Part 13 (1/2)
”What do you think, Mistress?” he asked her.
”I think Catahn is asking you, not me. I've no interest in learning the sword. I doubt I'll ever have need of one.”
”Will I?”
”You may.”
”Then, I suppose the answer is: It might be a handy skill for a Cyne to have. After all, I may have to lead men into battle someday.”
Taminy lowered her eyes and Airleas felt his heart take a long sickening slide toward his stomach. Had that been the wrong answer? ”I-I-I mean . . .” Fl.u.s.tered he stopped the garbled flow of words. ”Is it wrong to fight, Taminy? The Ren Catahn is a fine swordsman; so is The Claeg.”
The Ren made a humming noise in the back of this throat. ”So, I imagine, is Daimhin Feich. Every man in every n.o.ble House is trained to the sword. Every man, woman and child in the Gyldans learns to handle one-the bow and the dagger as well.”
Daimhin Feich. Airleas's hackles rose. ”Well, if Feich is learned at swordplay, shouldn't I be? Won't I someday have to face him? Fight him?”
”Do you imagine this will take place in the Great Hall with lights blazing and citizens watching and the rules of proper swordplay being observed by all?” There was a tang of irony to Taminy's words and Airleas blinked at her in surprise.
That was exactly the way the scene always played out in his mind. His ears burned and the sounds in the large stone hall seemed suddenly amplified out of all proportion to the number of people dining there. It wouldn't be that way, he realized. Daimhin Feich would play by no one's rules but his own, and the chances of his attack being open . . .
Taminy sighed. ”Airleas, there is nothing wrong with you knowing how to defend yourself against attack . . . both physically and through the use of your aidan. This is not a perfect world. This is not a sane or safe time. Catahn has brought to my attention that your use of the sword has been just what you called it-swordplay. That, I think, will do you more harm than good. Your aidan is strong, but it is yet undisciplined. I think Catahn can teach you something about discipline. I think you should learn from him.”
Airleas lowered his eyes, trying not to show how much the thought excited him. He would learn to be a warrior after all. Maybe he would even mark the Crask-an-duine before he left Hrofceaster. He stabbed a chunk of stew meat and stuffed it into his mouth, barely aware of the flavor.
Catahn nodded. ”In the morning then-fourteenth hour. Meet me and Broran in that little courtyard beyond the kitchen.”
Airleas nearly choked on the plug of meat. Gasping, he grabbed for his mug of water and gulped down a mouthful. While he was indisposed, the Ren gave him a stone-faced stare, got up and headed for the kitchen.
Taminy, meanwhile, watched him painfully regain his composure.
”What's wrong, Airleas?” she asked quietly, when he'd stopped coughing.
”Broran?” He hated that he sounded whiny, but there didn't seem to be anything he could do about it.
”Why not Broran? Catahn says he's an excellent swordsman. Probably the best to teach you the basics and serve as a sparring partner.”
”But he's . . .”
”He's what?”
”He's just a-a boy.”
”He's about a year older than you are. He's marked his Crask-an-duine. By Hillwild reckoning that makes him a man.”
”But he's not. I mean, at home my weapons tutor was a man of the House Madaidh-one of the young Elders.”
”Yes-so?”
”Well, Broran isn't.”
Taminy looked at her half-empty plate. ”Broran isn't a n.o.bleman, you mean.”
”I . . . yes. That's what I mean. I've always been taught by n.o.bles, cleirachs . . .”
”I see. Never a commoner.”
He shook his head.
”Then what am I?”
Airleas's eyes fairly bugged out of his head. ”You're Osmaer!”
”I'm also a commoner.”
”Your father was an Osraed.”
”I see. What about Catahn? You'd learn from him.”
”He's the Ren of all this holt. He's The Hageswode.”
”And that's why you'd learn from him, Airleas? Or from me? Because we have t.i.tles: Osmaer, Ren?”
Airleas sincerely wished he had never opened his mouth. He was wrong. He knew that intellectually, but it didn't alter the fact that he was a Malcuim at heart. By G.o.d, he was The Malcuim. And a Malcuim never took lessons from commoners.
Her eyes were all over him; he was surrounded, out-flanked.
”Tell me about Ochan-a-Coille,” she said.
He opened his mouth on the legend, ready to parrot it; it was ingrained in every Caraidin mind. ”In his fifteenth year, Ochan, son of-” His voice died in his throat.
Son of the Cyne's Woodweard-the man who tended his forest lands.
He stared at the fork in his hand, another piece of meat already impaled there. He said, ”Ochan, a commoner, went to The Malcuim, who was Cyne by might. Ochan-a-Coille, a commoner, was chosen by the Meri to be Her first Osraed. Osraed Ochan, taught The Malcuim how to be Cyne by right.”
Airleas raised his eyes to Taminy's face again, praying to see the light of approval there.
”You have been taught,” she told him, as the Hillwild Ren reseated himself at her side with a plate overladen with food, ”that there are cla.s.ses of men and women. That how you are born or how you marry determines your worth or worthiness. Unlearn this, Airleas. It is a lie. Broran is a Hageswode and your kinsman, but even that is irrelevant. Whether he be a Hageswode or a Madaidh or a Mercer or a Smythe, Broran has something he can teach you. That is what matters.”
”Yes, Mistress,” he murmured and comforted himself that at least she was not angry with him. He'd never seen her angry and didn't think he wanted to.
”So what is she like, this Wicke of Catahn's?”
Eyslk, laying out the lovely, thick violet cloth that would make the dress for her Crask-an-bana, glanced up in confusion. ”Wicke? Whoever can you mean?”
”Don't be dense, girl. I mean your mistress. The woman he has you serving day and night.”
Fl.u.s.tered by her mother's apparent hostility, Eyslk wallowed among possible replies. She's not Wicke, mama or I serve her because I want to or . . . ”She's lovely.”