Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (35 page)

           
" ‘Sweet lass,' " Keely
said sourly, and tossed back a gulp of wine as if to wash away the taste of
unpleasant words.

           
Boyne
leaned forward. "Aye," he said,
"sweet lass. Would Sean be having any other?" He grinned, guffawed,
slapped the flat of one huge hand down upon the table. "Hot for her he is,
too, our lusty lord . . . 'twill only be a matter of weeks before he sends for
her. He's a man now, our Sean, and of no mind to wait longer for his bride. Tis
time he started a son!"

           
She lifted one tawny brow in an
eloquent arch. "Is that how he values a woman, then—by the children she
can bear?"

           
" Tis her only value, lass . .
. what else can she do?"

           
Boyne
gulped wine, then set his cup down so hard
the remaining contents slopped over the rim. "Mind ye, I can hardly be
speaking for my lord, but I can say he's no wilted flower. He'll be wedding
her, bedding her, getting a son upon her . . . within a year, I'm saying."
He slopped more wine into his cup, then thrust it upward again. "To all
the fine wee bairns'."

           
Keely set down her cup and refused
to drink. Corin, knowing
Boyne
meant
well and that to refuse was rude as well as unnecessary, sipped his own and
tried to ignore the look on his sister's face.

           
"We too are sailing for Erinn
in the morning," Corin began, intending to ask passage of the flamboyant
captain. But Keely interrupted.

           
"No," she said coolly,
"we are not. Only my brother sails."

           
Astonished, he nearly gaped.

           
Keely's smile was excessively
insincere. "I am needed at home."

           
"Have you gone mad?" It
did not bother him that
Boyne
was
an interested onlooker. "You said you were coming with me!"

           
Keely sipped her wine thoughtfully.
"I have changed my mind," she said after a moment. "Is it not what
a woman does? Certainly the sort of woman
Boyne
's beloved prince might prefer."

           
He scowled at her. "You might
have changed it before I sold the roan."

           
Keely shrugged. "I will buy him
back."

           
"And if he is sold
already?"

           
"Then I will steal him back."
Keely grinned at
Boyne
to remove the sting from her words; the big
man's answering smile was fatuous.

           
For all she protests womanly
behavior, she knows how to use it when it suits her, Corin reflected irritably.

           
"Keely—"

           
"We will speak of it later,"
she said calmly. "As for now, I want some food,"

           
Boyne
nearly overset the table as he rose to
shout for service.

           
Later, when they were alone in the
small room Corin had rented, Keely faced him squarely. Never did she avoid a
confrontation or deserved punishment; nor did she now.

           
"Why?" he asked.

           
She watched in silence as he sat
down on the edge of his cot and drew off his boots, one by one. The belt with
its long-knife was next; the remaining leathers he would sleep in.

           
"You heard him," she said
finally, working at the lacing that bound her braid. "You heard that
big-mouthed fool of a man, bellowing about how his lusty prince was hot for his
Cheysuli bride." She stopped fussing with the knots and crossed her arms
instead, all her unexpected vulnerability suddenly evident. "You heard how
he will wed her, bed her, and get a son upon her—all in the space of a
year!"

           
"Aye, well, I think
Boyne
exaggerates out of habit." Corin
scooted back on the cot and leaned against the wall as Kiri jumped up and
settled herself next to him, "He enjoys the sound of his own voice, Keely,
little more. There is no malice in him. Only goodwill."

           
She sat down on the edge of the
other cot, no more than four feet from his own. "I cannot go, Corin. I
cannot."

           
"You are afraid."

           
She did not demur. "Aye."

           
"Of what? From what
Boyne
said, Sean is a good man. . . kind to dogs,
horses, children—" He grinned. "In all likelihood he will be as kind
to his woman."

           
But he had erred in thinking humor
might soothe her.

           
All it did was drive her farther
from him, knees drawn up to shield most of her face as she hunched against the
wall. "I want none of it," she said. "No wedding, no bedding, no
children ... I want none of it, Corin! All I want is to be myself, and if I go
with you to Erinn, I will lose myself that much sooner. At least this way I may
wait until Liam of Erinn and jehan decide it is time."

           
"Sean himself may have a say in
it. And if he does—"

           
"If he does, let him do it the
way it is always done," she said bitterly. "He will have to tell his
jehan, who will in turn send to ours ... it will buy me a little time. If I go
with you, that time is halved." She sat up straight and stared at him.
"I cannot afford to lose it, rujho . . . not even a single day."

           
"But there will come a
day—"

           
"I know." She cut him off.
"I know. But that day is not tomorrow." Keely bent forward and Jerked
her boots off, dropping them to the floor. "I am sorry, Corin—but in the
morning I go back.'"

           
He nodded as she blew out the single
candle. In the darkness he heard the crack of the leather webbing that bound
her mattress to the frame. In the darkness he heard the sound of her uneven
breathing, and knew she was more frightened than he,

           
And he swore to himself that when he
arrived in Erinn with his words of Aileen's betrothal, he would also speak of
his sister's.

