Meri (26 page)

“Yes, you do.”

She glared at him, ready to blast him for his all-knowing
attitude.

He raised a hand in defense, dark eyes demon-shine. “Now
think. How did you feel when Aelder Wyth suddenly became a suitor when all
along he’d been a teacher?”

Meredydd boggled at that. How had she felt? Disoriented,
stunned and insecure because Wyth’s cool antagonism, for all its
unpleasantness, had at least been something she could rely on—like the ancient
stones of Halig-liath, like the tides.

“I thought he was my enemy,” she admitted. “How could he
even think I’d be his wife? We weren’t even friends.”

Skeet laughed. “I suppose our Maister would say, ‘That’s one
of life’s great mysteries.’” He imitated Bevol’s voice so well and yet so
comically, that Meredydd laughed with him.

They sang for a time after that and told each other stories
intended to keep the nerves on edge. They took a rest stop for mid-day meal,
then went on again, the Sun now arching over to blind them. They were silent
again, that afternoon, and in that silence, Meredydd began to turn the words of
the Gwenwyvar over and over in her head.

She was on the Path Taminy had followed, moving toward her
destiny—step after step, to her goal. It was a goal she must not be distracted
from. Now she began to contemplate that goal in earnest, to hold it up before
her as a Weaver would hold a rune crystal, searching it with an Osraed’s eyes
for aspects and signs. And as she held up this metaphoric crystal, she realized
that the path to her goal seemed to have forked.

If someone asked her just this moment what was that goal,
she would have said, “The Sea.” But, of course, that wasn’t really true—it wasn’t
the Sea she was seeking, but the Inhabitant of the Sea, the Meri. Yet, beyond
even the Meri, there was the Goal the Meri only represented—mankind’s living
link with the Divine, it’s only way of knowing That, holding conversation with
That, knowing It’s will. Her goal was to become a channel for That, a link to
the Link, a link in the chain that joined the Universe with its very Soul.

Only a handful of souls in a generation attained that. Souls
like Bevol. Each was given its own Duan—a secret Duan that sang the essence of
the individual’s spirit—along with a unique mission. Bevol’s mission had been
to stay in Caraid-land, educate its people and raise up future Osraed. Others
had been commissioned to scatter like wind-blown pollen, spreading their
special knowledge far and wide. And wherever they journeyed, the old ways were
adjusted to the new knowledge, made to fit whatever new wisdom flowed from the
Meri’s chosen; things were advanced or put back the way they had been,
depending.

Mankind listened to those who had received the Kiss of the
Meri—paid close attention to those who wore Her mark upon their brow. To some,
that made the station of the Divine Counselor something to be coveted, to be
striven for as a Cyne might strive to be set upon the stone, to be crowned, to
rule. But in the very act of craving Osraed-hood, of seeing in it power or
prestige or an ear with the Cyne, those covetous souls put themselves out of
its reach. The Kiss of the Meri was not a crown, but a collar. It was not for
those who wished to govern, but for those who wished to serve.

That was Meredydd’s goal: To receive the Kiss, to wear the
collar, to be like her Master Bevol in all things. To be like Gwynet—a jewel of
great virtue. She must not let the exercise overshadow the goal of the
exercise. It was not the riddle that mattered—it was the reality; it was not
the symbol, but the substance.

She put away her metaphoric rune crystal, satisfied that her
divergent paths had been straightened, cleared and unified.

“Ah,” she heard Skeet say. “Look.”

She glanced up from the shore and noticed that a real path
joined it, ahead. In several strides, their feet met the new trail. They
continued along it, walking easily on its smoothly packed surface. The Sun was
sinking lower and just as Meredydd wondered if they should stop to make camp,
the smell of wood smoke came to her on the breeze. She looked up, eyes
searching, and saw it—a banner of smoke fanning up from a narrow base to
flatten itself over the trees.

They approached cautiously and were gratified to see that
the smoky plume came from the chimney of a white-washed cottage set in a
clearing hard by the Bebhinn. A mill-house was built out over the water and a
scattering of other out-buildings lay about the central house at intervals—a
hen house, a storage shed and a small barn—all mudpack and white-washed like
the cottage, with dark wood beams framing the walls and underpinning the
thatched roof.

