Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (32 page)

           
"Lisa—"

           
"Did Dar put you up to
this?" she asked abruptly.

           
He considered lying, knowing the
truth made him appear vindictive. But he nodded. "It was his suggestion."

           
Lisa shook her head, pushing hair
out of her face in irritation. "You are a fool, my lord prince of
wagerers. Dar knows me too well, and he has learned you also. As he expected,
all my pride screams at me to wed Dar if for no other reason than to force your
loss, and your subsequent loss of Solinde. And I would ... if my better
judgment would allow it." She looked at him squarely, "If only to pay
him back, I should refuse him. But it would cost him his life, and that I
cannot bear."

           
"There is an alternative,"
Hart said quietly. "Wed another man entirely."

           
"What other man?" Lisa
asked bitterly. "There is no other man in Solinde who can do what Dar can
to rally the Solindish to war again. We are too weary of such things. Niall and
those before him have defeated us soundly too many times. Without the right
leader, what good would it do us now?" She shrugged. "But Dar could
do what is necessary, and would. If I wanted this war, I would be a fool to wed
a Solindishman other than Dar."

           
He saw the turmoil reflected in her
eyes, in her features.

           
"But if I wed you to save my
land from war, it costs me Dar. And that price I will not pay."

           
"Then wed no one."

           
Lisa's sharp laugh was little more
than a sound of despair. "If I do not choose someone, I will be forced to
it. The situation warrants it; they have not done it only because they respect
me personally, and my heritage. But for Solinde, to thwart Homana, they will.
They will have no other choice."

           
"Lisa—"

           
She gathered her reins and turned
the mare toward Lestra. "Forgive me, my lord, but I desire solitude. I
have no taste for your company."

           
He knew better than to allow her to
depart under such circumstances. But he knew also that to stop her was to
destroy all hope of winning her. And so he let her go.

           
Tarron's move to assemble more
parchments was arrested in mid-motion. "I must have misheard you. You want
what, my lord?"

           
Helpfully, Hart gathered the
parchments from the table and placed them on the stack in Tarron's arms.
"I want you to teach me how to rule. It is what I came for,"

           
"No," Tarron said plainly,
"you came because you were sent."

           
Hart scowled at him. "Aye, aye,
all right—I came because I was sent. But I am done with shirking my
responsibilities. Teach me how to rule."

           
"Have you seen the Mujhar do
none of it?"

           
Oh, aye, he had, in bits and pieces.
But he had steadfastly refused to attend council sessions, petition hearings
and other assorted requirements of kingship, perfectly willing to let Brennan
do it all instead. He had a rudimentary knowledge of what constituted
governing—the ruler had to sit in judgment on citizens who had disputes, settle
treaties between other realms, levy taxes, tribute, and so on, plus innumerable
other duties— but when it came down to it, he had not the faintest idea what
was expected of him. Particularly in a foreign realm.

           
"Teach me,” he said only,
hoping it was enough.

           
Apparently it was, although Tarron
eyed him doubtfully. "Well enough, my lord; follow me. I am bound for a
hearing regarding a petty dispute between two northern Solindish lordlings.
They are feuding over a boundary formed by a river; the river has changed its
course, and now they dispute ownership of the land it has laid bare."

           
Dutifully Hart followed Tarron out of
the chamber into a corridor, though his heart was not in it. He opened his
mouth to beg off, then shut it sharply. It was time he learned to accept tedium
as gracefully as his father and brother.

           
"Without the Third Seal, what
can you do?" he asked.

           
Parchment crackled.
"Delay," the regent said succinctly. "No real business can be
conducted without it, but until I hear from the Mujhar I cannot let slip the
news the Seal is lost. We must hope the Solindish do not grow restless over
countless delays and obfuscation ... I think they will not understand why it is
you lost it in a game."

           
Hart ignored the latter. "And
if Dar has already let it be known?"

           
"It would certainly serve his
own interests." Tarron nodded as guardsmen in Homanan livery swung open the
heavy wooden doors of the audience chamber. "But perhaps this will serve
yours, my lord; if you are the one to make the decision, it will let the
Solindish know you are indeed planning to rule." He nodded greetings
toward the men waiting in the chamber and made his way to a table on a dais.

