He blinked up at her, startled. "What-what does it mean?"

"Your father thought it a position of power, of leadership. He believed a Cyne lived to be obeyed and to be served by the obedient. What do you think?"

"Well, I . . ." Well, what, Airleas Dimwit? You've dreamed of being set before the Stone every day since your father's death. What is it you dream of? "It is leadership, surely. A Cyne must lead his people to prosperity and strength."

"How must he lead? By force? By guile?"

"By . . . by force of example." There, that sounded good. He also felt it to be true. "A Cyne must not be treacherous or greedy or hard-hearted. He must be honorable and trustworthy and compa.s.sionate. And just-of course, he must be just."

Taminy rose and walked slowly to her window where the mullioned gla.s.s refracted the waning violet light of day. "Why must he be these things?"

"Well . . . because it would please the Spirit. For the Spirit says, 'The most beloved of all things in My eyes is justice; turn your eyes toward it if you love Me.' And it would be a blessing to the people. If a Cyne isn't just and honorable and compa.s.sionate, his people will not be content, nor his country healthy."

"Then the Cyne is governed by and dependent on the good-pleasure of others?"

"Of course. He must obey the Spirit and the Meri; he must respect the a.s.sembly and the Houses and the advice of the Privy Council . . . and the people, naturally, who speak to him through these means."

"So, he is guided by those who look to him for guidance. Yet, is he not their master?"

Airleas knew a trick question when he heard one. He knew Taminy was leading him toward some end, and cursed his feeble wits for not divining what that end was. He called to mind the Cynes of Caraid-land who had been lauded for their spiritual greatness: Malcuim the Uniter, of course; his son Paecces, Peace-Lover; Bitan-ig, called the Preserver; Bearach Spearman; Siolta the Lawgiver; more recently, his grandfather, Ciarda, Friend of All.

Tales of Ciarda's exploits had always thrilled him-especially those that related how the young Cyneric had courageously weathered his own father's distrust and treachery to take the Throne at a young age; how he had braved the censure of the a.s.sembly and Privy Council in permitting his sister, Fioned, to marry a Hillwild Ren; how he had judiciously handled the trespa.s.s of Deasach fishing fleets into Caraidin waters; how he had gone about the country in disguise to see how he might better serve his people.

Airleas met Taminy's eyes. That was it! In the life of a great Cyne like Ciarda it was so plain to see. "The Cyne is not the master of the people, but their servant."

Taminy didn't even leave him a moment to feel proud of himself. "And what," she asked him, "is servitude?"

Airleas sighed and pondered the question. It was not something he'd thought about much-at least, not in connection with being Cyne. He suspected he was about to have that error pointed out to him.

"Well, it's . . . ah . . . serving the people, I suppose. Doing what's best for them."

"And how does a Cyne serve his people? How does he determine what's best for them?"

Though Ciarda Malcuim had toured the country seeking the answer to that question, Airleas suspected that would not work for every Cyne.

Well, I can keep blathering and make real fool of myself and I can just admit- "I-I don't know, Mistress. I suppose that's what I'm trying to learn."

"Servitude," said Taminy, "is the station of preferring another to oneself. It is embodied in the act of putting another's welfare or interests before one's own. It is the continual bowing of one's will to the will of another."

"The Meri," he said. "I must bow to the Meri's will. That's what you're telling me, isn't it? And that I must put the interests of my people before my own. But I do that already, don't I? The Meri's will is my will and my people's interests are my own."

"Your people. They belong to you, do they?"

There was a glint of humor in those green eyes, but Airleas saw nothing even remotely humorous in the situation. He was frustrated, and let his frustration answer.

"Yes, of course they do. They certainly don't belong to Daimhin Feich. A Malcuim has always been Cyne."

Taminy smiled, but behind that smile, Airleas sensed something darker, more urgent. "The people you saw here this afternoon-do they belong to me?"

"Oh, yes! They adore you! They love you!"

"Why?"

"Be-because you heal them and-and soothe their anger and mend their broken hearts."

"Odd. It seems to me that I belong to them."

Airleas paused to consider that, and in the pause, light dawned. "You serve them. That's what you mean. That's what a Cyne must do for his people. He must heal and soothe and mend . . . and guide-the way you guide me, with love and respect."

"Why, Airleas? Why must a Cyne do these things for his people?"

"Because they're the right things to do. The Spirit blesses a Cyne who does these things with happiness and prosperity, and blesses his people likewise. And the people adore and obey such a Cyne."

"What lies at the heart of a Cyne's justice and compa.s.sion? The hope of happiness and prosperity? The promise of obedience and adoration?"