It was not like Lagan, not really, and yet it was enough to
catch Meredydd’s breath in her throat and make her eyes sting.

Her steps slowed as they approached the mill. She could hear
the stone grinding within and thought of fresh-baked bread. She was suddenly
hungry.

They skirted the mill and were climbing the grassy slope
toward the cottage when a shriek slit the air with sharp terror.

They froze half up-slope and spun back toward the mill. It
was a two story structure, tallest on the river side with a rough wooden
platform running about the walls to allow access to the waterwheel.

It was that wheel that drew Meredydd’s eyes. There, too
close to it, dangling from the wooden decking, was a small boy. He was gripping
the planks with both hands, but it was not a firm grip, and Meredydd’s heart
forced its way up to her throat.

Below the wriggling form, the Bebhinn roared over a rocky
sluice that fed whitewater to the wheel.

Meredydd bolted for the steps that gave onto the platform
from the front of the mill, scrambling diagonally up the grassy hillside with
Skeet on her heels. The child screamed shrilly again as her feet hit the solid
planks of the decking and he moved faster, adrenaline pumping, blood rushing to
her ears. She rounded the corner of the mill. Here the din was epic; the
combined hiss, groan and grind of water, wheel and millstone all but blotted
out the thin child-cries.

Meredydd went to her knees, locking one arm about a railing
stanchion, and reached down for the terrified boy. Panicked, he let go of the
decking and grasped her instead. Ripped completely off balance, she tumbled
forward and would have gone over if Skeet had not been behind her, had not
thrown his arms about her waist and his weight toward the mill’s solid stone
wall.

She yelped in pain as her supporting arm tore free of the
stanchion, splinters of wood driving into the soft flesh of her forearm. She
was upside-down now, both arms encumbered with squirming, squealing child. The
splinters burrowed deeper into her arm, but her attention was all on that
waterwheel—groaning, roaring, thrashing the water below like a wounded water
beast.

Fingernails gripping the cloth of the child’s shirt,
Meredydd tried to get a purchase on the deck with her knees. The attempt only
caused her slip further over the edge.

“Don’t struggle!” yelled Skeet and, in her arms, the child
thrashed, his small hands tearing at her hair and tunic. Her greatest fear was
met when the tunic began to pull off over her head.

“Skeet!” she shrieked. “Back!
Pull back! Pull—”

The last word was ripped from her throat as her body was
hauled suddenly up and back under the railing of the platform.

Strong arms that could never have been Skeet’s encircled her
waist, then deposited her roughly on the decking, wrenching the little boy away
from her.

Gasping, she pulled her tunic back into place. A tall young
man stood over her, cradling the sobbing child in his arms, while a young
woman, also sobbing, wrapped her arms around both. In a moment the man handed
the child over to the woman and looked down at Meredydd.

“Where did you two come from?” he asked. His voice was rough
and brown as tree bark.

“From up Bebhinn, sir,” said Skeet, when Meredydd’s voice
failed in her throat. “We heerd the little boy scream and saw he’d fallen.”

The man, a look of sheer relief on his face, put his hands
down to help them up. “Thank God for sending you. Thank you, both.”

Skeet bobbed his head in welcome. “Pleased to serve ye, sir.”

“Oh, your arm!” This came from the young woman, her eyes on
the now upright Meredydd, who, unthinkingly, looked down at herself.

She immediately wished she had not. The inside of her right
forearm was a mess of torn, bloody cloth and flesh, and a large sliver the size
of her little finger protruded from just below her elbow joint. Sudden
awareness brought on an equally sudden stab of white-hot agony and vertigo.
Meredydd came as close to swooning as she ever had. Before she could even begin
to exert control over her senses, the young man scooped her from the deck and
carried her to the house. She could hear the others scurrying behind as they
left the cacophony of the mill.

In the cottage, he deposited her gently on a wooden
gate-backed settle amid a clutter of home-quilt pillows. The young woman set
down her child and went into a flurry of activity—drawing water from a huge
bucket and putting it in a pot over her kitchen fire, grabbing a swatch of
linen rags from a basket.

Already her husband, or so Meredydd assumed him to be, was
holding out Meredydd’s lacerated arm, picking away bits of torn cloth and
inspecting the damage.

