Part 10 (1/2)
Ruadh puckered his lips. ”Oh. The way the Wicke Cwen succ.u.mbed?”
Anger, swift and black, rose from Daimhin Feich's belly and threatened to overwhelm him. He forced his hands around the arms of his chair so they would not fasten upon Ruadh's young neck or shake as they so desperately wanted to do.
”Taminy-a-Cuinn is not a natural woman,” he murmured. ”She is a demon, sp.a.w.ned in chill h.e.l.l. She has a stone for a heart and ice in her belly.”
Ruadh whistled. ”Dear cousin, such pa.s.sion! Was it her you dreamed of the night you nearly set your rooms on fire?”
Daimhin twitched. He'd nearly forgotten. Oh, not the dream-he'd never forget that, for he'd written it down on waking-but the overturned lamp . . .
”What do you know about it?”
”I'm the one who heard you screaming your lungs out, remember? What were you dreaming about? Or won't you tell?”
”It was a simple nightmare. I . . . I dreamed I fell from my horse during a hunt.”
Ruadh shrugged. ”Yes, well, if I were you, cousin, I'd remove anything breakable, flammable or sharp from the vicinity of my bed.”
”I'll do that. Now, are we agreed on a course of action?”
Ruadh eyed him. ”You want me to gather our forces for the march?”
”Aye. And I want the Teallach summoned. I'll let you draft the message to them. Please be diplomatic. Have their liaison send it out immediately. And tell him to use his fleetest pigeon.”
”What about your Deasach cannon?”
”I'll speak to the Mediator about it today. If it must come to us later, that's fine. Halig-liath will fall. One way or another.”
He meant to go to the Deasach Mediator straight away, but with Ruadh gone, Daimhin Feich found himself lethargic. The nightmare still haunted him with its fire and fury. The face in the crystal mocked him. He found himself recalling his visit to the Shrine of Ochan, recalling the way the Crystal's heart had leapt with flame when he drew near.
He suspected it was his presence the Stone reacted to for the old Abbod had clearly been astonished and dismayed at the display. The implications were startling. It suggested his gift for reading people, for moving them, directing their actions, was more than the intuition of a bright mind, more than the homely, utilitarian thing he'd once believed it to be. Though he'd never even held a Weaving crystal in his hands, he now felt the flicker of power within him. The Crystal felt it too.
Did the Wicke?
He rose from the long polished table and wandered the edge of the carpet it sat upon, tracing the pattern of braided gold at the perimeter.
Was the Osmaer woman connected to the Osmaer Crystal? Did the little flame he'd called from the Stone of Ochan, locked within its holy of holies, find an echo in the heart of the woman barricaded behind the walls of Halig-liath?
The thought amused him. The two connected. If he'd summoned that much fire from the Osmaer without conscious effort, what could he do if he half-tried? A curious thought, and one worth pursuing. His siege of the sacred might then take place on two fronts at once.
Daimhin Feich met the Deasach Mediator in an elegant private parlor in Creiddylad's finest Inn. He had invited the man to Mertuile several times, but had never been able to get him to do more than pay a brief visit. He supposed it was the constant threat of mischief at the hands of a displeased citizenry that kept Loc Llywd from accepting his hospitality. That or the fear that to appear cozy with a Feich might prove injurious to a relations.h.i.+p with any future Malcuim Cynes.
Those were valid concerns and Daimhin no longer pressed the issue. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic within Mertuile's confines, anyway; any excuse to leave them was to be antic.i.p.ated.
Loc Llywd welcomed him cordially, but with a diplomatic reserve that Daimhin found vaguely irritating. He hated formality; it precluded satisfactory knowledge of the opposing individual, allowed them to hide behind protocol. Only when someone ceased to be that which they represented and became an individual could he really get his hands on them. Llywd the Taciturn was not likely to allow that.
They sat at opposite sides of a table made of glowing cherrywood and laden with little cakes on fine porcelain and an urn of some hot aromatic beverage Daimhin Feich had never before tasted.
”We call it karfa,” Llywd told him in lightly accented Caraidin. ”We find it . . . braces the body and sharpens the mind.”
Daimhin smiled, lifting his cup. ”Always a good idea before negotiations.”
”There are really no negotiations to undertake,” said Llywd. ”I am ready to sign a preliminary trade agreement. I was ready before your Cyne met his unfortunate end. All that stands between El-Deasach and Caraid-land enjoying commerce is the agreement of our respective rulers.” He paused and laid upon Daimhin the full weight of his dark gaze. ”The rumors about the state of Caraid-land's leaders.h.i.+p are disconcerting, to say little. One tale has it that The Malcuim's young heir is dead, another that he turned heretic to your religion and ran to the hills, yet another that he is hiding from someone at court who means to do him the same violence that took his father's life. There are any number of people who believe Caraid-land is now leaderless.”
