At fourteen, Wyvis was showing every sign of being a winning young woman. The gamin smile she now bestowed on Taminy would someday cause male hearts to quiver. Her brother, Rennie, three years her senior, was a big-boned lad who tended to favor his mother's plumpness. He was, as his mother would say, "a boisterer" at most times-a little loud, a little undisciplined-but in Taminy's presence, he seemed most tame; Nairne's Mistress of Medicaments threw the two of them together at every opportunity.

"Oh, look what she's brought us! Catamint, isn't it? Ah, but the Beekeep will be glad of this. He's afraid his new queen will take her tribe elsewhere. But not with a potion of this. Wherever did you find it? Catamint's been so rare in these parts of late."

"Oh, I've a place," Taminy said, noncommittally.

"Well, you shall have to take Rennie with you next time you go so you can bring back more."

"Me too," said Wyvis quickly. "I've heard it's a truly fey place. That's what Cluanie said, anyway."

"Cluanie's just a babe," protested Rennie, peeking into the basket with veiled interest. "She thinks there're paeries in every tree and silkies in every puddle."

"Well, good for her, I say," said the Apothecary. "Too few see paeries anywhere at all. There's good herbs and such in fey places-which you'd know if you'd listen to Taminy, here. By the way, Mistress Liathach says thank you very kindly for the Five-leaf plaster. I told her it was your recipe. She says her tooth is much better and she'll see Osraed Torridon about it on your advice. It scared her to think of anyone touching it when it pained her so. She wanted me to ask if you knew of a cure for the catarrh. She has weak lungs, you know."

"You wouldn't think so if you'd heard her bray at her husband," offered Rennie.

"Shush, you! Such manners. What will Taminy think of you?"

But Taminy was laughing. She fingered a leafy packet on the counter. "Tell her vervain boiled with honey. Oh and, of course, one of your good herb steams."

"Vervain? Well, now, I've used that for a salve-heals up cuts and what-not quick as you please-but, boiled with honey ... hm." She pulled a box of paper and a graphus from beneath the counter. "What are the dimensions?"

"Four parts vervain elixir to one part honey. Mix two spoonfuls in boiled water." The basket empty, Taminy picked it up and settled it on her arm. "Well, I'm off to the Webber's now."

Wyvis and Rennie leapt at her in perfect unison.

"We'll go to the fey place soon, won't we?" asked Wyvis.

"To gather Mam's herbs," Rennie qualified the utterance, giving his younger sister a sideways glance.

"Cirke-dag, after worship?" Taminy suggested and garnered two eager nods and a wide smile from the watching shopkeep.

Out on the street moments later, Taminy closed her eyes and took a deep sip of the late summer morning. It flew her to the far end of her time corridor again, depositing her in a place that only looked the same. It came to her in a rush so vivid she almost believed she could open her eyes and walk to the Cirke manse and find in it the familiar, the lovely, the secure-her father, her mother, her own room, the room where Iseabal now slept.

Oh, if she could only do that ... well, what, then? Would she live things any differently, given another chance? Would she lock herself in her room and close her ears to the call of the Meri? Would she bid Iseabal deny that call? Or Gwynet or any of the receptive spirits that now graced Nairne?

"Daeges-eage, Taminy."

Dragged forward through time, Taminy opened her eyes to the here-and-now Nairne and a trio of interested male faces.

"Daeges-eage, Brys," she murmured and nodded to the other boys, Scandy and Phelan. Odd, she thought, the impression that had struck her when her eyes first touched them. They had felt like stones: Brys, coldly metallic; Scandy, chalky and pale; Phelan, malleable as clay. She shook the impression, waiting for them to speak. But the self-assured Brys seemed ill-at-ease, hovering there before her with his coterie. At once eager and reluctant, he shuffled and blinked and thrust bold-coy glances at her.

"Em," he said finally. "Em, will you be in Sanctuary this Cirke-dag, Taminy?"

