"No, sir, you should not! Nor should you allow Caraid-land to stand ungoverned. We want the Hall convened and we want Airleas Malcuim on the Throne where he belongs!"

Around the impudent Eiric-Cearbhall-mac-Corach, his name was, and Feich noted it-began a low chant of "The Malcuim! The Malcuim!" It was a name Daimhin Feich was sorely sick of hearing. He raised his hands over his head. "I intend . . ."

They continued to chant and he tried again . . . and again. On the third try, they let him speak.

"Once my forces are rested from their last attempt to return Airleas Malcuim to Mertuile, we will be mounting another campaign to get him back. We had thought him to be at Halig-liath, but Taminy-a-Cuinn-who calls herself 'Osmaer'-has spirited him away from there into the Gyldan-baenn. He is now among the Hillwild in the mountain holt of Airdnasheen. I intend to go there and bring him back."

They approved. He could see it in their sheep faces, feel it wash up from them. He drank in their approval.

"Further," he continued, "an emergency meeting of the Hall will be called to consult on the replacement of its apostate members."

"When?" bleated several of the sheep.

"As soon as I have returned with Airleas Malcuim and have set him before the Stone. Until then . . ." He raised his hands against another outcry. "Until then, the Privy Council will handle the affairs of Creiddylad. Take your concerns to them. I expect them to give you satisfaction."

He stopped and looked down at them. They milled for a moment more, speaking among themselves, then the leaders of the group made signs of agreement.

"That is satisfactory," said mac-Corach. "For now."

They began to disperse, to move back toward the outer gates.

Feich heaved a sigh of exasperation. Another riot averted. He'd turned to retrace his steps to the castle when something whizzed by him, narrowly missing his head. Ruadh cried out and drew his sword as Feich whirled to see one of the gate guards fall under the impact of a crossbow bolt. A bolt obviously meant for him.

While other men went to the aid of the fallen, Feich threw himself from the walkway and into the courtyard below.

At the bottom of the steps he doubled over, hands on his knees, to quake and tremble like a frightened child. It took him a moment to realize Ruadh was beside him, a hand on his shoulder. He straightened with an effort and pulled his clothing and thoughts into order.

"Ruadh," he said, "I will issue a new decree. As of this moment, support of Taminy-Osmaer is an offense punishable by death."

Chapter 15.

In this Day a Door is open wide to the peoples of Caraid-land. The smallest drop of faith in this Day is as an ocean; the smallest sacrifice, a holy Pilgrimage. In this Age, if a soul sow one drop of blood in the field of faith, that soul shall reap the Sea.

-Utterances of Taminy-Osmaer

Book of the Covenant

"Who is it? Who's at the gate?" Leal hurried across the courtyard to Osraed Fhada's side.

The older man turned to look at him, his face bloodless. "It's the Abbod Ladhar."

Leal blanched and reached fingers of sense through the opaque barrier before him. "He's alone. And . . . very afraid." He glanced up at the boy atop the gate. "Let him in, Ferret."

The bar lifted and the gate groaned inward, allowing the Abbod and his horse to enter. Covered from bald crown to booted foot in a thick, black, hooded cloak, Ladhar clearly feared recognition. When he had dismounted and set back his hood, Leal could see he'd even daubed some camouflaging color over his time-bedimmed Kiss.

"I must speak with you. In secret," he added.

Fhada merely nodded, made certain the gate was bolted and barred, and led the way into Carehouse and through its halls to his office.

Aine was there, her usually ruddy face pale and drawn.

"Anything from-?" Leal began.

The girl shook her head. "Something's horribly wrong, Leal. It was as if she was cut off. I felt her terror and then . . . nothing."

"Taminy?"

Aine glanced at Ladhar, her suspicion of him a p.r.i.c.kly thing in the air. "Silent . . . and cloaked in sorrow. What has happened to Iseabal-a-Nairnecirke, Abbod? What has Regent Feich done with her? Is she dead?"

