Caime Cadder's face was as gray as the coming dawn. "He has . . . But how . . . ?"

"Apparently, this Dearg seeress he's brought along gave it to him and . . . is schooling him in its use."

The color came slowly back into Cadder's narrow face. "Then he has a Gift?"

"So it would seem."

"Then perhaps all is not lost."

Ladhar glanced sharply at his companion. "Whatever can you mean?"

"Only that armed with the ability to Weave, he may be able to defend against this Evil Force."

"Not if he is co-opted by it."

Cadder's small eyes flashed fear. "Regent Feich is a man of strong will, Abbod. If his Gift is equally strong . . ."

Ladhar shivered despite his many layers of clothing, the stoked brazier and the cup of steaming liquid between his trembling hands.

"Pray that it is, Caime. No. Pray it is stronger."

"Then there is still a force outside Creiddylad?" The Osraed Fhada digested this intelligence with a furrowing of his Meri-Kissed brow.

"This displeases you?" Saefren asked.

Fhada smiled and shook his leonine head. In the spot of late morning sunlight that pooled about his desk, he looked less a man and more a creature of legend-an aingeal, a paeri. "I was merely concerned that your uncle felt the need to leave a force behind, especially since, as you say, our Regent specifically asked him not to."

Saefren answered the smile. "I believe Uncle Iobert may have left a force behind chiefly because 'our Regent' asked him not to. But they are deployed on House lands as the contract stipulated-Madaidh lands, to be exact."

Fhada laughed at that, but the girl Aine-Alraed Aine, Saefren reminded himself wryly-sat in her own puddle of comparative gloom looking taciturn and even disapproving.

"I don't understand any of this," she said sharply. "And less than I understand why the Chieftains left men here, do I understand why they took men with them on Feich's march to Halig-liath. The man means to harm Taminy."

"Who is no longer at Halig-liath," said Saefren reasonably. "As long as Feich believes she is, he'll be unable to cause her any real harm."

"Moreover," Fhada added, "he may reveal his deeper intentions and plans to his supposed allies."

Saefren shook his head. "Doubtful, Osraed. Feich is a sly man, to all accounts. Sly men rarely confide their deeper intentions to anyone."

"What happens when this sly man realizes Taminy is not at Halig-liath, but at Hrofceaster?" Aine asked. "What's to stop him from taking his forces there?"

"The winter snows, for one thing; the trail all but closed behind us as we descended. My uncle and the combined forces of the Claeg, the Graegam, the Gilleas and the Jura, for another."

"All well and good, unless Feich can call up an equal force. In which case . . ."

"Civil war," murmured Fhada. "Unless some other Force prevails."

Aine shifted in her seat. "I must let Taminy know what's going on."

"How do you propose-?" Saefren halted. She wasn't listening. Her eyes were closed and her lips moved silently. He glanced at Fhada. What? he mouthed, but the Osraed merely raised a finger to his lips. Saefren turned his attention back to Aine.

Head back, eyes open again, she stared fixedly at a point on the ceiling. Saefren watched, unsure whether to be amazed or amused as a cascade of expressions flowed across the girl's face-concentration, pleasure, concern, outright glee, concern again.

For several minutes this went on, then Aine lowered her eyes and turned them to Saefren. "How long before they reach Nairne?"

"Five days-six, perhaps. Uncle reckoned the cannon would slow them down more than a little."

Aine nodded and closed her eyes again briefly. A moment later, she seemed to have concluded her communication and stood to move closer to the fire that roared in the large hearth.

"You've . . . told her about Feich's march, then?" Saefren asked. "Just now?"

A malicious glint entered the redhead's hazel eyes. "Do you doubt that? Do you think perhaps I only pretended the Speakweave?"

"I'm sure you believe you . . . communicated with her, but how can you be certain?"

Aine ignored the question. "Saefren Claeg," she told him, frank annoyance souring her already less-than-sweet features. "You are the most hard-headed, cold-hearted-" She broke off, her body and face suddenly stiff with tension.

Glancing at Fhada, Saefren saw that he too had frozen in mid-chuckle, responding to something the young Claeg could neither see nor hear nor sense. Moments pa.s.sed without movement, the only sound, that of flames crawling up the flue. Impatient, Saefren longed to demand to know what was going on. He did not. Instead, he waited until Aine came back from wherever she had gone. Only then did he open his mouth to ask his question, and was roundly ignored.

Aine launched herself toward Fhada's desk, behind which, the Osraed now stood, eyes fastened on her flushed face.

"It was Eadmund!" she said.

"I caught that much-and his distress-but what was the message?"

