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  He grimaced and nodded. “I do see.”

  She smiled at him. “Go to Catahn,” she said. “He’s looking for you. He’s in your study just now.”

  When he was gone, she wondered if she might have been just a bit more honest with him. Aine was a good choice for Creiddylad, but Desary was better. She was more disciplined, more comfortable with her aidan, which was unusually strong, and she was more confident in her ability to use it. And it really wouldn’t have been too difficult to disguise the Hillwild girl to pass among lowlanders. She already knew and had used a Weave that changed the color of her startlingly black eyes. She knew, also, how to lose her Gyldan accent. But, of the two, it was Aine who reminded Wyth of his lost Meredydd, and Wyth who reminded Aine that she was only a Lorimer’s daughter.

  oOo

  “Airleas!” Gwynet caught him up halfway down the corridor from their classroom. Desary had let them go for the mid-day break. In the afternoon, Osraed Eadmund would give them their lessons in the more mundane arts of reading, writing and history.

  Now, Airleas fled as if pursued by demons instead of a bright-eyed little girl.

  Gwynet fell into step beside him. “Airleas, whatever was wrong, just now? You looked as if you’d gone to sleep with your eyes wide. Didn’t you hear Desary? You knew the answer, why didn’t you give tell?”

  “God-the-Spirit, Gwynet! Do you stop to breathe? I was just . . . daydreaming.”

  “Daydreaming? You? Oh, Airleas, you don’t. You never.”

  The hallway ended in a cross-corridor with deep window embrasures set along its outer wall. One lay just before them, streaming pale light over the chill stone floor. Airleas moved to the window and leaned out toward the iron-framed panes, peering into the courtyard below. Through the faceted glass, he could see only a portion of the hectic activity around the Airdnasheen gate. Claeg warriors were everywhere and their banner was even now being run up the fortress standards to flutter and snap beside the Hageswode pennant of white stars on a dark blue field.

  Airleas pulled himself up into the embrasure and curled there, chin on knees. Gwynet stood and watched him for a moment, then crawled up into the casement across from him.

  After a moment of brooding silence he said, “Why Aine and Iseabal?”

  Gwynet puzzled. “Why Aine and Iseabal what?”

  “Why did she keep them by her and send the rest of us away?”

  Gwynet shrugged. “I reckon she wanted to talk to them privy.”

  “I did as well as either of them.”

  Now he’d lost her. “What does the one have to do with th’other?”

  “She’s got a mission for them. Something special she wants them to do.”

  “How d’you know that?”

  He gave her a half-sly, half-abashed look from under his thatch of black hair and shrugged.

  Gwynet narrowed her eyes and peered at him with all her senses. What she read made her gasp. “Airleas! You were listening in! To her! That’s why you’d no ears for Desary’s questions. You were trying to-to pick their thoughts! How could you?”

  He had the good graces to look guilty. “I wanted to know what was going on. I knew it was something important.”

  Gwynet shook her head fiercely. “But it’s wrong, Airleas. To listen on anybody, leastwise her.”

  “Well, I wasn’t listening on her; I can’t. She’s different. She doesn’t . . . leak. I was listening to Aine and then Wyth when he came into it. Aine leaks a lot,” he added, as if that excused him.

  “It’s still wrong,” Gwynet said and eyed him warily. “Was it something important?”

  “She’s sending them away.”

  Gwynet’s heart turned over uneasily and she gasped.

  “Aye, it’s true. She’s sending them to teach the waljan in Creiddylad and Nairne. They’ll be leaving with the Claeg.” His eyes moved back to the glass diamonds. “I wish she’d send me to Creiddylad. Why didn’t she send me, Gwyn?”

  “What nonsense, Airleas! You’re Cyneric, now. And Daimhin Feich is likely lying for you like a hungry cat. You’d be in such danger.”

  Airleas sat straight up and leaned toward her. “Why? In these clothes—” He tugged at his leather jacket. “I look just like any other Hillwild boy. And my grandfather used to disguise himself and travel among the people to see how well or poorly he was thought of. I could do as much. It’s not as if I’ve a brand on my forehead that says, ‘Look! Here’s a Malcuim!’ No one would even know me, Gwyn. I’d be just another Gyldan youth out to see the real world.”

  “But why? Where would you go? What would you do?”

