"What-will they now begin to hatch plots against me?"

"Catahn has been openly disrespectful to the Throne."

Colfre laughed. "You mean he's been disrespectful to me. His kin got along fine with my dear, gentle, malleable father."

"Sire, the Hillwild have always been rebellious."

Colfre shrugged. "When it suits them."

Daimhin felt irritation tickle his breast bone. "Sire, you do not give this the serious attention it deserves."

Colfre stopped walking and faced his Durweard upon the inlaid tiles of the castle's lower entrance hall, oblivious to the servants and courtiers who came and went about them, bowing without breaking stride.

"Daimhin, you amaze me. Didn't you see what happened in that garden just now? The mighty Ren Catahn humbled himself before that girl and swore allegiance to her."

"I saw, my lord."

"Then perhaps you didn't hear properly. 'We are yours,' he said. If he is hers, that makes him mine. He has pledged his allegiance to Colfre Malcuim with those impassioned words." He began walking again, missing the look his Durweard passed him.

Daimhin matched his stride. "I wouldn't be too certain of that, sire. You're right, the Hillwild is impassioned. But, I have learned not to trust passion. It tends to be fickle."

Colfre chuckled. "Poor Daimhin. A man who doesn't trust his passions? Such a sterile existence. Passion is life, my friend. To feel the blood singing in your ears because of a fast horse or a beautiful woman or a victory in battle. I paint my passion. I glory in it. As you should glory in yours."

"Now, sire, I said I didn't trust passion. That doesn't mean I won't indulge myself from time to time. But in this case, my lord, I must surely be expected to keep a cool head and a steady heart. I am your Durweard, after all."

"Cool and steady-not dead, Daimhin. If you are to convince the lady Taminy that you're heart over head for her, you can't be nearly so methodical as you sound at this moment."

Feich smiled wryly. "Please, my lord. I fancy I know how to display properly to a young woman. Even this young woman, as peculiar as she is."

"Peculiar? I've heard her called exceptional, magical, rare, even dangerous, but never 'peculiar.'"

"She is, though. While most girls her age are thinking of the dances they will attend and the dresses they will buy, she thinks of Caraid-land and its spiritual malaise. Her passion is for your people, Cyne Colfre. Her longing is to heal your urchins and re-educate your Osraed."

"What? Can you expect me to believe there is no midge of womanly desire in her? Have we some sort of unnatural saint on our hands?"

The tickle in Daimhin Feich's breast moved southward; he could no longer attribute it to irritation. "Unnatural ... yes, she is that, in her way. I do sense a certain ... breathlessness in her when we touch, but it's an alien thing. One moment I believe she's like one of your roses; easily bruised. The next moment, I'm just as convinced the whole thing is a facade and ... and I shall soon encounter thorns. Whichever-she is as you said: She does things no seventeen year old girl should do. She thinks things no seventeen year old girl should think."

Colfre smiled, as if enjoying his Durweard's unease. "Are you admitting to me, Daimhin Feich, that you can't spark some desire in that young breast? Are you making excuses already?"

"She's a zealot, sire. Zealots tend to be single-minded in their purpose."

"A zealot? Is that all she is?" asked Colfre, echoing Daimhin's inner-most thoughts. "What was it you called her-'a fire-slinging hellion?' I've never seen mere zeal sling that kind of fire."

"All right, then, she's a Gifted zealot or a Wicke, just as the Osraed suspect. But, she has her own purposes, sire. Her own agenda."

"Of course she does. And it's up to us to bring those purposes into alignment with our own." Colfre put a hand on his Durweard's shoulder. "Daimhin, she's a woman. Or, if you please, a zealot in a woman's body. Given the right temptation, that body will betray her. She vibrates the air she moves through. Or can't you feel that?"

Daimhin laughed. "Oh, I feel it."

"Well, then. She can't be unaware of that. Nor can she be immune to its effects if we are not."

