Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (13 page)

           
"Ask her!" Teirnan rasped
through Brennan's assault. "Ask her, cousin! Do you think she would lie to
you?"

           
Brennan pressed him against the
ground. "She would never—she would never—not with you—not with such as
you—“

           
"Ask her," Teirnan
challenged. "But also ask her why she will not come to Clankeep. Ask her
why she will not honor her vow."

           
"If she made one—if she made
one—I will release her from it—I will release her from it—"

           
"Freely made—" Teirnan
straggled, but fading breath robbed him of his strength. "—freely made,
Brennan, and only she can break it. Only Maeve, or me. And I would never do
it."

           
"Why not?" Brennan
demanded,

           
"Because you want me to."
Teirnan's laugh was torn from a badly bruised throat. "She never will. She
is too honorable to do it. I am not. For a good enough reason, I will. But—for
now it serves me ... it serves me to see how angry and helpless you are—"

           
"By the gods—" Brennan
choked. "By the gods, I swear if you ever harm her, by word or by deed, I
will soil my hands with your blood. Kinslayer you may make me, but that is a
burden I would gladly bear for the sake of my rujholla—"

           
"Bastard," Teirnan mocked.
"The Homanans call her bastard."

           
Lir. It was Sleeta, quietly
intruding. Lir, if you mean to do it, do it. If you do not, then let him go. Do
not be irresolute.

           
You would like me to slay him, he
said. I can tell.

           
No. But the tone was distinctly
reluctant. If you slay him, you take on the responsibility of a fool. And you
deserve better than that.

           
Inwardly Brennan laughed, though it
had little of humor in it. And then he released Teirnan and rose to stare down
at the gasping warrior. "This will be settled." he said. "This
thing between you and me and Maeve. It will be settled for all to know,
regardless of the outcome."

           
Teirnan levered himself up on one
elbow. "Ask her," he whispered. "Ask her if she was unwilling.
Ask her if she was forced, when she came into my bed."

           
It cost Brennan dearly to shrug
indifferently. "If she was." he said, "you are dead."

           
As Teirnan glared up at him from the
ground. Brennan turned to fetch the mare, who fidgeted by the pavilion. Sleela,
he said, we go home.

           
The cat did not protest against
leaving her own so soon. The cat said nothing at all.

           
At sunset, the gray threw Brennan
near the outskirts of Mujhara and left him to lie in the dirt, half-stunned, as
she galloped toward the city. After a moment he sat up, spat out blood from a
bitten lip, stared after her dazedly and cursed, if none too fluently; his
tongue was also bitten.

           
Your fault. Sleeta sat not far away,
tail curled fastidiously around one raven haunch. The tip flicked once, twice,
was still. You were paying more attention to your cousin's words and not enough
to the mare.

           
Brennan scowled and glared after the
mare, massaging a sore shoulder. He did not look at the cat.

           
After a moment she flicked an ear.
Are you damaged?

           
After a lengthier moment:
"No." Grudgingly.

           
Embarrassed, then.

           
"Aye," he agreed morosely,
staring toward the city that now hid the offending mare. From here he could not
see the walls, for Mujhara had grown so much that the city proper—that portion
that lay within the walls—had been swallowed by other dwellings huddling about
the fringes, cluster upon cluster, until the new had nearly overtaken the old.

           
Well, what did you expect? She is
horse, not lir. She has no understanding of such things as dignity and
protocol.

           
Brennan slanted the mountain cat a
glance of disgust mingled with amusement. Trust Sleeta to put things in
perspective, though hers was often quite different from the views of others.

           
"Aye, well, she will have
learned such understanding. When I am done with her."

           
If she goes back to Homana Mujhar.

           
That brought a frown. "Aye. She
would be worth stealing."

           
But only if she can be caught first,
Sleeta pointed out. How many have your patience, your skill, your gentleness.

           
Enough, he sent through the link,
unable to suppress his laughter. Enough, Sleeta—I know what you do. But I
assure you, the only damage I have suffered is to my pride, and that will
recover soon enough.

           
Not if the Prince of Homana is
discovered wallowing in the dust with a dirty, bloodied face.

           
That brought him to his feet faster
than anything else, if a trifle painfully. He dusted leggings, straightened
jerkin, attempted to clean his face, dabbled blood from his split lip, tried to
ignore the sore shoulder, and sighed.

