Part 35 (1/2)

”They'd use light-globes,” said Cadder. ”There are none lit. They're not here.”

”No, they want us to believe they're not here,” Feich said. ”This old place must be full of bolt holes and hiding places.” He moved toward a small, rounded door on the rear wall of the room. ”Where does this go-Cadder?”

He looked to the cleirach who hurried to unlatch the door and push it open.

”If I recall, it's an access to the cellars.”

Feich smiled. ”Yes, of course. The cellars. What better hiding place? A dead end.”

He afforded a chuckle at that obvious wordplay and slipped into the dark corridor. He had Coinich Mor hold his hand, feeding her enough power to use her yellow crystal to light the way. It clearly awed his kinsmen to realize that their cousin had such command of the Art-the Divine Art, he reminded himself.

Ironic. He had never, in his wildest dreams, thought of himself as Divine. Taminy was Divine. He knew that-could admit it. But he-he knew only that he was something beyond the frail and human. What was he, if not Divine-he who pursued the Divine and sought to co-opt it?

Later, he would find an answer to that. Right now, he was faced with another doorway, its thick, oaken barrier an opaque face that pretended at disuse. Feich, disbelieving, bade one of his kinsmen open the door. It swung away into a gloom so intense even Coinich Mor's crystal made little impression upon it. He had the cleirach fetch a lamp and lit it himself without flint. His kinsmen's eyes gleamed.

A short but steep flight of stairs descended into the gloom. After a moment of hesitation, Feich sent one of his men down with the lamp. He followed, beckoning the second Feich guard to bring up the rear of the party. They were cautious, quiet.

It hardly mattered. The dank chamber seemed as empty as the refectory, and the creeping feeling did not abate. They searched methodically among the kegs, crates and clay pots of goods. They even broke open random containers in case the Taminists had been that clever. They hadn't been; the crates contained only jars of preserved fruits and vegetables, the pots only flour and grain, the kegs only cider.

Cursing Osraed Fhada and Abbod Ladhar, cursing Taminy, Feich led his party back up to the ground floor, hoping the other searchers had had better luck than he. They hadn't, and though they searched even the private rooms, not one Taminist was found.

Furious, defeated, humiliated, Daimhin Feich retired to the courtyard and thence to Mertuile, taking his brooding cleirach, his smiling Wicke and his puzzled kinsmen with him.

Saefren Claeg couldn't breathe. He could only stand with his back to the cold stone wall and let his terror suffocate him. His ears cringed from the sound of his breath rasping through his dry throat. He could hear the others breathing, too.

Dear G.o.d, he could hear their hearts beating in their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and he found it impossible to believe the man standing not five feet from him could not also hear them . . . or see them. Yet, Daimhin Feich's pale eyes swept the room, pa.s.sing over the spot where he stood again and again, each time looking right through him.

Saefren's breath caught in his throat, sweat started from every pore in his body. He wanted to glance at Aine, pressed to the wall beside him, and couldn't. He had done it once and found the blank spot where he knew she must be too unsettling to contemplate.

An invisible hand grasped his, pressing it, holding it against the cold stones of the refectory wall. He took a deep, painful breath. Humiliation washed over him, blanketing his fear. If he was invisible to Daimhin Feich, he was not to Aine-mac-Lorimer's aidan.

Not four feet away, now, Daimhin Feich snarled something to his men and turned on his heel. His entourage followed him to the refectory doors, trading uneasy glances. The skittish cleirach trailed after-it seemed he couldn't move quickly enough-but the Dearg Wicke lingered a moment to wander among the long tables, pondering the room with bemused eyes. Then she, too, was gone.

Saefren thought he might collapse, but could not, yet. The danger wasn't past and would not be until Feich and his party rode away.

Minutes stretched. Sounds from the outer corridors continued, waned, ceased.

After long moments of listening to each other breathe, Aine loosed her grip on Saefren's hand and sagged back into the wall, becoming a solid and visible presence.

”They're gone.”

Saefren let his own body relax against the firm stones of Carehouse. ”Thank G.o.d. I thought . . .”

”That they'd be able to see us?” asked Aine. Her face, too, was sheeny with sweat.

”Forgive me, Aine Red,” he begged, mocking, ”but I've never been caught in the midst of a Cloakweave before. It was an unsettling experience.”

”Unsettling,” repeated Leal, wiping perspiration from his brow. ”I was terrified. I wasn't sure I could hold it that long. It's one thing to Cloak yourself, but to hide an entire roomful of people . . .” He shook his head, glancing around the room to where others stretched or slumped or shook themselves. ”I'm exhausted.”

”No time for that, I'm afraid.” Osraed Fhada stood in the doorway of the cellar pa.s.sage, a wide-eyed little girl attached to one arm. ”We've got to get these people out of here.”

”Do we?” Saefren asked. ”Feich's searched and found nothing. Surely the place is safe now.”

Fhada shook his head. ”We don't dare take a chance, Saefren. He's Gifted. It could be only a matter of time before he realizes what we've done. Or he might put a watch on the place. We'd be in constant danger of being surprised. We can't stay cloaked forever.”

So, they gathered up belongings and food and divided their number into small groups of five or six, the better to make clandestine journeys. Of the fifty or so people that had congregated at Carehouse, only a handful had mastered the Cloakweave. Those would be needed to ferry the refugees to safety.

When they had completed their plans for the exodus, Saefren gathered up his own belongings and loaded them onto his horse, thankful Feich hadn't seen fit to take the four-legged inmates of Carehouse's stable. He was tightening the cinch of his saddle when he sensed movement in the stable doorway.

Nerves still fired, he whirled, hand finding his sword. But it was only Aine who stood in the broad aisle, her robust form silhouetted against the silvery haze of moonlight was.h.i.+ng in from the courtyard.

”You're going to Mertuile?” she asked.

”I promised I would. A Claeg doesn't go back on a promise.”

”I still think I should go with you.”

”Feich's not stupid. He'll be expecting Taminists to try escaping him. You're one of the few here who can muster a Cloakweave. You'll be needed.”

The silhouette s.h.i.+fted. ”You speak of Weaving as if its something you now believe in.”

”It saved my life. Have I a choice?”

”Then you believe the future of Caraid-land is in Taminy's hands.”

”I believe the future of Caraid-land is in Daimhin Feich's hands, as frightening as that is. I also believe it's my duty to help pry it out again. I'll concede your . . . abilities and those of your Mistress, but that doesn't make me a Taminist.”

She said nothing to that and, without further comment, Saefren led his horse from the stable and mounted. He'd ridden halfway to the gate when Aine, following him, spoke again.

”Are you just going to ride right out into the street?”

”Am I expected to fly?”

”Feich might have posted men in the streets. Had you thought of that?”

He hadn't, but should have. He glanced up at the evening sky with its undercoat of wood and peat smoke, and sighed. ”Have you a suggestion?”

”I can cloak you as far as the next block. Just in case.”

”All right,” he agreed. ”As far as the next block, then.”