Part 24 (1/2)

”Stay wakeful,” he admonished. ”Perhaps you should leave tonight since your tent will be departing at dawn with me.”

He did not have to be coerced. Light had bled from the sky and already a fine, cold mist was settling among the trees.

Saefren and his Jura companions hurried to saddle their horses, collect their belongings and get on their way. They ate together at a tavern near the landward gate, then decided it would be advantageous to separate.

Hethe elected to ply the waterfront; Saefren headed for the cluttered environs below Mertuile. He had an inn picked out for his evening's pleasure and, riding there, justified the move as a good way to hear the local gossip. He knew the place well from some years earlier when a cousin had taken him there. He recalled that the girls there were young and willing and occasionally even pretty, and that the drink was strong and hot and made even the homeliest girl a G.o.ddess.

Reluctantly, he remembered that it was not a place where either the eyes or the ears worked well, but where the mouth was likely to function altogether too well.

He rode past the inn and reined his horse in beneath the gates of Carehouse.

For two nights, the Dearg Wicke had tried the red stone and spoken of history and of Weaving. She had quoted Scripture and Tradition at him until he wanted to rage at her. One thing he had learned was that the woman could not be bullied. To snarl at her provoked nothing more than a patient, stony gaze. To snap only brought forth the arrogant smile.

”Find someone else to school you, then,” she'd say and begin to walk away, and he would stop her and promise to be more patient.

Now, on the eve of his departure for Halig-liath, she at last said the words he had been waiting to hear, ”Tonight, you'll take up the stone and Weave.”

They were seated on the floor within his makes.h.i.+ft aislinn chamber-a series of carved wooden screens he had gathered from around the castle and arrayed in a circle on his hearth rug. The place was dark, lighted only by candles and a dim flood of luminance from the fireplace. Outside, wind moaned in the dark and rain rattled the windows. It was a fitting atmosphere for what Daimhin Feich hoped to accomplish.

”What must I do?” he asked.

Coinich Mor smiled. ”What did you before?”

”Does it matter? It didn't work.”

”Hm. What d'you think they do-your Holy Ones? What d'you think she does-your beloved Wicke?”

”She's not-” He dammed the words. ”I've seen her Weave only once. It seemed she . . . pulled the power down from . . .” He shook his head. ”. . . somewhere. She draws it. The Osraed, too, speak of drawing Blue Healing or drawing Red Power.”

The Wicke nodded. ”Aye. They draw on the Source.”

”The crystals.”

”No, Regent. The stones're mere channels-talismans. Did you not even learn that much from your Osraed? The Spirit of All's the Source of their Weaving. The Meri's the Mother of their duans.”

”How do I tap that Source? How do you?”

She laughed at him, candle light glinting from her fox eyes. Oddly, she reminded him of his dead Cyne, Colfre.

”The Spirit don't suffer Its power to be drawn upon by the likes of us, Regent Feich. The Spirit commits Its energies only to those who serve It.”

Feich sat forward, quivering, intent. ”Ladhar's mewling cleirach speaks of a great Source of Evil let loose upon the world by this Cusp. He believes Taminy is its minion. Are you telling me that Evil exists? Is that what I must draw upon?”

The thought thrilled and chilled him at once, made him quiver with a dread so delicious it terrified him, excited him.

The Dearg Wicke was shaking her dark head, smiling at him as any indulgent teacher might smile at a naive pupil. ”There's no such source of evil, Regent. I know this cleirach you speak of. I've known men like him. Men who must believe in such a power because to do else'd be too terrible a burden.”

”I don't understand,” murmured Feich.

The Dearg tapped her breast. ”We, Regent Feich, we are the source of our own dark Weaving. To work what the Spirit abhors, we draw upon our own forces and on the forces of others.”

Captivated, Feich leaned closer still. Close enough to smell the scent of her-spicy, smoky.

”Others?”

”The weak. The foolish. The strong, but unaware. You understand.” She nodded, smiling.

By G.o.d, he did understand. It was what he had always done-used the weakness and foolishness and naivety of others to his own advantage. He manipulated and, behind each manipulation, put the full force of his will. But . . .

