Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (14 page)

           
Jarek glanced at Sleeta, then back
at Brennan. Red-faced, he smiled ruefully, shrugged, spread his hands.

           
"What would I ask of a Cheysuli
warrior save gold? But only in coin, of course; I would not presume to covet
that you wear upon your arms." Still, he could not keep his eyes from the
bands, "Be welcome in my tavern, warrior, and leave what you wish as a
gift for Rhiannon when it comes time for your departure. That will be
compensation enough."

           
"Your tavern?" Brennan
took his hand away from his belt-purse. "I do not recall having seen your
face before. And I am a frequent patron."

           
Jarek frowned a little.
"Forgive me, warrior, but I do not recall your face. And this tavern has
been mine these past six weeks."

           
Rhiannon's voice was quiet. "He
bought it, my lord, not long after—the fight."

           
"Ah." Brennan shrugged. It
did not please him to recall the battle with the Caledonese, since one thing
had led to another, and now he was brotherless, even if only temporarily.
"Well, blame me for her tardiness. I delayed her. And now—lest I perish—may
I request a meal? And wine. Red wine. Fine Ellasian wine." Smiling, he
moved to the closest empty table and sat down.

           
Sleeta settled herself behind his
bench and stretched out, a gleaming, breathing rug.

           
"At once," Jarek smiled,
bowed, gestured. "Rhiannon will do the honors."

           
"Aye, aye, of course."
Again she curtsied to Brennan, with more grace this time, and hastened off to
fetch the wine.

           
Jarek did not leave at once, though
he watched Rhiannon depart even as Brennan did. Then be turned back, pale brown
eyes assessive. He smiled; his tone was easy, carefully noncomittal, which was
a story in itself.

           
"She gives you great honor,
warrior. I thought the Cheysuli did not put much weight in things such as
curtsies and titles."

           
Brennan sensed Jarek's unspoken
challenge clearly, though it lacked true hostility. Even if they were more than
employer and employee, which seemed likely, Jarek no doubt knew Rhiannon would
inspire much interest on the part of wealthier, high-ranking suitors. He
believed his position within her regard precarious.

           
But Rhiannon did not strike Brennan
as the sort of girl who would throw over one good man merely to stalk another
with greater fortune.

           
"The Cheysuli do not,"
Brennan agreed easily. "The Homanans do. Rhiannon is Homanan, and
therefore honors the title rather than the man." He smiled as Rhiannon
came back with a jug of wine and a hastily-polished silver mug; he could see
where she had spat upon it and rubbed it with a cloth.

           
"My lord," she said,
filling the mug, "here is your wine—the best I could find." She glanced
sidelong at Jarek. "Your private cask, Jarek, from the back of the
cellar."

           
"My cask—“

           
"He is the Prince of
Homana!" she hissed, and smiled self-consciously at Brennan. "My
lord, what victuals can I bring you?"

           
Sipping wine, Brennan shook his head.
"No matter," he answered when he had swallowed. "Fresh meat, new
bread, some cheese . . . have you any fruit?"

           
"Raisins from
Caledon
," she said brightly, and then abruptly
they shared the same vision: Reynald, cousin to Prince Einar, with his ruined
escort around him. As one they laughed, and Jarek quickly took his leave, too
quickly; his spine was stiff as iron.

           
Jealous, Sleeta remarked lazily from
behind.

           
With cause, Brennan told her. The
girl is worth the jealousy. And abruptly, thinking of Maeve trapped in Tiernan's
web, he reached out and caught Rhiannon's hand before she could leave again.
"Meijhana—“ he lowered his voice to spare her embarrassment. "—is he
good to you? Does he pay a fair wage? Does he have-expectations?"

           
She knew what the last meant clearly
enough. Vivid color washed into her face, then fell away, leaving it pale and
lily-fragile.

           
"Jarek is a good man," she
said evenly. "As for expectations—aye, and why not? It is a good wage, and
I am grateful for his generosity."

           
"How grateful?" he
persisted. "And for how long?"

           
She jerked her hand away. "Why,
my lord? Will you pay more? Will you keep me longer? Will you fulfill my
expectations?"

