Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (17 page)

           
"Sleep, my lord," she
said. "No more harm will come to you."

           
He smiled, though he did not open
his eyes. "You A sound so certain, meijhana."

           
"I am. No harm, my lord Brennan—I
promise. Your lir is here, and so am I."

           
For the moment, there was nothing
more he wanted.

           
He dreamed of darkness and close confinement,
and the knowledge of his fear. Weighed down, he could not move.

           
Only his voice knew freedom, and
even that was denied him. Muzzled by a deep, disturbing sleep, the only sound
he emitted was a throttled wail, a muffled plea for release.

           
"My lord."

           
The woman's voice intruded. From a
distance he heard it. He reached out for it, trying to catch it and cling to it
like a babe to a mother's breast.

           
"My lord—" She paused,
"Brennan . . . Brennan—wake up. I am here. I am here. I promise."

           
He struggled toward the voice.
Something touched his face: a hand, warm and kind, offering him compassion.

           
He reached out, caught it, clung,
and the darkness began to recede.

           
"Brennan—"

           
And he came up out of the dream into
reality again, and caught her against his chest, pulling her body beneath his,
knowing only one way to banish such gods-cursed fear; how to prove he was
alive, alive, after coming so close to death.

           
"Please—" he whispered,
and then abruptly he was awake.

           
—oh, gods—

           
Even as he moved to relieve her of
his weight, of his uncharacteristic demand, her hands pulled him back down.

           
"No."

           
"But—you know what I meant to
do—what I would have done, whether you wanted it or no. . . ."

           
"I know." She reached up
to catch a lock of his hair.

           
"Do you think I am
unwilling?"

           
A dozen questions spilled into his
mind. He wanted to speak of Jarek; of the line between lust and love; of the
differences in gratification and gratitude. He could give her so many reasons
for what he had so nearly done, and what his body still wanted him to do. But
looking into her face, into her eloquent eyes, he saw no desire for explanation.
She knew as well as he. She wanted as much as he.

           
She locked her hands into his hair
and pulled his head down, down, until her breath caressed his face. "I did
not love him, Brennan. That much I promise you."

           
For now, it was enough.

           
He gave Rhiannon into the care of
serving women when they reached Homana-Mujhar. Sleeta he tended personally, as
always. And, at last, he turned his attention to himself, tarrying in a hot
bath even when his kinfolk came knocking at his chamber door with questions
regarding his health, word of his battered appearance having been passed among
the servants and so to his kinfolk. He sent them away with promises of a full
explanation, and fell asleep in the cask.

           
At last he faced his kinfolk in
Deirdre's airy tower solar, though now it was dark outside. He was more than
willing to give an explanation now that he was clean again, clad in fresh
leathers and smelling of cloves instead of fear and close confinement. But he did
not begin at once, because Ian stepped close and stopped him short with a hand
upon his arm.

           
He inspected Brennan's left ear
attentively a moment.

           
“A clean cut," he said after a
moment. "You are lucky. You might have lost the entire ear."

           
Maeve, standing near one of the
tripod braziers, grimaced and touched her own, as if sharing a measure of his
pain. Keely, sitting crosswise in one of Deirdre's chairs, combed unbound hair
away from her face with stiffened fingers. Her blue eyes were very thoughtful.

           
Deirdre, playing hostess, poured
wine into a cluster of cups and began to hand them out. As she came to Brennan,
he saw how tightly set was her mouth. She said nothing at first, giving Ian his
portion, but he seemed to sense she intended to and moved away smoothly. It
left Deirdre and Brennan confronting one another over a cup of blood-red wine.

           
He took it from her, but her fingers
pressed his own.

           
"Next time," she said
quietly, "let the bath wait."

           
"I was filthy—'

           
"I know. And I am saying, let
it wait." Her green eyes were steady, unyielding. "Think of your
father instead of yourself."

           
He opened his mouth to protest, to
repeat how badly he had needed the bath, but he shut it in silence instead.

           
A glance at his father, waiting
quietly in a chair near the fireplace, underscored the intent of Deirdre's
words. Niall would say nothing, but there was suddenly acknowledgment in
Brennan's mind that he had worried him deeply and unnecessarily, even if for
only the brief length of time required by the bath.

           
He sighed. "Aye. Aye, I
will." He touched Deirdre's shoulder briefly in thanks, then went to his
father. The others would hear clearly enough, but it was to Niall he would
speak. "I am well, jehan. I swear. There is—discomfort—" he shrugged
"—but it will fade."

           
Niall looked up at him from the
chair. "Who put you in irons?" he asked quietly.

           
"Irons!" Maeve stared.
"What does he mean, Brennan?"

           
The others, clearly, had seen only
the lobeless ear.

           
The Mujhar had seen his wrists with
their bracelets of flesh rubbed raw. And now everyone else did as well.

           
Keely abruptly swung her legs
around, rose and crossed to him. Forthright as ever, she grabbed one of his
hands and pulled it out where she could see it and his wrist clearly. He felt
her fingers spasm briefly in shock, and then she let him go,

           
"Who dared to chain you
up?" Her tone was level, on the surface unemotional, but he heard the
truth beneath the sound. Anger. Outrage. An abiding disbelief,

           
"His name was Jarek,"
Rhiannon said, and shut the door behind her.

