Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (21 page)

           
Mute, Brennan watched his cousin go.
He could find no protests in the face of such deadly determination.

           
And when he was alone again, save
for the massive throne, he went to it and sat down. It was not the first time.
He and the Lion were on good terms.

           
"He will change his mind,"
Brennan told it, as much to reassure himself as to placate the Lion. "He
will never leave his clan." But there was no answering reassurance from
his conscience. Uneasily, he touched the lobeless ear. "Perhaps I should
tell jehan."

           
Brennan did, over the Mujhar's
evening meal, which Niall took alone in his private solar; Deirdre was
otherwise occupied. His father pushed aside his platter of unfinished food so
sharply his knife rattled against the silver. "I cannot believe you were
so foolish as to incite Teir to such idiocy! You know what he is like."

           
Brennan sat slumped over the table,
chin propped up on one hand. He was disgruntled enough; his father's displeasure
made him feel worse. "Aye, well, I think we need not worry, Teir often
says much but does very little."

           
Niall's tone was decidedly cool.
"That is your opinion after carefully considering what would happen if he
did precisely as he threatens?"

           
"How could he turn his back on
so much?" Brennan asked in guilt-bom exasperation. "His clan, his
race, his tahlmorra—"

           
"Obviously he is willing to do
so. For all he gives us impotent threats much of the time, this one may be
real. How many warriors do you know even jest about such action?"

           
Brennan scowled. "None,
but—"

           
"But." Niall's tone was
distinctly harsh. "I suggest you leave for Clankeep now and see if you can
repair the damage."

           
"Jehan—"

           
"I myself will go in the
morning. This sort of threat will be of concern to the clan-leader as well as
the shar tahl." Niall scraped his stool back and rose, his meal
unfinished. "Well?"

           
Belatedly, Brennan also rose. He was
grateful they were alone so no one else could see his frustration. "Teir
will do nothing tonight. Why not let me go with you in the morning?"

           
"Because I have told you to go
now."

           
Brennan sighed and shoved the stool
out of his way.

           
"Aye, jehan—aye, aye," he
muttered, and strode angrily toward the door.

           
"Even kings must take
responsibility for the consequences of their own actions," Naill said as
Brennan opened the door. "Begin now, and it will be that much easier when
you are Mujhar."

           
His heir shot him a look of deep
disgust and closed the door with a resounding thud as he stepped into the
corridor. Lir, we have been sent on a foolish errand.

           
Sleeta was one floor up in his
chambers, but the link dissolved the separation. We? she asked pointedly.

           
Do you berate me, too?

           
She sighed. Where are we going, lir?

           
Clankeep.

           
Her tone brightened. Then I will
bestir myself.

           
Upon Brennan's orders his newest
horse was brought, saddled and ready. It was late afternoon and the weather was
cool; winter was not so far away. The stallion, all black save for a splash of
white upon his nose, sidled and snorted, stomping noisily on the cobbles. His
eyes rolled as he espied Sleeta, who waited on the steps-

           
"My lord, I can saddle
another," the groom said as the stallion's lips peeled back to display
large teeth.

           
Brennan avoided the bite. "No.
I am in the mood for Bane." He caught the reins and swung up into the
Cheysuli saddle, clamping legs against sleek sides as Bane laid his ears flat
back and essayed a tentative sideways leap.

           
"The Mujhar rides out in the
morning."

           
"Aye, my lord." The groom
stepped away quickly, dodging flying hooves as Bane commenced dancing across
the bailey. Brennan rode out the worst of the stallion's customary protest,
then signaled the gates open. "I cannot say when I will return," he
called, and let the stallion go as Sleeta bounded through.

           
He was at the border dividing
meadowlands from forest when Rhiannon caught up to him. After the first short
gallop across the plains to work out frustrations and Bane's bad temper,
Brennan had slowed the stallion to a walk. Rhiannon clearly had kept her mount
at a run; the bay mare was lathered with sweat.

           
He waited until Rhiannon had caught
up before reaching across to grab one rein. "You know better," he
said sternly. High color stood in her face. She was breathless, black eyes
alight with exhilaration; the wind had blown tendrils of hair free of confining
braid.

           
"I know better," she
agreed, "but there was no help for it. You did not heed my call to
wait."

           
He frowned. "When did you call?"

           
She laughed. "When the horse
tried to smash your knee against the gatepost. You were swearing, my lord; I am
not surprised you did not hear me."

           
He smiled ruefully. "Aye, well,
I am somewhat fond of my knee, and the gods know I have more need of it than
Bane." He released her rein and jumped down from his horse.
"Dismount, meijhana—the mare should be walked."

           
"Aye, of course." She
slithered out of the saddle in a tangle of tassled boots, blue skirts and
midnight
mantle.

           
The heavy rope of hair was lost in
the folds of the mantle, but he saw a glint of silver ribbon threaded through
the plait.

           
He reached out and caught one slim
hand, pulling her close. Rhiannon, laughing, stretched up for his kiss, then
locked hands around his neck to pull him closer yet.

