"Some years ago, the Osraed committee in charge of our financial matters was accused of mismanagement." Fhada glanced at the elder Osraed, who merely grunted. "Much was being spent here, then."

There was a wealth of sad irony in those words. Leal knew he must pursue the subject further with Fhada. Now, however ...He laid gentle hands on the little boy's forehead and closed his mind to the others. "What's your name?" he asked the child.

"Leny." The answer was a raw whisper.

"Leny, I'm Osraed Leal. I'm going to take the pain away and help your wound heal."

"Please," said Leny. He shivered convulsively in his own sweat.

Leal didn't ask himself if he really could perform the Weave. He simply decided he must perform it. Meredydd had told him once that he had a Healer's hands. He chose, now, to believe her. He chose, also, to believe that the Meri would aid him, whatever he had to do.

He withdrew his rune crystal from its pouch and cupped it in his hands. Before his eyes it glowed gently, but enough. He could feel it through his palms, through his fingertips. Holding the crystal in one hand, he laid the other, once again, on Leny's head and began a painblock inyx. Beneath the fingers of his left hand he felt the boy's frenetic energy calm, his trembling subside. When the small body had completely relaxed, he moved his free hand to the wound.

In his right hand, the crystal burned amber, pulsing with his heartbeat. He reached upward, then, with fingers of thought, feeling for the stream of energies he knew was there. Fishing, he'd called it in school, and had joked that he'd be lucky to catch a minnow. There were more than minnows in the stream today. There were energies he swore he'd only just realized existed in more than theory. He caught them, channeled them, and flooded Leny's wound with them. He heard the old Osraed murmur, the Aelder Prentice draw a sharp breath. Fhada was silent.

He ignored them all, singing out his duan, calling for the cohesion and healing of the boy's torn flesh. The energies answered, danced to his music and wove together the torn edges into a new, pink, tender cloth.

Later, Leal walked the dismal halls of the Care House with Osraed Fhada, trying to frame questions.

"You have a remarkable Gift, Osraed Lealbhallain," Fhada told him. "We've not seen its like here for some time."

"Why? Have you no one who can perform a Healweave?"

Fhada's mouth twitched. "We have you. At least for the time being."

"And no one else?"

"Yes, there are the Osraed Dhui and Piobair, but they're on mercy rounds just now, tending those too sick to be moved. I was once able to perform a Healweave-though never so efficiently as you did. Now, I can deal with cuts and bruises. There are a few others-again, none of them as accomplished as you. The Meri has not blessed Creiddylad with many Osraed of late-your arrival was quite a surprise. And the ones that are sent eventually take up work in the Abbis or in Mertuile, at the Cyne's ... request. The Eiric hereabouts appreciate having their children educated by select Osraed and Cleirachs."

"But what about the children here? They must be educated, too; they need healing. Does the Cyne offer these Osraed no choice?"

Fhada glanced at him askew. "Would you decline an offer to work in the Cyne's Clinic or the Eiric's schools to work here?"

"Yes."

Fhada stopped walking and gave him a long look. "I believe you would. But why?"

"Because this is what the Meri has commissioned me to do."

"To squander your talents among the ruins?"

"To improve the lot of those I am sent to serve. My talents are hardly squandered if I can do that." He peered into Fhada's face, trying to read his expression. He was able to read more than that. "Why are you here, Osraed Fhada?"

The older man raised his eyes to the shadow-pocked ceiling of the corridor. "Because I once felt as you do. That this was my place. That I had a ... mission, I suppose. As I said, I once could perform a Healweave. But over the years, it seems I've lost my ability to concentrate, to feel the Touch ... Her Touch."

Leal felt the bitterness of that-the loneliness. Impulsively, he reached out his hand and laid it on Fhada's arm. "She is nearer than your own soul, Osraed. Reach for Her and She will answer."

Fhada shook his head, "I've reached for Her in desperation for ten years. I'm exhausted with the effort. Once in a while I think I've recaptured something-a spark, a warmth-then things conspire to snuff it out. She no longer speaks to me."

"Perhaps She is speaking to you now," said Leal, and was stunned by his own audacity.

Fhada's brows ascended. "And what does She say to me?"

"That this is wrong." Leal's gesture took in the crumbling building around them.

"That I see, already, Osraed Lealbhallain. My question has always been-what can I do about it? Except for a few tough-minded souls, like our Hillwild Dhui, I have had the best talent siphoned away to the schools of the wealthy, to the halls of Mertuile."

"You could have spoken to the Brothers at Ochanshrine."

"Why do you assume I haven't?"

Leal blushed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed that. Did you go to them?"