"The Abbod Ladhar's deputy, Tarsuin, has been given an edict to post. Drafted by Regent Feich and counter-signed by the Abbod himself. We are to be denounced as heretics and enemies of the Throne, Osraed. There will be a bounty on our heads-a hundred ambre for every waljan brought to Mertuile."

Fhada paled. "But surely the Privy Council-?"

"Eadmund says that a quorum of the Council witnessed the edict only this morning. It's to be posted in a week's time. Can he do that? Can he bypa.s.s the a.s.sembly?"

"What a.s.sembly? The a.s.sembly is effectively disbanded, and I doubt Regent Feich has any intention of seeing it re-elected. As to the Privy Council-it appears a significant number of its members are in agreement with our Regent."

"Aye," muttered Saefren, "and it appears he made certain those who were not were safely out of the way." He felt the others' eyes on him. "You see what he's done, don't you? He drew up this edict-perhaps even at the last moment, when he knew the waljan Chieftains would be on their way to Halig-liath in his company. With only partisan Eiric, Osraed and Ministers left to convince . . ."

Fhada nodded grimly. "He pressed his advantage and had the edict pa.s.sed and witnessed in the absence of strong dissent."

"And posted to coincide with his arrival in Nairne," Saefren concluded.

"So we are now heretics," murmured Aine, her ruddy complexion for once devoid of color.

Saefren grimaced. "Or will be in a week's time."

The girl shot him a sharp glance and he realized that he had crossed over an intangible line between skepticism and acceptance. Once again, she surprised him and did not gloat.

Chapter 13.

Worship the Spirit in this way: If your faith lead you to death, alter it not. If your faith lead you to heaven, likewise, alter it not. This is the quality of faith that befits the Spirit of the Universe.

- From the Testament of Osraed Bevol Ruadh Feich sat uneasily astride his horse this morning-uneasily and wearily. He had slept poorly after that bizarre dream and had hardly been prepared for the shock of waking to find himself naked within his bedroll with his night robe lying in a heap just inside his tent flap. Daimhin had only laughed at him when he worried that he might have been sleep-walking, and teased him that he must surely have been enchanted into a tryst with a wood paerie-or perhaps with the elusive Gwenwyvar.

All joking aside, Ruadh was afraid someone might have seen him dancing naked in the light of his tent brazier. At least he hoped that was all he had done. He did recall dancing, and the transient light of fire, but somewhere in the confusion of compulsions and memories were fragmentary images of wandering across chill open ground, of approaching a large, lighted tent-Daimhin's tent, he thought-and of being watched by shadowy figures.

His skin crawled and he wondered if it were possible that the Nairnian Wicke was responsible for this. Perhaps she knew they came to confront her. Perhaps she had laid aislinn snares for them, hoping to inspire fear. Fierce Feich pride rose in Ruadh's breast. Well, if that were the case, she'd have to do much better than a simple nightmare to turn back the Feich.

Today again, as he rode at the head of his troop of kinsmen, Sorn Saba was beside him. Today the journey was more pleasant. There was no talk of Wicke-burnings or drownings or other tortures. Instead, the Deasach spoke of life in the court of his sister, the Banarigh Raven, of hunting and riding and sailing.

He bragged a bit about being the youngest Marschal in the history of El-Deasach and, while Ruadh suspected the position was the result of nepotism, Sorn was quick to disabuse him of the idea. He had led a number of guerrilla attacks against the Southern Hillwild, he claimed-two in the last year alone. He had a talent for it. Or so he said.

The day pa.s.sed uneventfully enough, though Ruadh could not shake the idea that he was being watched. He imagined with irritation some old dogs chuckling at what they had witnessed the young Feich Marschal doing in his sleep. The thought made his face and stomach burn.

Sunset found the company camped, once again, on the banks of the Holy River, and it was to the river that Ruadh went, as the Sun dipped below the Western horizon, to wash the grime of the road from his body. Sorn, seemingly unwilling to be separated from him, went along, and even joined in the chilly ablutions.

That didn't bother Ruadh, though it seemed an intrusion into his privacy. He attributed it to differences in the Deasach concept of courtesy. Sorn had been a pleasant enough companion during the ride and Ruadh was inclined to merely ignore his presence, answering the younger man's grumbles about the abominable climate with grunts and monosyllables.

He'd just put on a clean pair of leggings and was unfolding a fresh shirt when the sensation of being watched a.s.sailed him more strongly than ever. Sorn, still shivering and complaining vociferously about these hardships, seemed to sense nothing.

Skin crawling, Ruadh reached reflexively for his sword.

"I mean you no harm, young Marschal."

Startled, Ruadh whirled, sword clutched in one hand, shirt in the other.

