And what will it do to your soul, old man? he wondered. You speak so glibly of quick deaths. I wonder if you've ever witnessed one.

The Abbod seemed somewhat mollified, and so Daimhin proceeded down an intersecting path of conversation. He drew his brow into a careful frown.

"Your reminder of her cunning disturbs me, Osraed. I've tried to put out of my mind how strongly she . . . affected me. She's powerful, and I'm probably a fool to think I can simply trot up to Halig-liath and bring her back by mere physical force. Have you no means of protecting us spiritually?"

"Spiritually? I didn't think you even believed in anything so intangible as spirit. See, you've even boggled your young kinsman."

Ruadh, insolent lip curled, said nothing, but merely poured himself another goblet of wine.

Daimhin carefully considered his next words. "Abbod, I would be a fool to deny that she wields some power I do not understand. Some . . . force beyond my ken. I saw her blaze of glory. I witnessed her miraculous escape. I saw the very mouth of h.e.l.l when I raised that crossbow, thinking I could simply shoot her where she stood. But then, I also saw a spark in the heart of that great Crystal your Osraed lives revolve around. I begin to understand that it, and the Art you Osraed practice, are the only things that can protect us from Taminy's venom."

He stared moodily down the table, his frown slipping toward a twisted grimace. "She visits me in my dreams, Abbod. She haunts me, teases me, allows me no rest. And though, in those dreams, I take up a bow or a sword or a dagger-weapons I understand-I cannot touch her, for she holds the reins of a power I cannot fathom."

"We Osraed will do what we can," the Abbod a.s.sured him. "When you travel to Halig-liath rest a.s.sured the full force of every loyal Osraed in Creiddylad and beyond will be with you. I myself will be with your host. I will Weave what protection I can."

"For that I thank you," said Daimhin, bowing his head. "But for myself, for the nightmares that plague me and the fears that beset me-breathe no word of this outside this chamber, either of you-for those I would ask one thing more."

"Ask."

"A crystal. A crystal with which I may learn to Weave a ward to protect myself from the Wicke's haunting."

The Abbod's face was whiter than the breast of the gamebird that sat, half-eaten, on his plate. "A . . . a crystal? You wish to learn how to Weave inyx?"

"Small Wardweaves only. For my personal protection. I now realize that physical weapons are useless against a spiritual enemy."

"But you have no training in the Art, no Gift. Good G.o.d, you have no belief! The purest Weaving stone in the world would do you no more good than a hunk of plain rock."

"I think I may have some small . . . talent, Abbod. As for training, you or one of your cohorts could provide that. The Osmaer Crystal winked at me, Osraed Ladhar. You saw it. I think that might have been a benediction, a blessing. Leastwise, let me have a crystal. If I've no Gift, then I'll do no harm. But if I do, I'll be able to protect myself."

The old fool was already shaking his head, jowls flopping like the dewlap of an aging mastiff. "I cannot allow it, Regent Feich. All the rune crystals in Creiddylad are registered at Ochanshrine. They go to none but Osraed. Even the Aelder Prentices there are not allowed them. So it has always been. So it must remain."

"She has a crystal. Everyone of her minions probably has one by now-pilfered from the reliquary at Halig-liath. And she is no doubt teaching their use. Abbod, please, consider what you're saying. You are, in effect, condemning me to enter a battle weaponless while my adversaries are fully armed. I go to Halig-liath to return your Cyne to his rightful place. Would you deny a man a knife after he had pledged to march into a den of armed thieves to return your stolen goods?"

"A good a.n.a.logy, Regent, but not apt. Yes, you will march into that den of thieves, but neither weaponless nor alone. A spiritual army will surround you. Further, I will perform a Wardweave this very night to shield your dreams from the Wicke's intrusion."

Frustrated, Daimhin shook his head. "No, Abbod. I am no coward. I will find my own way of safeguarding my dreams. As to the other-you certainly shall accompany me to Halig-liath. I expect you and your fellow Osraed may be as effective a weapon as the Suderlander's cannon."

The Abbod looked quite pleased at that. "I a.s.sure you, Regent Feich, we can be very effective indeed. I think you will find us the greatest of allies in a.s.suring the future of Caraid-land."

Daimhin raised his gla.s.s. "I'm sure I will."

"The greatest of allies," he snarled some time later when the Abbod had removed himself to Ochanshrine.

He and Ruadh had withdrawn to the warmth of his favorite salon and sat before the fire drinking hot karfa and trying to stay warm.

"I find them the greatest of irritants. A shame they've woven themselves so inextricably into the fabric of this society. G.o.d, what I wouldn't give to rip them out."

