Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (37 page)

           
Aileen's brows rose. "You are
not?"

           
"Hardly." Corin felt the
familiar bitterness rising. "Maeve is Deirdre come again; my father adores
his Erinnish meijha, and the daughter as well. As for me, I come last in his
regard."

           
"Why?" Aileen frowned.
"Why do you rank your brothers and sisters? Does he not love you all
equally?"

           
"There is little to love in
me." Corin blocked out her face with the goblet, drinking deeply.
"Equally? No." He shrugged, "There is Brennan, who is the heir
to Homana and therefore the most important of us all."

           
Though he tried, for her sake, to
mask the resentment in his tone when he spoke of Brennan, he heard its echo
regardless. Quickly, he went on. "There is Maeve, dutiful daughter of his
beloved meijha. And Hart, who is as good-natured as he is irresponsible, and
impossible to dislike." He smiled. "And Keely, impetuous, passionate
Keely, who tests his patience with her wild ways, and yet pleases him with her
spirit. As for me," Corin shrugged, "I am, perhaps, my own worst enemy
. . . but I cannot help it.” He looked at her over the rim of his goblet,
seeing himself through her eyes, and found he did not like it. But he did not
look away. "There are times I hate myself, and therefore I make it easy
for others to hate me."

           
Aileen looked straight back at him.
"Then 'tis up to you to change it."

           
He waited for the upsurge of anger
or resentment. It was a solution others had suggested many times, and each time
it had made him blacker of temper than ever.

           
But before Aileen, he found himself
regretting his contrary moodiness for the first time. And sincerely desiring to
change it.

           
He smiled ruefully. "I have
said more to you than anyone save Keely, and half the time she supports me instead
of suggesting I change my behavior."

           
"It does a person no good to
abet his insecurities," Aileen said flatly. "My brother is the
proudest, most honorable man you could ever meet, and yet he's hot-tempered and
hasty as well, and equally plainspoken. If I stood by him when he is wrong,
nodding and 'ayeing' and buttressing his flank, I'd be doing him a greater
injustice than Sean his victim." Her tone was one of understanding
courtesy, and yet there was also an inflexible note of determination. "I'd
make of him a tyrant, believing in only himself without granting others the
right to disagreement or other forms of self-expression . . . and 'tis a poor
man that makes."

           
Corin laughed sourly. "My
father has said as much, and Brennan as well. . . but it makes more sense
coming from you."

           
" 'Tis usually the way of
it." Aileen shrugged. " Tis why 'tis important to listen to your kin.
Let them show you what you are and what you do, so you give others no
opportunity." She paused a moment, watching him. "And then you won't
be having to sit there across from me, wishing there was a hole you might crawl
into."

           
He grinned and rubbed at an eye,
"Gods, but you are good for me. Brennan is fortunate—" And he broke
off, realizing that yet again his brother would take precedence over him. And
this time, this time particularly, he resented it badly. More than ever before.

           
But you have known all along she was
intended for your rujholli, Kiri told him. For all the days of your life.

           
Rigidly, he stared at Aileen. And then
he set the goblet down unsteadily and rose. "If you will excuse me ... it
was a long voyage, and I would like to retire."

           
Aileen stood quickly and awkwardly,
bewildered by his sudden withdrawal. "Oh, aye—of course.” She frowned.
"Corin—"

           
"I am weary, Aileen," he
said curtly, and saw the color blaze in her face.

           
Her eyes glittered with an
acknowledgment of his rudeness. "Then go," she said coolly. "The
servants will show you to your chambers."

           
With Kiri, Corin left.

           
He was a child again, in his dream,
overlooked because of his age. Around him the women gossiped, cluck-ing over
the latest of Harfs habitual pranks or Keely's willfulness; praising Maeve's
sweet temper and Brennan's maturity. But they said nothing of him, nothing of
Corin at all.

           
In his dream he heard their praises,
and Brennan—Brennan—Brennan.

           
Corin awoke. He touched Kiri
sleeping at his side.

           
And then fell into darkness again.

           
Older now, but no less overlooked
unless he made them look. And he did, whenever he could, using wits and
willfulness, forcing the women to look, to see, to hear, even if the result was
punishment, because then its name was Conn . . . then they spoke his name. Even
if cursing it.

           
Asleep, he reached for Kiri, who
heard him whenever he spoke. And even when he did not.

           
In the dream, he was himself, no
longer a child but the Corin he saw every day when he looked in the polished
plate. And suddenly he was the polished plate; he saw himself, as if he were
someone else entirely, outside looking in, and the Corin he saw was a stranger.

           
But not a stranger at all. Corin
stood in the Great Hall, before the Lion Throne, facing the Mujhar of Homana,
the man who had sired him. Alone, he faced him . . . and then he was not alone,
for with him was a woman, a slim, red-haired woman with eyes clear and green as
emeralds—green as Erinnish turf—and the woman's hand was in his hand, and she
faced the Mujhar, as he did, and together they recited the private Cheysuli
vows that bound a warrior and his woman.

           
Bound . . . bound . . . bound—

           
—Until Brennan stepped out of the
shadows and tore Aileen's hand out of his.

