Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (11 page)

           
Corin inched back into the Lion,
trying to escape Brennan's hands. "Rujho—"

           
"No," Brennan said
tersely. "No explanations. No defense. In this I will be like our
jehan." He took his hands from Corin's jerkin as if he could not bear to
soil them. "We went there against our king's express orders, defying our
jehan as well, and because of us an entire block was destroyed. Twenty-eight
lives were lost, perhaps more. By the gods, Corin, how can you sit there and
rail against our jehan with that guilt on your shoulders?"

           
"Let him be," Hart said
wearily. "Oh, let him be, Brennan. I can think of better ways of spending
our last day together than trying to levy even more guilt upon our youngest
rujholli."

           
"Not more," Brennan shot
back, "Some guilt ... because I think otherwise he will dismiss this
tragedy as not worthy of his time, his concern, simply because he has more
important things to consider." Brennan's tone was filled with eloquent
contempt. "Such as which of Deirdre's ladies should he seduce next."

           
"I care!" Corin cried.
"I care, Brennan—more than you can know. And aye, I do have something else
to consider . . . something that may not have occurred to you. And even if it
had, likely you would not consider it worth the worry."

           
"What?" Brennan demanded.
"What else is there to consider?"

           
Corin's lips drew back briefly,
baring teeth. In his anger, his ferocity, he was suddenly more animal than man,
though he remained in human form. "I am afraid," he said through gritted
teeth. "Afraid."

           
"Afraid?" Brennan stared
at him in astonishment. "Aye, it will be different in Atvia, and will take
time to adjust, but—afraid?"

           
"Aye, afraid!" Corin
cried. "Are you forgetting, then, that our jehana is there? Mad Gisella,
Queen of Homana, who tried to give her children to Strahan the Ihlini?" He
had their full attention now, as he looked from one to the other.
"Aye," he repeated, "afraid, because I will have to see her, to
face her. . . ." He drew in an unsteady breath. "I will be required
to breathe the same air as that half-breed, blood-tainted Atvian/Cheysuli
witch, who willingly would have given us over to that Ihlini ku'reshtin, so he
could twist us all—so he could turn us into minions for his amusement, to use
as puppets!"

           
"Enough," Brennan said
gently. "Enough, Corin—no more." His anger was banished, his contempt
replaced with compassion. "Perhaps I judged you too hastily." He
sighed and scrubbed at the lines of tension settling in the flesh of his brow.
"Gods, save us from each other . . . save us from sword-sharp
tongues."

           
"Save us from the Ihlini."
Corin shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the throne. "Gods,
rujho, I do not want to go. . . ."

           
"No," Brennan agreed.
"Nor would I, in your place. Not even if you promised a casket of
gold."

           
"For that much gold, I
might." Hart's smile fell away almost at once. "No, no, forgive me
for that . . . I am the one who put us in this position. Blame me, no matter
what the Lion says. Let me carry the guilt."

           
"Would you?" Brennan
asked. "No, I think not. It is not in you to accept guilt, rujho, even if
you comprehend that you are responsible for it."

           
Hart recoiled visibly from the
comment.

           
"Well," Corin said in
resignation, "for all I rail about it—and will—I think the distribution of
sentences just. You go nowhere, Brennan; all you must do is wait for a
cheysula. Not so bad, I think, but then it was not your idea to go to the
Midden, and you did what you could to prevent us from becoming involved in an
obviously dangerous situation, A wedding should not be so bad; the gods know
Deirdre is bearable. Aileen is her harana, so if they are anything alike you
should not find the marriage too onerous."

           
"No," Brennan agreed,
"though I might wish the time to be of my own choosing."

           
"But he has taken that from
you." Corin nodded. "He has taken it from us all." Abruptly he
shoved himself out of the Lion. "I think I will defy him one last time,
just so he does not forget me too easily—"

           
"Corin, no," Brennan
cried. "Why make it worse than it is?"

           
"Do you mean to refuse to
go?" Hart asked in surprise.

           
"No." Corin straightened a
jerkin still rumpled from Brennan's expression of anger and frustration.
"I mean to go, because I must. But I mean to go now, rather than in the morning."

           
"Small defiance," Brennan
said curtly. "You cut your nose to spite your face."

