Feich quickly regained his composure. "A Taminist idea that, isn't it-to accord the right of succession to a woman?"

"An Osraed idea, Regent. The Meri decreed that a woman may now became Osraed. If that is so, surely she may also be a House Elder, or even a Chieftain."

Feich let that pa.s.s and, apparently satisfied that the four Houses had drifted from Taminy's influence, sent to Ochanshrine for a cleirach to draw up an agreement and an Osraed to witness it. It was the Osraed Ladhar, himself, who appeared, the Minister Cadder in tow.

Saefren was much impressed-Feich seemed to hold some sway with the ill.u.s.trious Abbod. He was impressed with something else, as well-the Abbod's Meri Kiss. Where the Taminist Osraed wore stars of the brightest emerald or gold, Osraed Ladhar's glimmered a reluctant peridot. He wasn't sure what that meant, precisely, but suspected it spoke of Taminy's power and the Covenanter Osraed's lack.

Before the Abbod, the Chieftains once more stated their loyalty to the House Malcuim and disavowed their Taminist leanings. The Abbod was clearly unconvinced. Further, he raised objections Feich had not.

"The boy is a Taminist. How can you contemplate putting him in a position of power?"

"He is a boy, Abbod," The Jura told him mildly. "His education is far from complete."

"The Jura is right," Feich a.s.sured him. "Airleas is not lost. Frankly, I doubt the child gave willing consent to his abduction."

Ladhar glanced at him sharply. "Abduction?"

"Surely you don't believe a twelve year old boy is to be held responsible for decisions made under duress. He did not ally himself with Taminy, but with his own mother. What else could be expected of a child?"

Ladhar's expression was sour. "He will turn thirteen before long. Malcuims that age have ruled this country."

"If Airleas has grown in maturity, he may be quite ready to be reunited with his heritage."

"And if he's not ready?"

Feich looked to the Chieftains. "These gentlemen will a.s.sist me in readying him."

The agreement was haggled over and, some hours later, signed by all present either as party or witness. Feich agreed to dispatch a message to Halig-liath, disclosing the nature of the agreement to Airleas and offering him safe pa.s.sage to Mertuile.

A last minute stipulation had it that, except for a small contingent from each House, which would accompany Daimhin Feich to retrieve Colfre's heir, their forces would disperse to House-held lands.

Saefren didn't like that stipulation. He liked little about this agreement.

"You changed your pet.i.tion," he observed as he and his uncle rode side by side through Creiddylad to their hillside camp.

Iobert nodded. "Aye. Madaidh is a fool to eschew Taminy, but he is no fool when it comes to reading Feich. Nor are you. You were both right-now is not the time to antagonize."

"Do you trust him?"

"Does rain fall up? He will serve his own interests, not the Malcuim's. I trust him to do that."

"So, you let him believe the Cyneric is still at Halig-liath."

"Even so."

"Even so . . . you lied."

Iobert scowled. "I did not."

Saefren laughed. "Come, Uncle. 'Taminy is as the air-she is as nothing.' I heard The Jura."

"Aye, but did not understand him. How long, Saefren, would any of us survive without air? How precious is that invisible substance?"

Saefren had to smile at that. "Clever. A riddle."

"Aye. And is it not true that we worship the Spirit, serve the Meri, revere Her Chosen and obey Her commandments?"

"As you perceive them."

"Of course."

"You denied being a Taminist."

"I'm not a Taminist, Nephew, nor do I know what that is. I am waljan."

He lifted his left hand from its resting place on the pommel of his saddle and turned the palm to Saefren's gaze. He only offered a glimpse, but a glimpse was enough.

Saefren's heart stuttered in his breast. There was no doubt -Iobert Claeg belonged completely to Taminy-Osmaer.

"We will post troops here, here and here." Ruadh's finger found the ridge-back road up the Holy Hill, the river below Nairne, the quay beneath the Halig-liath's ma.s.sive flank. "The main force will follow your mighty cannon to the gates of the Fortress."

Daimhin Feich had scarcely heard his cousin's words. In his mind a variety of battles played out. The battle for Halig-liath was the least of them; with the combined forces of the four Houses arrayed behind Iobert Claeg, he'd have the little Malcuim back in no time. It was the matter of a triune Regency that disturbed him. It couldn't happen, of course. It was out of the question. Airleas would be in his power alone or Airleas would be dead-it was that simple.