           
He was aghast at her interpretation
of his interest in her welfare. "Rhiannon—no. No, I swear, I do not ask
because I want you for myself." And abruptly cursed himself; he told her
the truth, but too bluntly. What woman wanted to hear a man did not desire her
in his bed? "Wait you," he said clearly, aware of color rising in his
own dark face. "I meant only to ask if he forced you. No more."

           
"Why?" Her heart-shaped
face was stiffly set, but delicately proud.

           
He thought at first to lie for
Maeve's sake, but did not.

           
He felt Rhiannon worth the truth.
"Because there are men in the world who will stoop to force a woman's
will, and I would not want to see Jarek do it to you."

           
It took her by surprise. No doubt
she had heard all manner of invitations in her employment, as well as crude
suggestions; she did not expect a man to concern himself with her welfare
outside of what she could do for him in bed.

           
"No," she said. "No,
he does not force me. "It-it was wanted. . . ." She looked away from
him, though her fingers crept up to touch the sapphire ring. He thought it unconsciously
done. "He is a good man, Jarek, better than any other I have known."

           
Brennan nodded, releasing her hand.
"Then I am pleased for you, meijhana."

           
"He is kind, and fair, and
generous," she went on. "I am not made to work all night and day,
like the girls in other taverns. I am given one day out of seven for myself.
And all the meals I could wish for. He even gave me this—" She lifted a
fold of the cloak, then blushed bright red as they both recalled how easily the
cheap fabric had torn under Brennan's hand. "He is a good man," she
declared desperately, clenching her hands in the cloak.

           
Brennan smiled a little. "I am
convinced, meijhana. You are eloquent in your assertions."

           
"I must go," Rhiannon said
in a muffled tone. "There is work to be done." Abruptly she swung to
take her leave, and in doing so she knocked the winejug over. It spilled wine
across the table to splatter on the floor, red as blood.

           
Brennan stood at once, avoiding the
pungent torrent.

           
He righted the jug even as Rhiannon
tore off her ripped cloak to sop up what she could of the spillage. "Oh—my
lord-“

           
"Stop fretting," he
ordered firmly, seeing tears gathering in her eyes. "I am not wet, and
there is more wine in the cellars. Shansu, meijhana—the world will turn
again."

           
"Clumsy," she said, half
angrily, gathering jug and soaked cloth into her slender arms. And she was gone
before he could speak again, dripping wine to mark an unintended path.

           
Flighty sort, commented Sleeta.

           
No, no, only overwhelmed by my
title, Brennan explained, a trifle sadly, as he sat down again after checking
his bench for wine puddles. It happens so often, lir—too often for my taste, ft
seems I am never able to see the true person underneath all the awe and
awkwardness.

           
"My lord." It was Jarek,
with a new winejug in his hands. "My lord, Rhiannon has explained her
clumsiness. I beg you, spare her your anger. She is a good girl, and meant no
harm."

           
The obsequious manner was new,
ill-fitting, and unwanted. Brennan's mouth twisted in displeasure. "And do
you think I want her beaten? Do you think I expect her to lose her place? It
was an accident, tavern-keeper. Even if I were soaked, do you think I would
want her punished?"

           
"How can I say, my lord?"
Jarek returned stiffly. "Men who are princes often want things others might
not." He jerked his head to indicate other patrons. "For a six-week
now I have served the aristocracy and wealthy men of Mujhara. Do you think I
have not seen all manner of retribution? Have I reason to expect you might want
none taken?"

           
"Perhaps not," Brennan
agreed coolly. "As it happens, you have no reason to expect anything of
me. Except, perhaps, my custom, which The Rampant Lion has always enjoyed.
Unless, of course, you choose not to serve me now."

           
"Do you want her?" Jarek
demanded bluntly, forgoing anything approaching diplomacy or respect for a
title; now they were merely men. "Do you intend to take her?"