The Abbod seemed, for once, at a loss for words. He colored and paled in turns then said, "As far as I know the girl is alive. I don't think Daimhin Feich will allow her to be killed. He believes her captivity will draw Taminy out. I suspect he also believes she has abilities he can either channel or learn. He . . . brought her late last night to Ochanshrine and tried to force her to Weave with the Osmaer Crystal. She conjured an aislinn of your Mistress, then dissolved it and refused to do more."

Aine nodded. "I saw that. Feich was furious. I sensed her terror of him."

The Abbod busied himself with the closes of his cloak. "Yes, well. He . . . returned this morning, alone, and tried to Weave through the Crystal on his own. Which is why I am here." He raised his head and offered Leal a direct gaze that was somehow at once contrite and haughty.

Leal could only stammer, "Then Feich has-"

"Feich has nothing. He raised an aislinn of the Wicke at prayer with your fellow . . . disciples-G.o.d only knows what it is they pray to-but that was all he could do."

Leal was weak with relief. "Then he can do nothing with Ochan's Stone?"

"I don't know. Nor do I want to know."

Ladhar reached beneath his cloak and brought out a satchel of soft, black leather. He held it out to Leal, who took it in trembling hands and pulled back the obscuring flap.

Aine, now at Leal's side, gasped. "The Osmaer!"

"I took your advice, Osraed," Ladhar admitted stiffly. "Whatever our differences may be-and they are considerable-I am certain you are less of a danger to the Crystal than Feich is. There are times I'm convinced the man is mad. Other times I think he's only completely amoral. What I do know is what I have seen-he can Weave. Well enough to control the actions of others. Well enough to catch and control the wind."

Leal's brow knotted. "Bevol's Aiffe is a crystal of great clarity and quality. Yet Feich could do nothing with it? How can that be?"

"I don't know. Perhaps your Mistress blocked him. I only know I don't want him or his Wickish mistress to lay a finger on the Osmaer. I fear they'd destroy it. I give it into your care in the hope that you can protect it better than I can. It would be much too easy for Feich to find it at Ochanshrine."

Fhada twitched. "He doesn't suspect-"

"No, Osraed, he suspects nothing . . . yet. He believes I am his ally."

"You spoke of his mistress. A Wicke, you called her. Do you mean a Taminist?"

Ladhar snorted. "Hardly. She's a woman of the House Dearg. The Hillwild wife of a House Elder, but her only allegiance, I wager, is to herself. She somehow got Feich a rune stone-a hideously flawed crimson thing he calls Bloodheart-and she tutors him in all manner of . . . perversion." He spat the word. "There is something else you should know. Before I left Ochanshrine to come here, someone made an attempt on Daimhin Feich's life as he gave a speech from the battlements. Feich elected to blame the Taminists. Support of Taminy-a-Cuinn is now punishable by death. Or will be when the Privy Council ratifies Feich's most recent ban."

Leal's heart spasmed. "Will you vote to ratify it, Osraed?"

"I'm not stupid, young man. I have my own life to protect."

"If we're now to be the target of Feich's purges, why bring the Osmaer to us?"

"Recent history indicates Taminy and her acolytes are very difficult targets to hit. Now, I must go-before some new crisis arises at Mertuile or Ochanshrine." He moved to open the chamber door, then paused to look back at the waljan. "I'm curious. What Weave are you using to create the illusion that Aiffe is the Osmaer Crystal?"

Leal blinked. "Aine modified a Cloakweave and bound it to the stone."

"A Cloakweave. Which is also what you used to get past the guards at the Shrine. I see. Bound to the stone itself, you say." He shot Aine an appraising glance. "A useful inyx. I shall probably wish I could Weave one myself before all this is over."

"How did you know, Abbod?" Leal asked. "About the Weave."

"I remember Bevol's crystal. A beautiful stone, but flawed; there was a tiny opaque s.m.u.t at its base and a hairline fracture in one of the basal facets. Fortunately, Daimhin Feich could hardly be expected to know the difference."

He left them holding the Osmaer Crystal with the unenviable task of determining how to protect it and a hospice full of condemned Taminists.

It was Aine who broke the silence that had settled over the group. "I'm going up to Mertuile. I'm going to find out what's happened to Isha."

"Too dangerous," Fhada objected. "With the bans-"

"I'll Weave a Cloak."