"Yes, of course."

"Oh, good, then ..." He glanced at the others. "That is, I mean, I was hoping perhaps you'd join me at the Backstere's after for tea and cakes."

Ice hot, his voice, full of passionless want. She beheld him, there-so handsome and golden, so like iron-and shivered in spite of the warmth of the day.

"Well, I'll tell you, Brys-a-Lach," she said lightly, "that if you'd asked me that ten minutes ago I'd've had no reason to say 'no' to it. But I've made my promises for Cirke-dag already."

Brys's mouth twitched, but his expression, otherwise, didn't alter. Scandy, on the other hand, looked almost smug, Phelan, merely stunned that a mere cailin could refuse his awesome companion.

"Ah, well then ..." murmured Brys and shuffled more.

"But you will ask me again?" Taminy suggested, making her voice bright.

"Oh, aye!" He smiled. "I will." He muttered of errands for Osraed Faer-wald and led his devotees away. Out of earshot, they dug elbows into each other's ribs and laughed, while Taminy made haste to the shop of Marnie-o-Loom.

Terris was there-alone, this time. His Gram and Da were out to Arundel, he said, looking over some wool.

Taminy pulled from her pocket a little jar of ointment and a bit of carved and polished wood. "These are for your Gram," she told him. "I noticed her hands were a bit knotted and I thought she might try this salve on them."

"And this?" Terris asked, holding up the misshapen dowel.

"That's a sort of amulet. After putting the ointment on her hand, she should take up the wood and rub it until the tingle from the ointment wears off. Then she should salve the other hand and rub the wood with it."

Terris was more than doubtful of this, he was clearly discomfited and, when she turned to leave, he stopped her, coming from behind his cutting table to put himself between her and the door. "I've words to say to you, Taminy-a-Gled," he told her dramatically. "And I'd be pleased if you'd listen."

She paused and gazed at him. What form shall the speech take today? Will you warn me off Wicke Craft or warn me off your Gram or warn me off myself?

"It worries me," he said, waving the amulet at her, "to see someone like you flirting, mad-hearted, with these Wickish things."

"Wickish things?" she repeated. "An herbal balm and a rubbing stick?"

"That's just the toenail of the beast, Taminy. I know. I've heard my Gram's tales. And while I'd be mostly inclined to give them air, I've heard tell from others, too, about your paerie pool and your ways with animals and the things you're teaching Gwynet."

"Gwynet is a Prentice. She's supposed to learn those things."

"From her Osraed. You're no Osraed."

Taminy lowered her eyes, her face flushing for reasons Terris could never appreciate. "That is certainly true."

"Then you've no business teaching her the Art."

"And is it your business to tell me so?"

Terris put out his hands then, and took her shoulders and met her eye for eye. "You're a fine cailin, Taminy-a-Gled. As lovely and fair and fine a cailin as I've ever seen in Nairne or beyond-and I've been as far abroad as Lin-liath," he added, begging her to be impressed. "And you've a temper of matching fairness from what I've seen. It worries me sick to think of you dabbling in unseemly matters."

So, he would protect her from herself-a noble gesture. She smiled. "You're sweet, Terris," she said. "And I'm flattered you're so concerned, but there's naught unseemly about my matters or my ways or the things I'm teaching Gwynet. You worry yourself needlessly. Now, please give your Gram that ointment. Her fingers are paining her more than she lets show."

She tried to disengage herself, but Terris wasn't finished. He clung to her tenaciously, bent, she realized, on making himself understood.

"Don't think me a nosy-body, Taminy. Or a meddler. It's just that ... well, I-I've been all but smitten since you first came in here-with you, I mean-smitten with you. If I wasn't, I'm sure I'd've kept my mouth shut."

Seized by a sudden tension, Taminy jerked her head toward the front of the shop. Aine and Doireann stood framed in the open doorway, one with hands on hips and fire in her eyes, the other with hands clutched, squirrel-like, upon her breast.