           
"Prince or no, I deserved this.
I know better than to trust the gray; still, Teir gave me cause to be
distracted. That ku'reshtin . . ." Anger renewed itself. "If he ever
harms Maeve—“

           
Sleeta sought to placate. I think he
would not be so foolish. Aside from you, there are other rujholli involved.

           
"Aye. But one is gone to
Solinde, the other to Atvia." A wave of loneliness suddenly swamped him.
"Oh, gods, lir—without Hart I am half a man, and so alone—"

           
You have me.

           
He looked at her. She sat primly in
the dirt, eyes half slitted against the setting sun. Outwardly she seemed unperturbed,
but within the link he sensed her readiness.

           
Sleeta waited for something.

           
Brennan smiled. "Aye. I have
you. More than any man might ask for, even of the gods."

           
The tail flicked once; he had said
what she wanted to hear. Of course. I am Sleeta.

           
Laughing, he thrust a hand into the
firm plushness of her pelt and stroked her large, wedge-shaped head, losing
himself in the silken velvet of her coat. He was a man for women above all
things, but even a wondrously pleasing bedpartner could not fill him with such
infinite satisfaction as his magnificent lir.

           
He sighed and tugged an upright ear.
"Ah, Sleeta, what would I do without you. . . ?"

           
The mountain cat merely purred, as
if the answer were implicit.

           
Brennan slapped one raven shoulder.
"Onward, lir. Sitting out here will get us no closer to the palace. And I
am hungry—it has been hours since I ate, and it is nearly time for
dinner."

           
Sleeta licked one paw clean of dust,
rose, stretched, padded toward the outskirts. Brennan matched his pace to hers.

           
The boots he wore were eminently
unsuitable for walking any great distance, Brennan discovered quickly,
particularly when one was already stiff and sore from an awkward enforced
dismount. Hungry, footsore and decidedly out of temper, Brennan paused in one
of the winding streets—now ablaze from new-lit torches—and bent to tug the
offending folds out of his left boot. They were his favorite footgear for
working horses, but only when he was in the saddle, not out of it. Already he
had blisters.

           
You might have gone in lir-shape,
Sleeta commented.

           
Brennan, braced against the wall of
the nearest building, nodded briefly at the greeting of a passer-by. Not within
the city. You know Homanans never can tell the difference between lir and
animals of the wild—likely they would slay us both before thinking to ask if we
were human or animal.

           
Sleeta was a blotch of darkness in
the shadows, though the torchlight set the gloss of her coat agleam. She
blinked, implacable as ever; though the link offered each of them an uncanny,
unfettered means of communication, even to sensing emotions quite clearly,
there were times Sleeta was shuttered against him. For all she was utterly
de-voted to him, she was also a very private animal Brennan pressed a hand
against his belly. "If I do not eat soon . . ."

           
Then eat, Sleeta suggested
practically. I am not one to deny my lir a meal when he is clearly so close to
wasting away.

           
Brennan grunted. It would take more
than missing two meals to strip flesh from his frame. He lacked some of his
father's sheer bulk, perhaps, but none of the height the Cheysuli habitually
claimed, or the musculature. He was clearly a warrior: fit, firm, physically
well-suited to the lifestyle of his fellow Cheysuli. But Brennan thought some
of it came from frequent arms-practice and daily sessions with his horses in
addition to simple bone and blood inheritance; Hart, so very much like him,
generally appeared a trifle softer, though not precisely soft. And
Corin—shorter, slighter than either of them—was built much more compactly.

           
A warbow, Brennan thought. Hart and
I are Homanan swords, long and lethal, while Corin's power is hidden in
subtlety.

           
A vision of his brothers rose before
him and hung in the air as if to taunt him, to strip bare the thin skin hiding
his loneliness. Hart, his other self, was now in SoHnde; only the gods knew how
he would hold his own in the land of the enemy. He would probably wager his
life on it. And Corin, quick-tempered, quick-tongued Corin, would undoubtedly
embroil himself in difficulties of his own unique design, in Erinn and Atvia.

           
"Erinn." Brennan spoke
aloud. "Gods, Sleeta—Aileen will soon be on her way!"

           
"What did you say?"

           
For a moment Brennan thought he had
gone mad; he could swear the cat had spoken aloud. And then he realized the
question was from the young woman pausing by his side. She was wrapped in a
thin dark cloak, but the hood slid from her head to display plaited black hair,
glossy as Sleeta's pelt, and he saw a face he could not place at once, though
he knew he had seen it before.