           
"Me?" Following, Hart kept
his voice low. "I have no experience in such things."

           
"I suggest you get it, my lord,
as any man does: by listening, and by determining which party deserves the
judgment rendered in his favor." Tarron put the stack of parchments on the
table and stepped away, motioning Hart to accept the only chair. "And now,
my lord, I leave you to it."

           
Astonished, Hart watched the regent
turn and walk away. He wanted to shout after him, to order him back, but he
would not, not before the Solindish lordlings who waited to present their case.

           
Oh, gods. Lamely, he smiled at the
lords. They stared back grimly, hard old men, prepared to humor no one.

           
Oh, gods. But he summoned what he
could of his courage and sat down, intending to do whatever it was a ruler did
to the best of his ability.

           
Even if he had none.

           
After dark. Hart ordered a horse and
rode to The White Swan. He felt after a day spent listening to two old
Solindish lordlings arguing who had more right to the new parcel of land—mostly
in incomprehensible Solindish no matter how many times he requested Homanan—he
deserved an evening's entertainment. But he made up his mind not to wager, only
to while away the hours in a hospitable-tavern.

           
Or even an inhospitable tavern.

           
By now most of the regular patrons
were accustomed to his presence. He still was not precisely welcomed, but
neither was he greeted with hostile stares and crude comments. Now most of them
shrugged and turned back to their games, leaving him to his own devices.

           
Unless Dar was present. But this
time, for the first part of the evening, he was not, so Hart sat by himself at
a table and drank ale, forgoing wine entirely.

           
The wine-girl, Oma, made a
particular point of flashing the Homanan signet ring in his face whenever she
could. Eventually he called her over and offered to buy it back, but she merely
grinned and shook him off. She was too shrewd to give in so easily, and too
pleased by the grim frustration she caused him. And so in the end he gave it up
entirety, turning back to his ale, and lost himself in contemplation.

           
Until Dar came.

           
The Solindishman glittered with
silver and sapphires at collar, cuffs, wrists, fingers and belt, ice against
indigo velvet. The royal colors. Hart knew, and wondered if Dar had dressed for
him in the spirit of the wager. But then he spoke, and Hart knew he had dressed
for no man at all.

           
"I have been with Lisa,"
he said calmly, sitting down at the table without bothering to wait for an invitation.
"A most sumptuous meal, and served by the lady herself." A raised
finger brought Oma with a cup and his favorite wine. "She told me an
interesting tale."

           
"Did she?" Hart drank ale.

           
Dar waited for Oma to pour his cup
full, then waved her away. Over the rim of the cup he assessed Hart. He sipped
thoughtfully, then thumped the cup down onto the table. "So, you thought
to win her through frankness."

           
"I thought to be frank with her
for the sake of honesty and honor, not because of the wager," Hart said
quietly. "Let us end it, Dar. It is a travesty. It is unfair to Lisa and
Solinde."

           
Dar did not smile. "Then
declare it a forfeit. Go home to Homana in the morning, and do not come back
again."

           
Hart matched him stare for stare.
"You know I cannot."

           
"I know you should . . . and,
one day soon, you will. When I have won."

           
"You are so certain of her,
then?"

           
Dar smiled. "What choice is
there, shapechanger? She wants me to live—she told me so herself—so she will
not choose you. She would prefer Solinde remain Solindish; again, so she will
not choose you. She would prefer a man she knows as Consort, so she will not
choose one of the other lords." He drank again, then leaned forward
intently. "She will name my name, shapechanger. Be certain of it."

           
Hart smiled. "Then why are you
so uncertain?" His smile widened as Dar's lids flickered. "No matter
what she may have said to you tonight, you still are not sure. You still have
doubts. You know there is a good chance she may choose me after all."

           
"Lisa will do what is right for
Solinde."

           
"She will do what is best for
all concerned," Hart poured more ale into his cup. "It is how such
decisions are made; one weighs all issues, and then one decides which best
serves all involved." It was what he had done with the old lords and their
river dispute, though he could offer nothing until the Seal was recovered.

