Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (10 page)

           
Defenseless, he kicked out and tried
to twist away, but the two men had stretched him so that there was no leverage.
All he could do was thrash helplessly as a faceless man bent down to slide the
knife through leather, flesh, past muscle into the belly wall.

           
He dared not lurch upward. Dared
not—gasping with effort, Brennan summoned everything he could of concentration,
thrusting his consciousness out of the room, away, away, to somewhere deep in
the heart of the earth.

           
Gods, gods— he cried in silent
appeal, let the magic come—let the power be tapped—

           
Corin ducked a knife swipe; threw
himself forward, beneath the arm . . . with all his strength he jammed his head
into the belly of the Homanan. Breath expelled, the man fell backward, knees
folding; Corin bore him down, braced quickly, shoved the knife deeply into the
heaving belly. The Homanan cried out, thrashed futilely, cried out again.

           
Corin threw himself off, rolled,
came up; blocked the second man's attack by catching the Homanan's wrist.

           
Quickly, hardly knowing what he did,
Corin sliced deeply into soft flesh of the underside of the outstretched arm.

           
Blood flowed; flesh and tendons
parted without a sound.

           
Hart bent, coughed, tried to breathe
through the pain of sore ribs now doubly bruised. Smoke filled his throat as it
filled the room, reaching cloying fingers into eyes, nostrils, mouths, even as
it clogged the corners. Dimly he saw flames as they ran 'up the walls, danced
along the roof-tree, dripped down to splatter on overturned tables and stools.

           
"Get out," he gasped.
"Brennan—Corin—" He broke off as someone wrapped arms around his legs
and pulled him down.

           
Hart struggled, felt hands
insinuating themselves between his legs; groping, trying to grab, to wrench, to
rip, using tactics of the sort Hart, honorably trained, had never, ever
considered.

           
Outraged, he threw an elbow that
caught tile man in the face, smashed his nose; sent the Homanan tumbling
backward, crying out.

           
Less beleaguered than Brennan and
now twice as angry, Hart called up the earth magic and left behind his human
form for the one with hooked beak and curving talons.

           
—the one that will lend me flight;
that I can use to rake eyes from the enemy, to pluck them from their Homanan
skulls—

           
Corin saw the flames, the smoke, the
bodies. He saw the blurring of Hart's human form into the void that swallowed
the space where he had stood a moment before; into the nothingness that was
shed, replaced, made whole once again, only lacking the familiar shape of a
man. Arms were wings, legs talons; the shout Hart began the shapechange with
became the piercing cry of a hunting hawk—

           
—and was joined a moment later by
the scream of a cat, as Brennan left behind Brennan to become an echo of his
lir, tawny instead of black, but dangerous, so dangerous; so intent on his prey,
as he raked claws across the nearest face, that Corin knew he had gone too far.

           
Too close, too close—oh, Brennan,
no—not you—of all of us, not you—

           
Corin turned, stumbling, and reached
for the door, for the latch, clawing it open; jerking open the door and
thrusting it against the wall. Inwardly he called for Kiri.

           
Aloud, he shouted for both his
brothers' lir, and fell sideways, slamming a shoulder into the door; coughing,
coughing, as smoke boiled out of the tavern into the darkness of the night.

           
Kiri, Corin said within the link,
Kiri, tell the lir to make them stop—tell them to stop—this place will become
our pyre—

           
The vixen understood at once,
instantly passing the message to Sleeta and Rael. Corin knew better than to
think he could talk sense into Brennan or Hart in the throes of the fight,
especially as they were too angry, too blind to see the danger of remaining
inside the tavern.

           
Even with flame climbing the walls
and running out along the roof to touch the dwelling next door, his brothers
would not forgo the fight. Not now.

           
He heard screams from inside. He
turned, saw someone afire. How the man danced; how the man screamed, as he
tried to run and could not, trapped by the trunk of the burning rooftree.

           
Limbs, burned through, broke off,
and parts of the roof began to rain down. Flame shot through the openings and
engulfed the upper floor.

