Learning of his ally's treachery, Bearach confronted the Feich Chief in the Cirke at Storm. There he reviled him for his disloyalty and then, when The Feich drew sword, he slew him, saying, "I, Bearach Spearman, make certain."

Ah, but the murder lay heavy on his conscience, so he hastened to Ochanshrine to beg forgiveness of the Osraed, bringing with him the Osmaer crystal.

The Osraed rejoiced in the return of the sacred relic. The Osraed a.s.sured Bearach that his forgiveness was in the hands of G.o.d. They bid him take the Great Crystal up to Halig-liath where he might safely be set before it.

At Halig-liath, one week before Solstice, Cyneric Bearach Malcuim was set before the Stone by the Osraed at Apex, Affric. The Malcuim Circlet, however, was still in the hands of The Claeg.

Bearach remained at Halig-liath only long enough to preside over the Farewelling within its walls. While he did this, Buchan Claeg dallied outside, trying to get in. It was his opinion that the right to oversee the leave-taking belonged to him and he presented the false Osmaer as proof. The Osraed, who now possessed the true Stone, challenged him and cleverly kept him at bay. When Farewelling was over and the Pilgrims at last departed the fortress before the eyes of Claeg's men, Bearach Malcuim was among them.

Now, while Bearach hid in and about Caraid-land, aided by loyal commoners and lesser n.o.bles and Chiefs, his family dispersed to the four winds. But it was to no avail. The Claeg got his hands on them and treated them all shamefully, humiliating and imprisoning them all-men women and children.

Bearach, meanwhile, fled into the Gyldan-baenn and threw himself on the mercy of Garmorgan, Renec of the Hillwild clan of Mor. She kept him safe in her stronghold at Moidart, while his countrymen rallied to his aid. He was close to losing faith during this time, when one night he was visited by a vision of his beloved Gartain. In the aislinn, the Osraed showed Bearach a spider patiently weaving its web in the lee of a window embrasure and bid him perceive how the tiny creature persevered regardless of how many times the strong winds about Moidart blew its silken home away. Bearach was cheered by this lesson and began to plan his return to Mertuile.

As for Garmorgan, she became Bearach's fast friend and when, in the dead of winter of the Year of Pilgrimage 168, Bearach led his troops down out of the Gyldans, she rode beside him.

By now, The Claeg had set up court at Mertuile, openly flying the banner of his House over its ramparts. Bearach Malcuim, accordingly, seized the Claeg estates and stronghold and raised his own standard there. He allowed the "escape" of the House Steward who carried the tale of Claeg's capture to his master in Creiddylad.

The Claeg at once a.s.sembled his troops for battle, but on the eve of their departure for Claeg, Buchan fell ill. In a matter of days, he was dead of the mysterious malady, but not before he extracted a harrowing promise from his heir-that he would retake the Claeg lands, boil the dead Chief's flesh from his bones and bury those relics in the retaken soil.

The son, Gery, made the grisly pact, then violated it as soon as his father's spirit fled its body. He carried his father's corpse to Ochanshrine, where it was prayed over by the Osraed and buried in the wood overlooking that sacred place. The new Claeg Chieftain then went straight to Bearach, relinquished Mertuile in return for his own lands, and made a pledge of fealty to the House Malcuim.

The Claeg kinsman were furious with their young leader and attempted to continue the struggle against the Throne, but Bearach had the will of the people, the forces Garmorgan, and the spiritual strength of the Osraed. With those he could only be victorious. He brought his family out of captivity, restored the Osmaer crystal to Ochanshrine and began a long and glorious reign. The Malcuim were back in Mertuile to stay.

After a moment of silence, the Storyteller bowed his head to indicate he had finished his Tell. The others about the fire nodded and hummed in approval.

"Until now," murmured Saefren.

Heads turned.

"What do you mean?" asked a Jura kinswoman.

