Crystal Rose by Bohnhoff Maya Kaathryn

Author:Bohnhoff, Maya Kaathryn [Bohnhoff, Maya Kaathryn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fantasy, female protagonist, magic, religious fantasy, epic fantasy
ISBN: 9781611382617
Publisher: Book View Cafe
Published: 2013-05-21T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Worship the Spirit in this way: If your faith lead you to death, alter it not. If your faith lead you to heaven, likewise, alter it not. This is the quality of faith that befits the Spirit of the Universe.

— From the Testament of Osraed Bevol

Ruadh Feich sat uneasily astride his horse this morning—uneasily and wearily. He had slept poorly after that bizarre dream and had hardly been prepared for the shock of waking to find himself naked within his bedroll with his night robe lying in a heap just inside his tent flap. Daimhin had only laughed at him when he worried that he might have been sleep-walking, and teased him that he must surely have been enchanted into a tryst with a wood paerie—or perhaps with the elusive Gwenwyvar.

All joking aside, Ruadh was afraid someone might have seen him dancing naked in the light of his tent brazier. At least he hoped that was all he had done. He did recall dancing, and the transient light of fire, but somewhere in the confusion of compulsions and memories were fragmentary images of wandering across chill open ground, of approaching a large, lighted tent—Daimhin’s tent, he thought—and of being watched by shadowy figures.

His skin crawled and he wondered if it were possible that the Nairnian Wicke was responsible for this. Perhaps she knew they came to confront her. Perhaps she had laid aislinn snares for them, hoping to inspire fear. Fierce Feich pride rose in Ruadh’s breast. Well, if that were the case, she’d have to do much better than a simple nightmare to turn back the Feich.

Today again, as he rode at the head of his troop of kinsmen, Sorn Saba was beside him. Today the journey was more pleasant. There was no talk of Wicke-burnings or drownings or other tortures. Instead, the Deasach spoke of life in the court of his sister, the Banarigh Raven, of hunting and riding and sailing.

He bragged a bit about being the youngest Marschal in the history of El-Deasach and, while Ruadh suspected the position was the result of nepotism, Sorn was quick to disabuse him of the idea. He had led a number of guerrilla attacks against the Southern Hillwild, he claimed—two in the last year alone. He had a talent for it. Or so he said.

The day passed uneventfully enough, though Ruadh could not shake the idea that he was being watched. He imagined with irritation some old dogs chuckling at what they had witnessed the young Feich Marschal doing in his sleep. The thought made his face and stomach burn.

Sunset found the company camped, once again, on the banks of the Holy River, and it was to the river that Ruadh went, as the Sun dipped below the Western horizon, to wash the grime of the road from his body. Sorn, seemingly unwilling to be separated from him, went along, and even joined in the chilly ablutions.

That didn’t bother Ruadh, though it seemed an intrusion into his privacy. He attributed it to differences in the Deasach concept of courtesy.

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