Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (19 page)

           
Niall shook his head in disgust.
"I thought Ceinn knew better than to raise his son on resentment and
bitterness. It does no good—the a'saii are disbanded."

           
"Teirnan says they are
not."

           
The Mujhar went very still.
"Not," he echoed. "And do you say they again espouse a change in
the succession?"

           
"With an additional change.
Ceinn and the others may have wanted Ian to take your place, once, but this
time Teir wants the Lion for himself."

           
"The fool. The young, arrogant
fool'" Niall thrust himself out of the chair and paced to one of the
casements. It was full night outside, but the glow from bailey torches banished
total darkness. What he saw Brennan would not venture to guess, but then he was
not certain his father looked at anything other than memories.

           
"He says they will appeal to
Clan Council, charging that Teir's blood has precedence over ours, jehan.”
Brennan shook his head. "He seems not to care that a division within the
clans could well divide Homana."

           
"Teirnan never could see
farther than his own immediate desires," Niall said in disgust.
"Ceinn was shrewder ... he said they wanted Ian on the Lion, or—when it
was obvious Ian would never claim it—the first son 'Solde bore." He sighed
and rubbed at ruined flesh, obviously troubled by old memories and grief.
"Never did he claim it for himself. So—now he gives that son leave to win
it—or steal it—however he can."

           
"Jehan-"

           
The Mujhar's tone was weary more
than angry. "If he knew what it was to sit in the Lion Throne ..."
But he did not finish, turning instead to face his oldest son.

           
"Well then, I think it is time
to have him come to Homana-Mujhar.”

           
"Here?" Brennan frowned.
"Why?"

           
"I discounted the a'saii
before, because I was foolish enough to believe my place secured," Niall
said. "I was, after all, Cheysuli and Homanan, a part of the
prophecy." He smiled in wry self-deprecation. "It nearly got me
slain. I will not do it again . . . not when my son is at risk."

           
Brennan stared at his father
thoughtfully for a long moment. Then he slowly shook his head as he understood
the ramifications. "You are taking Teirnan hostage against the a'saii."

           
"Am I?" Niall's bland tone
divulged nothing of his thoughts.

           
Brennan could not look away from the
man. He had seen the Mujhar on many occasions dealing with all manner of
circumstances, political and personal, but never had seen him so intently
purposeful while seeming so unconcerned.

           
"He might not come, jehan.”

           
"I think he will. If I know
anything of Teirnan at all, he will come to prove himself. To prove what he is
to us"

           
"I can tell you what he
is," Brennan murmured darkly.

           
Niall smiled and walked slowly over
to Deirdre's tapestry frame. He studied the pattern intently for a moment, then
turned back to Brennan. "I cannot expect you to be boon companions any
more than Ceinn and I were. But perhaps you can—influence him."

           
Brennan scowled. "I can think
of better company."

           
"Doubtless so can he."

           
The scowl evaporated, replaced by a
wry smile. "And if Ceinn objects? He is Teir's jehan.'"

           
Niall raised his tawny brows.
"And I am Mujhar of Homana. On occasions such as this, there is some value
in rank."

           
Brennan laughed aloud. "I think
you want Ceinn to object."

           
"There is no pleasure in
discord." Smiling, Niall lifted his cup and drank.

           
Son looked at father in detached
appreciation. He did not much resemble Niall, being wholly Cheysuli in bones
and color while the Mujhar was wholly Homanan, but they often thought alike,
spoke alike, experienced similar feelings. There were times Brennan thought his
father knew what he was thinking.

           
He scrubbed at his brow; weariness
threatened to make him incoherent. He rose and set the cup down on the nearest
table. "Jehan, if you wilt give me leave, I am for bed."

           
"Brennan."

           
At the door, Brennan glanced back.
"Aye?"

           
"You have bedded the
girl."

           
Brennan took his hand off the latch
and turned to face his father more fully. "Aye." He felt a brief
spasm of guilt as he recalled the initial circumstances, but it faded
instantly. In the end, what he and Rhiannon had shared had not been a thing of
force or mere gratification at all, but of entirely different dimensions.

           
The Mujhar's single eye was oddly
opaque, but unwavering. "Perhaps I would do well to remind you that
although meijhas are accepted in the clans, Aileen is not Cheysuli."

           
He thought he was too tired to be
truly angry, but a trace of resentment flared. And was gone almost at once.

           
He knew very well that if it were
not in deference to Aileen's Erinnish sensibilities, his father would never
interfere in his son's personal life.

           
"I have no intention of
offering insult to Aileen," Brennan said quietly, "any more than I
intend to make Rhiannon my meijha."

           
The Mujhar relaxed almost
imperceptibly. He smiled.

           
"Go and eat. And sleep. I
intend-to send men tomorrow to leam what they can of this Homanan idiocy concerning
Caro—it may be nothing more than something created by Strahan for effect—but I
will excuse you from it and from Council in the morning."

           
"Leijhana tu'sai," Brennan
said fervently, and pulled open the heavy door.