Coinich Mor stood not five feet away, laughing at him as silently as she had appeared. "How like a young buck you are," she told him, and stepped nearer. "Ready to leap up and run. Not very warrior-like. Perhaps manhood sits lightly on you."

Face burning, Ruadh forced himself to ignore the jibe. He put down his sword with deliberate motion and prepared to pull the thick shirt over his head.

"You startled me, mistress. I'm not used to having people sneak up on me in my own camp."

"You needn't hurry so in covering yourself, Marschal. You please the eyes greatly."

Ruadh was vaguely aware that Sorn had ceased his chattering. Only the river spoke. He pulled on the shirt, nearly tearing it in his haste; his arm caught halfway up one sleeve. Cursing, he pulled it free and tried again, this time succeeding in covering himself.

The Dearg woman moved closer still, her strange yellow eyes never leaving him. "I was watching you today."

"I felt you," he admitted, then wished he hadn't when the woman smiled at him.

"I wanted you to feel me."

She stopped no more than an arm's length away and Ruadh realized with a mixture of shame and anger that he had been retreating from her. He stopped his backward progress with a will.

"Why have you come here, mistress?" He reached for his cloak and brought it around his shoulders.

"To ask how you slept last night."

Ruadh was certain every drop of blood had fled his face and extremities.

The Dearg woman tilted her head-a gesture that would have been charming and pert in a prettier, more delicate woman. Coming from Coinich Mor it held predatory undertones. "And if you found your night robe this morning," she added.

Ruadh finally forced words from his open mouth. "I don't know what you mean."

He moved to take up his sword again and strapped it on, aware of Sorn's silent watchfulness.

"You were not wearing it when last I saw you. I thought you might've lost it."

Anger brought the blood back to Ruadh's face. "I am not a game-player, mistress. Kindly come to your point."

She laughed softly. "You're not like your cousin, the Regent. He likes games. He likes my . . . company."

He boggled at the implications of that-that Daimhin was dallying with the wife of a Dearg ally right beneath the man's nose. "And so, I'm sure, does your husband, Mistress Dearg."

"Is that what stops you? That I've a husband? Your cousin has no such scruples."

"If you have my cousin to play with, why should you want me?"

"Shall I come to your tent tonight and show you why I want you?"

"No, mistress. You shall not." Flushing with outrage, Ruadh scooped up his dirty clothing and thrust through the screen of sh.o.r.e-hugging bushes.

Behind him, Sorn Saba's voice said, "You may come to my tent tonight, Mistress Dearg. Unlike Ruadh, I am not afraid of you," and the Dearg Wicke laughed.

The sound would haunt Ruadh Feich's dreams.

When Daimhin Feich had first marked Coinich Mor's interest in Sorn Saba (among others), he was angry. The very thought that she should spread her favors among other men while he was her sponsor filled him with an overwhelming desire to strike at her with his new-found powers or, at the very least, to leave her behind him on the trail to Nairne.

The anger hadn't lasted. He quickly realized how ridiculous it was that he should be jealous of her time and talents when it was her husband who was being cuckolded several times over. She was teaching no one else to Weave, so there was no threat from that quarter. His anger was ill-spent.

From then on, his att.i.tude was one of knowing amus.e.m.e.nt. She was, after all, doing only what she had taught him to do; she was drawing energies from her trysts with the Deasach boy and her other paramours. Perhaps she even sucked forces from her doltish husband.

Daimhin found the thought amusing: Coinich Mor gathered potencies from other men and brought them to him so he could feed upon the pilfered energy. A twisted sort of mother bird, that made her, and he wondered if she realized that he fed on her forces, weak as they were.

It had surprised him, when first they Wove, that she taught so well who could martial so little real power. She had barely been able to call even a fitful glow from his red crystal-Bloodheart, he called it. Yet, with her guidance, he had made it scream glory. She could do little with her own stone besides make it pulse and flare. Only when they coupled did the yellow crystal catch fire. There was a soul-deep satisfaction in that which went worlds beyond the physical act. His powers grew with every encounter and this last time . . .

He paused to savor the memory, quivering with antic.i.p.ation of the night to come. He was thankful to be astride his horse where no shrewd eye could divine the tenor of his thoughts.

Last night, in his tent, after she had been with the Deasach boy, the power he drew was such that, for a measure of moments, Coinich Mor had ceased to be Coinich Mor. She had been Taminy, the chaste, the pure, burning like a golden flame in his arms. No mere imagination, this, it was an aislinn vision of such strength that it had taken his breath away. He had stilled and stared, unable to believe what he had done, what he had Woven. The pale hair, the sea green eyes, the silken skin. He had savored every moment of the vision, knowing he embraced prophecy.