind how strongly she . . . affected me. She’s powerful, and I’m probably a fool to think I can simply trot up to Halig-liath and bring her back by mere physical force. Have you no means of protecting us spiritually?”

  “Spiritually? I didn’t think you even believed in anything so intangible as spirit. See, you’ve even boggled your young kinsman.”

  Ruadh, insolent lip curled, said nothing, but merely poured himself another goblet of wine.

  Daimhin carefully considered his next words. “Abbod, I would be a fool to deny that she wields some power I do not understand. Some . . . force beyond my ken. I saw her blaze of glory. I witnessed her miraculous escape. I saw the very mouth of hell when I raised that crossbow, thinking I could simply shoot her where she stood. But then, I also saw a spark in the heart of that great Crystal your Osraed lives revolve around. I begin to understand that it, and the Art you Osraed practice, are the only things that can protect us from Taminy’s venom.”

  He stared moodily down the table, his frown slipping toward a twisted grimace. “She visits me in my dreams, Abbod. She haunts me, teases me, allows me no rest. And though, in those dreams, I take up a bow or a sword or a dagger—weapons I understand—I cannot touch her, for she holds the reins of a power I cannot fathom.”

  “We Osraed will do what we can,” the Abbod assured him. “When you travel to Halig-liath rest assured the full force of every loyal Osraed in Creiddylad and beyond will be with you. I myself will be with your host. I will Weave what protection I can.”

  “For that I thank you,” said Daimhin, bowing his head. “But for myself, for the nightmares that plague me and the fears that beset me—breathe no word of this outside this chamber, either of you—for those I would ask one thing more.”

  “Ask.”

  “A crystal. A crystal with which I may learn to Weave a ward to protect myself from the Wicke’s haunting.”

  The Abbod’s face was whiter than the breast of the gamebird that sat, half-eaten, on his plate. “A . . . a crystal? You wish to learn how to Weave inyx?”

  “Small Wardweaves only. For my personal protection. I now realize that physical weapons are useless against a spiritual enemy.”

  “But you have no training in the Art, no Gift. Good God, you have no belief! The purest Weaving stone in the world would do you no more good than a hunk of plain rock.”

  “I think I may have some small . . . talent, Abbod. As for training, you or one of your cohorts could provide that. The Osmaer Crystal winked at me, Osraed Ladhar. You saw it. I think that might have been a benediction, a blessing. Leastwise, let me have a crystal. If I’ve no Gift, then I’ll do no harm. But if I do, I’ll be able to protect myself.”

  The old fool was already shaking his head, jowls flopping like the dewlap of an aging mastiff. “I cannot allow it, Regent Feich. All the rune crystals in Creiddylad are registered at Ochanshrine. They go to none but Osraed. Even the Aelder Prentices there are not allowed them. So it has always been. So it must remain.”

  “She has a crystal. Everyone of her minions probably has one by now—pilfered from the reliquary at Halig-liath. And she is no doubt teaching their use. Abbod, please, consider what you’re saying. You are, in effect, condemning me to enter a battle weaponless while my adversaries are fully armed. I go to Halig-liath to return your Cyne to his rightful place. Would you deny a man a knife after he had pledged to march into a den of armed thieves to return your stolen goods?”

  “A good analogy, Regent, but not apt. Yes, you will march into that den of thieves, but neither weaponless nor alone. A spiritual army will surround you. Further, I will perform a Wardweave this very night to shield your dreams from the Wicke’s intrusion.”

  Frustrated, Daimhin shook his head. “No, Abbod. I am no coward. I will find my own way of safeguarding my dreams. As to the other—you certainly shall accompany me to Halig-liath. I expect you and your fellow Osraed may be as effective a weapon as the Suderlander’s cannon.”

  The Abbod looked quite pleased at that. “I assure you, Regent Feich, we can be very effective indeed. I think you will find us the greatest of allies in assuring the future of Caraid-land.”

  Daimhin raised his glass. “I’m sure I will.”

  oOo

  “The greatest of allies,” he snarled some time later when the Abbod had removed himself to Ochanshrine.

  He and Ruadh had withdrawn to the warmth of his favorite salon and sat before the fire drinking hot karfa and trying to stay warm.

  “I find them the greatest of irritants. A shame they’ve woven themselves so inextricably into the fabric of this society. God, what I wouldn’t give to rip them out.”

  “I’m afraid that would be impossible,” said Ruadh. “And, as the Abbod said, they can be helpful. Did you mean what you said about believing yourself at risk from the Wicke’s devices?”

  Daimhin chuckled. “What would you say if I said ‘yes?’”

  “I’d say you’d suffered a life-changing experience.”