Airleas chewed his lip. He wanted those things, all of them, but knew without doubt that they were not what a just Cyne-a Cyne like Ciarda-would base his Cyneship upon.

"Find the answer to that question, Airleas, and you will know why the Gwyr would not be seen by you today."

A chill trembled up his spine and his lips went numb. "Did Gwynet-?"

"Gwynet said nothing. Nor did she need to."

"Will you tell me, please?" He begged. "Will you tell me why the Gwyr slipped away from me? It would be so much quicker than me guessing."

She laughed. "Airleas, the only real answers are the ones we find ourselves. The ones we must buy with our tears and longing and desire. I will tell you this: The seat of a Cyne's power isn't the Throne, nor even the Stone of Ochan. His strongest fortress is not Mertuile, nor even Halig-liath. The seat of a Cyne's power and his fortress is the Covenant between G.o.d, Man and Meri. The more you understand the Covenant, the more firm will your rule be, and the more true your servitude."

Away he went, feeling as he imagined a Prentice must feel on his first day of Pilgrimage when the Weard has at last set a riddle to be solved and a quest to be undertaken: Inspired, inadequate and a little confused.

Chapter 11.

Alas, for when the weapon is in the hand of the ignorant and cowardly, no one's life and belongings are safe; thieves grow in strength. Likewise, when a flawed priesthood acquires control of a system, it becomes as a wall between their people and the light of faith.

- Osraed Tynedale

A Brief History of the Cusps

It filled the eyes terribly and ten horses drew it. Even lashed down to its sledge, its muzzle lay level with the shoulders of its mounted escort. Children followed its progress through the streets of Creiddylad. Their elders stopped and stared as it pa.s.sed by, squinting against the glare of sun on the burnished black barrel. It gleamed golden, too, with radiating curls of some yellow metal that trailed from muzzle to flank as if spewed from a small Sun trapped within the gaping maw. Up the Cyne's Way it rolled, ponderous, making it's way to the gates of Mertuile.

Ruadh Feich's heart cowered in his breast as he watched its approach. He'd never seen anything like it-nor even imagined that such a weapon existed. His eyes turned to the half-dozen drays behind it and tried to picture what its ordnance must be like. Below him, the gates of Mertuile swung open to admit the colossus. Sweating cold with awe, Ruadh hurried down from the parapet to join his cousin in welcoming the Deasach party.

In the confines of Mertuile's outer ward, the great cannon was even more soul-chilling. Ruadh gazed up at the gleaming muzzle and realized that it was designed to look like a sea snake-a fire-breathing sea snake. The barrel he had thought was black had a sheen of emerald to it, and great, glittering orbs of red agate were set in bra.s.s behind the mouth, forming gold-lidded eyes.

His own eyes full of the marvelous weapon, Ruadh barely noticed the Deasach contingent, scarcely heard the first murmurs of diplomacy. Finally, he noticed them-tall, slender men, all, dark-skinned and dark-eyed, dressed uniformly in flowing black robes over conspicuously non-uniform garments in vivid hues.

From among these dignified figures stepped the Mediator, Loc Llywd, in his hands an ornately carved box, inlaid with sea sh.e.l.ls and stones Ruadh didn't recognize. Approaching a smiling Daimhin Feich, he proffered the box.

"n.o.ble Regent, the Banarigh Lilias of El-Deasach, called the Raven, gratefully accepts your most delightful gifts and is pleased to offer you these tokens in return."

Ruadh suspected his cousin was interested in nothing but that stupendous cannon, but his sense of politesse prevailed. Daimhin graciously accepted the box, even making a pretty speech of his own as he slipped the clasp and opened the lid.

That action stopped the flow of words and Daimhin's eyes fixed on something within the box.

Ruadh moved closer to peer over his cousin's shoulder.

There was jewelry in the box and a letter on gilt-edged linen rolled and tied with a cord of braided satin. There was also a dagger with a gem-encrusted hilt and scabbard.

None of those things were what had arrested Daimhin Feich's eye and now held Ruadh's as well. Rather, it was the portrait of a woman fitted into the satin-lined lid. Eyes the color of wine, large as a doe's, were set aslant in a heart-shaped face that spoke at once of delicacy and strength. The full, smiling lips were the color of Daimhin's red stone, and so great was the artist's skill, that they seemed about to speak. Her hair was the color of the raven's wing, and so complimented the milky-bronze flesh that Ruadh could not tear his eyes from the perfection of the image.

That Daimhin was also stunned was obvious. "This is Lilias?" he asked, forgetting his acceptance speech.

The Mediator nodded, smiling. "Indeed."

"And this portrait-?"

"Hardly does her justice, Regent." The smile deepened. "And you know I am not a man to exaggerate."