           
"Corin—" Hart, coughing,
staggered out. Ash smeared his face; light from the flames set his lir-gold to
gleaming.

           
"Corin, is Brennan out?"

           
"No," Corin answered
tersely. "Gods, Hart, this is your doing."

           
"Mine—" But Hart stopped
the protest at once, swinging back toward the interior of the tavern.
"Brennan!"

           
Rael flew out, followed closely by
Kiri. Then Sleeta, unaccompanied,

           
Hart swore, plainly afraid. Corin
caught his arm to prevent him from going back in, "No, rujho—no!" and
Brennan stumbled out in human form.

           
Coughing, he nearly fell.
"Dead," he gasped. "Dead, or dying—gods, all of them—"

           
"And most of the street."
Hart's voice was clogged with phlegm. He coughed, spat; hugged aching ribs.

           
"No reason for us to mimic them
or it," Corin said firmly. "We have ourselves and our lir . . . I
suggest we go."

           
Brennan, moving out into the street,
craned his neck to look over his shoulder: "They would have slain us ...
they would have had the gold off all our arms, planting steel in our
bellies."

           
Hart tried to laugh and could not.
But the sound was not one of humor. "Justifying their end?" he asked
Brennan. "Do not bother, rujho ... no more than anyone will when we are
dead."

           
"If we do not go now, we may
well end up that way."

           
Corin's hand on Hart's wrist was not
gentle. "Is it left to me, then? Well enough, the youngest to the oldest:
run—"

           
They ran. And with them ran—and
flew—their lir.

           
They were lined up before the Lion
Throne of Homana, his sons, in the Great Hall. Like little soldiers, Niall
thought, all prepared to accept their punishment. Except he was quite certain
they had not even considered the punishment he intended to levy on them.

           
The cushion beneath his buttocks did
nothing to soften the confines of the Lion. The great wooden throne swallowed
him up almost entirely, which was not a simple task considering his size; he
reflected it must have been the same for Carillon, his grandsire, whom he so
closely resembled.

           
He looked at his sons, standing
three abreast before the Lion, in front of the firepit that began some six feet
from the marble dais to stretch the length of the hall. He looked for guilt,
regret, comprehension; he looked for some indication they understood how
serious was the situation. But they had practiced for him, showing him stiff
Cheysuli masks in place of faces, all of them, even blue-eyed, fair-haired
Corin, who lacked the dark skin as well.

           
They had practiced, and he could not
read their expressions. Until he told them how many were dead.

           
"At last count," the Mujhar
said quietly, "there were more than twenty-eight bodies. It could be more;
they are still searching in the rubble." He paused a moment, looking at
his sons. "No one is quite sure; the entire block was destroyed."

           
Now the masks slipped. Now the faces
were bared.

           
Shock, disbelief, denial; a
profound, sudden and absolute comprehension of where the responsibility lay,
Niall shifted slightly, redistributing his weight within the embrace of the
massive Lion. "I think the time for explanations is past. I think the
assignment of guilt is unnecessary. Certainly apologies, however heartfelt,
cannot begin to replace the lives and property lost. So I will request no
explanations, no apologies, no admissions of guilt. I request only that you
listen."

           
None of them said a word. Brennan,
he saw, stood quite rigidly, staring blankly at an area somewhere in the
vicinity of his father's left foot. Niall watched a moment as his eldest son
tried to cope with the shock, the comprehension, the tremendous burden of
responsibility he would, as always, try to assume. Even if it was only
partially his.

           
Corin was plainly stunned. The color
was gone from his face so that his tawny hair seemed a darker gold than normal.
All the muscles stood up in his arms, flexing around the lir-bands; behind his
back, Niall knew, Corin fisted his hands again and again, as hard as he could
until all the muscles burned, protesting; inflicting discomfort to help the
comprehension that what he now faced was real, and not some dream of his
imagining. Niall had seen him do it before.

           
Lastly, he looked at Hart. Hart, whose
insatiable taste—no, need—for gambling had, until two nights before, done
little more than rob him of his allowance as Prince of Solinde; yet now it
robbed people of their property. Of their lives.