  “Eh, well, as it happens I did. I didn’t think, didn’t really believe, she had the powers everyone ascribed to her. I didn’t see the healings in the street. I didn’t witness her handling of the Stone. Until the night she stood in the Assembly Hall and confounded everyone there, I saw only one supposed miracle. I saw her cause a rose to bloom from a desiccated bud. I was far away, it might’ve been faked—for a long while I believed it was. I’ve changed my mind. I believe she really did it. Just as I believe she once picked up a crossbow bolt and read from it that the man who’d fired it at her was a mercenary. I had him killed, Ruadh, because at that moment I knew that if she but saw his face, she’d know I had paid his fee.” He rose and moved to stand nearer the fire. “But as believing her able to harm me . . .” He shook his head. “She won’t harm me.”

  “So certain?”

  “Let me share a secret with you, Ruadh. The Lady Taminy is many things; she is manipulative, powerful, seductive. She is dangerous to the Osraed and to my own aspirations. But she is not evil. She honestly believes it is her duty to reform and renew and recreate the religion of Caraid-land and redeem its fortunes. She wants to put a Malcuim Cyne on the Throne and she wants to stand, alone, beside him. There is no room for Daimhin Feich in her government, and for that reason, she is the Enemy.”

  “Not evil?” repeated Ruadh, and for a moment, in the amber light of the fire he looked like the boy Daimhin had taught to hunt not that many years ago.

  “Not evil. That Taminy is evil is a game we play so that this pathetically divided country might not suffer any further dissolution . . . and that a Feich may always stay near the Throne.”

  “Or in it?” asked Ruadh.

  Daimhin smiled. “If that is our destiny, Ruadh. If that is our destiny.”

  oOo

  “The man is a blasphemer! If I could I would call down a blast of fire out of the sky and cook him where he stands. I can’t fathom why the Meri hasn’t dealt with him already.”

  Caime Cadder stood by silently, watching his Abbod pace his chambers and steam as if freshly cooked. He understood the great man’s perturbation—no, anguish—for the Regent of Caraid-land was a lawless man, a self-absorbed man, in a word: amoral.

  “Perhaps,” Cadder offered, struck by sudden inspiration, “it is because She sees in him a tool—a means to an end.”

  “And what end might that be?”

  “The return of Airleas Malcuim to Mertuile. Feich is set on it and he will accomplish it, I’ve no doubt, though his motives be . . . questionable.”

  Ladhar looked at him with interest, now, a rare thing that always made him feel blessed.

  “An interesting idea, Caime. It is like Her to manipulate the wicked.”

  “Yes.”

  “To make
them feel it is their will they serve.”

  “Yes,” Caime repeated, then jumped when the Osraed poked a chubby finger at his nose.

  “Do you know what that arrogant Feich asked of me today?”

  “No, master, I do not.”

  “He asked me for a crystal. A Weaving stone. Can you believe it? Can you take it in? The damned idiot thinks he can Weave—thinks just anybody can Weave. You, of all people, know how untrue that is.”

  Cadder winced, stung by the cavalier way in which the Abbod referred to his Great Failing. Damn, but the man could be cruel.

  But no, argued an inner voice. You did fail. You reached the Meri’s Shore only to become so affrighted by dreams of Her coming that you ran. Ran! Such cowardice warrants occasional cruelty.

  “Why,” Cadder asked carefully, “why would he wish . . . that is to say, what reason did he give for wanting a Weaving stone?”

  “Protection,” spat Ladhar. “He’s taken it into his head that the Wicke is reaching into his dreams.”

  Cadder blanched. “Has he reason to believe this?”

  “He’s had some nightmares, that’s all. Rich food and late nights will do that to a man. Not to mention the stress of sitting inside that castle knowing that half the populace of Caraid-land would like to pry him out and hang him.”

  “As the Wicke would like to pry him out,” Cadder said. “Could she?”

  Ladhar fixed him with a look that would have perforated the walls of Mertuile. “I refuse to believe she is capable of that. No, she can’t be capable of that, otherwise she’d be reaching into our dreams as well—or trying to.”

  “She hasn’t . . . reached into your dreams, has she Abbod?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. None but the Meri touches my dreams, Caime. I permit no other access.”

  “Daimhin Feich,” Cadder reminded him, “is not an Osraed. And you said yourself, she does manipulate the wicked to her will.”

  The Abbod had nothing to say to that except that, of course, Mertuile was surrounded by Osraed and the Wicke Taminy was far away at Halig-liath and had shown no ability to reach them from there. He seemed content to let it go at that, but Caime Cadder could not help but recall that Mertuile had always been surrounded by Osraed and it had not helped poor, weak Cyne Colfre at all.