"And if you're surprised into dropping it? None of us are masters of the Art, though we may have to pretend we are."

"I'll wear a crystal to amplify it. I'll be fine."

"No, Aine, I'll go."

Heads swiveled to a shadowed alcove beside the hearth from which Saefren Claeg had emerged.

"It makes more sense than having you go," he told Aine before she could protest. "I can get into Mertuile without having to resort to inyx. I should have little trouble finding out what happened to Iseabal. No one would have any reason to lie to me or question my curiosity. After all, my Uncle Iobert was part of the party that brought her here."

"I'll go with you," said Aine.

"No, you won't. It makes no sense-am I right, Osraed Fhada?"

Fhada nodded. "I have to agree with Saefren, Aine. It makes more sense for him to go. He isn't the subject of a Regency decree. You are. Besides, dear girl, we need you here."

Aine subsided, but Leal knew it was not out of acquiescence. There was rebellion in her hazel eyes and mutiny in the set of her jaw.

An hour after the failed attempt on his life, Daimhin Feich sat in his salon quivering between terror and rage. His mind was a roil of impulses. He wanted to strangle Coinich Mor; he wanted to seize the Osmaer Crystal and throw every smug Osraed in the dungeon; he wanted to drown the Taminists there now with his own hands. Most of all, he wanted to squeeze from his young hostage every last ounce of power she had to offer.

It was difficult to restrain himself from that last action, but he had no doubt that if he went to her now, in this chaotic frame of mind, he'd leave nothing of her but a dried out husk, and he had only Coinich Mor with which to replace her.

Then, too, there was the matter of the traitorous Houses. He could do nothing about that now. They were camped just beyond Creiddylad, in position to trap his forces with their backs to the Sea if they forced a battle.

d.a.m.n, but he hated this feeling of impotence! When he could face her again without wanting to thrash her witless, he'd consult Coinich Mor about possible Weaves he might apply to this wretched situation.

Someone rattled the door and he growled permission for them to enter. It was Sorn Saba who appeared around the ornate slab of wood, bowing slightly as he entered. The momentary obeisance blended smoothly into an arrogant straightening of the Deasach's lithe body.

"Daimhin, if I might share words with you?"

Feich waved a half-empty wine cup at the seat across from him at the hearth. The youth perched himself at the edge of it and fixed his host with a gleaming, black gaze.

"You seem besieged by trouble, my friend," he observed. "Your little Cyne stolen, your arch enemy at large, and now your subjects press toward rebellion."

Brat. Feich forced his face to reflect a composure he was far from feeling. "They aren't precisely my subjects."

"They may as well be; the return of Cyneric Airleas at any time soon would seem to be impossible."

"You needn't remind me, Shak Saba. I am well aware of my problems."

"Please, friend Daimhin! Let us not return to formality. I only wonder why, in such dire circ.u.mstance, you promise your people that you will return their Cyneric to them. It seems to me you are not in a position to do this."

"Your point . . . Sorn."

The Deasach shrugged. "Only that you would appear to be in need of some help. The kind of help my dear sister, Lilias, could provide."

"Such as?"

"Men, arms. A force at your command that is well-versed in mountain combat."

Feich laughed. "For whatever good that would do. The pa.s.ses are s...o...b..und."

"Ah! The northeastern pa.s.ses, yes. But it is much milder on the southeastern side of the range."

Feich sat forward in his chair. "You're suggesting . . . that your sister would allow us to cross Deasach land to reach Hrofceaster? She would lend me both support and pa.s.sage?"

Sorn Saba glanced down at his hands, clasped between his knees. "If you were to offer some tribute to her and if I were to advise her that a military alliance with you would be beneficial and appropriate under the circ.u.mstances."

"The circ.u.mstances being . . . ?"

"That a powerful Enemy of the Caraidin throne holds the heir to that throne hostage. That that enemy is an ally of the Hillwild, who are our enemies. That this enemy is strong in magic and beauty." He grinned. "A natural adversary for my very vain sister."

"You would advise your sister to aid me?"

The boy looked up at him through dark, glittering eyes and Feich thought, Ah, this is it. We come to the point.