           
Niall pushed himself out of the
throne, bracing palms against the clawed armrests. He felt old, old and stiff,
reluctant to rise and face them as a king, a Cheysuli, a father. And yet he
knew he must.

           
He stood on the marble dais before
the Lion Throne of Homana, personifying the strength and authority of his
realm, and fixed his middle son with a single hard blue eyes. "I think it
is time I stopped looking the other way.

           
I think it is time I stopped
rebuilding half the taverns in Mujhara with money from the Homanan treasury,
and—occasionally—my personal coffers. I think it is past time I forced you to
become the man your tahlmorra intended you to be."

           
Hart did not flinch. "Aye,
jehan," was all he said, and very quietly.

           
"I might wish you had been so
acquiescent before, Hart."

           
The mouth flattened a little.
"Aye, jehan."

           
"Well, then, as you are so
acquiescent now, I must assume you will start for Solinde in the morning with
good heart and good cheer."

           
The color slowly spilled out of
Hart's face. "Solinde—?"

           
"Tomorrow,” Niall confirmed,
"where you will remain for the space of a year."

           
"Jehan—"

           
"You will be sent to Lestra,
where you will—I hope, I pray—begin to learn what it is to be a prince ... a
man with responsibilities ... a man who cannot afford to drink and dice and
brawl." He paused. "Do I make myself clear?"

           
"Aye . . .” And then, in shock,
"But—“

           
Yet again, Niall cut him off.
"Your allowance will be strickly administered by the regent who now
governs in my name. He will be advised that he is not to underwrite your
gambling habit in any fashion . . . that if you somehow lose the last copper
penny of your monthly allowance, you will bear the responsibility for repaying
the debt. You, Hart. Not Brennan, not Corin, not Ian, Maeve, Keely or Deirdre.
Certainly not me. And certainly not the Solindish treasury. Is that clear,
also?"

           
"A year . . ." Hart's tone
was hollow.

           
"Aye. You are hereby forbidden
your homeland for the space of a twelve-month, unless I send for you
myself."

           
"Exile." Bitterness, now, beginning
to creep in. "First our jehana, now me."

           
"The circumstances are
unrelated," Niall said coldly, “though I begin to wonder if there is more
of Gisella in you than of myself." Abruptly, he stopped himself. "You
will leave first thing in the morning."

           
Brennan took a single step forward.
“Jehan" he said, "no. I beg you. Say you will reconsider!"

           
"You are to hold your silence
until given leave to speak," Niall said evenly. Brennan flinched visibly
and did not move or speak again.

           
It was Corin's turn; Corin, who so
rarely knew when not to defy his father. "And I am to go to Atvia, am I
not?" he asked bitterly. "I am to be exiled too, like Hart. For a
year."

           
"For a year," Niall
confirmed. "The circumstances are much the same, I think, even if the
individual problems differ; you need to learn to accept the responsibility for
your own actions, and your manners, which can injure others. And if you think
to deny me—as I see you intend already, judging by your expression—I suggest
you think back to the deaths you caused only two nights ago."

           
"It was not entirely my
fault," Corin said angrily. "Lay no blame, you say. Well, I will. You
may blame the cutthroats who tried to slay us, jehan—the men who were willing
to stick us and watch us bleed for the price of our lir-gold!"

           
"You will leave in the
morning," Niall said quietly. "But before you arrive in Atvia, there
is a task I would have you perform."

           
"Task?" Corin stared at
his father. "You send me away, then ask me to perform a task?"

           
"One I think you will be
pleased to do, as it concerns the Prince of Homana."

           
Corin frowned. "Brennan?"

           
"Did you think I would forgo
punishing him because he is the oldest? Because he is the heir to Homana?"
Niall shook his head. "No. I said I would assign no guilt, and I do not.
Neither do I weigh it by the things you have done in the past, all of you.
Brennan is equally responsible, and he will share equally in the
punishment."

           
"Equally?" Corin demanded.
"I think not. There is nowhere to send him. Homana is his to rule, one
day; you cannot exile the man who will take your throne."

