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 relationship 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 leadership 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."

Daimhin Feich would not call Ladhar that, but there was no reason Loc Llywd should know it. He merely nodded.

"He is your religious leader, then?"

"Yes, he is. And that is testimony to his spiritual strength, I can tell you. The Wicke struck at the very heart of our religious order, seducing even the most learned, the most devout, then casting them aside when they no longer pleased her."

"She sounds extraordinarily powerful, your Wicke. How do you imagine you can defeat her and win back the Cyneric?"

"By making allies of those who can aid me in my cause. The Abbod Ladhar, as I mention, is a man of great spiritual power. There are others who were able to withstand the Wicke's evil." He paused and looked into his half-empty cup. "Then too, we must field superior physical forces. I have among my allies the Houses Dearg and Teallach. I expect that the Skarf and the Madaidh will soon join us."

"Where is the sorceress now?"

"Barricaded in a fortress in the foothills of the Gyldan-baenn."

"Halig-liath," said Llywd and drew a tilt of surprise from Daimhin's brows.

"Yes. You've heard of it?"

"The Holy Fortress? Of course, I have heard of it. The place is legendary even on the other side of the mountains. It is said to be impregnable."

Daimhin nodded, letting his mouth droop at the corners-but only the tiniest bit. "Aye. It has proven to be so. And that, Mediator, is one area where an agreement between our respective countries does seem relevant."

Now it was Llywd's turn to display surprise. "You seek a military alliance?"

Feich raised his hands. "Please. I would not be so precipitous or so bold. All I ask-all-is that you might lend us one of your great cannon. I am told they fire exploding ordnance. Mediator, such a machine is the only thing I can imagine to be capable of breaching the walls of Halig-liath."

Loc Llywd rose and began a slow circuit of their chairs. "This is important to you, obviously, or you would not admit your own lack of such a weapon."

"We are a peaceful nation, Mediator."

"Yes, well, I once had cause to doubt that. But . . ." He waved the comment aside. ". . . that is neither up nor down. What is important to us is commerce. Specifically, the opening of Caraidin markets to Deasach goods and the permitting of our ships in your fishing waters. What is our cannon worth in that regard, Regent Feich?"

What indeed? Now that he was faced with the decision, Daimhin Feich was at a loss to know how to respond. It seemed so simple. Yes, he could say, whatever you want, only let me have the cannon. I will blow away the gates of Halig-liath, breach the walls, take the prize. The cannon must be had.

Yet, when he opened his mouth at last, a saner voice came out of it. "We have nothing like this karfa of yours, nothing like that red fruit my Cyne was so fond of. I am willing to agree that such foodstuffs as are not grown in Caraid-land may be imported from El-Deasach."

"And the fishing grounds?"

"I will agree that once my cause is complete, I and my . . . The government of Caraid-land will consider your proposals in all earnest. And Mediator, to show that I have no ulterior motives, I also agree to return the cannon to you upon the successful completion, or abject failure, of my mission to return Airleas to the Throne."

Llywd favored him once more with that dark, unreadable stare. Daimhin Feich smiled within. The man was not nearly so opaque as he studiously tried to be. That facade was only a detriment to those whose senses ended with the physical.

"We are in agreement, Regent," said Llywd at last. "I shall make arrangement for the immediate importation of the foodstuffs . . . and the weapon."

"And I will make arrangements for a doc.u.ment to be drawn up stating terms. It will be signed by all the appropriate parties, rest a.s.sured. I trust that you can work out the details with our Minister of Commerce."

Llywd inclined his dark head and Daimhin rose.

"I wish to send some gifts to Banarigh Lilias. Is there anything in particular the lady favors?"

Loc smiled, for the first time revealing some real emotion. "The Lady Lilias favors anything that displays the craftsman's expertise; a handsome adornment, a splendid piece of clothing, a fine sword. Oh, and horses. The Banarigh is inordinately fond of riding and hunting."

Feich returned the smile. "A woman after my own heart. It sounds as if I can't do wrong by sending her the very things I'd wish for myself."

"Well, Regent, doesn't the Holy Book say that one is not truly faithful to G.o.d unless he desires for his brother or sister what he desires for himself?"

Daimhin Feich was once again genuinely surprised. "It does indeed."

Odd, too, considering that the Deasach did not even worship the same G.o.d. He could only imagine the remark was part of Loc Llywd's polite diplomacy.

Once safely in his Mertuile-bound carriage, Daimhin could not restrain a chuckle. Here was a man much like himself, then, willing to mock his own faith by pretending to comprehend another's. He began to like Loc Llywd.

Of the three minds caught in the sudden web of Lealbhallain's Speakweave, he would be hard pressed to decide which was the most surprised by the event. With a jolt like lightning Leal and Fhada made contact with Osraed Eadmund and that poor soul, on his knees in prayer, fell over onto his nose.

It was difficult, but Leal and Fhada were able to create the aislinn images and Eadmund was able to perceive them and comprehend.

A miracle, Leal thought.

The good Osraed's amazement washed over them again and again with his increased comprehension. He astonished them, as well, by conjuring the image of the Abbod Ladhar at Cyne's Cirke. After some trial and error, Eadmund, by focusing on a simple calendar, was able to make known the critical information: the Abbod Ladhar planned to be at Cyne's Cirke that very day.

The sanctuary was silent as the sunlight that fell from its high windows in almost solid beams; pigeons mimed shadow plays behind the leaded panes, voiceless. No noise from the plaza penetrated this far. Even the gears of the old water clock, hidden behind the wall of the nave, were silenced.

It made Leal want to sneeze.

He did not sneeze, however, or cough or make any other inappropriate noise. He could not chance being heard, not chance being seen until he wanted to be. He had been waiting here for hours, easing his impatience by pretending to be back in school taking a test, asking himself questions for which he had to formulate complex answers.

It wasn't unbearable, the waiting. He wasn't completely alone, after all; Fhada was at the back of the sanctuary somewhere, also hidden from sight, Weaving his own means of combating boredom.

It was during his fiftieth drill on the course of the Battle of the Crystal that Leal at last sensed movement in the outer corridor. A tingle of antic.i.p.ation and dread coursed up his spine. In a moment, he knew, he would hear voices, for Abbod Ladhar was not alone.

Before he could question his own certainty of that fact, he heard them, seemingly engaged in an argument; Ladhar and another man-a man whose presence generated an odd, p.r.i.c.kly heat like . . . like fear.

"He must be either a friend or an enemy, Abbod, he cannot possibly be both."

The stranger's voice came from the doorway. Leal would see them only if they progressed down the aisle to the Altar.

Ladhar spoke then-that voice he knew intimately. "Of that I am aware, Caime. He simply will not allow me to divine which. He speaks to me as if I were a partner, a friend, and yet . . . I feel him laughing, mocking. He is the most confusing individual I have ever known."

"He was intensely loyal to Cyne Colfre. I don't doubt returning his heir to the Throne is the most important thing in Feich's life. Men so driven can seem . . . confused in their other loyalties."

There was a long, pregnant pause during which Leal could hear only the sharp click of town shoes and the swishing of fabric. In a moment he would see them.

"You set store by his loyalty to his Cyne, do you?" asked Ladhar at last. "You might not if you saw how he manipulated the provision in Colfre's last writ that he be made Cyneric if Airleas should prove irrevocably delinquent. I can't help but wonder if the same wiles went into securing the Regency."

Just within Leal's sight the two stepped up to the Altar and stopped. Recognition of the spare man at the Abbod's side nearly cost Leal his concealment. It was the cleirach who had flown at Taminy in the a.s.sembly Hall with a spear in hand.