Part 16 (2/2)
Daimhin Feich's expression darkened. ”Perhaps she does not invade his dreams, Minister. She does mine.”
”And mine,” Cadder told him. ”That is why I am willing to act so . . . incautiously. I understand-that is, it was given to me to understand-what forces she is capable of marshaling if she is allowed to get her hands on the Crystal she has so blasphemously made her namesake.”
The bright Feich eyes pinioned him where he sat. ”Do you believe that is her intention? To wrest the Stone of Ochan from its Shrine?”
”Isn't it obvious? She has named herself for it. She has laid hands on it, to my personal humiliation and injury. And in my vision-last night, it was-I saw her hovering over it like a bird of prey. Most horribly of all, she has the Malcuim heir in her clutches. Caraid-land cannot be whole as long as Airleas Malcuim and the Osmaer Crystal are separated. He must be set before it to be Cyne. She knows this. She knows they must be reunited. And she must believe that when they are, she will be the ultimate victor, for she will have the Stone and the Cyne in her embrace.”
Daimhin Feich's eyes did not waver from Cadder's face. ”Is it that important, do you think, that a Malcuim be set before the Stone or, indeed, that anyone be set before it?”
”How can you ask that? The coronation of a Cyne is no mere symbolic rite, Regent. The power that unifies Caraid-land flows through the Crystal. It has always been, and must always be, bound to the Malcuim line. So it was ordained when the Meri sent Ochan-a-Coille to the first Malcuim. He did not go to the Claeg or to the Feich or to the Madaidh or to any other House. The Stone will seek a Malcuim to guard it and The Malcuim is in the hands of Evil.”
His eyes fell to the clenched fist he had raised between himself and Feich. He lowered it. ”The Evil must be stopped.”
Feich nodded, eyes narrowed. ”Indeed, Minister, she must. You fear you may have erred in coming to me. Fear no longer. Your vision is true. Your instinct has served you well. As you perceive, I too, am visited by aislinn visions. And, as you so perceptively note, I have a small Gift for the Art. I can only believe that it has been bestowed upon me for the protection of Caraid-land. But if I am to fight this Evil we both recognize, I must be armed. Tell me, Minister, how I am to obtain my crystal.”
Saefren Claeg settled himself into a low sling chair next to his uncle. After so many nights spent on the on the hard, freezing ground of the trail-a trail made dangerous by the fall of early snow-to be bathed and curried and taking a soft seat next to a roaring fire was a luxury to be savored, though his enjoyment of their comfortable room in Halig-liath's visitor's quarters was dampened a bit by the cool pressure of Uncle Iobert's eyes.
They hadn't spoken since their lengthy consultation with the Gilleas. The upshot of that consultation had been that the Gilleas elders would accompany The Claeg to Creiddylad, there to pet.i.tion Daimhin Feich to willingly return Airleas Malcuim to the Throne-on Taminy-Osmaer's terms. First though, there were other stops to make to deliver the Osmaer's messages and gather House support.
”So,” Saefren said, finally breaking the silence. ”Tomorrow we make for the Jura holdings. Do you think Mortain Jura will also be won?”
”The Jura are mystics. What do you think?”
”That perhaps Lady Aine Red will not even have to inyx up so much as a spark. The talisman itself may be enough.”
Now, he felt the full force of his uncle's gaze. ”Do you still not understand? The scroll is no more than a tanned skin, naked until written to by Art. The shard of crystal is just that-a piece of rock-lifeless unless touched by the aidan. Aine-mac-Lorimer is the talisman, Nephew. Without her, the other things are so much hide and stone.”
Saefren found himself with nothing to say to that. Unlike the House Jura, the Claeg was not a House of mystics. The Claeg had been farmers, warriors, landlords, and occasionally courtiers. They had never produced an Osraed, and few, if any, Prentices or cleirachs. They were practical people-strong of bone and will- pragmatic, above all things. Now here was The Claeg, himself, speaking mildly of the touch of the aidan and of a flesh-and-blood girl who was also a magical talisman for an even greater magic-also incarnate in a young, self-possessed cailin.
Saefren had seen the magic-the Weaving, as the initiates preferred to call it. He could not deny its existence, nor, strictly speaking, could he doubt its source. That Airleas Malcuim on the Throne of Caraid-land with Taminy-Osmaer at his side was preferable to being lorded over by a Feich was obvious. That Taminy, though possessed of great power, was a good, gentle girl was also obvious. But was she Osmaer? Was she allied with the Meri? Or was she literally self-possessed-seduced by her own abilities into believing herself more than she was?
Uncle Iobert would say such a strong Gift could only be wielded by one aligned with the Spirit of the Universe, but Saefren had heard scripture quoted to support the idea that there was another force in the world-a force as evil as the Meri and the Spirit were good. Saefren would never call himself a scholar, but it seemed to him that the very fact the Corah sometimes referred to this world as the World of Light and Shadow surely alluded to its dual nature.
So then, if the Meri was the Light, what was the Shadow?
