In the water they combine

The human soul and the Divine.

Humanity is glorified,

Divinity personified-

The dance of glory to and from

One to return, One to become.

One glides beneath the Sea;

One walks upon the Sh.o.r.e.

-The Meri Song

Book of the New Covenant

Hrofceaster at Airdnasheen

The room was gray this early. Though murky light entered through the three tall windows along the northern wall, it was not strong enough to bring the rich array of tapestries, arras and carpets to vivid life. A row of light-globes sat above the east-facing hearth, two more hung on either side of the fur-covered couch opposite the windows. All were unlit and the hearth was cold.

On the threshold, Taminy took in the empty chamber with something like relief. She raised her hand, palm out, to the dark globes. They lit, blue-gold flames dancing, seemingly suspended in whorls of mist. On the walls, furniture, and floors, colors leapt from sleep; golds, reds, verdant greens-all the colors of midland foliage. All the hues Taminy would have left behind in coming to Hrofceaster, were it not for Hillwild artistry; were it not for Catahn.

Taminy smiled at the thought of the Hillwild lord. He was easily her fiercest supporter, her most imposing ally and her most ardent devotee. It had taken her weeks to break him of bending the knee to her. She had yet to teach him not to call her 'Glorious Lady' with every other breath. And as he treated her, so did his people.

As if I was Cwen, she thought, moving to the firebox by the hearth. That was Toireasa Malcuim's station, not hers. It was a station she could not imagine growing accustomed to.

"They'll always treat you that way."

Hands full of kindling, Taminy turned. "Skeet. Will you help with this fire or just stand there pecking at my thoughts?"

The boy moved from the doorway, face unsmiling, unboyish.

"You're more than Cwen, Taminy-Osmaer. Catahn knows that. His elders know that. Toireasa is Cwen of Caraid-land; you are its soul."

Taminy bent to arrange the kindling, not caring to look into Skeet's eyes. She knew he was right, the little old man. Knew that in her hands was the fate of the House Malcuim and, through it, of the Caraidin people.

"And Airleas is its spirit," she said. "I feel for the boy-to have his childhood end so suddenly, so cruelly."

"If he'd grown up here, his childhood would've been over long since. In Creiddylad, he'd've stayed a child past time. Colfre was a young man; were it not for Daimhin Feich, he'd still be on the Throne. Maybe Airleas is better off here."

Taminy smiled, rising from the hearth to brush at her skirts. "Pov-Skeet, you know as well as I do the truth of that. He may not see it now, but Hrofceaster is no mean place to become a man."

"If the Ren Catahn is any measure," Skeet added.

Taminy turned to look at him. "Such a sly tone. Don't you like Catahn?"

Skeet's dark eyes widened. "Why, Mistress! I should say I like him very well, indeed. He's a prodigious man."

The observation coaxed laughter from her throat. It felt good to laugh.

"Mistress! What are you doing? G.o.d-the-Spirit, the fire! Now, now-you oughtn't touch that!"

The Eldress Levene scuttled into the room like a fretting hen, bobbing and clucking, while Taminy, errant chick, scooted away from the hearth, dropping the log she'd been holding.

Skeet cackled.

"You really mustn't do for yourself, dearest Lady," chided the older woman. "Where's Eyslk? She should ha' been here to start this. Not like her to be so lazy."

"Please, Eldress, you needn't curtsey. And I came early today. I didn't ring for Eyslk. I rather intended to be alone for a while . . . in the quiet."

Eldress Levene paused in her fire-making and blinked at Taminy. "G.o.d's Breath, Lady! It never came to me that you'd like to be left alone in the mornings."

Taminy's hands flew out in reflexive apology. "Oh, please, Eldress, I didn't mean-It's only that occasionally I like to come here and meditate. It's a lovely room."

The other woman's face suffused with pleasure. "Why thank you, Mistress. It was done all for your joy . . . Now, now, where's the tinder box?" She poked along the rough mantle piece, looking for the box of flints.

"Eyslk usually asks me to start the fire," Taminy said.

The Eldress was aghast. "Eyslk asks-?"

Taminy laughed. "Please don't fault Eyslk. She caught me at it one morning. I admit it's a guilty pleasure of mine."

She moved back to the hearth as she spoke and held her hands out to the pile of unlit wood as if a fire was already there to warm them. In a moment, a red glow appeared among the kindling. In another, flames leapt-gold and white-to consume the wood.

"You see, it's really much easier for me than for poor Eyslk with her flints."

The Eldress nodded, eyes casting back the glow of the flames. "A good, practical bit of Weaving, that." She shifted her eyes to Taminy then, head tilted questioningly, asked, "Would you like me to leave you a bit, Lady? I can return in your time."

"Not if you've some business for me, Eldress."