           
"Do you mind?" she asked
as he released her. "I wanted to be with you. So often I must spend all my
time with Deirdre or the ladies, when I would rather be with you."

           
He felt a twinge of guilt. It was no
secret that Rhiannon shared his bed, yet the Mujhar held his silence, Brennan
had no doubt Niall knew, but perhaps he knew also that repeated reminders of
Aileen's imminent arrival would merely promote discord.

           
"I do not mind, meijhana, but
you may find it tedious. I am sent to Clankeep to settle things with my
rebellious cousin."

           
"Teir is a fool,” Rhiannon
declared. "Maeve loves him—had he any sense, he would try to gain the
Mujhar's favor so he can take her for a wife."

           
"Then perhaps Maeve is the
fool." He turned Rhiannon toward the wood. "Come, meijhana—the mare
needs cooling."

           
She fell in beside him, leading the
tired mare. "Where is Sleeta?"

           
"Gone ahead. Hungry, she says,
but she will not be far."

           
Fingers twined. They walked in
companionable silence, leaving behind the open plains for the shadows of the
wood. The track was wide and beaten smooth; Clankeep was no longer closed to
those who were not Cheysuli.

           
Homanan goldsmiths came to trade for
ornaments, and other craftsmen as well.

           
'There was another reason,"
Rhiannon said quietly. "The Mujhar meant to send a man to tell you, but I
said I would go." She looked up at him gravely. "Word has come.
Aileen's ship has sailed from Erinn."

           
Brennan nearly missed a step. Behind
him. Bane nibbled irritably at his shoulder.

           
"I wanted to be the one to tell
you."

           
He looked down at her. Her face was
mostly averted, but he heard the merest trace of a waver in her voice.

           
"Meijhana—"

           
"I know," she said.
"I have always known. You will marry her."

           
"It was a
cradle-betrothal." He sighed. "It was more than that, meijhana—it was
agreed before I was born."

           
"I know." She shrugged,
speaking brightly. "I am no one. I could bring you nothing. Nothing
but—" She hesitated, then halted and turned to face him squarely.

           
One hand was splayed across her
belly. "Nothing but this child."

           
He caught her shoulders and held her
firmly in place, ignoring the mare's snort of fright and Bane's rolling eye.

           
"Are you certain?"

           
"Quite certain, my lord."
Rhiannon's smile was odd. "Does it please you?"

           
"How not?" He was
astonished that she could ask it. "A child, Rhiannon . . . how could I not
be pleased?"

           
"A bastard, my lord."

           
"Do you think I care about
that? A child is a child."

           
Rhiannon laughed. "And an Ihlini-Cheysuli
child? What do you say-to that?"

           
"His fingers locked in the
folds of her woolen mantle.

           
"Ihlini-"

           
One cool hand was a shackle on his
wrist, clinging, pressing, squeezing, until the flesh began to protest.

           
"Ihlini," she said
distinctly, "Ihlini and Cheysuti. Why else do you think I wanted you?—why
I made you want me?"

           
She was a woman, and weaker than he;
angrily Brennan tried to break her grip, twisting sharply; to shock and dismay
he found he could not. Because even as he moved, thinking to thrust her
violently away, he felt the explosion of pain through the link.

           
Sleeta was nearly incoherent. Lir—lir—lir—

           
Even as Brennan tried to twist free
again, meaning to run toward the source of Sleeta's anguish, Rhiannon prevented
him. With one hand only, fingers spread rigidly against his breastbone, she
coolly forced him off the track and against the nearest tree. "Back,"
she said only, supremely indifferent to his aborted bid for escape.

           
Lir— The cat's helplessness was his
own, transmitting itself through the link with frightening ease and accuracy.

           
Though Rhiannon exerted little
pressure, Brennan was slammed against the tree.

           
"Sleeta—"

           
"She is ours." Deftly
Rhiannon pulled the reins free of his clutching hand and freed both horses,
sending them away with a burst of purple flame from negligent fingers.

           
"I suggest you do not try to
struggle, for Sleeta's sake if not your own. My servants hold her now."

           
He wanted to overpower her. He
wanted to snap her elegant neck. But Sleeta's welfare was paramount in his
mind, and there was no doubting Rhiannon's confidence.

           
He dared not try to move, or risk
his lir's life as well as his own.

           
Sleeta?

           
Lir—lir—Ihlini— And abruptly her
pattern was broken, like a candle snuffed rudely out.

           
Rhiannon's hand still rested on his
breastbone, promising violence. That she used some form of arcane force, he
knew; she was strong, too strong. The rough bark of the tree ground against his
spine, even through the leathers. Within he raged at her; without he made no
effort to escape or attack.

           
"Good man," she said,
"good warrior. Do not move and she will live."

           
"Slay her and you slay
me."

           
"Empty threat," she
answered. "I have what I want of you."

           
He tried to reach Sleeta through the
privacy of the link, but nothing answered his frenzied search. There was
emptiness in the pattern. "You have already killed her!"