Feich relaxed back into his chair with an effort. ”Nothing could be further from the truth.”
”What is the truth, Durweard Feich? Who leads this country?”
”Presently, sir, I do.”
”And indefinitely?”
”That is something I am working on. Even as we speak, steps are being undertaken to return a Malcuim Cyne to the Throne of Caraid-land.”
”Then-”
”Then the first of the tales is a vicious lie. Airleas Malcuim is not dead. He lives. The second is also untrue. He did not turn heretic. But unfortunately . . .” Daimhin sighed deeply and rose, cup in hand. He moved to the hearth, feeling the heat of flame on his face, the eyes of the Deasach on his back. ”Unfortunately, his mother did.” He turned back to face the Mediator, wearing an expression of great concern. ”Cwen Toireasa was seduced from the path of true faith by a dazzling Wicke who convinced her to kidnap her own son and place him in the hands of his enemies.”
”A Wicke? A magical being, this is?”
Daimhin nodded. ”Magical, yes. A woman. A young woman, beautiful of face and form, hideous in spirit. A woman who Weaves potent magic, confounding even our most learned Osraed. She mesmerized our Cwen. And, Mediator Llywd, I must be honest with you-this creature even laid her infernal hands upon the spirit of the Cyne. He was a broken man when he died-by his own hand, more's the shame. And I, dear G.o.d-!” He broke off to draw a tremulous breath and blink suddenly teary eyes at the ceiling where firelight danced with shadow and muted sun-dapples. ”I nearly followed him, so great was my own entanglement.”
Llywd watched his performance silently, eyes cryptic, sheeny as jets. Only a tightening around the corners of his mouth betrayed any emotion-but there was no such thing as a trivial betrayal.
”You say you were embroiled with this sorceress?”
Yes, this had been the right gambit, after all. This talk of sorcery and Wicke, this baring of the presumably embarra.s.sing secrets of a younger man's soul-this might drag Loc Llywd from his diplomatic distance.
Daimhin raised his head, straightened his back. ”I was. I fancied myself in love with her. Mediator, you can have no idea-!” He put the keen of frustrated pa.s.sion into his voice. ”She was so young, so-so fragile and innocent-seeming. I had no idea until it was too late that beneath that facade was an ancient monster. I, who had set out to seduce her-yes, I admit that: believing her to be an innocent seventeen year old girl, I tried to beguile her. But in the end, the seducer was himself seduced. I chose not to follow my Cyne into oblivion, Mediator Llywd, but I understand all too well what drove him there.”
Llywd's dark face was unreadable. ”You admit much to a stranger, Durweard Feich.”
Daimhin returned to his chair and leaned forward in it, every line in his body speaking of urgency. ”I admit it in the hope that the stranger will become an ally. Understand me, Loc Llywd. I am a man with a cause. This talk of trade agreements and commerce is-pardon me-but it is irrelevant. Before he died, Colfre Malcuim made me Regent to his absent son.” He uttered a bark of mirthless laughter. ”He so believed I would bring the child back to him while he lived. I failed him. I didn't bring Airleas back. The Wicke had so torn the fabric of loyalty in Caraid-land that I was unable to raise more than a token force. And at that, I didn't raise it in time. Colfre died bereft. I am sworn to keep my promise to him, Mediator. I have but one duty at this moment: To bring Airleas Malcuim back to Creiddylad and set him before the Stone of Ochan. To place the Circlet upon his head. If I can avenge the death of his father, so much the better, but even that is of less importance than tearing Caraid-land's rightful Cyne out of the grasp of this insidious monster.”
”What you are telling me, if I understand you, is that any treaties between our two lands must await the successful return of your . . . Cyneric-that is the correct term?”
Daimhin nodded. ”What I am telling you is that any treaties between our two lands is dependent upon his return.”
Llywd scratched his clean-shaven jaw. ”There was a rumor about that you had declared yourself to be Cyneric of Caraid-land.”
Daimhin made certain his expression suffered not so much as a facial tic. ”There is a provision in the testament of Cyne Colfre to the effect that if, for some compelling reason, Airleas is unable to take up his place on the Throne, I will be next in succession. I did not suggest this provision to the Cyne. It was the recommendation of the Osraed Ladhar, Abbod of Ochanshrine.”
”Ah, yes. The rather large mullih with the prodigious scowl.”
”Pardon?”
Llywd smiled. ”No, pardon me. Occasionally, my mind becomes lazy and neglects to reach far enough for the Caraidin term. A 'holy man,' I suspect you would call him.”