He hadn't meant to say it aloud; it had just slipped out. Saefren reddened, but stood his ground. "You say the Malcuim were back to stay, Mortain Jura, but there is no Malcuim at Mertuile now."

Protests came from Jura and Claeg alike, while the Nairnian girl sat back and watched all with eyes the size of silver sorchas. The Jura Chieftain stopped the outcry by raising his hand. He spoke, but Saefren barely heard him. His eyes were riveted on the palm of that hand. The star-shaped mark there gleamed brightly enough to rival the light of the fire. He had never seen a gytha before, though he knew from talk that it was the Sign that accompanied initiation into the ranks of the waljan-the Osmaer's elect.

The sight of the thing stunned him. Before, he had thought of the gytha only in connection with those close to Taminy-Osmaer-Aine, Iseabal, Osraed Wyth. It had never occurred to him until this moment that the circle of chosen might expand, might embrace people like Mortain Jura, who had only seen the woman once.

He found his eyes drawn to his Uncle Iobert. Was there also such a mark in his palm? Saefren had never seen it, but he realized now that it was likely there.

He glanced around now, noticing only that The Jura had stopped speaking and was watching him.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I meant no disrespect. Only perhaps . . . that it is the lot and duty of the Claeg to return to Mertuile what we once attempted to remove from it-a Malcuim Cyne."

He had acquitted himself well and would have begged leave to go to his tent, but The Jura turned immediately to Aine-mac-Lorimer and respectfully requested her to give a tell of the Lady Osmaer. Aine complied, timidly at first, regaling them with a tale that kept Saefren sitting right where he was.

She spoke of an evening in summer past when Taminy had told her what she had not wanted to hear-that she, Aine, had the aidan and a Gift for prophecy. She had fled, rushing on horseback into Nairne where, hard by the Cirke, her horse had shied and thrown her into a stone wall.

"My neck was broken," she said, "and I died."

Just that, so calmly-I died.

"The Osraed Torridon Wove over me and tried to save me, but he couldn't. When he'd turned his back and given up, Taminy came and laid her hands on me. She healed my broken body and gave my spirit back into it."

The group by the fire sat in awful silence, listening to the whispers of the flames. That they believed the tell, Saefren could see in their fire-lit eyes. He could only suppose that Aine believed it too.

He shook his head. A glowing mark in the palm, words of fire written on hide by a flaming crystal-these things were difficult to accept, though having seen them, he had no choice but to do so. But this-a resurrection of sorts . . .

He rose, weary and overwhelmed, and went to his tent.

The Graegam put up little more fight than The Jura had done and, two days after adding representation from that House to their contingent, they were trekking southwest again, angling toward the seaside holdings of the Madaidh. They would lay by there to await the arrival of some Gilleas kin.

If nothing else, Saefren reasoned, they would impress Daimhin Feich with their sheer numbers. At worst, they would scare him into a fight which he might lose, even ensconced in Mertuile . . . unless, of course, he had managed to win some allies in his time there.

Saefren considered recommending the construction of a few siege engines while they were at Madaidh, but hearing the religious tone of the Chieftains' conversations, thought better of it. Instead, he sparred with Aine.

"That story you told our first night out of Jura . . . was it true?"

His opening gambit caused a gratifying reddening of the girl's face. He'd expected that, and sat back to watch the fireworks.

There were none. Aine fought her obvious outrage to a draw, returned her red face to a mere pink and said, "It was true."

Disappointed and curious, he pursued the subject. "But such an incredible tell! Can you honestly believe you were dead?"

"Yes."

"And Taminy resurrected you."

"It's called an Infusion Weave," she said as if that label made it any less miraculous.

"Whatever. But you believe she did it?"

Aine turned to look at him, eyes kindling. "There were enough witnesses, including Osraed Torridon, who first tried to save me."

"Ah, but they're all in Nairne."

"Ask Osraed Wyth the next time you're at Hrofceaster. Or wouldn't the word of an Osraed be enough for you?"