"Understatement, Mediator," Daimhin returned. "You make a habit of it. You claimed your cannon was merely monstrous. It is a good deal more than that. I can only imagine the virtues of your sovereign. Come now, gentlemen, I have a campaign to plan."

With a last look at the inyx-weaving portrait, he at last forced himself to close the box and lead the Deasach delegation to the castle.

Ruadh gave the great Deasach cannon a parting glance as he followed his cousin across the ward. Monstrous. Aye, it was that at very least.

The hillside grove where the Four Allies camped was purposefully chaotic. People hurried here and there, carrying saddles, packs, provisions. In a matter of hours the camp was divided; at the crown of the slope, gathered a large contingent that would remain camped in the hills just out of sight of Creiddylad on Madaidh land, so as not to violate their agreement with Feich. At the foot, a smaller force prepared to travel with Daimhin Feich to Nairne.

Saefren was no military strategist, but it seemed to him that accompanying an enemy's siege force to Halig-liath was a peculiar way for the waljan Chieftains to protect their Lady's interests. He didn't quite understand the ploy. What he did understand, with increasing unease, was that since falling under the influence of the Nairnian cailin, his uncle was a different man-harder to read.

Saefren shivered and blinked at the hard steel sky. Likely, it would rain tonight. He didn't relish the thought of bedding down beneath a dripping sky when Creiddylad beckoned.

Smoke tickled his nose, drawing his eyes to where a campfire's plume curled through the trees. He moved toward it automatically, finding himself among the Chieftains. Attended by their aides-de-camp (which Saefren noted included The Graegam's eldest daughter), they huddled in discussion of tomorrow's events.

"Ah, Saefren!" his uncle said. "Come, your opinion is wanted."

He dropped to the couch-roll beside his uncle, shrugging within his thick cloak in hope of generating some warmth.

"Really?" he said. "I thought your course was already set. You send forces to Nairne."

Iobert's iron brows rippled with bemus.e.m.e.nt. "This troubles you." It was not a question.

"It seems odd."

Mortain Jura, sitting opposite them on the other side of the fire pit, chuckled. "What better way to keep an eye on our n.o.ble Regent?"

"To what end? Do you hope to a.s.sa.s.sinate him?"

"While he's surrounded by his kin?" asked Graegam's girl.

Her father laid a cautionary hand on her knee. "This is no place to speak of murder. You both forget why we are here. We show support for The Malcuim, and try to impress Daimhin Feich with our unity."

Saefren nodded. "While those who remain behind keep an eye on things here."

"The waljan in Creiddylad may be in danger," said Mortain. "Even in Feich's absence."

"Or perhaps especially then," observed Iobert Claeg.

Mortain conceded that with a nod of his head. "Then, too, we have yet to hear from the Skarf and the Glinne."

Saefren frowned. "The Floinn have gone to Feich, then?"

The Gilleas, nearly invisible huddled in his thick fleece-lined coat, snorted. "The Floinn have gone to the Floinn. I think they've always awaited an excuse to move for autonomy. They all but own the river south of Norder, which is as good as owning Norder itself. They've no great love of the Feich."

"Chill h.e.l.l, Morcar!" chuckled The Graegam. "They've no great love of anyone!"

"Aye. Isolation does that. Appears that Rodri Madaidh plans to take his House down the same road."

"The Cuillean," observed Mortain Jura, "are split. They agree only that they hate the Teallach and will likely fall to Taminy merely because their near neighbors have gone to her enemy."

"So the Skarf and the Glinne must be approached," observed Iobert, "and the waljan of Creiddylad must be protected and informed."

"I would go to the Skarf," said the Graegam woman and her father nodded approval. "Perhaps Feich has not yet gotten to them."

In short order, it was decided that Mortain Jura and Iobert Claeg would lead the Allies within Feich's force, taking Elders from the Houses Gilleas and Graegam to complete their number; The Gilleas and his son would coordinate the troops left at Creiddylad through the most senior House kinsman; Mortain Jura's young brother, Hethe, would lead spies to scour Creiddylad; The Graegam would accompany his daughter to the Skarf and the Glinne, if time allowed.

There was that feeling, Saefren thought, listening with half an ear to the arrangements being made, as if time was rushing by in an invisible current, cascading headlong to some point, some crux.

Not much time left, he thought, but had no idea for what. He realized that the discussion had ended without a decision as to his own disposition. He felt his uncle's eyes on him.

"I would stay in Creiddylad," he said, glancing up and about at the fire-lit faces. He smiled wryly. "It's a d.a.m.n sight more hospitable than this soggy wood."

There were appreciative chuckles from the others and his uncle slapped him on the shoulder.