Taminy retreated to the couch from which she now "held court" as Skeet put it. She preferred to think of it as consultation and had even convinced Catahn that the couch, which had once sat on a raised platform, be on a level with the other furniture in the room.

Eldress Levene approached her (curtseying again) and seated herself in a facing chair. "If it please my Lady . . . Taminy," she corrected, when Taminy would have reminded her, "the Aeldra have consulted this past eve and have raised some questions."

Taminy gestured with her left hand, bidding her to continue. The Eldress's eyes followed the gesture, seizing on the blessed mark-the gytha-glowing from the palm like a tiny flame.

"We have certain rites, Lady Taminy, which have been held in the heart of these mountains since time known. We are born and named, cross from childhood into adulthood, marry, give birth and die. All these things we mark and celebrate. And in between, we plant some and harvest some and mark the pa.s.sing of the seasons. We revere the Gwyr, too, as you know, and celebrate Her rare appearances. We lay before you these things, these rites and ask . . ."

The Eldress paused, glancing aside at the silent Skeet. She was troubled, clearly. "These are ancient rites-"

"And sacred," said Taminy. "They remind you that you are the Hillwild and that these things have shaped you, nurtured you, become part of your relationship with the Spirit."

The Eldress's relief was evident. "You'd not have us give them up?"

"No, Eldress. Why would I?"

"Some have tried to persuade us that these things are superst.i.tion. That we should leave them and worship as do the people of the lowlands."

"They worship as they worship; you worship as you worship. The Spirit isn't interested in the form of your worship, but in its sincerity."

"They say the Gwyr is a heathen spirit, unrelated to the Meri and Her G.o.d. They say our G.o.d is not their G.o.d."

They. "The Osraed, you mean?"

"Aye, and others."

"The Gwyr is a window to the world of the Spirit. There is only one Spirit. There are many windows through which to see It."

The Eldress considered that. "Yet, each window offers a different view. How does one see the Spirit entire?"

"One finds a Door and enters it."

The Eldress nodded. "You are the Door."

Even now, Taminy could feel a part of herself shrinking from that truth-but it was truth.

"Here, now, for you, I am the Door."

Eldress Levene slid from her chair to her knees, bending her forehead to the floor. "Blessed Lady! Last night I dreamed of a doorway filled with light. I see it again this moment."

"Rise, please," Taminy murmured, uncomfortable with the open adoration. "Rise and look at me. You have another question."

The woman raised her head, but remained huddled on the carpet, her wool pantaloons billowed about her like gray clouds. "The Council of Elders also wishes to know if it should continue to guide the affairs of Airdnasheen."

"What other body but the Aeldra would shepherd the community?" Taminy asked in return. "Who else would be qualified? You know the people's needs. There's no reason why the Aeldra should not continue to elect the Ren and mind the affairs of his people. I didn't come here to govern the Hillwild, Eldress Levene, but to renew a Covenant."

The Eldress nodded, looking thoughtful. "And to ready the young Malcuim to govern. He's a good boy, that one, but rash, stubborn, fox-clever . . . for boon or bane."

The absent Eyslk chose that moment to put in her appearance. It was Eldress Levene's pleasure to tease her gently for her cleverness in lighting the fire without a tinder box.

While the two bantered, Taminy's gaze roamed to the fire. Boon or bane, indeed. The Eldress had no way of knowing that in describing Airleas, she had also described his father. Colfre Malcuim's cleverness had connived to disaster and his rashness had made him a willing puppet for Daimhin Feich. Taminy could only pray Airleas had something his father had not-strength of will.

The narrow outer corridor was empty and Airleas Malcuim congratulated himself on that good fortune. His arms wrapped around the long, swaddled package, he scurried the length of the hallway, down the narrow stone steps at its nether end, and out into the small, dark courtyard. It was a little-used yard; he knew that after several days of careful watching. Its only other access was from the rear of the main kitchen and it occasionally hosted the kitchen crews after-dinner chats, but little more than that.

Alone, Airleas laid his treasure out on a rough wooden bench and unwrapped it, a smile hovering at his lips.

"Airleas! A sword! Oh, wherever'd you get tha'?"

He jumped and swore, twisting his head toward the kitchen entrance. "Gwynet Alheart, you little weasel! How dare you sneak about like that? And keep your voice down."

Gwynet's eyes were two pools of reproach. "I'm sure I'm not a weasel, Cyneric Airleas. Nor was I the one sneaking. And my voice is down . . . Where'd you get the sword?"

Airleas sighed. "I found it. In a leather satchel at the bottom of a grain bin in the stable."

Gwynet's nose wrinkled in curiosity as she came down the short flight of kitchen steps to hover at the bench. "What were you doing in a grain bin?"