Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (30 page)

           
Hart shook his head. "There is
no wager, Dar. Lisa would never allow Solinde to be ruled by a Homanan."

           
"Would she not?" Dar
stared grimly into his wine.

           
"Do not discount yourself,
shapechanger. There are those in Solinde who do not want another war,
preferring peace even to self-rule. They are very persuasive. And Lisa—"
He broke off, scowling blackly, then continued. "Lisa is guarded by those
who desire peace."

           
Hart recalled the man who had
accompanied her the day they had met. A Solindishman whose task it was to guard
her, and who allowed her so little freedom in order to protect her welfare.

           
He looked hard at Dar, assessing the
man's intentions.

           
He knew Dar wanted Lisa, wanted
Solinde, wanted self-rule. He knew also that Dar enjoyed the challenge of a
wager as much as he did, which was substantially indeed; he could not live
without it. But he did not know how far Dar was prepared to go.

           
Idly, Hart drank wine. "What
are the stakes?" he asked.

           
"The highest," Dar
answered. "I wager with my life."

           
Hart looked at him sharply.
"Your life," he echoed, disbelieving the man.

           
"Aye," Dar agreed curtly.
"Let it stand so: if Lisa chooses you, I will give up my life and give
back the Third Seal of Solinde."

           
"I do not want your life."

           
Dar's eyes did not waver. "If
you do not take it, my lord, be assured I will do what I can to throw you down
from the throne of Solinde."

           
Hart knew the Solindishman meant it.
"I do not want you for an enemy."

           
"If you win, you will have
one."

           
Hart sighed. "Aye, aye, well
enough—if I win the lady, you forfeit the Seal and your life. But what of me?
What if you win the wager?"

           
Dar smiled. "You go home to
Homana.''

           
Hart stared. "Go home—"

           
"Alive. Unharmed. Quite well .
. . very much as you came." Dar, still smiling, shrugged. "But you
will forfeit your claim on Solinde."

           
"And if she chooses
neither?"

           
"Then we will find another
game."

           
Hart chewed at his bottom lip,
hearing the siren song of the challenge. I’ll lose Solinde, my jehan will
forfeit me—

           
But he found himself clasping Dar's
forearm; the wager was made and accepted.

           
Hart awoke with the haunted feeling
of something gone wrong. He snapped out of sleep and into daylight so abruptly
it left him disoriented, and then he realized the disorientation had less to do
with the sudden awakening than from late hours and excess drink; he and Dar and
three other Solindish lordlings had wasted most of the night closeted in a
private chamber, gambling and drinking, while the rest of the guests disported
themselves in the Great Hall.

           
A pang of guilt pinched his belly;
such behavior in Homana-Mujhar would be considered unconscionably rude,
particularly as the celebration had been in his honor, and he sincerely doubted
he would have been allowed to slip away. But here no one dared attempt to
dissuade him or otherwise remark on his behavior.

           
Hart sighed grimly. Save for Tarron.

           
But Tarron had said nothing, because
Hart had taken care to slip away unnoticed, too hungry for a game to consider
the consequences.

           
Consequences. The haunted feeling
came back. Hart, tangled in tumbled bedclothes, frowned up at the draperied
canopy of the tester bed and tried to name what caused his discontent.

           
Abruptly, he remembered.

           
His eyes popped open. The wager . .
. the wager with Dar, on Lisa. Swearing, he rolled over onto his belly and
buried his face in feather-stuffed bolsters, half hoping he could smother
himself and forget all about Dar and his infamous wager. Oh, gods, lir . . . I
have wagered away my freedom.

           
Rael stirred on his perch. Have you?

           
Hart groaned aloud and clenched
ringers in the silk of his bedclothes. The wager with Dar, on Lisa—on who will
win her hand— He groaned again, feelingly. How could I have been so foolish?

           
The last is easy to answer. Rael's
tone lacked sympathy. When the craving is on you, you are no man, no warrior,
no prince—you are nothing more than a hound smelling a bitch in season . . .
save the bitch is no dog at all, but the wager itself.

           
After a moment Hart lifted his face
out of the bolsters and turned his head to stare at the hawk through the gauzy
draperies. "How eloquent," he said grimly; there was no humor in his
tone.

