Taminy (34 page)

“Hello,
Aine,” Taminy said and offered a smile.

Aine
glanced about at the group of curious faces and reddened. Her eyes fastened on
Taminy. “I’d speak with you,” she said. “Alone.”

Taminy
looked up at her, reading, sensing ... or trying to. Confusion, she got. Anger.
Fear, yes, that too. “Of course, Aine,” she answered, and looked to the others.
“Why don’t you all go ahead home? We’ll come along after.”

There
was hesitation. “Are you sure, Taminy?” Phelan asked, while Doireann fixed Aine
with a dour stare and the others scuffled in the wheat.

“Aine
hasn’t been your friend,” observed Iseabal. “Shall I stay?”

“No,
it’s all right. It is.”

“Aye,
well,” muttered Phelan, “she might have another of those runebags about her.”

Aine’s
face flamed, a near match for her hair and the sunset. She dismounted, turning
her face away as the others drew off, sending back suspicious, darting looks.
She was alone with Taminy then, eyes cast down, fingers toying with her reins,
flapping them against the leg of her riding breeches. Taminy waited for the
welter of hot emotions to settle; they teased through her woolly wadding veil
like the scent of spices through the steam of cooking.

Aine
raised her eyes. “I wanted you to know ...” She struggled. “That runebag. It
wasn’t me. I didn’t bring it into the Cirke. I didn’t put it in my pocket. I’d
never touch such a hideous thing, let alone make it.” The reins slapped her
boot-top. “Besides, if I’d cured it, it would’ve been done right ...I’m telling
the truth.”

Was
she? Taminy sifted again through the rush of emotion the other girl had
released into the words—face-singeing indignity, gut-curling fear, humiliation
and anger, anger, anger. Was it directed at her? If so, why this painful
apology?

“If
not you,” she said, “then who? Who’d put such a horrid thing in your pocket?
And why?”

Aine’s
face knotted in anguished frustration. “I don’t know! It could’ve been any of
them—Scandy or Phelan or Terris. They were all in arm’s reach.”

“Not
Terris,” Taminy said, half-smiling. “He’d die before he’d touch anything that
smelled of Wickery. Although ... I’d have thought, so would you.”

“I
would. I didn’t make the runebag. I can’t say I like the thought of my friends
getting themselves sucked into these mystical doings of yours, but I’d never do
something so foolish and-and sneaky. It’s not my way. I hate sneaks.”

“What
about Terris?” Taminy asked, recalling, vividly, Aine’s over-hearing his
protestations of nascent affection. “Would you do it for him?”

The
other girl shook her head emphatically, sending fragments of sunset tumbling
about her shoulders. “I’m not all that sweet on Terris and I’m not that daft
and I don’t know how to put together such a noxious mess.”

But
someone did. “Who threw the runebag at the pool that day?”

“Well,
Doiry did, but-” Aine’s face paled. “No, it couldn’t be Doiry. I mean, she’s
such a mouse and all and ...Oh, no, Taminy, she’d’ve had to kill the mole and
the snake and-” —she shuddered— “-it’s too grotesque. There’s a big difference
between that little flower sachet she took to the pool and that horrid ...
fetish.”

“Who
then?”

“Phelan?”

Phelan.
That made sense, Taminy had to allow. She knew he was Ealad-hach’s ally—or at
least Brys-a-Lach’s, which amounted to the same thing. He was an Aelder
Prentice only by the skin of his teeth, and would most likely end up being
Backstere after his father, but he had the training and access to the lore.

Aine
was watching her, waiting for a pronouncement. She sighed. Dear God, how fine a
thing was certitude. If only she had it.

“Take
my hand.” She held one out to the other girl.

“W-why?
Why must I take your hand?”

“I
want to know you’re telling the truth, Aine. I must at least try to know.”

Face
twisting, Aine stared at the proffered hand.

“I’m
not evil, Aine-mac-Lorimer.”

Aine
gasped. “I’m sorry. I-” She snatched the hand and held it in a quaking grip.

For
Taminy, it was as if shadows had suddenly become solid, real, colorful. The
fear was for her, the anger was not. Humiliation burned and stung. How dare
they? How dare they?

Yes,
the indignity, the sense of betrayal, was real. And so was the confusion.
Aine-mac-Lorimer was not the maker of the runebag.