  Airleas’s eyes caught fire. “I’d go to Creiddylad, like I said. I’d free the Stone of Ochan from Daimhin Feich’s foul hands. And then, I’d avenge my father.”

  Gwynet was stunned to sudden tears. Grasping Airleas’s forearms, she looked right into his amber eyes and said, “Airleas Malcuim, how can you think of venging here? There’s more importful things than your Malcuim pride. She’s brought you here to teach you how to be the Meri’s own Cyne. Learning, tha’s your task, not risking all to be your own hero. Listen to Taminy, Airleas. Don’t listen to your proudful voices.”

  “But it’s not fair, Gwynet! It’s not fair that my father is dead and my mother is forced to run away and live in this poor, cold, hateful place. Meanwhile, the man that put her here roosts his behind on my father’s throne—on my throne.”

  “Airleas, your father betrayed Taminy.” Gwynet was surprised to hear those harsh words leave her lips.

  Her companion seemed equally amazed. “No, it was Feich. He betrayed them both. He used my father.”

  “It comes to the same end, so there’s no use you rewriting the tell. We’re here and Feich is there and right now, tha’s as should be.”

  Airleas glanced away again to the window. “You don’t understand. You can’t understand.”

  Gwynet gazed at him for a moment more, then pulled her hands away and levered herself out of the window embrasure.

  “I’m hungry. I’m going down to refectory and get my dinner.”

  She turned on her heel and walked away down the right hand corridor without once looking back.

  oOo

  The atmosphere in Taminy’s audience chamber was somber. Somber, too, the hardened face of The Claeg as he gave his report to Taminy and the Ren Catahn.

  “Feich has not yet set himself before the Stone and knows he dares not while Airleas lives. He talks of his duty to the Malcuim and seeks allies now among the Houses. Still, I’ve no doubt the Throne is all he thinks about.”

  Seated beside his uncle, Saefren Claeg watched Taminy digest his uncle’s tell, his eyes never leaving her face. She always surprised him; seeming so young, looking so serene, speaking as if she knew the inside of everyone’s head. He was always struck with the delicacy of her.

  A woman like that should waste away and die up here, he thought, yet she thrives.

  There she sat on her couch wearing, of all things, a youth’s breeches, twyla shirt, and long leather vest, her nearly white hair bound into a fat plait that hung over one shoulder.

  “Most of the Houses are indecisive, my Lady,” Iobert Claeg continued. “They wait for signs, for portents, for intelligence about you and The Malcuim. I’ve spoken, myself, to the Gilleas and the Jura. Both Houses pledged themselves to the Meri’s service, but they sought surety, Lady, that your service and Hers were one and the same.”

  “Aye,” added Saefren, “they grilled Uncle long and thoroughly—and their own Chieftains and elders as well.”

  “And?” asked Catahn, glowering. The Hillwild Ren seemed edgy—like a cat too near water. But then, he always seemed on the verge of leaping or roaring.

  Uncle Iobert smiled. It was rumored he never smiled, but the truth was his smiles were simply lost beneath the steely coils of his facial hair.

  He turned his eyes to Taminy. “They are yours, Osmaer. And I think, too, we may count on the Cuillean and the Graegam. I’ll make
certain of them on our trek westward. But the others . . .” He shrugged eloquently. “They must be courted before they can be counted.”

  “Damn the fickleness of the animal!” swore Catahn. He pushed out of his chair and paced around the room beyond the hearthside circle. “Did I not hear the Chieftains of these so-called noble Houses swear fealty to Taminy-Osmaer in the Great Hall at Mertuile? They heard her claims and proofs, saw her miracles—”

  “Miracles,” said Taminy quietly from her couch, “are transient things. Like dreams, they seem vivid at first flush, then fade to translucence.”

  “Aye,” agreed The Claeg, “there is that. And, too, what a Chief may pledge, his elder kinsman have a right to challenge. Many of those elders were absent that day, and they’re a stubborn lot.” He leaned forward in his chair, gray eyes on Taminy. “They wait, Lady. They wait for a Sign. From you. You’ve disappeared from sight, their Cyne is dead and his heir has vacated the capitol. As you say, they were willing to pledge to you at first flush, but now they waver. I speak to them of you, but I can only offer them words.”

  Taminy nodded. “You wish to carry away some direct message from me. Some . . . token.”