           
Boyne
stood next to him at the taffrail as
sea-spray broke over the prow of the ship and splattered them both liberally.
"There, lad—d'ye see it? Tis called the Dragon's Tail. 'Tis what divides
Erinn from Atvia—a league or two of ocean, and centuries of war."

           
Conn
clutched the rail. The Dragon's Tail was a
narrow channel winding its way between two islands. Winds lashed the water into
heavy chop, turning much of the shoreline of both islands into jagged teeth
instead of smooth beaches. But lest the fisherfolk lament such harsh-ness,
there were also two natural harbors, sheltered and less treacherous.

           
"I did not know Kilore and
Rondule were so close," Corin remarked in surprise. Next to him, Kiri
pressed against his leg.

           
"Aye."
Boyne
, beside him, leaned on the rail, wind
whipping graying hair into dark eyes. "Legends are saying once the islands
were joined into a single kingdom ruled by a fair man. But that fair man's
younger brother was desiring a kingdom of his own, and so they fought."

           
Boyne
grinned and spat over the taffrail into the
slate-gray ocean. "They battled day in and day out, day in day and day
out, till each realized if they kept it up, there would be no men left to lead.
And so they agreed to fight no more."

           
When
Boyne
did not continue, Corin glanced at him.

           
"But that does not explain how
two islands were made out of one."

           
The big man tapped his badly bent
nose. "I'm but warming to the tale, lad ... ye never rush a good story,
now, or ye'll be ruining the ending."

           
"Forgive me." Corin smiled
in amusement. "I will leave the telling to you."

           
Boyne
nodded. Thoughtfully, he stared toward the
Dragon's Tail. "Twas the younger brother's doing. Not satisfied with the
truce, because it gave him nothing he didn't have already, he sought the power
to overcome his brother, the king. He begged the aid of a powerful sorcerer,
bargaining with his soul. And when he had slain his brother and won the war, he
was king by conquest."

           
Boyne
grinned. "The only thing was, now the
sorcerer wanted his soul. Since no man, newly crowned, is wanting to give up
his soul, he said no."

           
Corin nodded. "And so the
sorcerer took his due."

           
"Oh, aye, He split the kingdom
in twain and took the soul of the king."

           
"Leaving two kingdoms in place
of one, and no men to rule either of them."

           
Boyne
grinned. "Each brother had a son. Each
cousin took a throne. And to this day their descendants are fighting over a
single title."

           
"Lord of the Idrian
Isles." Corin nodded. "That much I do know." He wiped spray out
of his eyes and tasted salt. "What happened to the sorcerer?"

           
Boyne
frowned dramatically, black brows knitted.
"Well, 'tis said he got the soul he was promised. But 'tis also said he
soon grew tired of such pettiness and turned his back on it all. Some say he
died; others are saying he went belowdecks and became king of the world down
there." An eloquent gesture accompanied the final sentence.

           
Corin looked at him sharply. "Do
you mean Asar-Suti?"

           
Boyne
shrugged and turned to call out an order to
one of his sailors. When he turned back, he was frowning.

           
"I'm not knowing the name, lad.
All I know is the story. Whether there's truth in it, I'll not be saying one
way or another."

           
"Asar-Suti, the Seker, who made
and dwells in darkness," Corin mused thoughtfully. He glanced at
Boyne
, knowing what he said would sound like a
tale to rival the captain's. "The Solindish Ihlini worship him as the god
of the netherworld. In his name, they try to take Homana to make it part of his
earthly kingdom."

           
Boyne
shrugged. "I'm not knowing so much of
Ihlini, either, being Erinnish-born. But they could be one and the same:
sorcerer and god."

           
It was a new concept to Corin, who
was accustomed to viewing sorcerers as men—or women—with magical power, but no
godhood. If indeed the sorcerer had become Asar-Suti, then what was to prevent
other sorcerers from doing much the same?

           
Strahan made a god? Corin felt a
chill at the base of his spine. He looked at Kiri. What becomes of our gods if
the Ihlini make their own?

           
The vixen's thick, bright pelt
ruffled in the wind. It is a question I cannot answer.

           
He looked at her more sharply.
Cannot, or will not?

           
Bright eyes glinted as she turned
away. One and the same, lir. I have no answer for you.

           
Again Corin thought of Strahan. He
had been raised on stories of the man who led the Solindish sorcerers, those
who served Asar-Suti. The Mujhar had said more than once that not all Ihlini
did, and that only those sworn to the Seker were men to be wary of. But Strahan
was different. Strahan was more than merely sorcerer, being blessed with an
uncanny charm that beguiled good and bad alike. He was already extremely
powerful because of his dedication to the Seker. If his reward for such service
and dedication was godhood, then he offered more than idle threat to the
Cheysuli and the prophecy.

           
"Kilore,"
Boyne
said. "And now, lad, I must tend my
ship."

           
Distracted by his thoughts, Corin
watched the Ennnish giant go. It had been a long time since he had thought much
about Strahan or the Ihlini, or even the prophecy.