           
Dar said nothing for a long moment,
then shouted for Oma to bring the Bezat bowl. But Hart shook his head as the
stones were offered.

           
"No?" Dar's sandy brows
lifted. "You say no?"

           
"I say no." Hart drank
ale. "The game begins to pall, Dar ... I will pass."

           
Dar slapped his belt-purse down on
the table. Red gold chimed.

           
Hart smiled. "No."

           
Dar stripped his fingers and wrists
of gem-studded silver.

           
Still Hart smiled. "No."

           
"What do you want?" the
Solindishman asked. "The Seal is already wagered." He smiled
suddenly. "The stallion. You want to win back the stallion Lisa gave
you."

           
Slowly Hart shook his head.

           
Dar's brown eyes narrowed.
"Then what?"

           
"To watch you squirm,"
Hart said softly, "and now I have seen it without wagering even a silver
penny." He pushed his stool back, scraping it against hardwood, and rang
down a red coin on the table to pay for his ale.

           
"You will lose, Dar. Lisa.
Solinde. Your life. Because I have learned when to stop, and you have not even
begun."

           
Dar rose abruptly.
"Shapechanger—"

           
"Cheysuli," Hart said
gently, and walked quietly out of the tavern.

           
He was in a private room adjoining
his bedchamber, slumped in a chair and lost in thought, when a servant knocked
at his door. He considered ignoring the knock, then gave it up and went to the
door.

           
"My lord." Not a servant
at all, but Tarron. "My lord, a message has come from the Lady Lisa. She
requests your presence at once." He paused. "I know the messenger;
the summons is genuine."

           
"Now?" It struck him as
odd she would send a message at night, though it was not late.

           
"Aye, my lord." Although
perfectly polite, the tone in Tarron's voice told Hart the regent thought it
just as unusual. "The message is that a decision has been made, and she
would have you and Dar of High Crags know it at once so the travesty may be
ended." Tarron frowned. "My lord—"

           
Hart raised a silencing hand.
"Do not ask, regent. When I return, you will have your answer. It may
please you—or it may not." He chewed his bottom lip a moment, thinking
deeply. "Tell her messenger I will come at once."

           
"Aye, my lord." But still
Tarron lingered. "If there is anything you wish to confide in me, be
certain I will hold it in strictest confidence."

           
Hart smiled. "I trust you,
Tarron. But this is between a man and a woman—no, between men and a woman—and
until I know the lady's answer, there is no sense in confiding anything. When I
can, I shall,"

           
The regent inclined his head.
"Aye, my lord. Of course."

           
And he was gone.

           
Hart shut the door and turned to
look at Rael, perched on his now-empty chair. "Well? Do I dress to
celebrate, or to exile myself from yet another realm?"

           
If you delay to change your
clothing, she may change her mind.

           
Hart grinned, "Aye. And if she
has chosen in my favor, I would do well not to give her that chance." He
nodded thoughtfully and opened the door again. "We go, lir . . . to gain a
cheysula, or lose a realm."

           
He thought of Brennan as he ordered
a horse saddled and brought. No doubt his rujho would compliment him on his
decision to take a cheysula, even if it was not his decision at all. Brennan
would tell him he was finally growing up, maturing, becoming the man he was
meant to be.

           
He sent a wry glance heavenward.
Brennan would no doubt tell me I am only answering my tahlmorra.

           
And perhaps you are. Rael, sounding
insufferably smug, circled over the bailey as the horse was brought.

           
Hart sighed and swung up, gathering
reins hastily as the bay stallion stomped and snorted his displeasure at having
his evening meal interrupted. Hart took a deeper seat and reined him in,
calling his thanks to the groom, and went out of the bailey at a long-trot.

           
Iron rang on stone as Hart guided
the bay through the winding streets of Lestra. Lisa's dwelling was not far from
the palace, but the journey took too long nonetheless; his belly was so twisted
up he was afraid he might never be able to eat again. He could not begin to predict
Lisa's decision, though he had been foolish enough to wager on it. And, the
gods knew, wagered more than he could afford to lose.