There
was something else there, too, though. Something that tickled up Taminy’s spine
and tingled behind her eyes. She recognized it immediately and, in the moment
of recognition, she reached up her free hand and pressed the palm against Aine’s
forehead.

What?
Aine had been going to say, but the word came out in a stunned gasp.

“You’ve
got a Gift in you, Aine. A Gift of Sight. Your thoughts trouble you and your
dreams wander ahead of you. You hide them. Why do you hide them, Aine?”

Aine
cried out, though weakly. The sound of her own voice was enough to break her
free. Tearing from Taminy’s gentle hold, she stumbled backward against her
horse, arm flung across her face, brandishing fear like a weapon. She mounted,
scrabbling into the saddle without once taking her eyes from Taminy’s unmoving
form, then pivoted her mount and sent it into a wild gallop down the meadow
toward where Nairne lay in long shadows.

Taminy
stood for a moment, silent, aching, pressing her hands together. To live with
such dread, to cache such dreams. She could see Aine, vividly then, taking the
dreams apart on long, dark mornings, wondering what they meant and why they
were hers.

Not
knowing whether to interpret them or how, because no one had ever taught her.
Did she think everyone had these dreams?

Taminy
began her walk down the long shallow hill, her eyes on the shadows of Nairne.
She was on the Nairne road when she heard someone running toward her and made
out two forms. It was Iseabal, with Gwynet close on her heels. She felt Iseabal’s
tears before she saw them, knew Gwynet was stunned and frightened.

“Taminy!”
gasped Iseabal and fell to silent sobbing.

“Oh,
come mistress!” Gwynet caught her arm and pulled her. “It’s awful, it is! Poor
Aine’s fallen from her horse by the Cirkeyard an’ she don’t move!”

Taminy
ran. Gwynet, gasping, told her the Cirkemaster had come down and Osraed
Torridon had been sent for but he was up at the Fortress this time of day and
mightn’t come in time. The others were scurrying for any other Osraed they
could.

They
reached the spot, and already there was a gathering by the low wall that ran
round the Cirkeyard. Rennie and Wyvis had brought their mother and others came
to where Osraed Saxan had set light globes out upon the wall and ground. They
illuminated the spot where Aine lay on her back, her arms flung over her head,
her bright hair fanned out like a billow of red mist.

There
was a different red splashed wetly across her temple, but that did not alarm
Taminy so much as the angle at which her head lay. She came to her knees beside
the other girl’s body, stretching out her hands. Already she could feel the
life ebbing away. “What happened, Osraed?”

“I
don’t know. She was thrown ...” Saxan’s face was pale and sweat sodden. His
fear vibrated on the breeze, sharp and tangy like sea brine. “Her neck is
broken, I think,” he murmured and chewed his knuckle. “Dear God, where is
Torridon? This is more than I am capable of.”

Taminy’s
hands framed the place where Aine’s neck twisted so absurdly. Eyes on the spot,
she strained for a power that had once been automatic—like the drawing of
breath that was becoming increasingly difficult for Aine.

Please, dear God, dear
Mistress, Beloved—let me see! To feel vaguely is not enough. Let me see!

It
was like the clearing of mist from the valley, details coming clear as light
burned through the layers. There were layers of darkness, Wyth had said. They
pulled away now, and let her see the bone and the break and the torn tissue
around it, lit as if by the globes of golden light that sat about them.

Despair
clutched at her heart. Aine was dying beneath her hands, while she sat in this
puny human frame, despairing. A scream of sheer frustration rose in her throat.
It issued out as a whimper—like so much else. But, no. She must try. Osraed
Saxan had admitted his failing and no one else here could hope to do anything.
The Meri had graced her with the Healing Sight, perhaps-

Hands
gripped her shoulders and lifted her away. Stunned, she could only acquiesce,
and found herself sprawled in the grass, staring at the stooped shoulders of
the slight, middle-aged man bending over Aine in her stead. Torridon—she heard
his name spoken.

She
picked herself up and wiped her hands on the fabric of her skirt. Voices and
torches began to mill and, with them, questions. She glanced around hoping to
see someone who might have answers.

“Her
horse bolted.” Rennie stood beside her, his lower lip raw from the chewing he’d
been giving it. “Threw her right into the wall. Didn’t see how it happened.”

“She
was riding so fast,” Wyvis said. “And she pulled up just there.” She pointed
toward the Cirkeyard’s open gateway.