           
"Perhaps." Corin headed
down the steps and toward the hammered silver doors at the end of the Great
Hall. "But at least it is a decision I can make for myself. Besides,"
he swung around and walked backward, spreading his hands, "this way I will
be home one day sooner."

           
And he was gone, running from the
hall.

           
Brennan said a sharp, brief
obscenity in the Old Tongue that still, for all its brevity, managed to express
his emotions very clearly.

           
"Three become two become
one." Hart stood up from the dais. "Not a good wager, rujho, when the
point of the game lies in adding, not subtracting." He sighed and walked
aimlessly toward the silver doors. "No," he said wearily, "not a
good wager at all."

           
"Hart." Brennan's voice
stopped him at the doors, echoing in the vastness of the hall. "In a year,
a year—we will be different people."

           
Hart leaned a shoulder against one
of the heavy doors.

           
"Aye," he agreed, but
still Cheysuli. Still rujholli. That is what counts, I think." He smiled
sadly, pushed through, was gone.

           
After a moment Brennan turned to
look at the empty Lion, all acrouch on the dais; the Lion of Homana, deprived
of his Mujhar. Brennan looked at the old wood, the fading giltwork, the massive
paws with their curving claws. He sighed. "You and I," he said,
"will have to come to an agreement. You do not strip me of all my freedom,
my good sense, my desire to be a man as well as Mujhar . . . and I will not
bring dishonor to your name. To my House. Or to my people." He shook his
head slowly. "And never again to my jehan"

           
But the Lion made no answer.

           
Deirdre was in her private solar,
stitching on a tapestry with four of her ladies when Niall came in. She glanced
up, saw his face, instantly dismissed the women. Before Niall could say a word,
Deirdre was up and guiding him to a chair.

           
"I am well enough," he
protested, as she pressed him down into the cushions.

           
"Are you, then?" she asked
lightly. "I'm thinking not. I’m thinking you have, from the look of you,
stared death in the eye, and lost." She made certain he was comfortable in
the chair. "You'll be sitting here until I say you may rise."

           
Loose-limbed, he sat in the chair
and stared blankly at the tapestry frame. "What is that?"

           
"Something I started a month
ago. Something to go in the Great Hall, one day, when I am done." She knew
very well his real interest did not lie in the tapestry; she knew also that
Niall came around to things in his own way, in his own time. Prying would serve
neither of them. "You see? Lions. Homanan lions, as you have told me;
fierce, proud, loyal beasts, challenging all who dare to threaten their
realm." Her voice wavered a moment as she looked at his ravaged face. "Niall—"

           
"Why so many?" he asked,
staring at the tapestry. He bent forward to examine it more closely. "So
many lions, Deirdre—and is this the Lion Throne?"

           
"Aye." She touched the
design not yet fully stitched.

           
"It seems to me some of the
stories should be put down in yarn, and then hung up where all can see them.
The recounting of the legends. Shaine, Carillon, Donal . . . you and your sons.
. . ." her voice trailed off. "All the Lions of Homana."

           
"My sons." And Niall sat
back again, pressing one hand against his face. "Ah, gods, Deirdre—what am
I to do? How am I to bear it? How will I last the year?"

           
She stood very still before him.
"You have sent them away, then. Hart and Corin."

           
“I had no choice." The words
were little more than pain, mumbled against his hand. "They gave me no
choice, meijha. So many lives lost. So many innocent lives; not everyone in the
Midden is thief or murderer. Some were little children." Abruptly he
stripped off the patch that warded the empty socket and bent forward rigidly.
"Ah, gods—it hurts—"

           
"Your head?" She moved
forward, knelt, threaded fingers in his hair. She pressed his face against her
breast. "Oh, Niall, I would be giving anything to take it from you, this
pain. After all these years . . ."

           
His breath was loud in the chamber.
"No—no—not just my head . . . when the old pain comes on me, it is
generally bearable. But this—" He sighed. "This is more. This is what
it is to be a jehan, regardless of rank or race."

           
"Aye," she said,
"aye. There is pain with all the pleasure."

           
"A year," he said
hollowly. "Gods, I said a year. Hart and Corin banished . . . and Brennan
made to wed."

           
She stiffened a little. "You'll
be sending for Aileen."

