"They'd use light-globes," said Cadder. "There are none lit. They're not here."

"No, they want us to believe they're not here," Feich said. "This old place must be full of bolt holes and hiding places." He moved toward a small, rounded door on the rear wall of the room. "Where does this go-Cadder?"

He looked to the cleirach who hurried to unlatch the door and push it open.

"If I recall, it's an access to the cellars."

Feich smiled. "Yes, of course. The cellars. What better hiding place? A dead end."

He afforded a chuckle at that obvious wordplay and slipped into the dark corridor. He had Coinich Mor hold his hand, feeding her enough power to use her yellow crystal to light the way. It clearly awed his kinsmen to realize that their cousin had such command of the Art-the Divine Art, he reminded himself.

Ironic. He had never, in his wildest dreams, thought of himself as Divine. Taminy was Divine. He knew that-could admit it. But he-he knew only that he was something beyond the frail and human. What was he, if not Divine-he who pursued the Divine and sought to co-opt it?

Later, he would find an answer to that. Right now, he was faced with another doorway, its thick, oaken barrier an opaque face that pretended at disuse. Feich, disbelieving, bade one of his kinsmen open the door. It swung away into a gloom so intense even Coinich Mor's crystal made little impression upon it. He had the cleirach fetch a lamp and lit it himself without flint. His kinsmen's eyes gleamed.

A short but steep flight of stairs descended into the gloom. After a moment of hesitation, Feich sent one of his men down with the lamp. He followed, beckoning the second Feich guard to bring up the rear of the party. They were cautious, quiet.

It hardly mattered. The dank chamber seemed as empty as the refectory, and the creeping feeling did not abate. They searched methodically among the kegs, crates and clay pots of goods. They even broke open random containers in case the Taminists had been that clever. They hadn't been; the crates contained only jars of preserved fruits and vegetables, the pots only flour and grain, the kegs only cider.

Cursing Osraed Fhada and Abbod Ladhar, cursing Taminy, Feich led his party back up to the ground floor, hoping the other searchers had had better luck than he. They hadn't, and though they searched even the private rooms, not one Taminist was found.

Furious, defeated, humiliated, Daimhin Feich retired to the courtyard and thence to Mertuile, taking his brooding cleirach, his smiling Wicke and his puzzled kinsmen with him.

Saefren Claeg couldn't breathe. He could only stand with his back to the cold stone wall and let his terror suffocate him. His ears cringed from the sound of his breath rasping through his dry throat. He could hear the others breathing, too.

Dear G.o.d, he could hear their hearts beating in their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and he found it impossible to believe the man standing not five feet from him could not also hear them . . . or see them. Yet, Daimhin Feich's pale eyes swept the room, pa.s.sing over the spot where he stood again and again, each time looking right through him.

Saefren's breath caught in his throat, sweat started from every pore in his body. He wanted to glance at Aine, pressed to the wall beside him, and couldn't. He had done it once and found the blank spot where he knew she must be too unsettling to contemplate.

An invisible hand grasped his, pressing it, holding it against the cold stones of the refectory wall. He took a deep, painful breath. Humiliation washed over him, blanketing his fear. If he was invisible to Daimhin Feich, he was not to Aine-mac-Lorimer's aidan.

Not four feet away, now, Daimhin Feich snarled something to his men and turned on his heel. His entourage followed him to the refectory doors, trading uneasy glances. The skittish cleirach trailed after-it seemed he couldn't move quickly enough-but the Dearg Wicke lingered a moment to wander among the long tables, pondering the room with bemused eyes. Then she, too, was gone.

Saefren thought he might collapse, but could not, yet. The danger wasn't past and would not be until Feich and his party rode away.

Minutes stretched. Sounds from the outer corridors continued, waned, ceased.

After long moments of listening to each other breathe, Aine loosed her grip on Saefren's hand and sagged back into the wall, becoming a solid and visible presence.

"They're gone."

Saefren let his own body relax against the firm stones of Carehouse. "Thank G.o.d. I thought . . ."

"That they'd be able to see us?" asked Aine. Her face, too, was sheeny with sweat.