"I'm afraid that would be impossible," said Ruadh. "And, as the Abbod said, they can be helpful. Did you mean what you said about believing yourself at risk from the Wicke's devices?"

Daimhin chuckled. "What would you say if I said 'yes?'"

"I'd say you'd suffered a life-changing experience."

"Eh, well, as it happens I did. I didn't think, didn't really believe, she had the powers everyone ascribed to her. I didn't see the healings in the street. I didn't witness her handling of the Stone. Until the night she stood in the a.s.sembly Hall and confounded everyone there, I saw only one supposed miracle. I saw her cause a rose to bloom from a desiccated bud. I was far away, it might've been faked-for a long while I believed it was. I've changed my mind. I believe she really did it. Just as I believe she once picked up a crossbow bolt and read from it that the man who'd fired it at her was a mercenary. I had him killed, Ruadh, because at that moment I knew that if she but saw his face, she'd know I had paid his fee." He rose and moved to stand nearer the fire. "But as believing her able to harm me . . ." He shook his head. "She won't harm me."

"So certain?"

"Let me share a secret with you, Ruadh. The Lady Taminy is many things; she is manipulative, powerful, seductive. She is dangerous to the Osraed and to my own aspirations. But she is not evil. She honestly believes it is her duty to reform and renew and recreate the religion of Caraid-land and redeem its fortunes. She wants to put a Malcuim Cyne on the Throne and she wants to stand, alone, beside him. There is no room for Daimhin Feich in her government, and for that reason, she is the Enemy."

"Not evil?" repeated Ruadh, and for a moment, in the amber light of the fire he looked like the boy Daimhin had taught to hunt not that many years ago.

"Not evil. That Taminy is evil is a game we play so that this pathetically divided country might not suffer any further dissolution . . . and that a Feich may always stay near the Throne."

"Or in it?" asked Ruadh.

Daimhin smiled. "If that is our destiny, Ruadh. If that is our destiny."

"The man is a blasphemer! If I could I would call down a blast of fire out of the sky and cook him where he stands. I can't fathom why the Meri hasn't dealt with him already."

Caime Cadder stood by silently, watching his Abbod pace his chambers and steam as if freshly cooked. He understood the great man's perturbation-no, anguish-for the Regent of Caraid-land was a lawless man, a self-absorbed man, in a word: amoral.

"Perhaps," Cadder offered, struck by sudden inspiration, "it is because She sees in him a tool-a means to an end."

"And what end might that be?"

"The return of Airleas Malcuim to Mertuile. Feich is set on it and he will accomplish it, I've no doubt, though his motives be . . . questionable."

Ladhar looked at him with interest, now, a rare thing that always made him feel blessed.

"An interesting idea, Caime. It is like Her to manipulate the wicked."

"Yes."

"To make them feel it is their will they serve."

"Yes," Caime repeated, then jumped when the Osraed poked a chubby finger at his nose.

"Do you know what that arrogant Feich asked of me today?"

"No, master, I do not."

"He asked me for a crystal. A Weaving stone. Can you believe it? Can you take it in? The d.a.m.ned idiot thinks he can Weave-thinks just anybody can Weave. You, of all people, know how untrue that is."

Cadder winced, stung by the cavalier way in which the Abbod referred to his Great Failing. d.a.m.n, but the man could be cruel.

But no, argued an inner voice. You did fail. You reached the Meri's Sh.o.r.e only to become so affrighted by dreams of Her coming that you ran. Ran! Such cowardice warrants occasional cruelty.

"Why," Cadder asked carefully, "why would he wish . . . that is to say, what reason did he give for wanting a Weaving stone?"

"Protection," spat Ladhar. "He's taken it into his head that the Wicke is reaching into his dreams."

Cadder blanched. "Has he reason to believe this?"

"He's had some nightmares, that's all. Rich food and late nights will do that to a man. Not to mention the stress of sitting inside that castle knowing that half the populace of Caraid-land would like to pry him out and hang him."

"As the Wicke would like to pry him out," Cadder said. "Could she?"

Ladhar fixed him with a look that would have perforated the walls of Mertuile. "I refuse to believe she is capable of that. No, she can't be capable of that, otherwise she'd be reaching into our dreams as well-or trying to."

"She hasn't . . . reached into your dreams, has she Abbod?"

"Don't be ridiculous. None but the Meri touches my dreams, Caime. I permit no other access."

"Daimhin Feich," Cadder reminded him, "is not an Osraed. And you said yourself, she does manipulate the wicked to her will."

The Abbod had nothing to say to that except that, of course, Mertuile was surrounded by Osraed and the Wicke Taminy was far away at Halig-liath and had shown no ability to reach them from there. He seemed content to let it go at that, but Caime Cadder could not help but recall that Mertuile had always been surrounded by Osraed and it had not helped poor, weak Cyne Colfre at all.