           
"Aye. Corin is to stop at Erinn
on his way to Atvia."

           
Suddenly, he pulled away from her.
"And perhaps I should have considered that you might want to go."

           
After a moment, she shook her head.
"I'll not be denying that I want to see my homeland. But this is Corin's
punishment; there is no place for me on board. Liam will understand."

           
He sat back again, asprawl, rubbing
the ruined flesh near his empty socket. "They gave me no choice," he
said wearily. "What was I to do?"

           
"What you did, I think,"
she answered, settling down at his feet in a puddle of pale green silk. "
'Tis not for me to say yea or nay on this—they are not my sons—but I will agree
with you nonetheless. Boys must stop being boys. Even when they are men."

           
"If you had seen Brennan's face
. . ."

           
"Aye, well, if 'twas anything
like the other times, he was there for the others, not himself."

           
"No, not that... no, I mean
when I banished Hart. I think that was a worse punishment for Brennan than
telling him he must wed and take on more responsibilities."

           
Deirdre sighed a little, stroking
his rigid hand. "Aye, aye, perhaps it was. They are so close. Hart and
Brennan ... the time apart will be hard on them."

           
"Hard on me," he said
unevenly. "For all they have done a monstrous thing, I know I will hate
myself every day I look at Brennan and Keely, and see their accusing
eyes."

           
"Brennan and Keely must tend to
Brennan and Keely,"

           
Deirdre told him firmly. "You
must look to yourself."

           
"And you?" he asked,
reaching out to clasp her fingers. "Gods, Deirdre . . . what would I do
without you?"

           
She smiled and kissed the back of his
hand. "I’ll not be telling you. For if I did, you might find reason to be
rid of an aging Erinnish spinster."

           
He smiled. "Aging, indeed. Not
what I would say; I who share your bed."

           
But she saw the anguish in his eye,
and knew it would last forever.

BRENNEN

           
On a night with no moon, men
gathered. Light was conjured from torches, from lanterns; distorting faces
that, by day, by good light, were simply faces', Homanan faces, some young,
some old, some neither, being not yet fully formed, leaving youth behind while
lingering yet on the doorstep, not quite ducking beneath the lintel to enter
the common room of manhood,

           
But now, by torchlight, by lanternlight,
the faces were leeched of humanity, of sanity, of the expressions that, everchanging,
reflected happiness, sorrow, pride, regret, and all those subtleties lying
between. Faces that were no longer faces, but aspects of dedication,
fanaticism, and the desire to right a wrong.

           
Within the ring of looming trees
stood stave torches, thrust into the ground to form a second circle, a ward
against the darkness. Within the ring of torches, men clustered. And within the
ring of men, a boy was made to lie down on cold, hard stone. No. Not a boy; no
longer, A warrior, now; he had received his lir.

           
Against the stone, he shivered. They
had stripped him, the Homanans. They had taken jerkin, leggings, boots, as well
as his knife. They had taken it all, leaving him with nothing, save the
knowledge that they could get no gold, because he had only just received his
lir. There had been no Ceremony of Honors in Clankeep, to honor his name, his
lir, his newfound warrior status.

           
And would be none, ever, now.

           
It was full dark, long past the time
he should have been back at Clankeep. But no one would come looking.

           
He had left his father's pavilion
four days earlier in search of his lir, knowing only he had to go, to assuage
the craving that set his blood afire. No one would come looking, no matter how
late it was, because it was a part of the ritual, to stay from home until the
link was made.

           
Rings within rings: trees, torches,
men. And in the center, himself. On an altar once serving as a part of sacred
rituals, Cheysuli rituals. Firstborn rituals; now the altar, in its nook of
towering trees, was forgotten by his people. Remembered only by Homanans, who
meant to pervert its use.

           
Upon the stone he trembled, and shut
his eyes against the darkness, the torchlight, the looming faces, with their
aspects of fanaticism. He shut his eyes against the fear for himself, because
another fear outweighed it. They would slay his lir, he knew. First. So they
could see what it was for a Cheysuli warrior to lose his other self. And then,
as he was consumed by grief for the loss of his lir, his newfound other self
they would slay the new warrior as well.

           
Beneath his naked back his flesh
knew the touch of stone, and of blood. The altar reeked of it, stained black
and red and brown, sticky with old and new.