  “Aye. Exactly that.”

  “When you leave, I’ll have something to send to each House. Will you deliver these tokens, sir?”

  Iobert bowed his head, submissively, making his nephew twitch.

  “Chill hell take me if I don’t, Lady. I’ll see that the tokens are delivered.”

  “Will that be dangerous to you and yours, sir?” Taminy asked, and seemed genuinely concerned. “I think of Daimhin Feich. He must surely suspect where your loyalties lie.”

  Saefren’s ears pricked up at this. It was the first time he’d heard the Golden Wicke indicate there might be minds she couldn’t fathom. He caught his uncle’s eye, but the older Claeg gave no indication that he was thinking similar thoughts.

  “He may suspect all he wants,” Iobert said, “but he won’t press me, because he doesn’t want to make an enemy of the Claeg. Feich would like to believe Colfre’s death and your flight has changed everything up—that it’s his game we play.”

  “He may be more right than we’re ready to admit,” observed Saefren, trying to rein in his uncle’s unbridled enthusiasm.

  “I prefer to think,” said Iobert, slanting a fierce scowl at him, “that things are at least even. Our greatest enemy is, as the Ren Catahn so aptly puts it, the fickleness of the animal. That may also be our greatest asset.”

  “We’ve had reports from friends in Creiddylad,” Taminy said, “that things there are . . . tense.”

  Saefren Claeg grimaced. “An understatement. The place is a powder barrel, needing only a spark to set it off. I’ve no guess as to how many Taminists there are to Covenanters in the city—it’s not something you can get a man to discuss with you on the street—but your burn-brows are under cover.”

  Iobert Claeg glowered. “Saefren Claeg, your brattish tongue is going to damn you. Speak with respect of the Lady’s Osraed.”

  “Sorry, Uncle,” said Saefren, and was not the least bit contrite.

  Taminy smiled at him, surprising him to the core. Could she not sense his doubt, his skepticism?

  She said, “If you’ve no objection, sirs, I’ve a special favor to ask of you.”

  “Ask, Lady,” said Iobert before his nephew could pass comment, “and consider it done.”

  “I’ve special ‘tokens’ to send to Nairne and Creiddylad. With winter coming our only way of communicating with the believers in those places will be the aidan—the Gift. I need to send two of my waljan to be with them. Iseabal-a-Nairnecirke must go to Nairne and Aine-mac-Lorimer to Creiddylad. Are you willing to take them?”

  Iobert Claeg bowed to her in acquiescence for the second time that day, but his nephew wasn’t willing to be so accommodating.

  “Women? You want us to take on a couple of women in such harsh weather?”

  “Cailin, actually,” said Catahn, returning to his seat beside Taminy. “But older girls; seventeen or eighteen. Healthy, hardy . . . and exceptional.”

  “And not afraid of inclement weather,” added Taminy.

  Saefren fancied his glower was almost as intimidating as his uncle’s. He gave Taminy the full force of it. “The trip down the mountain is vicious. Cold, biting winds, chilling mists, rain. They’ll be expected to sleep on freezing ground—”

  “They know,” said the Golden Wicke. “They had to come up the mountain to get here.”

  Of course they had. Saefren could have kicked himself for his over-reaction. Now his uncle was scowling at him and the Osmaer woman was grinning at him and Catahn’s great hands were flexing.

  “If you object to my request, Saefren—”

  “He does not object!” roared Iobert. He came to his feet, quivering with suppressed rage. “That a kinsman of mine should utter such mealy words—should dare to speak in sly opposition . . . !”

  Taminy threw back her head and laughed. It was a girl’s laugh—light, carefree, delighted. “Please, Chieftain Claeg, don’t flog your poor nephew for his doubts. He’s entitled to them. After all, he wasn’t in Creiddylad with you this summer. He didn’t see what you saw. He only heard about it after the fact.”

  “He should trust what he hears from his elder kinsman!”

  I was wrong, Saefren realized, my glower is nowhere near as intimidating as Uncle’s.

  Taminy shook her head. “Trust is hard given in matters of faith. Saefren is loyal to you and to his House. For now, that’s enough.”