           
"I send him nowhere, that is
true," Niall said quietly. "But I can still make certain he begins to
accept the responsibilities you and Hart must also accept. And it is up to you,
Corin, to assist me." He paused. "I thought you might be willing to
assume the task, once you realized it was within your province to alter the
freedom of your oldest rujholli."

           
Corin glanced at Brennan, who stared
stoically at the throne, avoiding his father's eye altogether. "How?"
Corin asked finally, looking again at Niall.

           
The Mujhar turned to the Lion and
resumed his seat, sitting back against the ancient wood. "You will stop at
Erinn on the way to Atvia and deliver a message to Liam, Lord of the Idrian
Isles. You will say to him the time has come for our realms to be formally
united in marriage as well as in alliance." The single blue eye flicked to
Brennan. "Liam's daughter is twenty-two, now. It is time the Prince of
Homana secured the Lion with additional heirs."

           
Color rushed into Brennan's face.
The yellow eyes were suddenly intent, and intensely feral. "You do not use
a betrothal or marriage as punishment!" Brennan snapped angrily. "It
does you little honor, my lord Mujhar, and gives none at all to Aileen."

           
"You have at least a six-month,
if not more, in which to arrange your affairs and learn what it is to be a
prince," Niall said. "Until Aileen arrives, you will attend me in all
council sessions, at all trade negotiations, during the hearings when I
entertain petitions put forth by Homanan citizens. I think you will be too busy
to concern yourself with what does and does not constitute honor, in Mujhars or
other people."

           
"After twenty years and more,
you separate us so easily," Hart said blankly. "I cannot believe
it."

           
"Together, you have done little
more save drink and brawl and bring disgrace to your names as well as this
House,” Niall answered. "Apart, perhaps, you will learn what it is to be a
man. To be a Cheysuli warrior." As one, in stunned silence, they stared at
him, Niall abruptly stood up from the throne. "I do not doubt there are
things you wish to say to one another without benefit of my presence, so I will
take it from you."

           
Niall's sons watched in silence as
he strode stiffly from the Great Hall. But as the silver doors thudded closed,
the silence was ended most distinctly.

           
"Did you hear him?" Corin
asked in angry astonishment. "Did you hear him? 'I think the time for
explanations is past’ " He swore loudly, with great eloquence. "We
were given no chance to defend ourselves, no chance to tell him precisely what happened—he
merely stands before that travesty of a lion and tells us what we are to do
with our lives, as if he has the ordering of them?"

           
"He does," Hart said
remotely. He walked to the dais, turned, sat down upon the top step, propping
booted feet wide on the second one. "He is the Mujhar of Homana, and our
jehan."

           
"Aye, he is Mujhar," Corin
snapped, "and, as Mujhar, one of his responsibilities is to hear both
sides of the story." He swore again and kicked at the gold-veined marble
dais. "You would think we planned the fire, they way he talks."

           
Brennan stood at one of the
stained-glass casements, staring blindly through colored glass to the bailey
outside. He seemed oblivious to Corin's rantings.

           
"Gods," Hart murmured.
"Solinde—"

           
"—and Atvia." Corin kicked
marble again, as if he meant to dislodge a portion of his father's skull.
"What do I want with a lump of rock in the middle of the Idrian
Ocean?"

           
Brennan's hand traced the outline of
one of the patterns in the glass. "Twenty-eight lives," he said.
"Twenty-eight."

           
"You would think he considers
himself one of the gods, the way he stands before us and pronounces how we will
spend the next twelve months of our lives," Corin said in disgust. "I
think—"

           
"Do you think I care what you
think?" Brennan abruptly spun from the casement and, before Corin could
blurt a protest, crossed the hall to grab the front of his jerkin.

           
"Do you think I care that you
feel inconvenienced by having to accept your title in fact as well as
name?" He pushed his brother back two steps, forced him up the dais,
planted him solidly in the throne. "Twenty-eight lives were lost, Corin
... it should not matter to you that those lives were spent in the Midden
instead of Homana-Mujhar or Clankeep. It should not matter! They are dead. Corin
. . . dead because of us!"