"Forgive me, Aine Red," he begged, mocking, "but I've never been caught in the midst of a Cloakweave before. It was an unsettling experience."

"Unsettling," repeated Leal, wiping perspiration from his brow. "I was terrified. I wasn't sure I could hold it that long. It's one thing to Cloak yourself, but to hide an entire roomful of people . . ." He shook his head, glancing around the room to where others stretched or slumped or shook themselves. "I'm exhausted."

"No time for that, I'm afraid." Osraed Fhada stood in the doorway of the cellar pa.s.sage, a wide-eyed little girl attached to one arm. "We've got to get these people out of here."

"Do we?" Saefren asked. "Feich's searched and found nothing. Surely the place is safe now."

Fhada shook his head. "We don't dare take a chance, Saefren. He's Gifted. It could be only a matter of time before he realizes what we've done. Or he might put a watch on the place. We'd be in constant danger of being surprised. We can't stay cloaked forever."

So, they gathered up belongings and food and divided their number into small groups of five or six, the better to make clandestine journeys. Of the fifty or so people that had congregated at Carehouse, only a handful had mastered the Cloakweave. Those would be needed to ferry the refugees to safety.

When they had completed their plans for the exodus, Saefren gathered up his own belongings and loaded them onto his horse, thankful Feich hadn't seen fit to take the four-legged inmates of Carehouse's stable. He was tightening the cinch of his saddle when he sensed movement in the stable doorway.

Nerves still fired, he whirled, hand finding his sword. But it was only Aine who stood in the broad aisle, her robust form silhouetted against the silvery haze of moonlight washing in from the courtyard.

"You're going to Mertuile?" she asked.

"I promised I would. A Claeg doesn't go back on a promise."

"I still think I should go with you."

"Feich's not stupid. He'll be expecting Taminists to try escaping him. You're one of the few here who can muster a Cloakweave. You'll be needed."

The silhouette shifted. "You speak of Weaving as if its something you now believe in."

"It saved my life. Have I a choice?"

"Then you believe the future of Caraid-land is in Taminy's hands."

"I believe the future of Caraid-land is in Daimhin Feich's hands, as frightening as that is. I also believe it's my duty to help pry it out again. I'll concede your . . . abilities and those of your Mistress, but that doesn't make me a Taminist."

She said nothing to that and, without further comment, Saefren led his horse from the stable and mounted. He'd ridden halfway to the gate when Aine, following him, spoke again.

"Are you just going to ride right out into the street?"

"Am I expected to fly?"

"Feich might have posted men in the streets. Had you thought of that?"

He hadn't, but should have. He glanced up at the evening sky with its undercoat of wood and peat smoke, and sighed. "Have you a suggestion?"

"I can cloak you as far as the next block. Just in case."

"All right," he agreed. "As far as the next block, then."

She smiled, triumphantly, he thought, and faded from sight as if obscured by a piece of the night sky.

I will never get used to that, he thought, and steered his mount through the half open gate and out into the narrow street.

"And we can do nothing?" Airleas's eyes stung with tears of futility and the snow-covered trees and houses blurred.

"We do what we do," Taminy answered him. "It's not as little as you think."

Airleas thought he would explode with pent up rage. The situation in Creiddylad grew worse by the day, and yet he could do nothing but sit here, aloof on this mountainside, praying and practicing inyx. He blinked into the chill wind that roamed fitfully over the flank of Baenn-an-ratha.

"But when will we act?"

"We act already. We prepare our minds and souls for the future. What more should we do?"

"We should go to Creiddylad, free Iseabal and throw Daimhin Feich off of my father's throne and out of Mertuile. Between the men The Claeg left here and the ones camped in the lowlands, plus the Hillwild, we could surely rout them."

He turned to Taminy on a wave of pa.s.sionate certainty and found her poking at a mound of snow with the toe of her boot.

"Daimhin Feich hasn't mounted an attack on Hrofceaster because he can't get to it right now. How do you propose to get your forces down off the mountains?"