Chapter 6.

We are what we think, having become our thought-like the cart that follows the horse that pulls it, grief follows evil thought. And delight follows pure thought, like a man's faithful shadow. We are what we think, having become our thought.

-The Corah, Proverbs of Ochan vs. 20 It had been nearly a week since his humiliating escape attempt. Airleas Malcuim had rededicated himself to his lessons and his worship and his learning of the Art. It was on the fourth day after that, during an exercise in Mapweave that he began to wonder, seriously, if he would ever be worthy of the Meri.

"Will I," he asked Taminy one evening at supper, "ever take Pilgrimage to the Meri's Sh.o.r.e?"

She looked at him and then away from him, and her eyes became misted, focusing on somewhere that was not part of the warm, noisy refectory. "You will make a Pilgrimage."

He started to be elated, then checked himself. "You didn't answer directly. You didn't say I would go to the Meri's Sh.o.r.e. Won't I?"

"Everyone's Pilgrimage is unique. This is a new age," was all she would say.

Before he could frame another question, she said, "You've set yourself a difficult path, Airleas. Your Pilgrimage has as many facets as a Weaving stone. You are waljan. You are Cyneric. You are a youth, growing to manhood. I see three Pilgrimages in your future."

"Then I'll become Osraed?"

"Airleas, have you ever stood at the top of the Airdnasheen wall and looked off down the pa.s.s?"

"You know I have."

"Did you see the path to the bottom of the mountain?"

"Aye."

"Did you see Creiddylad at the other end of it?"

He frowned. "Of course not. It bends and winds and vanishes. And it splits into branches long before it reaches Creiddylad."

"So Creiddylad is not the only place it goes?"

"No, it . . ." He saw the point of her questions then and did not like it. "You're saying our future has branches that we mayn't see."

"Yes."

"But you can see them. Surely, you can."

"I see possibilities. And I see only those possibilities that the Meri and Spirit will me to see. Think of our lives as bits of a Tapestry. I am a thread and you are a thread, as is everyone here. Some threads are longer or stronger or more colorful or shiny as gold. Some threads are holy and pure and some are sullied. We are all weaving away at the Tapestry, Airleas."

Her eyes lifted, unfocused, and he thought she must be envisioning the Tapestry.

"Every soul has been called to the weaving," she said. "Some have heard a Voice, others an inarticulate cry, others only an annoying whisper. They have been called to a forking of paths, a Cusp, a choosing. Some souls understand that, but may fail to see the nature of the choice, or that it must be made. I can't make this choice for Caraid-land, nor can you, nor can even the Meri. The choice is not Daimhin Feich's. The Abbod Ladhar cannot make it, nor any other single human being. It lies not with the Council, nor the Body, nor the Hall. For the Tapestry is choices upon choices, woven through and into and over each other until a pattern emerges and a new fabric is created. The Spirit is the Weaver and all these souls provide the thread. The Meri adds Her own Thread to the weaving and the Spirit guides the shuttle, ever mindful of the patterns. The destiny of Caraid-land lies in a handful of threads. I will Weave Mine, also. We will Weave it, ever mindful of the Pattern."

Strange, Airleas felt as if the entire room held its breath as she spoke. As if the entire fortress listened. He stared at her, suddenly mindful himself that he was part of the Pattern.

"I might've ruined it," he murmured. "By running off like that, I mean. I wasn't thinking of the Pattern then. I was thinking of myself."

Taminy only looked at him and smiled.

He was about to ask her what he should do about the weaving of his own thread when the Ren Catahn came and sat next to her and speared Airleas with his strange amber eyes.

"Boy, you've some desire to learn swordsmanship?"

"I . . . I did, sir. I'm not so sure now."

"Aren't you?" Catahn glanced aside at Taminy.

"No, sir, at least . . . I'm of the mind that there are more important things. Like learning the Art and-and statesmanship."

"Oh, aye, that." Beneath the Hillwild's thick beard, the corner of his mouth curled upward. "I'd likely not know anything about that."

Airleas's face flamed and he tried to remember if he'd ever said aloud the thoughts he'd had about Catahn's ability to lead civilized men. He decided he hadn't, which gave him a new appreciation of the Ren's aidan.

"I imagine, sir," he said carefully, "that you do. I believe I could learn volumes from you."

Catahn grinned at him. "Aye, well. I've things I can teach you, I reckon, when you're sincere in that belief. For now, I'm asking about the sword, not the Throne. Have you any interest in learning that?"

Airleas looked to Taminy, trying to read her, to gauge her reaction to this. Was this a test of some sort? If he admitted he still harbored a yen to learn swordplay, would he fail the test?