They entered Nairne along the up-river road from Lin-liath, banners snapping. It seemed the whole town had come out to meet them. The redhead's parents appeared and literally dragged her from her mount in their exuberance. Wasted on her, Saefren thought, though she returned tear for tear and smile for smile.

The dark-haired beauty, Iseabal, was already shedding tears of her own and begging to know if her own parents were at home. Finally, she got word from some scrub-faced boy that her da was up at Halig-liath and turned her horse cross-river. Iobert bid his men accompany her, and so they left the Lorimer tribe by the wayside, still making much over their big, fire-breathing daughter.

Once across the river, they caught a cross-road that ran east up the flank of the holy hill and west past the village Cirke. Above the autumnal glory of its surrounding grove of trees, the Cirke spire showed its stellate crown. The Cirkemaster's girl laid her pretty eyes longingly on the place, on the woman who had appeared behind a gate in the low wall.

The girl raised her hand and waved, reining her horse toward the Cirke grove. The woman turned away and disappeared beneath the trees.

His eyes on Iseabal's pale, tragic face, Iobert Claeg turned the column eastward and led up the long ridge to Halig-liath.

The gates were wide open-a thing Saefren thought peculiar and fool-hardy under the circ.u.mstances. In the huge central courtyard, a bevy of Osraed and Prentices met them. Foremost among these was the Cirkemaster, Saxan, and the rotund, bird-eyed Tynedale.

Iobert Claeg had no sooner delivered the Cirkemaster's tearful daughter into his arms than he asked the man where he might find The Gilleas.

Saefren felt his face burn warm with embarra.s.sment. He glanced away, making a point of ordering the horses fed and watered. When he looked after his uncle again, the Claeg Chieftain was already halfway to the main rotunda of the Osraed academy in the company of Tynedale, Saxan and Iseabal. He trailed them to the Academy's small sanctuary where they were met by a handful of men in the purple and white of the House Gilleas.

Saefren didn't know The Gilleas on sight, but his uncle obviously did. He greeted the white-hair in the group and fell to conversing with him in quiet tones.

Bemused, Saefren approached. The d.a.m.n Wicke had been right. Well, of course, she'd gotten The Gilleas here, but that didn't mean the summons had come by supernatural means. There were always pigeons.

Uncle had the satchel out now, and withdrew the Gilleas scroll, placing it in the House Chieftain's hands. "From Taminy-Osmaer," he said, and stood back to watch The Gilleas open the scroll.

Saefren folded his arms across his chest, eyes on the old man's face. The twine loosened and fell away, the scroll opened and the shard of crystal rolled out into The Gilleas's palm. The white brows furrowed as he scanned the scroll. Saefren was vaguely aware of hurried footsteps behind him in the aisle, but did not pull his eyes from the Gilleas Chieftain's face.

Dark eyes glittered in the light of scattered globes as the old man raised them to Iobert Claeg. "What is this?" he asked, holding the talisman in outstretched hands. The surface of the scroll was as blank as it had been when Saefren had seen it last.

There was a soft intake of breath at his shoulder and a moment later, someone slid past him. It was flame-haired Aine. In a twinkling, she stood face to face with the Gilleas Chieftain and lifted the little shard of stone from his hand. The moment she touched it, the shard's entire nature changed. Before it had been stone, now it was fire. Before it had been lifeless, now it blazed with kinetic light.

The village cailin held the living flame in her hand and pa.s.sed it back and forth over the empty scroll-and the scroll was no longer empty. Words appeared there in characters of light. Saefren Claeg could not see what they said, for they seemed to say nothing, but he knew his eyes were as wide as everyone else's.

Now, Morcar Gilleas's face bore an expression of complete amazement. His eyes scanned the scroll again, this time filling themselves with the bright words. And when they had read, those eyes glittered with dew. Clutching the scroll to his breast, the old man fell to one knee and kissed Aine-mac-Lorimer's hand.