Meredydd already knew it was severe. She had gotten her
senses under control, finally, and began a silent runeweave to block the pain.
She breathed deeply, evenly, feeling the agony ebb from roar to throb. She
willed her body to relax, a calming duan murmuring in her mind’s ear—restoring
her rhythm. Every living thing had a rhythm. At times like this it could be
lost, replaced with chaos. She restored it, breath by breath by breath.

The young woman came to her with warm water and rags and
began to sluice the blood from the wounds so the fragments of wood could be
more clearly seen. There were several large ones and they had caused some deep
lacerations. Around those was a field of raw, abraded flesh, oozing protective
fluid.

The young man made a hissing sound between his teeth. “Ah,
dear. Those will have to come out.”

Meredydd nodded, taking another deep breath. “Do you have
any root tea and fennel?”

“Aye, we have that.”

“For a poultice after,” Meredydd said, and tried a smile. “After
we get them out.”

Frowning the man bent his dark head over her arm. “I’ll have
to use a knife, I’m a-feared.”

Deep breath
. “Yes, of
course.”

He glanced at her face. “You’re uncommon brave, cailin. Even
I would be wanting to cry if that were my arm.”

She smiled again, shakily.
Concentrate
.
“Salt water would be the worst possible thing for it.”

“I’ll get the knife.” He rose and headed for the kitchen.

His wife took his place while Skeet settled next to her, his
face intent. The little boy hovered in the middle of the comfortable little
parlor, looking awestruck and uncertain.

“My name is Meredydd,” she said.
Breathe in peace; breathe out song
. “This is
Skeet. We’re from Nairne.”

The woman’s eyes grew big and round. “All the way from
Nairne! I’m Meghan-a-Galchobar and that’s my husband, Owein, and my son,
Taidgh. I’ve family in Nairne. An aunt and uncle. He’s a jagger—the name’s Pyt.”

“I know them,” said Meredydd.
Breath
in peace; breathe out song
.

“Where are you bound, then?”

“To the Sea—to the end of the Bebhinn.”

Meghan frowned. “There’s naught there but a fisherman’s
shack, and that’s a near ruin.” She moved aside to let her husband in, but kept
a firm hold on Meredydd’s wrist.

“I’m...I’m a Prentice,” Meredydd said, “from Halig-liath. I’m
on my Pilgrimage.” She waited for some scandalized or disbelieving reaction.

She got neither. They merely glanced at each other, eyes
wide and then Meghan smiled. Meredydd sensed in the other girl a wave of
excitement. It made her own face glow warmly.

“Well,” said Owein softly, “I shall be most careful of you,
mistress.” He bent, again, over her arm.

Her concentration was blinded by the flash of light on his
blade. She stared at it, tried to pull her eyes from it.

Failing that, she reached up her free and to rub the amulet.
It was gone.

Cold-still, she was. Lost. And the knife blade hovered over
her skin like a long, hungry tooth. Her concentration shattered, scattered, she
groped after it, desperate. She felt Skeet grasp her left hand, moved her eyes
to follow the gesture. Their interlaced fingers became the focus of her
runeweave; she grappled and rewon her rhythm, replayed the duan:
Breathe in peace; breathe out song. Breathe in; breathe
out
.

She went to the Sanctum at Nairne. The great grey-brown
walls, shored up by logs thick as a man’s body, were broken here and there by
fine examples of the glazier’s art. It was afternoon and the light from the
high-set stained glass tumbled into the long stone nave and draped over and
around her, glorious. She stood beneath her favorite window—the one that showed
the Eibhilin Being, represented only by golden and white rays of light, rising
from the blue depths of a glazen sea to face a hooded figure in crimson. It was
her favorite window, not because it depicted the Meri or a Pilgrim’s greatest
desire, but because when she stood in the tumbled blue and red and golden
light, her plain chestnut hair took on every color.

If she moved here it was all blue; here, and it was golden.
Ah, but red. She’d always fancied it red. Red was the most glorious, vibrant
color. No one could ignore someone with red hair. Heads would always turn. Red
hair was always noticed.

Hair the color of sunset, of
dawn, of blood—

No, that was wrong—bad path.
Breathe
in healing; breathe out song
. Golden hair—yes, she’d have loved that.
Meghan’s hair was gold. Gold was the color of the Wisdom she had lost...must
have fallen into the river. Lost.