Daimhin shook his head, puzzled. "That doesn't necessarily follow ... . My lord, can this be the same girl about which you expressed such religious concern only days ago?"

They had reached the council chamber and stopped before its closed doors. Colfre turned to face his Durweard. "Daimhin, tell me, do you believe Taminy-a-Cuinn is divine?"

Feich blinked. "You're serious."

"My question is a serious one, yes."

"Then, no. I don't believe it."

"Then do you believe she is the human expression of the Meri's powers as latent in the Osmaer?"

"I'm not sure what that means, so I can hardly claim belief in it. I'm not a religious man, as you well know."

"Well, then, do you believe she is a being who-how can I put it-could in any way threaten your existence?"

"Politically, perhaps."

"Spiritually?"

"No, I don't believe that either. I'm not even sure what 'spiritually' means-if it means anything at all."

"Well then, you have nothing to fear from her. You have no reason not to view her as a desirable, obtainable, politically important young woman over whom you find it expedient to gain control. I must trust you to use your own judgment and not to violate my best interests. I can have no effect on your beliefs, Daimhin. Nor can you have any effect on mine."

Feich grimaced. "Meaning," he said, "that if I were to ... engender her wrath instead of her love and she did turn out to be divine or at least divinely powerful, you could stand clear beneath the awning of your own piety and bemoan my fate." He shook his head. "Oh, sire, I wouldn't be so certain. It seems to me you lose out no matter what happens."

"How so?"

"Well, consider the opportunity-if she is not divine, you'll have no joy of her. I will. If she is divine, she has already peeked into the darkest recesses of your heart and will know that I'm only an amoral agent doing your bidding."

Colfre flushed to the roots of his hair. "You don't have to do anything," he murmured, glancing about as if suddenly aware of their surroundings. "I did not command you to seduce her, if that's what you're about. All I've asked of you, Durweard Feich, is that you help me obtain the girl's friendship and endorsement."

"Is her endorsement that important?"

"My friend, it is critical. Why do you doubt it?"

"Perhaps because I'm not sure that controlling her will be as easy as you think."

"I don't care how easy it is-or is not. She is our best and only tool for completely breaking the Osraed grip on Caraid-land. I can't put off the Hall's business indefinitely-not without an impelling reason that the people will support. Whether the Hall comes apart over this issue or whether they condone her or whether they condemn her, I will win the control the Throne should have-should always have had-if she stands with me. The majority of Osraed in the Hall are Tradists. They have always been my allies, but in this matter ..." He shook his head. "The damned fools resist change and prattle about covenants and divine will. Osraed Ealad-hach will arrive in Creiddylad tonight. Tomorrow, he'll bring charges against Taminy. Every Tradist eye in the Hall will be on him. They will take him seriously simply because he has lead them for so long."

"You fear he'll rally them?"

"I've given him no time for that, but he may confuse them, divide them against me. Then again, he may make such a fool of himself that none of them will want to associate themselves with his views. We're going to fill the public galleries with Taminy's worshippers, Daimhin. That is the crowd poor old Ealad-hach will play to. If he gets support from his cronies, louder voices will drown it out." Colfre smiled and inclined his head toward the double doors of the council chamber. His Durweard moved swiftly to open them.

The Cyne's Privy Council consisted of eight members representing, equally, the noble Houses, the landed Eiric and merchants, the Ministers, and the Osraed. As tradition dictated, Daimhin Feich represented his own House there, in addition to being the Cyne's closest advisor. If the rest of them were not Colfre's hand-picked men, they were at least men who had never shown any sharp disagreement with his policies.

Except, of course, for Iobert Claeg.