           
"No," he said, "I
spoke to my lir" He gestured to Sleeta, and saw the young woman's eyes
widen as she looked at him more closely.

           
"You!" she said in
surprise. "Oh—my lord—" And she dropped into an awkward curtsy that
puddled skirts and cloak in the dust of the cobbled street.

           
Startled by the unexpected homage,
all Brennan could do was stare. And then as her upturned face was made clear by
the torchlight, he recognized her.

           
"The girl from The Rampant
Lion!" He reached down, caught a hand, pulled her up. "There is no
need for that. . . ." He paused, though he did not release her hand.
"Forgive me, meijhana, I have forgotten your name."

           
Her hand was cold in his.
"Rhiannon," she answered softly. "Oh, my lord, I have
dreamed—" Abruptly she broke off, snatching her hand out of his and
yanking the hood up to hide most of her face. "I am sorry—I must go."

           
"Rhiannon—wait!" He caught
a fold of her cloak to gainsay her, felt the thin cloth tear and cursed himself
for being such a heavy-handed fool. He could well afford to buy her a hundred
cloaks—and better ones than this—to replace the one he had torn, but he
understood something of pride. The look in her eyes told him she had a fair
share of what he himself claimed.

           
"I must go, my lord." She
said nothing of the cloak that now gaped at her shoulder, where the hood had
parted from the rest. "If I am late . . ."

           
"Then I will come with you, and
if you are late because of me, I think the tavern-keeper will hold his tongue."
He smiled at her and tried to pull the torn pieces of cloth together.
"Have you food at The Rampant Lion?"

           
"Of course, my lord—though none
so fine as you are accustomed to." She stood very still as he resettled
the cloak. She did not look at him, keeping black eyes demurely averted; two
gently insistent brown fingers beneath her chin drew her face up into the light
where he could see it more clearly.

           
Something glittered against the
fabric of her tunic.

           
Brennan caught it, held it up: his
ring. The sapphire set in silver he had given her in gratitude for bringing the
Mujharan Guard during the altercation with Reynald of Caledon, who had gone
home weeks before.

           
"You want it back." She
reached up to strip the thong over her head; he stopped her.

           
"No. No, it was freely given to
you. It is yours, Rhiannon. For as long as you wish to keep it."

           
"As long—?" She laughed a
little. "Forever, my lord. Of course."

           
"Of course." He grinned.
"Come then, meijhana—or the tavern-keeper will rail at us both." And
he tucked her arm into his elbow and escorted her to The Rampant Lion as if she
were the finest lady of all the Mujhar's court, while Sleeta padded beside
them.

           
It was the first time since he could
remember that Brennan had crossed under the lintel branch of The Rampant Lion
without one or both of his brothers.

           
Rhiannon was lovely and sweet and
struck almost speechless by the Prince of Homana's royal presence—but she was
not Hart. She was not Corin. And he missed them both acutely.

           
The tavern, as always, enjoyed good
custom, though Brennan had seen it busier. A few men huddled together at a
comer table over some sort of dice game—where is my rufho? he wondered
sadly—while others of a more solitary bent drank quietly at separate tables.
Sleeta's presence among them garnered sharp looks and startled expressions, but
it was no longer unheard of for a warrior and his lir to walk freely in
Mujhara, and soon enough the men turned back to their business.

           
As they entered, a young
man—black-haired, browneyed, of pleasant expression—came out from behind a
curtain divider and fixed Rhiannon with a playfully displeased scowl.
"Lady, lady," he chided, though without heat. "What am I to do
when there are men who call for your efficient table service, and you are not
here to please them?"

           
Color suffused her face instantly.
"I—I am sorry, Jarek. I will stay late, to make up the time."

           
He laughed- "Aye, you will, if
only to keep me company while I count the ale barrels." Jarek's good humor
remained, but his smile did not quite extend to his eyes as he looked at
Brennan, "Should I lay blame for your tardiness on this man?"

           
"You may," Brennan agreed,
knowing full well—and understanding even better—why the tavern-keeper's manner
bordered on unacknowledged hostility. "And rather than have Rhiannon
remain later than she should, I will compensate you for her time." Fingers
dipped into the plump belt-purse on his hip. "Name your price."