           
Brennan sighed. "She named you
a good man, Jarek. She named you a fair man. I am not disposed to argue it—she
sounded quite convinced—but I am disposed to say you are a fool." He took
the jug from Jarek's rigid hands and poured his mug full. "I am not in the
habit of taking women from other men. Particularly if they are content where
they are."

           
Jarek did not look away as Brennan
drank. "You could offer her much more. And she is deserving of it."

           
Brennan drained half the mug, then
set it down. "Every man and woman has a tahlmorra, Cheysuli and Homanan
alike. If the gods intend better for her, she will have it. Otherwise, it will
be none of my doing."

           
"She is—-special." Jarek's
tone was desperate. "My lord, I have no wish to lose her, not to any man .
. . but I want what is best for her."

           
"It does you credit,"
Brennan told him after a moment, "But have you never thought that what is
best for her may be the man she has?"

           
"It is your ring she wears
around her neck."

           
"And your bed she warms."
Brennan sat forward on the bench, resting forearms on the table. "If she
wanted me in place of you, there are ways she could make it known. Ways she
could make it happen." He shrugged. "She need only come to the palace
and ask to see me on some pretext; I would receive her. Women have done it
before. They do it every day." He held Jarek's eyes with his own.
"When a man has wealth, power, rank, title—any or all—there are women who
want to share it, even if for only a week, a night, an hour. They barter with
their bodies in Hopes of gaining favors. In hopes of gaining wealth. And some
even dream of permanency."

           
He poured more wine. "I am not
celibate. I enjoy the courtship dance as much as any man. But neither am I a
stud who likes the mares to force themselves upon him."

           
"Rhiannon—has not."
Jarek's tone was harsh, strained.

           
"No. Do you think she ever
would?"

           
Jarek looked away. "No. No. She
is not a woman for that." He sighed heavily. "But—"

           
"Tend your custom, Jarek,"
Brennan said deliberately.

           
"Rhiannon has need of you.”

           
"And you?" Jarek asked.

           
He smiled. “I only have need of my
lir."

           
The food was excellent, the wine
even better. Now, sated, content, drowsy, Brennan watched Rhiannon move smoothly
around the common room tending Jarek's custom, and reflected that except for
poor quality clothing and a certain naive innocence in her manner, the young
woman could easily pass for one of Deirdre's ladies. She was well-spoken for an
uneducated commoner and her courtesy was boundless, even with those men who
chose to make sport of her or those who attempted to arrange a tryst. Certainly
she is lovely enough to grace Homana-Mujhar— Abruptly he caught himself. He had
pointedly told Jarek the Prince of Homana had no intentions of elevating
Rhiannon out of her present circumstances, and here he was considering what it
would be tike. But he could not deny that he was attracted to her; for all
Rhiannon's quiet, demure demeanor, he sensed she was also a passionate woman.

           
Who are you to contemplate bedding
the girl when your Erinnish bride will soon be on her way? Sleeta asked,
casually deliberate.

           
He sighed. Who am I, indeed?
Hypocrite, I think. Or merely befuddled by too much wine. Brennan scrubbed his
brow. We should go home, Sleeta—there are questions I have for Maeve.

           
He pushed himself up from the bench,
recalled Jarek's solution to compensation for Rhiannon's tardiness, dug into
his belt-purse and set a gold royal on the hardwood, knowing it worth
considerably more than a week's lodging and full meals.

           
Generous, Sleeta commented, rising
to stretch all her elegant lean length in the glow of candlelight.

           
Worth it— He smiled as Rhiannon came
to halt before him. "Jarek serves excellent wine and victuals, meijhana.
And you provide most attractive table service."

           
"Oh, my lord—are you going so
soon?" Color sprang up in her face, as if she felt her question too
personal, or too revealing.

           
"I must," he told her,
"but I will come again." If my jehan allows me to, he reflected wryly.
Slim fingers grasped the sapphire ring on the thong around her throat as her
eyes locked on his, and understood what she saw there. "I—I am Jarek's
woman, my lord—" She broke off, then went on, as if determined to make
things very clear. "You—do understand. . . ."

           
"I understand." He
smoothed a strand of loosened hair away from her cheek, slipping it gently
behind an ear naked of adornment. "Let us be friends, then, meijhana ...
if you will allow it."

