Part 8 (2/2)
Worst of all-worst-he'd disobeyed Taminy. Shrugged out from under her tutelage as if it were a burden he could do without. Well, he couldn't do without it. More than the use of a sword, he needed to learn the use of his mind, the use of his aidan.
All that would be academic if he couldn't get out of here.
He thought for a moment about his predicament. Perhaps there were ways other than the physical to lift the weight above him. He conjured to mind the image of a pair of fiery hands- No, not fiery! G.o.d's grace! He'd burn himself alive! Iron hands, strong, mighty. They took hold of the fleeces and furs and whatever lay above them and lifted . . . lifted . . . lifted.
The load lightened measurably. Airleas concentrated harder.
Lift and throw. Lift and throw.
Lighter, still, grew the suffocating heap and in a corner of Airleas's mind a small boy jumped up and down with glee. Wait till he told Taminy what he'd done-how he'd saved himself from- The pile collapsed, stunning the breath from his lungs. For a moment, he was poised to begin another physical struggle, but regained control of himself before he did something so stupid.
He silently hummed the Peace Duan again, slowing his rebellious heart and steadying his breathing. If only he could signal someone that he was here, make a noise, make . . . a Speakweave.
He chewed his lip, considering that. His imagination supplied him with the humiliation he would suffer to be found huddled-no, trapped-beneath this pile of burr-infested stuff, looking supremely un-Cyne-like.
Well, and who would he call? He was surrounded by giftless Claeg; his only chance was to reach Isha or Aine.
He sneezed just then, his nose tickled by a wad of fleece, and found the regaining of his breath difficult. Spurred by fear, he formed a cry of distress. Pride modified it. The finished Speakweave was much more dignified than his reflexive yelp for a.s.sistance, but urgent, nonetheless.
Inside his increasingly muzzy head, a time-piece marked the seconds-five b.u.mps, now seven, and uncounted jostles. Dear G.o.d, would no one sense him? Were Aine and Iseabal as dense as these ungifted ones?
He was at the point of giving up when the wagon stopped its mad jostling. He all but held his breath in antic.i.p.ation, celebrated wildly when he felt the thing rock gently, when he sensed the presence of another person. Only when the weight above him began to lift, did he school himself to calm. By the time the last layer of hides came off, he was, he thought, suitably unruffled-looking.
A stranger's face peered down into his. ”G.o.d-the-Spirit! It's a boy!”
Hands reached in to pull him up into the cold air-air that smelled strongly of moist wood and dust and tanning herbs. Behind the Claeg kinsman's cowled head, a halo of gray light marked the entry of the small, hide-covered dray. In a moment he was being hauled toward that opening, stunned by the realization that this oaf didn't know who he was.
”Let go of me, you clod! Where're Aine and Iseabal? Where's The Claeg?”
”At the head of the column, if it's any business of yours, sc.r.a.p,” the clod replied and lifted Airleas clear of the wagon to dump him unceremoniously overboard.
He landed on all fours on the damp earth, but was quick to regain his feet. A circle of Claeg faces peered at him from beneath cowls and caps, the wind sucked Airleas's breath away in misty streamers, nipping at any untucked edges of cloth.
The man who'd evicted him from his hiding place crunched to the ground behind him.
”By the Cleft Rock, Brunan,” exclaimed one of the onlookers, ”what've you got here? A stowaway?”
”What you've got,” said Airleas, ”is the Cyneric of Caraid-land.”
”A stowaway, indeed,” said Brunan. ”Oddest thing, you know. I just got this sudden feeling that there was something amiss. It was like-like a voice whispered in my ear that if I looked, I'd find a stowaway in my wagon.”
”I'm not a stowaway,” Airleas insisted. ”I'm Airleas Malcuim.”
”Oh, aye,” said his rescuer, ”and I'm the Ren Catahn in disguise.” He winked.
Furiously reining in his temper, Airleas pulled the glove from his left hand and raised his palm to them. Their reactions to the gytha were mixed, but gratifying; one man simply walked away, another retreated a step while his neighbor came forward, face screwed up in awe. There were gasps of amazement, finger signs made to ward off any possible evil.
Behind him Brunan leaned about to see what had his comrades so addled and swore under his breath.
Airleas glanced up at him. ”Well, Ren Catahn,” he said. ”Do you believe me now?”
The man stammered. ”I-I-”
”Happens you should believe him,” said a voice from just beyond the circle of onlookers and Iobert Claeg strode through his men with Aine and Iseabal in his tracks.
”Airleas!” Iseabal reached him first, taking him in a fervent embrace, while Aine stood back, scowling her disapproval.
”Airleas, whatever are you doing here? You're supposed to be back in Hrofceaster with Taminy.”
Airleas sighed. She would state the obvious. ”I was trying to get to Creiddylad to-”
”To avenge your father.”
The new voice, immediately recognizable to the young Malcuim, came from the back trail. Everyone turned. Astride a red roan horse, the slight figure swaddled in green seemed impervious to the wind. She rode forward, the folds of her cowled cape stirring only slightly.
”Osmaer!” Iobert Claeg dropped to one knee before her, while Aine and Iseabal sprouted smiles that cut the gray day like spears of light.
The Claeg men reacted as they had to the sight of Airleas's gytha; repulsed or drawn, awe-struck or fearful. One young warrior moved surrept.i.tiously to place a tentative hand on the roan's steaming flank as if by so doing he could receive a benediction from its rider. As if she sensed the gesture, Taminy looked down at him and smiled.
Airleas was sure the young man must've nearly swooned. He remembered what he'd felt the first time those green eyes had caught him unawares.
Foul luck. No, not luck, he realized as Taminy continued to regard him. He came forward to stand before her, head bent, hands busy with a loose close on his coat.
”You knew all along, didn't you? You knew I meant to leave Hrofceaster.”
”Aye. So did Gwynet. You put her in a terrible dilemma, you know. She wasn't sure whether to tell Catahn on you or not. But then, of course she realized I must know too.”
Airleas looked up at her, puzzled. ”But you let me come. Why?”
Taminy tilted her head and the Kiss on her brow gleamed in the semi-dark beneath her cowl. ”Tell me, Cyneric Airleas, what was your opinion of your adventure when you embarked on it?”
”I thought it was . . . necessary.” He squared his shoulders and lifted his head. ”I thought I must do it. That it was the brave thing to do. The-the thing any Malcuim would do. Should do.”
Taminy nodded. ”You thought to prove yourself. To be a true Malcuim, worthy of the throne of Caraid-land.”
”Aye,” Airleas mumbled, melting beneath her eyes. The murmurs of approval from the warriors around him meant nothing now. Only hours ago they would have been musical-magical.
”What do you think now?”
Airleas sighed deeply. Galling, this was, to admit this before men who, in his daydreams, marched behind him into battle. ”I committed an error in judgment, Mistress. I proved nothing but my own lack of forethought and wisdom.”
”And what do you think of your adventure?”
”It wasn't adventure; it was folly.” He dared to raise his eyes again. ”I have much to learn about being Cyneric.”
”That is why I let you come.”
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