           
As one, all turned and stared at
her. Even Brennan did not move to her at once, though he meant to, because he
was too startled. He had known she was attractive, but the women had made her beautiful.

           
Awkwardly, she curtsied deeply.
Heavy skirts—a deep, rich blue—draped on slate-gray stone. Her hair, bound back
smoothly in a single braid, coiled like glossy black rope against soft wool.
"My lord Mujhar—" And abruptly, she lost her balance.

           
It was Ian, closest, who caught her
arm and raised her.

           
Her face blazed with brilliant
color. She allowed Ian to hold her stiff arm and did not attempt to move again,
as if afraid she might embarrass herself further.

           
"Be easy, meijhana," Ian
told her kindly, offering her his warmest smile. "There are times
formality is required, but this is hardly one of them." His fingers
squeezed her arm gently. "Be welcome among us, lady."

           
Brennan looked at his uncle instead
of Rhiannon. It was no secret among Deirdre's ladies—and therefore the rest of
the palace—that the Mujhar's brother was a man worth having, as friend or
bedmate—or both—but Ian had never shown any indication of desiring permanency
in feminine companionship. Certainly he did not now, but there was no mistaking
his attentiveness to Rhiannon.

           
He would do the same for any woman .
. . and then: She must be twenty-five years younger than my su'fali!

           
Smoothly Brennan moved forward and
offered his hand to Rhiannon. She took it at once, and he could not hide the
smile of subtle triumph as he turned her away from Ian.

           
He presented her to his father.
"This is Rhiannon, jehan. Because of her courage, I am here to stand
before you."

           
"You have my thanks,"
Niall said quietly. "Leijhana tu'sai, in the Old Tongue. But will you be
more forthright in an explanation than my son? We still are woefully ignorant
of circumstances."

           
"Why was he in irons?"
Maeve demanded. "Do you know, Rhiannon?"

           
"Gently," Brennan
suggested. "Rhiannon is ally, not enemy."

           
Rhiannon's hand was cold in his.
"I know," she said, and proceeded to tell them in a quiet, steady
voice.

           
When she was done, the silence was
palpable. And then the Mujhar began to swear. Quietly. Calmly. Inventively. In
perfect eloquence he levied every curse against the Ihlini he could think of.

           
"Well," Ian said dryly
when Niall was done, "there is no need for our retribution. Surely this is
enough."

           
"Track them down," Keely
said tightly. "Track them all down, and slay them all as you slew
Jarek."

           
"Jarek was Ihlini,"
Brennan reminded her. "For all we know, so were the others."

           
"How?" Maeve asked.
"Could they all hide themselves behind Homanan faces? Even before the lir?"

           
Brennan shrugged. "Sleeta did
not know him for Ihlini. It is clear Strahan has learned well the spell that
shields Ihlini from the lir."

           
"And it makes them all the more
dangerous," Ian said.

           
Niall shook his head. "I am not
certain that is so. That Jarek was shielded, aye—but the others? I think not.
It requires something tangible from a lir—a tooth, a claw, a talon, a feather .
. . how many lir have died in Ihlini hands?" He sat forward in his chair.
"Tynstar had Cai, my grandsire's hawk. Strahan had four teeth from Storr,
Finn's wolf. But not enough, I think, for all of them."

           
"He might have had more than
enough," Brennan said. "He told me that although they preferred to
sacrifice women and children to avoid alarming the lir, they did kill a few
warriors."

           
"An endless supply of
lir." Ian, stark-faced, shook his head. "It is not impossible. It may
be all were Ihlini, not Homanan at all, Jarek simply used the story of Elek as
a ruse."

           
"But why?" Rhiannon asked.
"If all were Ihlini, why act as Homanans at all?"

           
"Think," Ian said.
"How better to infiltrate a realm than by portraying yourself as a part of
that realm?"

           
"Even before people you intend
to murder?" Keely asked. "That makes no sense at all, even for what I
have heard of Strahan."

           
Ian shrugged. "I cannot say why
Strahan does any of the things he does. But if he is true to himself—true to
the Strahan we know—he will use every device in his ken to harm us." He
nodded at Rhiannon. "Had she not freed Sleeta, thereby returning the power
of lir-shape to Brennan, Jarek and the others would not have been unmasked. We
would still be ignorant of the truth, because Strahan's allies take infinite
care to keep us in ignorance." He spread eloquent hands. "How best to
do that? By playing out the role."

           
Keely shook her head. "I still
say it is senseless. I cannot see why any of them bother to portray themselves
as Homanans when they mean to slay us regardless."

           
"Because you have no guile in
you," Deirdre said.

           
Keely looked at her in surprise.
"What?"

           
"No guile," Deirdre
repeated. "You're a woman for saying what you mean."

           
"Even when silence is
preferable." Brennan smiled at his scowling sister. "Admit it,
rufholla—you would sooner charge in shouting your name and intention for all to
hear, than to work in silence and subterfuge."

           
"So should everyone," she
retorted. "What good is there in crawling on your belly when there are
legs to carry you?”