"Yes, and they spoke to the Cyne and the Cyne pledged his support. But then came the rebuilding of the Abbis and the changes to the Cyne's Cirke-surely more important than feeding and educating a handful of orphans or the sons and daughters of un-landed commoners."

"There are more than a handful of orphans here, Osraed Fhada."

The older man turned his face into the shadows. "That is pathetically true."

"The Cyne must know."

Fhada uttered a bark of laughter. "He knows. He doesn't care."

"Then, Osraed Fhada, he must be made to care."

CHAPTER 10.

The Shrine of your heart opens to your enemy and closes in the face of your Friend, for you have taken the love of another into your heart. Listen to the True Friend Who loves you for your own sake and not for your possessions. Will you show disloyalty to such a Friend?

- Utterances of Osraed Aodaghan, Verse 24 Alone in the sunny classroom, Ealad-hach forced himself to relax. He was almost happy here among scattered books and papers, with light from the tall windows flooding every corner. He came here now to think and plan, and told himself it was because of the sunlight. He had not been inside his aislinn chamber for three days.

With his students gone, he found his mind revolving, again, toward what he now believed was a dark conspiracy. He knew not who, among the conspirators, were culpable and who were ignorant puppets, but he knew that at the core must be a powerfully gifted Wicke who wanted her prodigies at Halig-liath, who surely had designs on Halig-liath itself. He must find her, expose her.

Again, he murmured a prayer to the Meri to open a door in the wall of uncertainty he pressed against. Sighing, he rose to erase the white wall; the names of Cynes, of great Osraed, the history of Caraid-land, disappeared under the powdered fleece.

Malcuim, who first heard the Meri's chosen; Bearach Spearman, who, with the great Osraed Gartain, protected the Osmaer crystal from Claeg usurpers; Liusadhe the Purifier, who checked the influence of the Wicke in his time. There had always been heroic Cynes to be found at previous Cusps. He erased the name of Colfre and wondered if this Cyne would be equal to the task.

He moved to the shelves near the door next, replacing text books, gathering written assignments. It put him in precisely the right spot to hear the conversation in the hallway. Later, he would think it the answer to his fevered prayers.

"Will you tell none, then?" Scandy-a-Caol's Northern accent was unmistakable.

"Who am I to tell?" That was Brys-a-Lach. "She's an Osraed's pet. He no doubt taught her everything she knows."

"In the time she's been here?" Phelan's reedy whine ended in a pronounced squeak. "I don't believe it."

"Why not? She didn't do aught that were so grand."

"She mended a broken tree branch," said Brys dryly. "That's more than you or I could do."

"Mended it and put it back on!" snorted Phelan.

"Aye," said Scandy, "and I heard Cluanie Backstere say she healed a sheep's broken fetlock."

"That's not all Cluanie said. Did you catch that twaddle about the Meri regenerating?" Brys uttered a sharp laugh. "Osraed Ealad-hach would have a fit if he heard her version of history."

The volume of their voices was falling; they were moving off down the hall. Ealad-hach hurried to the door and peeked through. They were headed away from him toward the main corridor.

"Look Brys," Scandy was objecting, "shouldn't we tell someone?"

"It wouldn't do any good. Especially since Wyth's grand announcement. We're to have female Prentices. Next thing you know we'll have female Osraed."

The three boys disappeared around the corner. Ealad-hach, shamefaced, scurried to keep within earshot.

"But this in't the same thing, Brys. She's saying and doing stuff I never learnt, and you saw the way of things there, in tha' damn glen o' hers. There was a gatherin' a' tha' pool, Brys. I'd swear't. Tha' Taminy's calling up a coven. And on Cirke-dag, more's the sin. God-the-Spirit, I'm wishin' we ne'er went poking after 'em."

Ealad-hach all but choked on the air he breathed. He heard the boys steps cease and Phelan ask, "Did you hear something?"

Afraid they might turn back and find him cowering there, Ealad-hach slipped into an empty classroom. His shame at hiding from a trio of mere boys was quickly eclipsed by a dreadful rapture. It was certain now; Taminy-a-Gled was a Wicke. But was she the Wicke? Was she the power source he sought, or merely a gifted minion? Either way, his course was clear. He must find a reason to call the girl out and expose her.

"My Lord, the Osraed Lealbhallain to see you." Durweard Feich's voice and face were both devoid of expression as he addressed his Cyne. They were in the throne room this morning, receiving visitors and petitioners.

Leal counted himself as just one more of those, or would have if Cyne Colfre had not, upon seeing him, leapt to his feet exclaiming, "My dear Osraed Lealbhallain! How good of you to visit me! Come, sit ...Refreshment," he ordered the ether, and servants scattered.