“Just
level with us. I thought she was stopping to talk to us. She came up beside
Phelan with this funny look on her face-”

“Like
she was trying not to cry,” added Rennie. “And then the horse-” He gestured
with his hand.

“It
almost fell on her,” said Wyvis.

The
noise seemed to escalate suddenly and Taminy could hear a high keening from
behind her. She turned to see Doireann Spenser leading an older woman through
the crowd. As they came into the light of torch and globe, there was no doubt
that this was Aine’s mother. A man followed, and three tall, red-haired boys.

The
woman saw Aine’s still body lying between the kneeling Osraed and shrieked. “What’s
happened to my girl? Oh, dear God, what’s happened to Aine?”

Doireann
saw Taminy then, and blanched. Sensing that her guide had become an anchor, the
Mistress Lorimer stopped and followed Doireann’s gaze.

“What
is it? What?”

“N-nothing,”
said Doiry. “It’s just that ... Aine was talking to Taminy just before. She’d
ridden out to see her. She was on her way back when-”

Anything
more she might have said was cut off by a raw cry of anguish from the place
where Aine lay. One of the Lorimer’s red-haired boys rose from the ground and
cried, “Mama, she’s gone! Aine’s gone!”

No
, Taminy thought.
It can’t be. It mustn’t be. Not Aine.

She
was drawn to the spot against her will. To see vibrant Aine, dead.
Mustn’t be
. She watched the mother all
but swoon over the girl’s body; watched Torridon age and wither; watched Saxan
sweat and shake while he held is own daughter in his arms.

The
Lorimer lifted his wife away and cocooned her. Torridon sat and shook his head.
She moved forward without them seeing her and knelt opposite the Healer. She
put her hands out—one over Aine’s heart, the other over her throat.

If I never Weave again, let me Weave now. If
I never know the Gift of Healing again, let me know it now. All else will I
sacrifice to this moment. Only let me give this life back!

There
was a rustling of leaves no one else could hear, moved by a breeze no one else
would feel. Something stirred among the people gathered at the Cirkeyard.
Something rose out of the earth and descended from the sky and radiated from
the stones and the trees and the tiny particles they all breathed. Blue Healing
gathered itself in Taminy’s soul, collected from the stirring Thing.

The
prayer was answered.

“What’s
she doing? What are you doing?”

Hands
pushed at her, reached for her. She willed them away.

“I
can’t-! What has she done?”

“Get
her away from my daughter!”

“What’s
she doing?”

“What’s
happened here?”

Ealad-hach.
She knew that voice now. It was part of her dreams. He was close to her. She
gave him a corner of her mind; she could spare no more. The Healing was
gathering in her, she must concentrate. She could feel it like an ice-hot liquid
crown upon her head.

“By
the Kiss, that glow-!”

“No,
no! Leave her be!” That was Saxan.

Hands
again. Ealad-hach’s hands. She raised one of her own, reflexively, heard him
give a shocked cough as he met a sudden, invisible resistance that sat him back
on his heels.

“She’s
woven a Shield! I can’t touch her. Damn! Your stone, Torridon—give me your
stone!”

The bone. The bone.

The bone, cracked, must mend.

The sinews, taut, must bend.

The crushed breath, flow;

the heart beat, follow.

The bone. The bone.

She
found her rhythm, began a duan, praying the corner of her mind given to the
Shieldweave would continue to support it.

Across
Aine’s body from her, Ealad-hach held out Torridon’s crystal and tried to Weave
against her. He had little strength, caught as he was in the grip of fear, but
his voice, loud and sharp, distracted her. She gave a thought to the weakly
glowing crystal he held in trembling hands. It flared with sudden blue light
and winked out. Ealad-hach shrieked and Taminy’s duan faltered.

No! I can’t! Beloved, it’s too much! These
people, the Shield—I can’t. Not alone
.

She
thought of Saxan and Iseabal and nearly reached for them when she felt Wyth at
her back, calm, though quivering with her need. She reached up a hand and Wyth
took it in a firm grip.

There
was another. She dared glance up. Bevol stood across from her near the gate,
his eyes shining.

She
returned her own to Aine. Yes! The bones! She could see them. Twisted, so. Time
slipped by; she must hurry. First the Healweave, then the Infusion. She sang.