           
That he was a link in it was old
news. Except for Maeve, all of Niall’s children were; it was why Strahan had
tried to kidnap them as infants with Gisella's participation.

           
But
Boyne
's fanciful tale had reawakened old memories
and questions.

           
Twenty years ago my jehana tried to
give her children to the Ihlini. No doubt he had a use for us then. But what of
now? What would he do with us now?

           
And then, as abruptly, he forgot
about Strahan and his half Atvian mother because the ship was docking.

           
Corin clutched the rail and stared.
Kilore the city spilled along the waterfront like a tangle of seaweed, streets
and wynds interlocking to form a webwork he did not think he could ever
decipher. And above the city, thrusting up in a jagged line of palisades, were
the white chalk cliffs his father had mentioned so often.

           
Kilore was a place of mist and
magic, Niall had said, and Corin saw at least half of it was true. Shrouded in
dampness, the cliffs formed a bright white curtain wall against the darker
world.

           
And atop it, almost ominous in its
bulk, stood the fortress from which the city took its name: Kilore itself,
Aerie of the Eagles.

           
"Kilore!"
Boyne
called, and then added considerably more in
Erinnish, which Corin understood well enough, thanks to years spent with
Deirdre.

           
I wish I were arriving home, like
Boyne
, instead of here. Corin looked up at the
castle and tried to suppress his nerves. I wish I were doing anything but
playing messenger for my jehan, and proxy suitor for my rujholli.

           
The ship was secured handily, the
ramps lowered, the unloading commenced. Corin, having nothing more than a set
of shoulderpacks, proceeded down one ramp with Kiri trotting behind.

           
Fish, she said fastidiously.

           
Corin smiled crookedly. Aye, fish
indeed. Deirdre had told him much of Erinn's economy depended on fish, and the
stench made it more than evident. He smelled fish, old and new; sea salt and
seaweed; the effluvia of ships toiling for months on the Idrian and beyond.
There was nothing romantic about voyaging, Corin thought, when one looked at
realities.

           
He and Kiri picked their way around
nets and coils of rope, conscious of the shrieking of the gulls and the chatter
of fisherfolk going about their work. It was late afternoon; the tide was in
and so were the fishing boats.

           
He and Kiri, wandering along the
quayside, were distinctly in the way.

           
"Hai, Cheysuli!"
Boyne
called, and Corin turned back as the
captain strode across the docks in his rolling sailor's gait. "Will ye be
looking for someone in particular, or biding your time for a spell?"

           
Corin, who had told the Erinnishman
no more than his name and destination, shrugged beneath the shoulderpacks.

           
"My business is with the
castle."

           
Boyne
's black brows rose. He was a garrulous man
but not a stupid one; he knew better than to ask questions that were none of
his concern, and had not during the voyage. But it did not stop his thoughts,
and he chewed idly on a tattered thumbnail. "Aye, well, I'll not be
keeping ye from it, then. I thought to buy ye a wee dram o' ale or wine in the
grogshop before I saw to my own business."

           
Corin looked up at the Aerie. No,
not yet. He smiled at
Boyne
. "No, captain, it is my turn to buy
for you. Shall we go?"

           
Boyne
looked down at Kiri. "What of the
vixen, then? Will ye leave her on my ship?"

           
"Kiri goes with me."

           
The Erinnishman shrugged. "Aye,
aye, and welcome to her. Come along, then, lad. Let us be wasting no more time
flapping our mouths when we could be swilling ale."

           
He clapped Corin a buffet on the
shoulder that nearly knocked him down and strode off toward a row of buildings
not far from the quay.

           
Boyne
was engaged in another of his lengthy,
colorful tales when a woman's angry voice distracted both of them. For a
fleeting instant Corin thought she was protesting
Boyne
's loquaciousness, then realized there was
more to it than that. It stopped
Boyne
dead
in his tracks.

           
"Here!" he called, looking
toward a narrow wynd that twisted down toward the sea. "Hai, lass,
here—"

           
The woman's protest was silenced at
once, and forcibly.
Boyne
slapped Corin on the shoulder and took off
at a run, filling the wynd with his bulk and voice. After only a moment's hesitation,
Corin followed.

           
Three men, Corin saw as he turned a
corner—and a woman bundled in blankets. Near the end of the wynd, close to the
quay. One of the men turned to face
Boyne
; the
other two lifted the women off her feet and effectively controlled her
struggles.

           
After a brief exchange between
Boyne
and the spokesman for the others, Corin
realized civilities had been abandoned.

           
Boyne
shouted with mocking laughter. "Oh,
aye, and my mother was a queen!" He turned to Corin. "Yon man is
saying the woman is drunk, and they're taking her home to her husband. But I
know better than that—she shouted for help, and there was no drunkenness about
it. And if these men are Erinnish, I'll be giving them my ship! Atvian, more
like, trying to spirit away an Erinnish lass for evil purposes." He
advanced a step. "Come, lad, 'tis a lass in need of us.”