           
He slept heavily for part of the night
and then awoke, sweating, as he felt himself slide toward the abyss. Sleep was
banished. He sat up in bed and stared blankly at the draperies dripping from
the framework of his bed and knew if he did not resolve his fear once and for
all, he would never sleep well again.

           
Sleeta was a lump of warmth and
blackness at the foot of his bed. Even in deepest winter he required no heating
pans; Sleeta was more than enough. Through the link he felt her drowsy inquiry,
and told her to go back to sleep.

           
What he intended to do required
solitude, or the accomplishment—should there be any—would be tainted.

           
Brennan pulled on leggings, jerkin,
soft houseboots.

           
Moonlight slanted through casement
slits, providing more than enough illumination for a man with Cheysuli vision.

           
He went out of his room into the
torchlit corridor and took the first down-winding staircase he came to.

           
In the Great Hall, the Lion crouched
on the dais.

           
Brennan hardly glanced at it;
nocturnal visits in childhood had inured him to the eerie, lifelike stare of
wooden eyes. And it was not the Lion that drew him now, but something else
entirely.

           
Brennan kicked charred wood and ash
from one end of the firepit, sweeping clean of debris the circular iron lid set
flush against stained brick. He thought briefly of using a torch for a lever;
dismissed it and bent to grasp the twisted handle. He muttered a plea for help,
then braced himself and jerked upward.

           
The hinged lid yawned open and
folded against the rim of the pit with a muffled clang. Ash rose; Brennan
coughed. The exertion emphasized his need for rest and recovery. Raw wrists
stung as other muscles clamored to protest abuse.

           
Brennan stood on the edge of the
stairway leading deep into the earth. It had been sixteen years since he had descended
the one hundred and two steps to the underground vault called the Womb of the
Earth.

           
Aloud, he quoted a tenet of the
clans: "If one is afraid, one can only become unafraid by facing that
which causes the fear."

           
The words fell away into silence.

           
He sucked in a deep breath through a
throat that threatened to close. "Prince of Homana? No. More like prince
of cowards."

           
There was no disagreement.

           
Brennan swore. He caught up a torch
from the rack and thrust it rigidly before him. It roared in the mouth of the
stairway.

           
"Down," he said aloud, and
made himself follow the order.

           
He counted. Each step took him
nearer the Womb, farther from the Lion. Deeper. Until there was no light at all
from the Great Hall, only the flames from the torch, and he knew it was not
enough.

           
Brennan stopped. Sweat stung his
armpits and dampened the hair against his face. The torch shook from the
rigidity of his grip, distorting illumination. All he could see was blackness
ahead and the promise of close confinement.

           
Down.

           
More steps. One by one, he descended
them, until there were no more. He stood in a closet made of rune-worked stone.
Slowly he put out one hand and pressed the keystone.

           
The wall fell inward, as he knew it
would, and the vault revealed itself to him. The torch roared, spat flame,
threatened briefly to snuff out. But it did not. And when he could, Brennan
stepped into the vault.

           
The walls ran wet with torchlight.
Gold veined the creamy marble and lent life to the lir imprisoned there.

           
Brennan saw wings and claws and
beaks and eyes, all frozen in the stone. Each wall, from floor to ceiling, was
alive with marble
Ur
.

           
"Ja'hai," he muttered
aloud. But the gods made no indication they heard his instinctive plea for
acceptance.

           
Sixteen years . . . and I am no less
afraid at twenty-one than I was at five.

           
Brennan took three steps forward,
then two more. He stood at the edge of the oubliette. The torchlight did not
begin to touch the darkness of the pit. He could see nothing past the rim.

           
There were stories about the Womb.
Legends that said a man, meant to become Mujhar, was required to be bom of the
earth herself, of the Jehana, and this was the birthing place. No one knew if
the stories were true, or merely imagery handed down by the shar tahls to make
certain everyone would remember. Brennan himself could not say, although he had
heard one story more than once; that Homanan Carillon, needing the blessing of
the gods, had of his own accord gone into the oubliette. And come out again,
whole, but with a greater understanding of what it meant to be Cheysuli, even
though he was not.

           
"Homanan," Brennan said
aloud. "But I am Cheysuli; is there really a need for such
sacrifice?"

           
"Is there, my lord?"

           
He stood very still on the edge of
the oubliette, taking great care to maintain his balance. When he could move
again without fear of falling, he turned.

           
Rhiannon stood in the open doorway.
She had exchanged gown for linen nightrail and woolen robe.

           
Wrapped in deepest blue, cloaked in
a mantle of raven hair, she blended into the shadows.

           
In her eyes was the knowledge of
what they had shared the night before, and the desire to share it again. She
was not a bold jade such as many of the court women, but neither was she a coy
woman whose mouth was filled with innuendo. That she believed herself in love
with him, he knew; perhaps she was. But he was not in love with her.

           
She did not move from the doorway,
as if she understood quite well that to enter was to intrude upon something
sacred, something of ancient and binding power. "I went to your chamber
and saw you leave it, so intent you did not see me in the shadows. You looked
so troubled—" she shrugged, excusing her boldness easily,"—I
followed. I found the stairway in the firepit, and knew what you meant to
do."