Airleas chewed on that momentarily. "We don't really need a force," he concluded. "We need only a handful of people-but all must be Artful. Then we could enter Mertuile by stealth, and deal with Feich. Maybe even force him to admit that he killed my father."

"I don't think Daimhin Feich will be at Mertuile much longer."

Airleas shivered. d.a.m.n snow. d.a.m.n cold. d.a.m.n wind.

"Then he comes to Hrofceaster? Good! The allied Houses can sweep in behind him, squeeze him into the blocked pa.s.ses and crush him against the mountain. Then I could lead the Claeg men and the Hillwild down to-"

"I thought we'd already covered that. Do you really think the Claeg and the Hillwild will follow you on a suicide mission?"

"I'm their Cyne."

"Cyneric, until you're set before the Stone."

"That's right. And I need to show leadership, don't I, if I'm to win their respect? If I lead my own defense-"

"You'd put yourself and your House at great risk."

"Catahn says that taking risks is the mark of a great leader."

Taminy's breath appeared in a steamy sigh. "Calculated risks, Airleas. Well-reasoned and backed by experience and intuition. There's more to leadership than taking troops into battle."

"Yes. Yes, I know, but how can I learn that here on this mountain? When will I have a chance to prove myself?"

"When you're ready to be proven, I suppose."

"But Daimhin Feich-"

"Is not your concern now, Airleas. He is mine." Her voice, always gentle, carried a new touch of iron.

"You don't think I'm ready, do you? Not ready to be Cyne-not even ready for Crask-an-duine."

She glanced at him out of the tail of her eye. "That's become very important to you hasn't it?" When he nodded emphatically, she told him, "I don't decide when you're ready for Crask-an-duine. The Aeldra and the Ren decide that."

"But you know-"

She turned to face him, laying her hands on his shoulders. "I know that you're being asked to grow up very quickly, Airleas. You're twelve years old and yet you must struggle toward manhood with every ounce of strength. I'll help you all I can, but I can't learn your lessons for you. You must learn them for yourself."

"But you won't even give me a crystal of my own to Weave with-just that tiny schooling stone. When will I have a crystal of my own, Taminy?" He was whining and he knew it. Abashed, he added, "It's just that there's so much I have to do."

"I know. And when you're ready to do it . . ." She left the rest unsaid.

Disappointed, Airleas turned away from her and continued down the trail to Airdnasheen.

Chapter 17.

Gracious Spirit! If none strays from Your Path, how can Your children know mercy? If wrong is never committed, how can Your forgiveness be tasted? May I be a living sacrifice for those that err, for they shall know both Your mercy and Your forgiveness. G.o.d preserve them from Your justice.

-Utterances of Taminy-Osmaer

Book of the Covenant

Saefren Claeg had no trouble gaining access to Mertuile and hadn't expected to. The gatekeep was hardly going to tell Iobert Claeg's nephew and aide he wasn't welcome in the Cyne's castle.

Daimhin Feich was not in the throne room. Neither his House Elders nor his guards seemed to be aware of his whereabouts; Saefren thought intentionally so-they seemed strangely uneasy with the subject. He had to content himself with wandering the quiet halls.

When Colfre was Cyne, the castle Mertuile had been a nest of activity-scurrying servants, visiting Eiric, Ministers, merchants, House Chieftains and Elders. The most purposeful activity he'd seen here took place in the outer ward around the Deasach cannon. The Feich and their allies did seem to be preparing for some sort of action.

The scent of cooking food drew Saefren to the dining rooms. The larger one was unoccupied, but in the smaller private room, a fire burned in the far hearth and a screen had been drawn around the table there to help hold in the warmth.

Here Ruadh Feich ate a solitary meal, his shadow lying long across the floor. He glanced up as Saefren entered the room, his eyes widening in surprise.

"Saefren Claeg! Good-eve. Your presence . . . astonishes me. Is your uncle with you?"

"No. I was just in the city pa.s.sing time, and I thought I might have a word with your cousin, the Regent."

Ruadh sipped hot cider, watching Saefren's approach over the rim of his cup. "About?"