Visiting courtiers, Eiric by the cut of their clothing, muttered and looked annoyed at the intrusion. Colfre waved them away from the throne. Leal sat where he was bidden, in a chair on the Cyne's dais recently vacated by a rotund gentleman with a beet red face.

"How may I serve you?" Colfre asked, dipping his head.

Leal was taken aback. He was certain he had offended the Cyne at their first meeting-offended and disturbed him. He had expected nothing more than cool indifference. He chose his words carefully. "Sire, the Care House is in great need of supplies, staff and renovation. I have observed how fond you are of such projects and as Care House has always been associated with Mertuile and lies in her shadow, I thought you should know that it stands in need of your loving attention."

Watching the Cyne's face, Leal caught his sideways glance at the hovering Durweard. He also caught, as one catches a distant tune, a shift in the interest of the courtiers, who stood in a knot just within earshot. His spine tingled.

The Cyne smiled, amber eyes exuding warmth. "You read me well, young Osraed. But I regret that I am already over-extended in the area of renovations. No doubt Osraed Fhada has informed you that I am overseeing the renovation of the Abbis at Ochanshrine as well as the alterations to the Cyne's Cirke."

Leal nodded. "And the work here at Mertuile, which is a wonder to behold."

The Cyne inclined his head, accepting the compliment.

"Which is why," Leal continued, "I suggest that the funds to mend the Care House and its inmates be placed directly in the hands of Osraed Fhada. He's a competent man and knows, better than anyone, what needs to be done there."

"Did Fhada ask you to make this request?"

"No, sire. This is my recommendation." He stressed the last word.

The Cyne made a rueful noise and shook his head. "I regret, Osraed, that, with the improvements being made to the Abbis and the Cirke, the funds are also rather over-extended."

Leal glanced down at his folded hands. His prayer crystal rested between them. "Sire, may I then recommend that you disengage some funds from these other projects and allot them to the Care House? There are lives involved there-the lives of children, largely. Surely, those lives are more important than ornamentation."

Again, Leal felt a subtle shift of energies in the room; the courtiers and servants laid their eyes upon the Cyne and waited for his reply. Colfre glanced again at Feich and bowed his head.

"In the life of every Cyne, Osraed Lealbhallain, comes a time when he needs the wise counsel of the Chosen in order to make a decision. Apparently, my time has come. I have been remiss. Rest assured that a remedy is forthcoming. If you will tender a list of your needs to Daimhin Feich, he will see to them."

Leal did not recall having asked the Cyne to fill a shopping list. He did not say this, but instead asked, "And the Osraed's funds?"

"Have been managed well by our Chancellor. We see no compelling reason to change. Surely, Osraed Fhada could do without having to juggle finances along with his other, more important duties. After all, he will soon have renovations to oversee."

Lealbhallain regarded his Cyne's smiling face for a moment, then inclined his head slightly. It was not the time for a shoving match. Not the time to over-reach himself. "You have exceeded my expectations, sire. I'll inform Osraed Fhada of your generous response."

He rose and left, then, and did not miss the look Colfre exchanged with Daimhin Feich, though he didn't see it.

"I dreamed last night, Bevol," she said, and the dark circles beneath her eyes gave mute testimony that the dreams had not been pleasant. Her breakfast sat, half-uneaten, on her plate.

"What did you dream?"

"Flashes of fire and a great tumult. I dreamed of a collision of paths, a confusion of lives. I dreamed of our future, fast approaching."

Bevol nodded, his eyes seeming to focus on something outside the dining nook window, but she knew he saw nothing external. "To be expected, I suppose. It worries you?"

Taminy slipped a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "May I tell you what really worries me?"

"Of course, anwyl."

She smiled at the endearment. It comforted. "I am distressed by my own feelings." She pressed interlaced hands to her breast. "People look at me strangely and whisper. I hear my name on the lips of people I don't even know. People who smiled at me two days ago, now frown and look away. Brys-a-Lach ..."

She paused, dropping her hands to her lap. Her head tilted, sending a curtain of flax to cover her eyes. "He asked me to have tea with him last Cirke-dag. All this week, he's avoided speaking to me, though he's watched me like a sheep dog. And Terris-mac-Webber won't even acknowledge me when I enter his Grandmother's shop. And neither Doiry nor Aine will even so much as glance at me." Her words ran out, leaving her feeling stranded. She put back her hair again.

"It's true, y'know, Maister," said Skeet, looking up from his meal. "There's more gossip in th'air than dust these days, an' more gossips than birds."

"And what are these gossips saying?"

Skeet made a face. "That this cailin of Bevol's is just like the last one-fey and dangerous."

Bevol's eyes touched Taminy's in a caress. "And is this so unexpected?"

"No, of course not," she said.

"I'm sorry you must endure this again."