           
Hands held wrists and ankles. Even
his hair, so he could not thrash head against stone in a futile attempt at
breaking free. Hands held him: Homanan hands. Deigning to touch his Cheysuli
flesh, because soon enough his blood would wash them clean of taint.

           
"Bring the wolf," someone
said. A man. Young, from the sound of it; the voice was cool, not deep, not
high.

           
Smooth as clover honey.

           
The boy on the stone jerked against
human manacles.

           
All held firm.

           
"Into the light," said the
voice.

           
"No," the boy whispered;
it was the first sound he had made.

           
The wolf was brought to the altar,
into the ring of torchlight. A young male wolf, hardly more than a cub; like
the boy on the stone, he had not quite crossed the threshold between youth and
adulthood. And, like the boy, now never would.

           
The jaws had been wired shut. A
chain was wound about the ruddy throat, snugged taut. He struggled, whimpered,
dug the air with hind claws even as the front ones reached for flesh. But the
man who held the wolf was large and strong, and used to big dogs; the cub was
no match for him.

           
"No," said the boy again.
Begging now, forgoing all the pride of his people. Forgoing all save the need
to see the cub made safe, unharmed, set free.

           
A hand touched the boy's brow,
smoothing back damp hair. The palm was cool, almost soothing, like the voice.

           
"We must," the voice said;
the same one, the same voice, that had beckoned the wolf cub brought. That had
beckoned the boy held down against the stone.

           
"There is a reason for what we
do," the voice said. "A need. This is not idle whimsy, nor ignorant
reprisal for the loss of the Homanan throne to a Cheysuli king. No. This is
part and parcel of what must be done, in order to restore the balance of
justice. To restore rightness."

           
The voice paused. "Can you
understand that? Can you understand that I do not hate you, boy, nor even hate
your race? No. Hate is not what fuels me, other than using it when I must; in
its place, hate has its uses. No. I do this because there is a need. Homana's
need."

           
The hand was gentle against the
boy's sweat-sheened brow. He tried not to listen, but he heard in spite of
himself.

           
"There was a mistake made more
than sixty-five years ago, when Carillon named Donal his heir," the voice
continued. "Having no son of his queen, Solindish Electra, he turned to
the closest male relative: a Cheysuli halfling got on his cousin, Alix, as much
a halfling as her son.

           
But there was a son, you see. There
was a son ... a wholly Homanan son, with no trace of Cheysuli blood."

           
The hand stopped moving; fell away.
Fearfully, the boy waited, sensing a new tension in the air even though the
voice remained calm, cool, quiet.

           
"Twenty years ago my father
found Carillon's bastard. With the Homanan woman who bore the boy, my father
went to face the Mujhar, Donal himself, to ask that the tine of succession be
restored to its proper path. And there within the walls of Homana-Mujhar,
before Council, the woman was murdered by a man loyal to the Mujhar; my father
was slain as well, by Niall, then Prince of Homana." The voice broke off.
The boy heard only silence, but felt the thrumming of growing impatience that
radiated from the others. And then the voice went on. "That man now rules,
boy, the royal murderer, when it should be Carollan's place. And so there are
those of us who will see to it Niall is deposed in favor of Carollan; the
grandson replaced by the son." The voice paused again, then renewed
itself. "That is how it should be, boy ... that is how it should be. How
my father, Elek, wanted it, before Niall murdered him."

           
The boy on the stone summoned all his
courage. "Keep me," he said, "keep me. But let my lir go
free."

           
"The lir is an aspect of your
power," Elek's son said. "A manifestation of the wrongness that
plagues this land. You are bound in life, boy—that much I know of Cheysuli . .
. now you will be bound in death."

           
"He is so young—" and the
boy abruptly shut his mouth, bit his lip to seal it; no more would he beg
Homanans.

           
"He is young, and so are
you," said the clover honey voice. "But if we let you grow to
manhood, and him to adulthood, you will be more difficult to overcome. I do not
devalue the strength of the Cheysuli, nor the dedication of your warriors.
Indeed, I salute your people, boy, well and truly. How could I not? Look what
they have done . . . look how cleverly they have stolen the throne in the guise
of recovering what once was theirs."