”You speak of a real drawing of power. How may I-?”

She picked up the red crystal from where it rested between them on the floor and put it in his hands.

”Begin within. Draw from your own self. Bring to mind that night at Ochanshrine-how the weakness of the cleirach maddened you. It was your rage that forced a spark from Ochan's Stone.”

He did as she said, recalling vividly the scene; Cadder cringing on his bench, peering about, no doubt praying none would see him quivering before a Feich. Scorn poured forth. The blithering, pious fool! He'd wanted to strike Cadder physically, knock him from his perch-but Daimhin Feich was no bully. So his scorn had turned to rage in the face of Cadder's obstinate cowering and, released, had touched the Great Crystal, sparking it.

”Ye-es,” breathed the Wicke, and Feich could feel her rising excitement. ”Good.”

He glanced at the crystal in his hands, saw the light pulsing within it. No sudden flare, this, no tremulous flame, but a deep, ruddy glow, constant as the hot emotions that burned in his heart. He thought of that other Wicke then-of Taminy-and his rage blossomed beyond reason. In his hands, the red crystal blazed, showering the screened chamber with flaming glory, catching Coinich Mor in its brilliance and transfiguring her.

”Yes!” she said again, moaning the word as if in some pagan ecstasy. Her parted lips were blood red in the fey light and her Hillwild eyes glittered like the sands of Ochan's Cave. Her scent washed over him again-hotter than before, spicier.

s.h.i.+fting the stone to one hand, Feich tangled the other in the Wicke's dark hair, drawing those red, red lips to his for a taste of that spice.

She did not pull away, nor did she demurely yield as the women of his experience usually did. Instead, she swarmed him, flooded him with awareness of her. Her hand joined his around the stone and they met at the center of the aislinn circle, pressing body to body, straining into embrace.

She devoured him, and he, her. They were wildness upon wildness, bodies tangled impossibly in the brilliance of Feich's red crystal, their voices wrenched from their throats in coa.r.s.e harmony again and again.

He heard laughter more than once, deep-throated, frenzied, feral. It amused him to realize it was his own.

When exhaustion at last claimed him, he turned his eyes to the crystal. Clutched still in their joined hands, its radiance was fading. His thoughts turned, unbidden, to Taminy. Drained by the wantonness of his coupling with Coinich Mor, he could still hate the Nairnian Wicke, still wish-yes, and imagine-that it was her body that lay, docile beneath his. The thought filled him and, gazing down at the Hillwild woman, he could almost see wheat-pale hair, not black-sea green eyes, not fox-amber.

The Wicke laughed. ”You are a troubled man, Regent Feich.”

He laid his head down upon her shoulder and slept, too spent to decipher her meaning.

Rain fell in a sullen veil, was.h.i.+ng Airdnasheen in moist shades of gray. Even the pines had surrendered the pretense of color to the fall of mist. But Eyslk-an-Caerluel could not be sullen, for today she was moving to Hrofceaster. It was not raining in Eyslk's world; she looked from her window and imagined that Airdnasheen existed inside a cloud-a cloud of glorious silver.

She sang a little as she packed her belongings into a single large duffel and small, painted trunk. Happy melodies they were, though that happiness was tinged with surprise and a little bemus.e.m.e.nt. She had dreaded asking her mother for permission to move up to Catahn's fortress-dreaded it because she had expected to win Deardru-an-Caerluel's resentment, not the instant approval she got.

Eyslk had ever been aware of the coolness and alienation between her mother and Catahn. It had been difficult to gain her permission to be educated at Hrofceaster. Only a letter from Catahn and the reasonable arguments of her stepfather had given Eyslk access to learning beyond that of hearth, home and village.

Deardru had seemed to take an instant dislike to Taminy, though she had only seen her from afar. And, though she pleaded sympathy for the Osmaer's plight, she seemed to take perverse pleasure in mocking her, making vulgar comments about the nature of her relations.h.i.+p with Osraed Wyth and the other male waljan. Which was, in part, why Eyslk had beseeched Taminy to grant her asylum at Hrofceaster. Her mother's antipathy-the way it was vented-left her feeling uneasy and depressed.