The key to that was Taminy. Despite the Chieftain's protestations to the contrary, he knew where their allegiance really lay-his Gift told him that much. He would never confront them with it, of course-not as long as he could string them along, manipulate them to his own ends. Besides that, the last thing he wanted or needed was an all-out war.

It was clear to Daimhin Feich that, in addition to Airleas Malcuim, Taminy controlled at least four Chieftains. Therefore, he must control Taminy.

He realized, suddenly, that his cousin had stopped speaking and was staring at him.

"Did you hear me, Daimhin?"

"Yes. Yes, I heard you. A good plan, Ruadh."

"With one flaw. Your wonderful cannon is nowhere in sight. Will we wait for it, or will we simply have our men clamber over Halig-liath's walls?"

"The cannon will be here in a matter of days. It will take that long to a.s.semble our forces and brief the House Marschals on the plan."

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"And what might that be, dear cousin?"

"That Halig-liath is protected by magic as well as stone."

Feich smiled. "No cousin, I have not forgotten. That, too, is being taken care of."

"This is the place!" Gwynet clambered down over the rocks to the pool, evidently mindless of the chill. Airleas followed, reluctantly at first then, realizing the rocks cut the buffeting wind, with more enthusiasm. By the time they reached the pool, he was warm with exertion. The sun penetrated this little grotto, the wind did not.

Once at the bottom, Airleas gazed about, fascinated. Jumbled blocks of stone formed uneven walls on both sides of the steep rill, looking as if a giant had thrown them there in displeasure.

Downstream, the water tumbled away toward Airdnasheen; he could see the sharp peaks of roofs and the tops of ancient pines. Upstream, was the fall-a cascade of liquid crystal that plummeted twenty feet into its pool, raising a froth of silver-white.

Airleas moved to the edge of the water, peering into it. It was dark, even in sunlight, blue-violet like a twilight sky. His eyes couldn't penetrate to the bottom. "Is that where she lives, d'you think?" he asked.

Gwynet squatted, following his gaze. "I don't think she lives in the water at all. Not really. I don't think she lives any place. Taminy says she just is."

"Well, then, a person would be able to see her anywhere at all, wouldn't you think?"

"I think some folks can. But here, it's just easier."

Airleas glanced at the veil of water cascading from above. He could feel the spray, icy and wet on his face. He licked his lips. "Do you think she'll come with both of us here?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. She comes to each heart, the Hillwild say . . ." She caught his look and grinned. "Anyway, I got studies."

With Gwynet gone, Airleas sat cross-legged on a large flat rock whose hollowed surface looked as if it had held the huddled forms of a thousand-thousand aspirants to the Gwyr's favor. He breathed deeply, cleared his mind, tried to open his heart and free his spirit. His mind was a bird-an iolair-climbing, climbing, soaring toward the Sun, reaching for the supernal. The chill of the day fell away, and the icy spray, and the Sun, itself. Even the pool and the falls disappeared.

He wondered, at once detached and curious, if this was what the pilgrim Prentices experienced at the end of their journeys. This, too, was a Pilgrimage of sorts. He felt he'd been tested-just being here was a test. And between Feich's treachery and the lessons he'd had to learn at Taminy's hands-and Broran's-he certainly had been tried.

He peeked at the pool. Nothing.

Patience. Taminy was right; he needed to develop patience. He wondered if he might ask the Gwyr for that. He also needed maturity. A Cyne must be mature, whatever his age. He must be a man, not a boy. And justice-he must be replete with justice. And honor, trustworthiness, devotion to the Meri . . . to Taminy.

His meditation became a litany-a catalogue of the qualities he must have-must have-to be a fitting Cyne. How could he possibly acquire them? His life at court had not prepared him to be a man-to be Cyne. His father had not been prepared to give up what Feich had s.n.a.t.c.hed from him. At Mertuile, Airleas had learned only self-indulgence and pride. Except for his mother's loving influence he might not have been capable of recognizing Taminy at all.

Airleas's eyes, half open, caught movement below him in the pool. His heart fluttered. Draped across the deep violet mirror was a veil of tatted mist. As he watched, the mist circled, drawing into a lacy spiral. At its center there appeared a peak and, in a moment's time, a translucent mountain rose from the cycling mist like a miniature ghost of snow-capped Baenn-iolair.