           
"No!" Corin cried.
"No—not again!”

           
And he was awake, and knew it, and
knew what he had dreamed.

           
The dream haunted Corin for days. He
did his best to ignore it, to push it away into the recesses of his subconscious,
but its aftertaste remained, like the sour flavor of sweet wine turned to
vinegar. When he looked at Aileen, he saw the woman who had recited the
Cheysuli vows with him before the Lion of Homana, defying Niall himself. And
defying her betrothed as much as Corin did himself.

           
Theirs was an uneasy companionship
at best. Aileen hosted him with as much hospitality as she could muster in the
name of her absent father, but the uninhibited generosity was gone. She eyed
him warily at times, like a dog with an unkind master; other times she
relegated him to obscurity, too busy to pay him mind. But occasionally he saw
an odd sort of compassion in her eyes, as if she began to understand him and
what made him the man he was.

           
At last the dream lost its
immediacy, freeing him to relax, and Aileen responded at once, as if she had
been waiting.

           
The relationship changed. The
companionship deepened. They shared the things good friends shared, things kin
shared, things he shared only with Keely. But he sensed a bond between them
that superseded mere kinship, much as the one with Keely. With Aileen he was
another man, freed of resentments and irritability; freed of the insecurity of
being the third-born son. Here there was only Corin. No Brennan. No Hart. No
ranking according to birth. Here there was merely Corin—Corin and Aileen, who
saw what he was and cherished it. As much as he cherished her.

           
Four weeks after his arrival—to
celebrate, she said—Aileen took him out to ride along the headlands overlooking
the Dragon's Tail. Kilore fell away from them, dropping below the horizon as
they moved ever westward. The massive stone fortress gained invisibility; with
it fled the last vestige of moodiness. He laughed again, unencumbered by doubts
or recriminations, when Aileen told him a tale about her brother, and gloried
in the banishment of the dream that had so plagued him. Free of it, he was also
free of Brennan.

           
Until Aileen said his name and
conjured him between them.

           
Such a simple question: "Is
Brennan much like you?”

           
They had run their horses, tearing
across the headlands, laughing into the wind and calling out challenges.

           
Now they walked them, afoot, reins
looped through their hands. Ahead of them, Kiri trotted; between them hovered
Brennan.

           
"No," Corin said curtly.

           
She waited for more. When he gave
her nothing, she looked at him directly. "D'ye hate him so much,
then?"

           
He opened his mouth to refute the
question at once.

           
But nothing came out. Nothing at
all; the denial died acoming. He had never thought of it as hatred; even now he
felt the word incorrect. But he would lie to her no more than to himself.

           
"He is my brother."
Purposely, he used Homanan in place of Cheysuli.

           
Aileen's mouth twisted.
"Kinship has little to do with like and dislike, when it comes to a man's
heart.”

           
Corin sighed. The wind came up from
the ocean below and curled over the rim of the cliff to buffet them both.

           
He smelled sea and salt and fish.

           
"I asked for me." Aileen
said quietly, "thinking of myself. But now I ask for Corin."

           
He looked at her sharply. And then
at once away; he could not bear to see the compassion in her eyes.

           
"No," he said finally.
"No, I do not hate him. I dislike him, but I dislike myself more for
giving in to it."

           
Wind threatened to tear her hair
free of its braid.

           
Shorter strands teased her eyes. She
stripped them back automatically, one hand still leading the horse.
"Why?" she asked quietly.

           
Corin fought his own losing battle
with wind and hair.

           
"Because . . . because he is
Brennan."

           
Aileen laughed. "Such a black
scowl, Corin! Is he truly so bad?"

           
"No. He is truly so good."
He shook his head, feeling a vague sense of guilt. Only Keely really knew how
he felt, because of their birth-link, and because she shared a measure of his
resentment. She and Brennan were no closer than he and Brennan, although she
was less bothered by troublesome resentments. Corin thought it was because
Keely, being a woman, knew there was no chance she might inherit the Lion; in
Corin's case, he was prevented only by the order of his birth. "I should
say nothing more, Aileen ... he is your betrothed, and it does no good to color
your opinions of him when you should form them fairly."

           
She laughed. "D'ye see? You
don't dislike him as much as you think ... if you did, you'd not be defending
him to me."

           
He sighed again, deeply, giving up
the final vestiges of decorum. This was a subject he had avoided from the
beginning, unable to raise it with the woman Brennan would wed. But if Aileen
wanted frankness, he would give it to her.

           
"Since I can remember, it was
always Brennan this, Brennan that . . . Brennan, the Mujhar's son; Brennan, the
Prince of Homana; Brennan, heir to the Lion. Part of the past and of the
future: Cheysuli and Homanan." He slanted her a glance, fearful he might
offend her, but saw only that she listened without judging. "All my life
he has been held up as an example of what a man can and should be—what I could
be if I tried!—and I am so weary of it. If he had earned it, I would not care
so much, but it is because of his birth . . . because he was born first—"
He broke off, stripping tawny hair out of stinging eyes. "It might have
been Hart. Hart might have come first, and then he would be heir to
Homana"

           
"Or you." She said it
calmly. "Is that what you're resenting so much? That you were not born in
place of Brennan?"