It was cold in the cave, and wet and dark. Daimhin Feich found all those things exceptionally depressing. Especially so in the middle of a cloudy night; there would be no walking out into the warmth and light of the sun. Soaked to the knees, Daimhin, his cousin Ruadh and two kinsmen waded through the surf into a narrow slit in the cliff face, and negotiated a close, dark pa.s.sage where their torches and lamps smudged the hemming ceiling with soot and stained their eyes with glare.
Without warning, the walls and ceiling flew away and what had seemed like blinding light was all but swallowed in a chamber so large it dwarfed the throne room of Mertuile.
Blinking, s.h.i.+vering, Daimhin Feich tried to take it in-tried to see what the chamber contained. When his eyes had adjusted to the balance of light and shadow, they began to register the peculiar shapes that surrounded them, the tiny points of light scattered throughout the gloom like stars in the night sky.
In a moment, the shapes began to resolve and Feich found himself in the midst of an eternally frozen congregation in an underground Cirke. He swung his lamp to dispel the impression; the forms were mere stone-but they were covered with jewels.
Heart tripping over itself, Feich splashed through a shallow pool onto a gravelly sh.o.r.e. It took him a long moment of groping toward the nearest misshapen pillar before he realized that even the sands beneath his feet glittered. Stunned, he stooped to scoop up a handful of jeweled grains. Though the largest were only the size of pebbles, the sight of them amazed him beyond words.
Not so, his young cousin. ”I thought you were here for something a bit larger than that,” he said sharply. His voice shattered on the crystalline walls and fell to fragments in the rush of surf.
Daimhin let the gem-sand slide through his fingers like a rain of solid rainbows. ”Nervous, Ruadh?”
”This is a holy place.”
How matter-of-fact he sounds. How anxious.
Daimhin looked around at the glittering chamber. Legends were strong here-ancestral fears hard to set aside . . . for some.
”You think so?”
Ruadh didn't answer, but his feet made uneasy sounds in the crystal gravel.
Daimhin raised his eyes and lamp to the pillar before him.
Even this close, his eyes tried to tell him this lump of rock was a cowled and cloaked penitent, frozen in the act of bending the knee to . . . He turned his head, following the direction of the stone wors.h.i.+per's devotion, and saw the largest structure of all-the gleaming altar of this stygian sanctuary. Seeming at once liquid and solid, it appeared to have been caught in the act of pouring from a long crevice in the wall. It, like every other structure in this place wore a mantle of pure crystal.
He moved across the jeweled strand until he was within arm's length of the great ma.s.s. That other prospectors had been here before him was obvious from the gaps and holes in the altar drape. Still, it was awe inspiring, the individual stones ranging in color from dark blues and violets to bright gold.
Color. He hadn't even imagined the colors. He had figured to march in, chip out the first stone that came to hand (or two, perhaps, to be safe), and leave this dank hole as quickly as possible. Now he realized that color was critical. The color had meaning. He wanted the color of power. The color of pa.s.sion. His eyes scanned the altar ma.s.s until, in shadow beneath a fluted ledge, his lamp light fell upon what he sought.
Summoning his silent cousin to hold the lamp, he took from his belt pouch a silver chisel and a small silver hammer brought him by the superst.i.tious Cadder, and set to chipping. The lamp quivered in Ruadh's hand, scattering quaking brilliance over the glittering form. Still, Daimhin Feich chipped at the root of his crystal until at last it succ.u.mbed and tumbled into his open hand-big, heavily faceted and the color of fresh blood.
Chapter 8.
Beg forgiveness and pardon from the Spirit alone. Confession of your transgressions before men is unworthy; it has no relation to Divine forgiveness. Confession before others results only in humiliation, and the Spirit-beloved is She-does not desire the humiliation of Her lovers.
-Utterances of Taminy-Osmaer
Book of the Covenant
The chamber was dark except for the four points of flame that danced atop candles set at the corners of an invisible square. The place reeked of incense; sweet, pungent, musky; its smoke lay in loose coils about the candle sticks. In the midst of it all, Daimhin Feich sat cross-legged, the blood-red crystal cupped in his hands. His eyes watered and stung. That was the sole result of his efforts so far.
Cadder had spoken of ”communing with the stone.” He'd tried that; he'd only given himself a headache. He knew Taminy was rumored to have conjured in the old tongue, but Cadder a.s.sured him no Osraed had ever used it. Just as well; he knew not one word. He knew singing was part of the ritual of Weaving. Knowing no duans, he put his plea for the stone's acknowledgment into clumsy words, then constructed a simple melody. Mellifluous as his voice was, the stone remained unimpressed.
He opened his eyes now, sniffling and hacking a little, and glanced around. Was the room wrong? He had a.s.sumed darkness was beneficial, if not necessary. If nothing else, it helped him concentrate. Should he not sit on a carpet? Were special words needed-what the Osraed called inyx? If so, was there somewhere at Ochanshrine a book of such incantations?
Frustration roiled in him like a wind-bedeviled cloud. d.a.m.n Cadder! He clearly knew more than he was telling. Offers of reward had not helped, perhaps a subtle threat would pry some artful information from those zealot lips.
<script>