           
"Then I will take lir-shape,"
the boy threatened, "and you will see what I can do—"

           
"Now," said Elek's son,
and the man with the cub in his arms drew his knife and swiftly cut open the
ruddy throat.

           
As warm red blood rained down, the
young Cheysuli cried out. And cried.

           
"Now." And another knife
flashed in the torchlight.

           
The man who called himself Elek's
son watched as the altar drank its fill. Blood spilled over the edge of the
stone and was poured against the ground. The splatter was loud in the darkness.

           
After a moment, he nodded. "It
is time,” he said calmly, "we turned to larger prey."

           
"Shansu, shansu," Brennan
whispered tenderly, soothing her silk-soft shoulder with a gentle, beguiling
hand.

           
"Be easy, meijhana ... be easy.
. . ."

           
Her flesh quivered beneath his
seductive hand, as if in answer to his tone.

           
"Shansu," he whispered
softly, stroking slowly, so slowly, "no need to be afraid. I swear it. I
swear it. Any oath you choose . . ." Her flesh responded again. Brennan
smiled slowly, warmly, in a manner of immensely patient desire and unconscious
invitation. He was, in that moment, consumed utterly by the sole purpose of
seduction. "Be easy . . . be easy—'

           
But the mare was not seduced.
Without warning, she exploded in a flurry of activity that indicated her sole
purpose was to rid her back of the man who sat astride it.

           
Brennan clamped legs against mare in
an instinctive bid to maintain his seat. He had buckled on a Cheysuli saddle,
lighter and less confining than Homanan gear, but also offering less latitude
for error. With the mare in open revolt, the Cheysuli saddle—little more than a
shallow pad of leather and sheepskin with wooden stirrups attached by strips of
leather—was next to useless as a means of staying aboard.

           
The mare, gray as smoke, ducked
delicate head between equally delicate forelegs and squealed in a decidedly
unladylike fashion. Dark eyes rolled. Tipped ears flattened. Deceptively powerful
rear legs elevated silken hindquarters like a ballista hurling a stone.

           
Brennan, flopped forward against his
will, tried to scramble backward as she threw her head up, flinging it
rearward. Pale mane whipped yellow eyes, bringing royal tears; by an inch only,
Brennan missed having his nose smashed against his face, forever altering
aristocratic good looks. As it was, a series of bone-jarring bucks served to
twist his spine alarmingly, threatening to cripple him.

           
Dimly, he heard the clatter of hooves
on stone, the grunts of equine rage, the shouts of running men as he tried to
weather the storm. The squat buildings of the stableyard, built of the same
rose-red stone that gave Homana-Mujhar its pastel patina, performed a dance of
their own. He saw only bits and pieces of the curtain wall, the sentry-walk,
the beamwork of stable roofs. Straw cushioned the yard, and dirt, but cobbles
lay beneath both. Hard stone cobbles, promising a painful landing.

           
He had seen it happen to others.

           
The mare sucked in another great
breath and leaped sideways, lurched backward, lunged forward yet again.

           
She wanted to run, but the snaffle
in her mouth—for all its relative gentleness—prevented her; that, and Brennan's
skilled grip upon the reins. It was a deadly dance: infuriated horse against
determined warrior.

           
We each of us have too much to lose,
Brennan thought briefly, as he lasted another of the mare's spine-twisting
bucks. Pride, too much pride. . . hers will be tarnished if I win, mine if she
does—

           
And abruptly, Brennan won. The mare
stopped fighting the bit, the reins, the hands. She sidled uneasily a moment,
first to the right, then to the left, scraping hooves against cobbles, and then
quieted, snorting, long-lashed eyes half-shut as if to acknowledge defeat.

           
But Brennan, not daring to move as
the mare slowly settled, knew better. It was too soon to trust the gray.

           
She shook her head. Swished her
flax-pale tail. Snorted. Eyed the men gathered in the stableyard. Brennan could
feel the mare's debate: Do I throw the man now, or later?

           
Later. As Brennan urged her gently
into a walk, she circled the yard quietly.

           
Round and round. The buildings
blurred together as the circling continued. With each revolution the mare grew
calmer, more relaxed, and so did Brennan. He was aware of the eyes watching him
and the gray, waiting for something to happen. Curious, expectant eyes, brown
and blue and black, all of them, save for the single pair of green ones.