           
Corin stopped dead. The horse nearly
walked over him, but he did not care. "Aye." He did not avoid her
eyes. "Aye, Aileen, it is. I have always wanted the Lion."

           
She turned to face him. The wind
ripped hair from her face and bared it for him to see. "But you'll be
having that"

           
He followed the line of her lifted
arm. Beyond her hand he saw the island across the Dragon's Tail.
"Atvia," he said sourly, "is poor proxy for Homana."

           
Slowly she lowered her arm.
"D'ye want it because you want it? Or because your brother will have
it?"

           
He stared at her. He had never
considered that view of his desire. He knew only that for as long as he could
remember, he had wanted Brennan's place.

           
He looked at Kiri. Oh, lir, is that
it? Do I want what Brennan has only because he has it?"

           
The fox did not answer. Corin
shivered, discovering something within himself he did not like at all; acknowledging
it for the very first time, and liking it no better.

           
If I had what Brennan has, would I
be content? Or would I search for new unhappiness and ways of expressing it?

           
Corin looked at Atvia across the
choppy gray water.

           
Slowly he sat down, giving the horse
his head, and stared out into the skies. "I want power," he said.
"I want freedom. I want contentment. But—mostly I want the chance to be
myself without being weighed against my rujholli."

           
Aileen released her horse and sat
down beside him, deftly settling her skirts. "Not so much," she said.
"You're not in the way of being a greedy man."

           
The island across the channel was
awash in spray and sunlight, tinted with myriad colors. "Atvia is a land
of strangers," he told her. "A land of old hatreds and resentments,
of wars and vassalage ... I will not be welcome there."

           
"No," she agreed.
"But for a man who wants power, you might look on it as a challenge. You
can go in a foreign prince, and come out a beloved king."

           
"Beloved." He smiled. "What
king is beloved?"

           
"My father," she answered
quietly.

           
Corin sighed. "And, I think,
mine."

           
Aileen stared into the distances,
seemingly lost in thought. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet, but he heard
the subtleties in her tone as loudly as if she shouted.

           
"If Brennan is anything like
you, perhaps I can be content."

           
"Anything like me?" He
stared at her in shock.

           
"Aileen—no . . . Brennan is
nothing like me, and you should be grateful for it!"

           
"Why?" Now she looked at
him. "Should I be grateful because he lacks your complexities? Because he
lacks your depth of emotions? Lacks your passion?" Her eyes did not waver.
"Should I be grateful because there is no need for him to say what is in
his heart?"

           
"And if the heart is black—'

           
"Not black," she said
quietly. "Only bruised by childhood resentments, and I'm thinking those
can be easily banished."

           
Corin shook his head. "Brennan
is more suited to the Lion. He thinks before he speaks, speaks before he acts,
then acts responsibly. He understands what makes a man feel the way he does,
and respects that man for his feelings. He listens—" Abruptly, Corin broke
off. And then he began to laugh. "Oh, gods, woman—do you see what you have
done? From telling you why I dislike my rujholli I am become his
champion!"

           
"I'm thinking he needs
none," Aileen told him. "And—I'm thinking too that Atvia's gain is
surely Homana's loss."

           
Corin thought not. Corin thought
something else entirely, and found he must express it. Slowly he drew in a
breath. "And I am thinking that my loss is Brennan's gain—" He broke
off a moment, then went on bitterly. "Except you cannot lose what you
never had."

           
They stared at one another for a
long moment, unable to look away, knowing only that he had said what was better
left unsaid, between them; between the woman meant for his brother and the man
who wanted her for himself, even as he had wanted so many things Brennan had.
But this time, this time, he wanted less to win her away than simply to win
her, period.

           
Slowly, she put out her hand and
touched his, gently; he felt the trembling in her fingers. "For that, I am
sorry."

           
Corin pulled his hand from hers and
made a gesture: an upturned hand, palm bared, fingers spread. “Tahlmarra
lujhalla mei wiccan, cheysu," he said grimly, "and I can change the
fate the gods have given us no more than I can change the order of my
birth."

           
He stood before the Lion Throne and
faced the man within it. Not his father; Niall was gone. In his place was
Brennan.

           
Corin inclined his head. "My
lord," he said politely, "I wish to steal your queen."

           
He sat up with a muffled shout. All
around him was darkness and the swathing of the bed. And once again, as always,
he reached out for Kiri.

           
Lir, oh, lir, I think I am going
mad.

           
No, the vixen said, you are only
losing sleep.

           
He was. Each night. He slept,
dreamed, wakened, then repeated the cycle. He was ashamed of some of the
dreams. He had thought, fleetingly, of bedding one of the serving girls, if
only to banish the dreams, but the thought died nearly the instant it was born.

           
What he wanted was Aileen herself,
not one of Aileen's women.

           
Corin rolled over onto his belly. If
I went to Atvia now— But he knew he would never go. While Liam was from the
palace, he had every right to wait. No one could suspect him of remaining for
anything else.