Heart racing, expectant, Airleas could hardly contain himself. It was happening. The Gwyr was forming before his eyes. He wanted to leap up and dance; he wanted to cry with relief. He had learned something here, after all.

The form was no longer a mountain, no longer amorphous. In a moment more he would gaze on the face of the White Wave-mystic Gwyr-Gwenwyvar, believed by the Hillwild to be an aspect of the Meri. He would receive her benediction. He shivered in delight.

Taminy would be so proud of him, and his mother, and even Catahn. He'd be given his own Weaving Stone instead of the little schooling crystals he now used. He'd be eligible for the Crask-an-duine; he'd be a man in the eyes of all. Broran would respect him then, by G.o.d, for surely, he'd never seen the Gwyr.

The misty shape quivered over its dark pool, tenuous and uncertain. In a breath it was gone and all of Airleas's daydreams with it.

He sat long by the pool, trying to call the Gwyr back. Chill permeated his clothes as the Sun slid away from the grotto, leaving a deep pocket of shadow. At last realizing the futility of his efforts, he gave up and left, trekking forlornly back up the trail to Hrofceaster. He reached his room without drawing notice and curled up before the fire to contemplate his failure.

He had trouble accepting it as that. After all, the Gwyr had been there, had formed almost completely-most people probably never even saw the mist-but what had made her vanish again?

Was it something he'd done or thought? Had someone been watching and impinged on his aislinn?

He knew he should seek out Taminy and ask her what it meant. Had he failed, or had he nearly succeeded? Only she could tell him which. He wanted to go to her this minute; he dreaded going to her at all.

"Airleas?"

He started guiltily and looked up to see his mother standing in the doorway of his room.

"Airleas, are you all right?"

"Oh, just cold, mam."

The Cwen moved further into the room and perched on a fur-covered chair. "Gwynet told me you'd gone down to the stream-to the Gwyr's pool."

Drat Gwynet! Couldn't keep a thing to herself. All anybody had to do was ask a direct question . . . Well, the damage was done and his mother was sitting here, looking at him with searching blue eyes and he, too, was powerless to dissemble.

"I wanted to see her," he said simply. "I wanted to . . . to see if I was ready for Pilgrimage."

"Don't you think Taminy must be the one to tell you that?"

"I guess I was hoping . . ."

"To prove yourself?"

He nodded, bleak.

"What happened?"

"She came, mam! I saw the mist rise and form, and then, just before it was finished, she disappeared-as if the wind had blown her away."

"Why do you think that happened?"

"I don't know, really. Gwynet says the Gwyr usually appears to only one soul at a time. Perhaps someone was watching me."

Toireasa tilted her head, sending a cascade of honey-gold hair over one eye, and Airleas realized how different she looked now, wearing simple clothes, her once carefully styled hair left to its own devices. He wanted to ask her how she felt about that-about the loss of their home, their way of life.

"Do you think that's what happened?" she asked him. "That someone was watching?"

He blushed. "No. No, I don't. I think I did something . . . wrong."

"But you don't know what."

"No." He looked up at her. "I should tell Taminy, shouldn't I?"

"Well, I think if it had happened to me, I would tell her."

Of course she was right. And of course he'd known already what he should do. Now, finally, he did it, pulling together his pride and taking himself off to Taminy's parlor. She was not alone, but seeing him, she bid him sit beside her until she had dealt with a roomful of supplicants. There was a mother whose baby had been born with a withered arm, a pair of inveterate enemies-once friends-who begged the Osmaer to settle their decade-long dispute, a woman torn because of a wrong she felt she had done an old friend, now deceased.

Airleas sat and watched and listened while Taminy carefully handled each situation. She called Blue Healing down to make the child's arm well and whole; she uncovered the common bond between the two adversaries, bringing to light their long-buried friendship; she gently and reasonably relieved the guilt-ridden woman of her anguish.

When they had all gone and Eyslk-an-Caerluel, acting as gatekeeper, had closed the thick door to the corridor, Taminy turned her eyes to him. He knew she expected him to speak-to tell her he had gone to find the Gwyr and failed to draw her out.

He cleared his throat, searching for the words.

"Airleas," she said before he could find them, "what does it mean to be Cyne?"