The girl withdrew it immediately, the little crystal she held leaking glory through her fingers. "Oh, no sir!" she cried. "You mustn't bow to me. I'm only Taminy's student."

Morcar remained on his knee. "If you are but a student, then your Mistress must be great, indeed. These are her words? This is her fire?"

"Yes, sir."

The Chieftain rose, his gaze going to the faces of his Elders. The fire of the little shard had leapt to his eyes, and his teeth shown in a fierce grin. "It is just as I remember-just as I told you. She is Osmaer-living link to the Meri. Her voice, Her face. We, the Gilleas-Disciples of the Meri-are now her disciples."

Caime Cadder did not tremble as he made his way to Mertuile the next morning. He did not quake as he followed his Dearg escort to the throne room. Only there, in the presence of Daimhin Feich and his smirking, irreligious minions, did he realize the import of what he intended to do. At the point of quailing, he reminded himself that he had been given the dream. Only he could act on it.

"And what may I do for you today, Minister Cadder?" asked Daimhin Feich, his mouth drawn into that irritating half-grin.

He believes himself superior, Cadder thought. Well, he is superior-a superior idiot.

He lifted his head and said, softly so as not to be overheard by every gaping toady, "Actually, Regent Feich, I have come to discuss what I might do for you."

Feich's brows ascended. "Really? And what might you do for me?"

The emphasis in that sentence was enough to make Cadder bristle, but he hid his hackles and leaned closer to the throne in which the usurper sat. "You intimated to Abbod Ladhar that you desire a Weaving stone . . ."

Feich's expression altered satisfactorily and Cadder leaned away again to watch.

"Let us move our conversation to a more private place," Feich said, and rose.

The courtiers were left behind; even the ubiquitous young cousin remained outside the confines of the small but sumptuous salon he led his visitor to. Once there, he turned to the cleirach, his pale eyes alight with curiosity.

"You have brought me a rune crystal?"

Cadder nearly laughed. Was the man so daft as to think a mere cleirach might lay hands on a Weaving crystal?

"That would not be possible, sir. Only the Chosen have Weaving stones and every one is registered. To possess one, I would have to steal it, and I am no thief."

Feich frowned. "Then how can you help me?"

Caime Cadder's resolve almost buckled, then, for he knew he was about to cross over a sacred line. "Perhaps you have wondered where rune crystals are found?"

"I hadn't really thought about it."

"There is a cave below Ochanshrine," said Cadder. "The cave in which Ochan originally saw the Meri. He took the Osmaer Crystal from that cave. Every crystal bestowed upon a Pilgrim since that day was cut from the same chamber."

Daimhin Feich's eyes lit once again. "The Cave of Ochan! I had thought it merely a legend. There is some truth to the tale, then."

Cadder bit back a caustic reply. "The legend is entirely true. Ochan's Crystal exists; his cave exists. And it is the only source of Weaving stones."

"Then you will get me one."

"I? No, Regent, I cannot. To do so would be to . . . to violate my oath of service to the Osraed. However, I can tell you how to get into the cave without being observed."

"And in doing this, you will not be violating your oath of service?"

Feich's evident amus.e.m.e.nt nearly cost Cadder his poise. He bit down hard on his wretched pride, on his revulsion at giving a Weaving stone into such hands as Daimhin Feich's.

"I have no Gift, sir. No . . . talent for the Divine Art. It is clear that you do. At the very least, you have sensed the danger posed by the Wicke of Halig-liath. You recognize her as the source of an immense and palpable Evil-a dark Power. I, personally, believe such a thing is hinted at in our Scripture, yet the wise among us seem not to recognize those references. Therefore they do not recognize the threat."

"The wise among us . . . You mean Osraed Ladhar, I suppose."

Cadder put a hand to his breast. Within, his heart clenched with sorrow. "My master regards Taminy-a-Cuinn as a heretical trickster. He refuses to grant her more power than that."

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, shivering, 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 worshiper'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.