           
How do you know you have lost your
freedom? Rael asked. In order to lose it you must win the woman, and there is
nothing that leads me to believe you will.

           
Unexpectedly, the dry summation
hurt. Hart frowned.

           
"Nothing?"

           
Nothing. Rael's pattern within the
lir-link was infinitely assured; for once he did not offer the crutch of
meaningless reassurance to his irresponsible lir, though the habit was hard to
break.

           
Hart sat up and tried to drag the
hangings aside, swearing as fabric tangled and obscured his vision of Rael
entirely. Finally he ripped them apart and climbed out of the huge bed, naked
save for lir-gold.

           
"Nothing?" he repeated,
elaborately distinct.

           
Rael heard the subtle challenge in
Hart's tone. He stirred on his perch and fixed his lir with a bright eye.

           
Tell me what you offer the woman,
then.

           
"A title. Improved status.
Greater respect in the realm." Hart shrugged, spreading his hands.
"Power as well, though not as much as I hold."

           
What power do you hold?

           
He smiled, victorious. "I am
the Prince of Solinde."

           
Who spends his time wagering on
improbable outcomes such as who the last of Bellam's line will wed. Rael couched
his words in brutal candor. Say again what you offer the woman, lir—and then
realize that she can have precisely the same if you are sent home to Homana ...
or if you are dead.

           
It banished the smile entirely. Hart
felt as if one of Brennan's horses had kicked him in the belly—no, not a horse,
and not the belly. It was one of Rael's talons, and he stabbed lower than the
belly, aiming for something very different, something personal, something
eminently more vital.

           
"Rael—"

           
Think, lir. For once. See yourself
as others see you. Rael paused. No. See yourself as the lady herself must. And
tell me again you have wagered away your freedom.

           
It curdled the wine in his belly.
Hart turned from the hawk and went back to the bed, clutching one of the
testers for support. It was never pleasant listening to others decry his
habits, but he had always had the enviable capacity to cheerfully dismiss the
comments, the fraternal and paternal lectures, knowing no one stayed angry at
him for very long. He was not a man for moods and high temper, as Corin was;
neither was he willing to shoulder all the burdens of his rank and future, as
Brennan had always been. What he offered was friendly camaraderie, cheerful
companionship, generosity of spirit.

           
He was not a bad man. He was not a
bad brother, bad son, bad friend, or bad warrior.

           
"But I am a bad prince."

           
Rael did not answer. Hart shut his
eyes and set his forehead against the wooden tester, regretting the wine he had
drunk. More than that, he regretted his willingness to overlook so many things
in pursuit of personal pleasure.

           
After a retrospective moment Hart
turned back to the hawk. "She will not have me."

           
No.

           
"And if she takes Dar in my
stead, as is likely, the wager is lost . . , and I will be sent out of Solinde
in disgrace."

           
Much as you were sent out of Homana.

           
Again the talons stabbed into him.

           
"If I go home, having lost
Solinde—" Abruptly Hart sat down on the bed, realizing the enormity of his
situation. "Gods, Rael, if I lose Solinde because of something so infinitely
trivial as a wager—'

           
If you lose Solinde for any reason, lir,
you alter the prophecy.

           
It snapped Hart's head up.
"No," he said firmly. “No. I will not allow you to give that guilt to
me."

           
And if it is the truth?

           
"How?" Hart challenged.
"I am a second son, the middle son, obligated to no betrothal. It does not
matter who I wed, how many children I sire—or who they wed. Let Brennan know
that burden, lir ... I need not."

           
The wine has replaced your wits.
Rael’s tone lacked the bite of earlier comments, sliding instead toward
customary patience and wry acknowledgment of Hart's shortcomings. But it did
not make his words less telling.

           
Whether you wed a Solindish woman
does not matter—it does not matter if you wed at all—but it does matter if you hold
Solinde. The prophecy involves four realms, not three. If you lose Solinde now,
it will be lost forever . . . and the Ihlini victorious.

           
Hart swore feelingly, knowing guilt
as well as consternation. "If only there were no wager . . . then there
would be no risk."

           
Is that not the point of the wager?