           
"Allow it!” Rhiannon's laugh
was half-swallowed. "Oh, my lord—whoever would deny you friendship?"

           
Brennan's smile was mocking.
"My cousin," he told her wryly. "And I am assured there are
others, as well."

           
He looked past her to Jarek,
watching them from beside the curtain divider. His face was a mask, but Brennan
saw something in the eyes that spoke of many things a desperate man might know.
"Tell Jarek I am not without honor," Brennan said. "Tell him I
respect what others hold dear."

           
"Aye." Rhiannon nodded.
"The gods go with you, my lord."

           
"Cheysuli i'halla shansu,"
he returned, smiling at her confusion. "A wish for Cheysuli peace."

           
Rhiannon nodded again, then abruptly
turned away.

           
Brennan walked out of The Rampant
lion.

           
He was but a street away from the
gates of the palace when Sleeta growled a warning. Within the fir-link it was incoherent,
more cat- than lir-like, as if the threat were something she might know in the
world, and not a thing of men and women.

           
Brennan spun in place, hand to
knife, and saw the cat crouch and hackle, ears flattened against her head. The
growl issuing from her throat was a sound he had never heard from her, and it
set the back of his neck to prickling.

           
Sleeta—

           
Lir— That much was coherent. Lir—lir-

           
All he could think of were Ihlini.

           
"Sleeta—?" He backed up,
pressed his spine against the nearest wall, tried to slow his racing heart. He
thought of shouting—the watch could be just around the comer, and the Mujharan
Guard was one twisting street over—but did not. It would have been lost in
Sleeta's unnerving scream.

           
Dogs! It overwhelmed the link and
flooded his senses with Sleeta's rage and fear. Dogs—dogs—men—

           
"Sleeta!" Her consuming
emotions—visceral, primitive, little more than instinctive responses and
reactions—nearly destroyed his own precarious balance. And he was in human form;
if he assumed lir-shape he was almost certain to be overcome by Sleeta herself
as well as the threat she sensed. Lir, lir— within the link, in hopes of
reaching her—lir, what is it? Where?

           
The hounds—the hounds—

           
—and suddenly the hounds were on
her. Jaws agape ... he could not count them all ... grayish shapes in the
darkness, legs and teeth and claws . . . baying, baying . . . biting . . .
trying to take her down, trying to tear her throat—

           
"Now," commanded a voice.
"Now, while he is distracted."

           
—and Brennan knew then they wanted
him, not Sleeta, not Sleeta at all, except as a means to distract him, to turn
his attention from them, who meant to catch him, hold him, rob him—

           
Or do they mean to slay me?

           
And all the while the hounds barked
and growled and Sleeta screamed her anger and fear and hatred.

           
He tried to turn. He tried to defend
himself. But his reflexes were curiously slowed. Only limply did his fingers
clasp the knife hilt, offering no defense. Vision blurred. He cursed and
thought to summon fir-shape regardless of Sleeta's straits, but hands fell on
his arms, his wrists, his throat—fingers threaded themselves in his hair and
knotted there—so much weight, so much power, all thrust against him, pressing
him back against the wall.

           
"Sleeta—!" But hands
closed his mouth, mashing lips against teeth.

           
—Sleeta—But he knew he could not
touch her, could not reach her, not with all the hounds—

           
—failing: Sleeta—

           
"Strike him down," someone
ordered. "One cat is threat enough; do you wish to contend with two?"

           
And he thought: I know that voice—

           
But the voice said nothing more. And
if it had, he could not have heard it. With a club, they struck him down.

           
He did not know where he was. For
one horrible moment, he did not know who he was; and then he knew, and recalled
the attack, and realized he had not been robbed at all, or beaten, or slain.
Instead, he had been taken.

           
Sleeta—?

           
He tried to move. Iron rattled.
Darkness pressed down against his eyelids, blinding him entirely. There was no
sound save his ragged breathing, and the scrape of his bootheels against the
floor as his leg muscles bunched in panic.

           
Sleeta—?