"Well, he might be rather partial to his Lady."

"You're a Claeg, all right," Aine told him. "Stubborn as that sword-poked lump on your standard."

"It's a rock."

She'd nettled him a bit and her eyes said she knew it. "A lump of clay, more like-your House namesake. A hard lump. Very hard. You could never really get a sword through it."

"As it happens," Saefren informed her, "that rock forms the altar of the Claeg chapel. It's been an altar stone since our ancestors worshipped in the fields. And you're right-it's d.a.m.ned hard."

She laughed at him. Actually laughed at him, the ignorant creature.

He bit back his annoyance that she didn't show more respect for an elder, for a House kinsman. But then, what was she, after all-a lorimer's daughter? A maker of saddles and harnesses? What sort of manners could he expect of that? He could even see how she might believe in these supposed miracles . . . but what excuse had Uncle Iobert?

Unable to muzzle his annoyance, he pressed on. "So you were dead. Your neck was broken and your head rattled. Now, that much I believe."

She might've set his clothes afire with that look. "Does it make you feel quite great and powerful to cross words with a mere lorimer's daughter, Saefren Claeg?"

Foolish was how he felt. He made a point of noticing a pack horse with a loose cinch and rode ahead to set it straight. He'd let her get the better of him and she knew it. He gritted his teeth. If not for Uncle Iobert, he'd turn his horse about now and head straight back to Claeg.

His anxiety grew when, half a day out from the Madaidh estates, a rider caught them up with news from Creiddylad: Daimhin Feich had officially declared Taminy-Osmaer an enemy of the Throne.

"Regent Feich? If you've a moment to spare, sir?" His Dearg guard, for all his imposing size, seemed uncertain.

Daimhin enjoyed his diffidence, awarding it with a scowl. "What is it? I'm in a hurry." He turned back to watch a stable groom work on his horse.

"I recognize that, Regent, but thought you might find this of interest."

Daimhin Feich shrugged. "You've my ear till my horse is saddled. Best hurry."

"It's about the other night at Ochanshrine . . . I couldn't help but hear, when you spoke to the Minister . . ."

Daimhin sent his brows gliding up his forehead.

The guard hesitated, then said, "It's like this, Regent. I know a woman. A Hillwild who married into our House."

"Why should this be of interest to me?"

"Well, I'd style her a Wicke, though she'd likely deny it. Fact is, she's been known to Weave a few inyx in her time. Got her own crystal too, though I can't say how she come by it."

Daimhin Feich forgot for a moment that the Deasach Mediator awaited him in Creiddylad and speared the Dearg with an avid gaze. "What is her name? How can I meet her?"

"Name's Coinich. She's a Mor before she came to Dearg. Married my uncle Blair."

"I care very little who she married. How might I contact her? I suppose she's at Dearg."

"As it happens, she's here. My uncle's an Elder, advisor to Eadrig Dearg."

Daimhin's heart leapt in his breast. "She's here? At Mertuile?"

"Aye."

Daimhin put his hand on the man's shoulder. "I can't avoid this meeting I'm to attend, or I'd see her this minute. Speak to her for me. Tell her I'd be pleased to meet her when I return from the city."

The guard blinked. "But Regent, should I not go with you? My duty-"

"Is to follow my orders. I can find another bodyguard. It is far more important to me that you make certain this Wicke doesn't leave Mertuile this afternoon. I'll wish to speak with her directly I return."

The man nodded. "Aye, then. I'll see to it she's awaiting you."

On his return trip to Mertuile, Daimhin Feich wished his mount might have flown. The great Deasach cannon was en route, would be here in mere days, the Banarigh would no doubt be pleased with his gifts, and a Dearg Wicke awaited his return.

Fate rolled with him now, he could feel it. Things moved in the direction he sent them, guided like sheep by a shepherd's staff.