There had always been a Claeg on the Privy Council, dating from the time it was a Hall-appointed device to keep the Cyne's behavior in check. They were a disagreeable lot, an historically rebellious lot, and Daimhin Feich believed the Claeg Chief was the only man on the Council who was not at least somewhat intimidated by Colfre Malcuim. His eyes sought Iobert Claeg as Colfre addressed the Council. He was a fierce looking man, nearing middle age, with steel in his soul that made eyes, voice-everything about him-bristle like an armory. He continued to bristle throughout Colfre's talk of Taminy's sweetness and the kindness inherent in her miracles, of the fact that she harbored no animosity toward those who had accused her of Wickery and heresy. Finding the Claeg Chief unreadable, he turned his attention to Cyne Colfre's words.

"You, gentlemen," the Cyne was saying, "will now put Taminy's case before your peers in the Hall. You will share with them the written record of what I found in Nairne's Osraed court. In a day's time, they will be called upon to decide if Taminy-a-Cuinn is heretic or victim of fundamentalist prejudice. Let them know that their Cyne believes she is the latter-an innocent victim."

"How-?" began Ladhar and stopped, his face coloring. "And if they ask how an innocent can perpetrate such acts, show such signs as she does?"

"Perpetrate?" Colfre repeated. "We are speaking of miracles, Abbod. I've seen them. You've seen them. The people of Creiddylad have seen them." He smiled broadly. "They love her, Osraed Ladhar, because she has befriended them. How can such a friend be suspected of heresy? Simply tell the Osraed of the Hall how very much she is loved."

Ladhar was silent after that, and all remaining questions came from Iobert Claeg. Between them, Daimhin and his Cyne answered them one by one, not expecting for a moment that the Claeg Chieftain believed any of it.

Outside the gates of Mertuile, Abbod Ladhar stood and let the sea breeze cool his heated face. He wished the chill would reach into his soul, but the fire there burned on, oblivious to tempering winds. He felt eyes on his face and knew the Ministers Cadder and Feanag stared at him, waiting for him to speak.

"Loved," he said at last, making the word repulsive. "She is loved. Loved by a blind, irreligious mob. How badly we have done our work when people can love such an atrocity."

"She serves them up magical poisons," said Caime Cadder, "and they, gluttons, feast and thank her for poisoning them."

"But how does she do it?" asked Feanag, eyes doing a nervous dance between his two companions. "How is she allowed to do good, to call upon Blue Healing, to touch the Stone? I understand none of this."

"A test," said Cadder. "A trial of faith. This is a Cusp-such trials must be expected. Thank God that we see her for what she is."

Ladhar shook with rage. "What? Thank God? Will you stand aside, pious, and thank God while your countrymen are being led into darkness? While their ignorant souls rush, like helpless sheep, to their own destruction? While this Dark Sister wriggles her sweet way ever closer to our Cyne-to his heir?"

Cadder's eyes glinted at that-coals longing for fire; Ladhar was pleased to ignite them. "You saw how Colfre looked at her that day in the Shrine. That was worship in his eyes, Caime. Worship. And I've heard that she is a favorite with the Riagan Airleas, as well."

Cadder's voice was hushed and chill. "Worship is to be given to God alone, and to His Scion, the Meri. Taminy-a-Cuinn is an usurper-an abomination."

"An abomination," echoed Feanag.

"What do we tell our fellows in the Hall?" asked Cadder. "Surely we can't speak as the Cyne bids us. Aren't we bound to tell the truth? His so-called written testimony of the Nairnian inquiry is incomplete. The claims of divinity Osraed Ealad-hach alluded to in his letter are completely missing."

"Cyne Colfre asked only that we give his tell of her trial before the Osraed Body and say that he believes her innocent," Ladhar replied. "Other than that, we must be bound only by our consciences. We will tell our peers what the Cyne believes, then we will tell them what we believe."

Feanag seemed uneasy. "She hasn't won all the people. Surely when Ealad-hach brings his charges-"

"She has won the Cyne," said Ladhar and added, "He paints her portrait in his private chambers, so his servants say. A portrait even the Cwen is not privileged to see."