           
But there was nothing within the
link; no answer, no stirring within the pattern he knew as Sleeta.

           
Oh, gods—lir—

           
Nothing.

           
He lay flat on his back. The stone
beneath him was cold, hard, unyielding. The stone around him was equally so; he
was inside, then, not out. He could tell by the closeness that weighed him
down, the faint echo of the iron as it chimed. Cuffed at wrists and ankles, all
he could do was stare blindly at what he might name a roof, had he the light to
see it.

           
"Sleeeetaaa—" The word was
a sibilant hiss in a tone akin to panic.

           
There was nothing in return. No
sound. No stirring in the lir-link.

           
Panic took his wits. He surged
upward against the iron, trying to break cuffs and chain; fell back again when
he thought his head might burst. Pain threatened to blind him, except he was
blind already. His belly cramped, tried to spew out all the food and wine he
had consumed at The Rampant Lion; would have, had he not clamped throat and
teeth against it.

           
"Lion . . ." The gasp
whispered in the darkness, running along the stone.

           
Jarek. His voice had given the
order. Had he been so insanely jealous as to order his rival imprisoned?

           
Brennan bit back a groan. The blow
had split open the flesh of his forehead and nearly cracked his skull. Even
thinking of movement made his belly squirm.

           
Sleeta?

           
Again, the appeal went unanswered.

           
Oh, gods—not my lir . . . oh, gods,
I beg you, let her be alive. . . . And he realized, to his surprise, the
petition was born not of fear for his own death, but because he could not
comprehend what the world would be like without Sleeta. She deserved to
survive, even if he could not.

           
No light. Only darkness, and stone,
and the weight of an unknown future.

           
Blood rolled into one eye, the
right; his spasmodic lunge against iron had opened the wound again.

           
Spare my lir, he begged—

           
—and slipped again into nothingness.

           
He awakened shouting. The words he
did not know, being little more than gibberish; he shouted, he shouted, and the
sounds bounced back from the stone and beat against his ears.

           
He stank of his own sweat. And he
knew the smell.

           
The stench filled up his nose and he
knew it, he knew it, recalling how once before he had been trapped, trapped and
completely terrified, so utterly terrified he had screamed and cried and soiled
himself, beating boy's hands against naked walls—

           
—the lir. All the lir, with beaks
agape and claws unsheathed, all of them, beating wings against the air, against
his head, his face, his eyes—all of them trying to throw him into the oubliette,
the Womb of the Earth—to throw him down and down and down, until he died of
fear alone, because everyone knew there was no bottom—

           
Gods, he was afraid.

           
—lir and lir and lir, shrouded in
shadow, cloaked in secrecy—he heard them . . . he knew they were there, each
and every one of them, speaking to one another, telling one another he was not
fit to be the Mujhar's son because he was afraid, and Cheysuli feared
nothing-Bat this Cheysuli did.

           
—so afraid, as the walls closed in.
So AFRAID—

           
The memory washed up from the
blackest depths of Brennan's inner self, battering at his awareness until it
broke through to crash upon the cliffs of consciousness, and he remembered it
all. Once, and once only, he had been enclosed as he was now, against his will,
made helpless. There had been no iron, no purposeful imprisonment, but the
result had been the same. The fear had been the same.

           
Then, there had been no lir; he was
just a boy. Now, there was no lir; Sleeta could not be found.

           
He caught his breath on something
very much like a sob. With no light, no world, no freedom, no lir, he would
surely go mad.

           
—so much weight-

           
Sleeta stood up in ridges, twisting
beneath his flesh.

           
Again and again he jerked limbs
against the iron, until his wrists ran wet with blood.

           
—out—out—OUT—

           
"Sleeta—!" he shouted, and
the sound came back to engulf him. To swallow him whole again.

           
Later, when he came back to himself:
"—afraid." The voice was smooth as clover honey, but honestly
surprised. "Look at him, Rhiannon!"

           
Brennan did not move, did not speak,
did not open his eyes to look. He lay in absolute stillness, tensed and rigid,
in iron manacles and blood, and thought himself gone quite mad,