           
He raked tousled hair with rigid
fingers, trying to make sense of the circumstances; knowing it unlikely.

           
"Aye, aye, always before it was
the risk, the chance I might lose, and the pleasure in knowing I had won—or
would win, next time. But now—" Hart shook his head. "This is
different. The game is different. The stakes are too high—" Trapped,
desperate, despairing, he swore again. "Gods, Rael, it is the ultimate
wager . . . and now I cannot enjoy it."

           
Which do you mourn? Rael asked
gently. The loss of that enjoyment, the loss of your freedom. . . or the loss
of a realm?

           
Hart did not answer at once. He
stared blankly into the room, lost inside his head, knowing only that his need
of the game had accounted for more than his current predicament. For the first
time he fully acknowledged that he alone was responsible for the fire, for the
loss of life in the Midden. Regardless of the kind of people they were, they
had not deserved to die because of his selfish irresponsibility.

           
"Thirty-two people," he
said hollowly, and his mind fashioned a vision: Brennan, standing before the
stained-glass casements in the Great Hall of Homana-Mujhar, visibly stunned by
the loss of life; Brennan, shouting at Corin that it did not matter if he felt
inconvenienced about having to go to Atvia when people were dead; Brennan,
feeling more keenly the deaths of the people in the Midden because he was a
responsible man.

           
Oh, rujho, I wish you were here to
tell me what to do.

           
But Brennan was not. And so Hart did
his own responsible decision-making for the first time in his life.

           
He put on his clothing and went to
see the subject of the wager.

           
Hart was admitted at once into the
city home in which Lisa dwelled and was shown to a small walled garden. At
first he did not see her, wondering if he was meant to wait for hours while his
impatience grew; then he did see her, and his fine intentions went out of his
head. He could think of no way to speak plainly with her, to tell her of the
wager that reduced her to chattel instead of independent woman, knowing how she
would feel. And knowing what she would say.

           
And so, lamely, he smiled, and drew
for strength upon the abundant charm he had used unthinkingly so often in the
past.

           
Only the night before he had seen
her clad in brilliant crimson, ablaze with gold and rubies. She had been
elegant, incandescent, incredibly beautiful. He found her no less so now,
though the fine gown, gold and gems were gone, replaced by nubby wool skirts of
a cream and russet weave and an amber-colored tunic belted with supple leather.
She wore scuffed boots in place of soft slippers, and there was mud on one
cheek. The glorious white-blond hair was bound back in a single tight-plaited
braid, tied off with brown leather. Around her face the shorter hairs came
loose, straggling, curling, tangling, serving only to make him want to smooth
them back.

           
Looped over one arm was a basket
full of flowers. A profusion of delicate, black-eyed moss roses, ruffled like
crumpled parchment, all of bright golds, rich yellows, pastel apricots. In her
right hand she carried small silver scissors connected to her belt by a
fine-linked silver chain.

           
She rose, intently tucking flowers
into the basket, and then turned toward him only to stop short.

           
"Come out with me," he
said. "Come ride with me, Lisa."

           
Winged brows rose. "Ride with
you? On what, my lord? You wagered your horse away."

           
He crossed the garden walk and put
out his hand to take the basket from her, bending to set it down beside the
path. Her wrist was slender in his larger hand, almost to the point of
fragility. She seemed delicate as a lily, and yet her spirit and pride burned
brightly as his own.

           
"Aye," he agreed, "I
did. Foolishly, selfishly, I sought to goad Dar into a wager that would win
back the Third Seal, knowing he could not turn his back on the knowledge you
had given the horse to me. And the gambit was successful."

           
"Except you lost the
horse."

           
"Losing is always a risk, Lisa.
Even now." He did not release her wrist. "The palace is rich in
horses, though none so fine as the one you gifted me. I have another." He
smiled. "Come with me, lady. Come out of the city and know a little
freedom once again."

           
"We have nothing to say to one
another."

           
"Oh, lady, we do." His
thumb rubbed the top of her forearm, glorying in the delicate texture of her
skin. "Come with me, Lisa. Please."

           
Coolly she pulled free of his hand
and its intimacy, bending to scoop up the basket. She hooked both arms through
calmly, as if to put up a barrier between them.