"Well, I should think," snapped Aine, "that one of these days, you'll learn to keep your mouth shut. At least in places you might be overheard."

Doireann's mouth, open, added nothing to that as Aine backed out of the store, reaching out at the last moment to grasp her elbow and drag her into the street.

"Not all truths were meant for utterance," Taminy murmured, paraphrasing the Corah.

"Aye," Terris agreed, "but that one was. I don't care that they heard it. It won't change how I feel."

"Terris, you hardly know me-"

"I know you're different," he said earnestly. "I know you're like no cailin I've ever known."

"Aye, and so what do you want me to do, the first time you've serious words for me? You want me to change. You want me to behave another way. Think another way. Ponder that, Terris. You like me being different, but you want to take the things that make me different away. Now, I thank you for your kind concern, but it will not change me or the things I do."

She left him standing, stunned, in the middle of his family's shop, and prayed only that he'd not withhold her medicines from his grandmother.

Osraed Lealbhallain swept a grimy wrist across his forehead and succeeded in doing nothing more than grinding filthy sweat into his skin. His face and forehead itched abominably, but there was little he could do just now but scratch it. The huge kitchen of the Creiddlylad Care House was too hot, kept that way by an eternally roaring fire. There was only one other usable fireplace on this level. It was at the other end of the long children's ward and it, too, burned night and day in an attempt to keep the sea-damp chill from the bones of the ward's inmates.

Leal scratched at his forehead and looked doubtfully at the last bundle of herbs he had extracted from the larger bale beside him on the floor. "How is it these supplies come to you in this condition?" he asked the dour Aelder Prentice working across the table from him.

The young man shrugged and flung a limp, beetle-infested flower head into the refuse bin. "What other condition might they be in ... Osraed Lealbhallain?" he added.

"Well, the herbs and roots might be washed, the buds might be healthy, instead of diseased and dried out. The foodstuffs might not be half-rotted or desiccated or worm-eaten or" -he held up an apple with a very distinct bite removed- "sampled."

The Aelder Prentice's mouth twitched. "Osraed, these aren't so much foodstuffs as they are refuse. If it falls off the cart, or gets crushed at the bottom of the wagon, it comes to us. Merchants aren't likely to give their best to them." He jerked his head toward the ward. The gesture was timed perfectly to coincide with a wild bleat of pain and fear from that dismal place.

Lealbhallain cringed, feeling as if someone had dug a fork into his ribs. He tried to concentrate on the herbs. "How long has it been like this?"

The Aelder Prentice looked at him strangely. "Always. As long as I've been here, anyway. You'd have to ask Osraed Fhada about before that."

"How long have you been here?"

"Three Solstices past." The youth's eyes shifted aside, glancing off the crystal hanging from Leal's prayer chain.

Leal felt sudden recognition. Of course, he should have made the connection; Aelder Buach had been Prentice Buach-an-Ochmer three Seasons ago at Halig-liath. A most promising student, according to all accounts, yet the Meri had twice passed him over. And now, he was here-a weary drudge, up to his armpits in grime and unhappiness.

"Well, three years is plainly too long for this to continue. I must be intended to remedy the situation." Leal realized how arrogant that sounded as the words left his mouth. "There was a time," he went on, quickly, "when the Merchants cut their best from the very top to send to the Care House."

Buach's brow knit. "Why ever would they do that?"

Leal was at a loss to know how to answer. He was framing a set of words when another shriek of agony from the ward tore through his head. He clutched his side.

"It would be a hardship for them, after all," Aelder Buach said, as if he'd heard nothing. "Market tariffs being what they are."

"Market tariffs?" Leal glanced uneasily toward the ward's rumbling archway. Torchlight flickered eerily across the floors, making him imagine that ghostly snakes crawled there.

Buach nodded, reaching down from his stool to toss another bale of weedy-looking dried flowers onto the table. "To sell their wares in the Cyne's Market."