He looked back over his shoulder at the castle rising behind them. A late mist was twisting itself about the ramparts and bright Malcuim banners, drabbing them in funereal grays. Ladhar felt the two men with him shiver and could not suppress a shudder of his own. Evil had been planted in Mertuile and struggled to take root. He felt, stronger than ever, his own divine charter-to deprive that evil of existence.

Eadmund turned in his bed for perhaps the hundredth time in the long, sleepless hours since he had lain down. Truth was, he feared sleep now, for when he slept, she would visit him to pick at his soul, to wear it away, to shock it senseless. He couldn't close his eyes without seeing her framed in the doorway of the Shrine, her face gleaming with reflected Light, radiant, blinding. In that moment of seeing, as he cowered behind the doorframe, his eyes had betrayed him mercilessly. The Shrine had fallen away, even the Crystal had disappeared, and Eadmund had gazed on the face of the Meri. He'd all but swooned and, swooning, had crawled away to his room to hide.

Oh, but not before filling his soul with her. Not before etching her in his mind. She was there when he closed his eyes, so he couldn't close them ... however much he wanted to.

He couldn't say what pulled him from his bed to the room's single large window or what caused him to settle there in the embrasure, staring out toward the estuary above which Mertuile sat astride her rocky cliff. But once there, his sleep-starved eyes gave him reason to stay. Above the towers and spires of the castle, an eddy of moonlit mist turned in a graceful spiral, inviting Eadmund's senses to dance. He smiled-his first smile in days-and followed the eddy gratefully.

When did he realize it had become something other than what his imagination made of it? He couldn't say. He could only feel cold and hot at once, could only blink his bleary eyes and will them to see ordinary mist. But the mist above Mertuile would not be ordinary. It took on an Eibhilin light, like the liquid in a lightglobe, and it found its own shape-a shape that suggested simultaneously a crystal and a rose.

Eadmund's tired brain boggled. Was it that the rose was made of crystal, or was the crystal cut to the shape of a rose? Then he realized the absurdity of his quandary, for surely a rose-shaped crystal and a crystalline rose were one and the same.

And there the thing was, floating over Mertuile as if it grew from her ramparts, and he couldn't say what it meant except that it filled him with the irresistible urge to laugh or sing. His singing voice being what it was, he chose to laugh. He laughed until tears ran from his eyes and his stomach hurt and his lungs burned. He laughed himself into an exhausted sleep and, in his sleep, he frequently chuckled.

Osraed Bevol gazed up at the night sky over Mertuile and admired his handiwork. Light chased light along the unfolding petal-facets of the aislinn and shimmered in the air around it, making the night glorious.

"Will it be seen by all, Maister?" asked Skeet from beside him.

Bevol smiled. "I wish it could, Pov. For if it were, Taminy would not be here in this castle surrounded by suspicion and hatred she doesn't deserve."

"Then who will see it?"

"Only those who can."

"Oh, look!" Wyvis had stopped her pony and pointed at the crest of the next low ridge. She turned her head back toward the others straggling up the hill behind her. "Look, all of you! What is it?"

"It's a rose," said Iseabal.

"A crystal," said Aine at the same moment.

Phelan rode up between the two of them, his eyes shining with utter amazement. "It's aislinn. That's some Osraed's doing, for certain. God-the-Spirit!-I've never seen the like."

"Why do you suppose it's there?" asked Wyvis, saucer-eyed.

"It's a beacon ... to show where Taminy is." The deep male voice came out of the light-sucking darkness beside the road and made everyone's heart shy sideways.

Mam Lusach brought her own mount to the fore and tried to present a formidable appearance. "Show yourself!" she demanded, but the man was already leading his horse out onto the road.

Iseabal gasped. "Father!"

"Aye. Father, it is," replied Osraed Saxan. "A father who thought he'd left his little girl at home, safe with her mother."

He eyed up the Apothecary and said, with some amazement, "Dear woman, what in the name of God are you all doing here?"

Mam Lusach cracked a smile. "Following that there aislinn beacon, it would seem."

CHAPTER 18.