His pleased reverie was interrupted at a street corner near Mertuile when a lump of rotting fruit flew out of nowhere to collide with his horse's head. The animal started violently, and before Daimhin could regain control of her, a second piece of refuse struck him in the neck, exploding in a soggy spray of fetid perfume.

Fighting his mare under control, he glanced around, trying to see where the attack arose. He was appalled when, out of the crossroads, two small mobs appeared, wielding their foul projectiles and more dangerous weapons. Bystanders and pa.s.sers-by fled like startled chickens into storefronts and parked carriages. In mere seconds, the street was deserted but for the approaching mobs, Daimhin Feich and his two guards.

He pulled his sword, his guards echoing the movement. Another piece of fruit struck him, then a lump of coal. He was not a man for flight, and so spurred his horse toward one of the converging groups, shouting at them to desist. The guards followed, pushing their nervous horses toward the teeming threat.

Above the scarves that obscured their faces, Daimhin Feich could see eyes a-glint with anger. He tried to make himself heard above their noise, but the shouts of rebellion drowned him out.

"The Malcuim! The Malcuim!"

He was struck again, this time from behind. Then something whistled past his cheek followed by a blossoming pain. He put his hand up to his face and felt blood. Turning, he realized the folly of confrontation. The group behind had drawn nearer; in a few seconds more he and his guards would be cut off, surrounded.

Swearing, he pivoted his horse and sent it into a careening gallop, forcing it between the closing jaws and up the naked street toward Mertuile. He only vaguely heard the sounds of other horses behind him.

Only when he had reached safety behind the inner curtain of the castle, did he turn to see if his kinsman had escaped. They had, but not without injury. Both were bloodied, as he knew he was. Furious, Daimhin Feich threw himself from his horse and raged into Mertuile. Now, more than ever, did he feel the hunger for control of the aidan he knew reposed within him. Now, more than ever, did he long to take that red crystal in his hands and strike out through it at all who opposed him-from that rabble of worthless dirtbags to the so-called Osmaer.

He would learn the use of that crystal, G.o.d smite him if he didn't.

The Madaidh received his talisman without comment. Only a slight widening of his eyes betrayed any response to the glowing words. When he had read them, he looked up at Iobert Claeg with a complete lack of expression on his angular face.

"Where is the Lady now?"

"With the Ren Catahn at Hrofceaster."

The Madaidh nodded. "Daimhin Feich doesn't know this." When Iobert's brows knit, he said, "Seeking allies, he trumpets his grand designs; we know much of what goes on. He has spoken to me of a siege of Halig-liath and of a mighty Deasach weapon which the Regent has appropriated for his use. And he has allies, Iobert-the Teallach, the Dearg, perhaps the Skarf . . ."

"And the Madaidh?" Iobert's eyes were wary.

"The Madaidh are the Madaidh. We don't toady to the Feich. Nor to the Malcuim."

Saefren was not surprised by these words. The Madaidh had always considered themselves a breed apart. They traced their lineage to nomads who had wandered from El-Deasach over the southern chain of the Gyldan-baenn hundreds of years ago. Among the fair coastal hills they established a permanent capitol.

Their dark eyes and dark skin spoke of their southern heritage, as did their customs and traditions. Even after centuries in Caraid-land, their customs were markedly different than their neighbors'. The Madaidh elected their Chieftains, much as the Hillwild did.

Their current leader, Rodri, had followed in the footsteps of a woman named Vaida, renowned in Cyne Ciarda's time for the strong opinions she voiced in the Hall. Though they practiced the religion of the Meri, they kept their own holy men and women to advise them.

"Will you join with us in pet.i.tioning for Airleas Malcuim's return to Mertuile?" asked Iobert. "Will you join us in negotiating Taminy-Osmaer's safety?"

The Madaidh glanced around the light-washed room, his eyes going for a moment to the odd eddies of luminescence cast on walls and ceiling by the sea below his stronghold. He seemed, almost, to be listening to the rhythmic drumming of its waves on the rocky roots of his home.