  “Aye, well . . .” Iobert Claeg settled another disgruntled glance on his nephew, then turned his attention to Catahn. “We’d best see to the arms I brought up and ride herd on that young Osraed you put in charge of the pilgrims. I’ve family among ’em. Wanted to come up and study under the Lady.” He dipped his head to Taminy. “I dare say there’re some of us could use instruction in humility.”

  Saefren hid a grin as he watched his uncle bow himself over Taminy’s hand before taking his leave. Catahn made the same obeisance, then trailed the Claeg Chieftain from the room, turning at the door to fix the still stationary Saefren with a wolfish stare.

  That was a disappointment. He had hoped for a moment alone with her, though he was uncertain why. Perhaps he thought she might perform some pretty petty miracle to ensnare him. But under the Hillwild’s regard, his body moved involuntarily toward the door.

  The Ren grunted and passed from view.

  “Saefren Claeg.”

  He turned back to look at her. She was an unlikely visitation of the Divine in her breeches and leathers. She took several steps toward him, stirring dust motes into the pattern of light from the northern windows. They shimmered around her head, seeming to radiate from the pale gold of her hair.

  She stopped just before him, hands clasped demurely. “The ‘Golden Wicke’ will perform no Weaves to snare your soul, nor miracles to capture your approval. I meant what I said about your doubts; you may keep them as long as you need them.”

  He marveled at that, covering himself with a chuckle. “Am I such an open book to you, Mistress?”

  She smiled. “Deliver my girls safely, please, Saefren Claeg,” she said, and moved past him out the door.

  Chapter 4

  Don’t look at beginnings. Raise your eyes to the ends. This time is like the Spring sowing; it seems the earth is barren and the weeds mighty and the stones hard, but the end-time holds harvests and gatherings-in. Then, you’ll see the issue; then you’ll reap the bounty.

  — Utterances of Taminy-Osmaer,

  Book of the Covenant, #14

  He stood on the banks of the Halig-tyne and looked east toward Nairne. Behind him, the Sun set into the Western Sea and color drained from the sky in runnels of red and purple.

  He waited for the Rose. It would appear in the sky over Halig-liath and his invisible wings would take him almost there to watch it shed its radiance over sleeping Nairne. But the night sky gr
ew dark and stars glinted, and above distant Halig-liath was nothing but a swathe of dewy black velvet.

  Anxiety tugged at him. Where was she? Had something happened to her? He fidgeted. He heard himself moan.

  You look for me in the wrong place, Leal.

  He shivered, eyes darting. Had he heard those words or imagined them?

  In their feverish dance, his eyes caught a gleam of light to the south, high over the Gyldan-baenn. He fixed on it, and before he had taken two breaths, the light blossomed into a thing that was both crystal and rose and yet neither. Golden, the spreading, translucent petals dripped glory onto the tops of the mountains, strewing the snowy peaks with Eibhilin wealth.

  Leal puzzled. Where was this? He tried to distinguish the mountains, number them, name them, but they remained huge, dark and anonymous beneath the spreading splendor. He remembered Catahn Hillwild and tried to recall where his capitol lay among those titanic shapes, but could not.

  Fhada! Fhada would know. If he could only wake.

  Wake! He willed his eyes to open.

  Wake! He tried to conjure a bright sunrise, a splash of cold water.

  WAKE!

  He sat up abruptly, brain reeling from the sudden charge of warm energy that flushed him. The room was not dark, for someone stood beside his bed with a lamp.

  He blinked. No. There was someone by his bed, but there was no lamp. The light he saw radiated from the figure itself.

  He choked, suddenly unable to breathe. “Taminy! Mistress!”

  She raised a radiant hand. “Peace, Lealbhallain.”

  He felt peace. Like warm water, like soft sunlight, it poured over him. He smiled.

  “I’m sending you someone,” she said, and in that moment, he saw Aine-mac-Lorimer as clearly as if she stood before him. A wash of indecipherable sensation came with the vision. “Listen to her. Learn what she has to teach. Teach her what she must learn . . . Be patient with her. She comes with the Claeg.”

  “Wha—?” Leal’s eyes stared into complete darkness. He was surprised to find himself still lying flat on his back on his low pallet in his room at Carehouse. Windowless, the chamber admitted daylight only through a narrow aperture high on the western wall. In a flutter of stunned blinks, that feature appeared as a gray, poorly defined rectangle. In the meager light, Leal could see the solid shapes of his sparse furnishings.