"They have to pay to bring their wares to market? Why?"

Buach shrugged. "Cyne Colfre needs the revenue for the work going on at Mertuile. For the Cirke, too."

"The Cirke?"

"Cyne's Cirke. He's adding to the Sanctuary and rebuilding the altar. And there's to be statues."

"Statues?" repeated Lealbhallain, beginning to feel like a mynah-bird.

Buach's lips twisted wryly. "A fine artist is our Cyne," he said, "as you've seen."

Leal nodded and reached out to grab a handful of stems. His ribs erupted with sudden pain, forcing a cry from his lips and all but toppling him from his rickety stool. Buach stared, his mouth open, but before he could say anything, the lanky silhouette of Osraed Fhada appeared in the kitchen archway. His leonine head tilted toward Lealbhallain, firelight haloing the shock of gold-red hair.

"Pardon, Osraed," he said, tugging at his prayer chain, "but are you well-practiced at the Healweave?"

Leal blinked and straightened, rubbing his rib cage. "Yes, sir."

"Could I presume upon you to assist us?" Fhada made an uncertain gesture in the direction of the ward.

Leal's agreement was immediate. He followed Fhada from the kitchen, through the pitiful, over-full ward into a cluster of chambers that served as a clinic. In one of these rooms, attended by an Aelder Prentice and an aging Osraed, a small boy lay atop a table, surrounded by blood-soaked rags.

"What happened to him?" Leal asked, feeling, again, the gouging in his side.

"We think he was in a fight," said Fhada. "He came in with the wagon of provisions. The jagger found him on the edge of the Marketplace."

Leal didn't comment that the Osraed was charitable to call what they had received from that wagon "provisions," though he thought it. He moved to the table and shifted aside the wads of rag. The wound was horrid. Rag-edged and oozing, it looked as though a powerful set of jaws had taken a bite out of the boy's flesh.

Leal's bowels trembled in a fit of weakness and his own flesh took fire. Swallowing bile, he glanced up at the child's face. It was pale, and dark, frantic eyes stood out in it like red-rimmed coals.

"You've cleaned the wound thoroughly?" Leal asked, and the attending Osraed nodded. "I'll need to wash my hands-could you bring hot water?" He looked to the Aelder Prentice. The boy hesitated. Leal lowered his voice, attempting to sound less like a squeaky adolescent. "In the kitchen, over the fire, there's a pot-" He added a mental shove.

The youth nodded and scrambled through the door. While he was gone, Leal tried to survey the wound without touching it, holding, on a tight rein, the anger that had begun to roil in his breast.

"Osraed Fhada," he said finally, because he found silence impossible, "conditions here are wretched. No, worse than that, they're unbearable. This clinic is ill-provisioned and filthy, you can't afford hot tap water-and the pipes are too pitted, if you could-you can't afford proper medicines, what passes for food here, is barely that, you're understaffed, and the staff you've got, if I may say so, sir, is uninspired."

Fhada's angular face reddened. "Yes, you may say so. It's only true. No one wants to serve here."

"But the lack of funds-how is it this Care House is so poor when Ochanshrine is so near by?"

The Aelder Prentice reentered the room, then, with the pot of water and some fresh rags, and Fhada's eyes followed him momentarily before he answered.

"It is precisely because Ochanshrine is so near by that we find ourselves in these circumstances, Osraed Lealbhallain-or at least in part. The Cyne has determined, along with his Privy Council, that the Shrine and Abbis need repair and redesign. They are, in his words, 'relics.' They do not 'show well.' That is where the preponderance of the Osraed monies go these days-to the refitting of the Shrine and the Abbis."

Leal finished scrubbing his hands and dried them before he moved back to the table. The child, watching him, whimpered.

"Who makes these decisions-about the funding?"

Fhada shrugged. "I know I don't. The Cyne, the Council, the Chancellor. He has signatory authority."

"Over Osraed funds? Why? How? Why are you not in charge of your own monies?"