Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (38 page)

           
Not even Aileen could.

           
He slept. He dreamed. He awakened.

           
"My lord," he said
politely, "I wish to steal your queen."

           
In his hand there was a sword—

           
Aileen touched his shoulder and the
vision fled at once.

           
"Where are you, Corin? I see
the look in your eyes."

           
He blinked, knowing himself back in
Kilore. No more Lion, no more Brennan. Only Brennan's betrothed.

           
"Nowhere," he said curtly,
rising from the stool.

           
They had shared a meal, exchanged favorite
stories of mishaps suffered by their kin, told tales on one another, recalled
childhood games. Now they sat before one of the giant fireplaces within a
private chamber, and he knew they tempted fate.

           
"Corin—"

           
"Will Liam never come
home?"

           
Aileen, still seated, stared up at
him as he turned to pace away. Back and forth he moved, restless and angry,
swallowed by desperation. She saw it in him, and grieved.

           
"I can send for him," she
said at last. "I didn't do it before only because you said there was no
need for urgency."

           
"No. No need for urgency."
He stopped pacing and swung back. "What I need I cannot have."

           
Clearly she understood him. She did
not look away.

           
"Who is saying you cannot have
it?"

           
"Brennan—"

           
"Brennan is not here."

           
Corin watched her rise. No more than
three paces separated them; he knew he dared not take them. Yet hoped she
would, so he could live with the guilt. And knew it was unfair.

           
"Aileen—"

           
"You came unknowing," she
said, "intending nothing. I received you in place of my father, offering
nothing more than courtesy. And, eventually, compassion and understanding. From
that grows the vine that tangles us in its thorns."

           
"Then I will cut us free."

           
Aileen's smile was bittersweet.
"Will you, now? But how?"

           
"By telling you the message I
have for Liam is that the betrothal is to end." He saw the whitening of
her face."A wedding is desired; Brennan requires an heir."

           
Aileen said nothing for a long
moment. And then she clenched her hands in the folds of her heavy skirts.
" Tis a sharp knife, Corin . . . sharper than the thorns."

           
"Brennan will bind the
wound."

           
"And who will be binding
yours?"

           
"Oh, gods—Aileen—“

           
But she took the paces and closed
the space between them, closing his mouth as well with cold, slim fingers.

           
"No," she said, “no. I'm
wanting no cruelty from one another, nor for one another. Ah, Corin—will ye
hold me? I've been wanting it so long—“

           
He held her, as she asked, thinking
he might fool himself into believing he did it only because she asked, but he
knew better. He knew. He was lost, and so was she.

           
And so was their innocence.

           
Lir, Kiri said, and someone threw
open the door.

           
They broke, but not quickly enough.
And then the dogs were begging for Aileen's attention, so many dogs, all wolfhounds,
pushing them apart, and he knew Liam was home at last.

           
"Lass," her father said
mildly, and then he looked at Corin.

           
Oh—gods—

           
Liam grinned and strode into the
chamber, parting the sea of dogs. He was a big man, a strong man, with
Deirdre's brass-bright hair and Aileen's green eyes; wind-chafed,
weather-bumed, hardened from years of war-fare. He was fifty, Corin knew, but
the years did not weigh him down.

           
"Niall’s lad," the lord of
Erinn said in a vast and abiding satisfaction. “ 'Tis in your face and your color,
though you lack the height and weight." He caught Corin in a brief,
bearish hug, then set him back for perusal.

           
Green eyes glinted; beyond him,
white-faced, Aileen stared. "I see none of Gisella in you."

           
Corin drew in a deep breath.
"My lord—"

           
"So, have you come to woo my
lass?" Liam strode to a table and poured wine. "Or is she already
won?" He grinned and raised his cup. "To Brennan and Aileen, future
king and queen of Homana."

           
For one insane moment Corin wondered
if it were possible to keep Liam in ignorance. Hart, he knew, might try it,
merely to win a wager.

           
But this was not a wager; Aileen was
worth far more.

           
"No," he said hollowly.'

           
One thick blond brow rose.
"No?" Liam echoed. "Will you not let me drink to your happiness?"

           
"You may drink to the happiness
of Brennan and Aileen," Corin said with as much control as he could
muster. "But I am not part of it."

           
Liam lowered the cup. "Are ye
daft, lad? D'ye insult my daughter so soon after you kiss her?"

           
"My lord." Corin moved to
face Liam squarely, no longer able to see Aileen. "My lord, you saw what
you saw. But I am not Brennan."

           
"Not—" Liam broke off. He
set down the cup with a thump; wine slopped over the rim. "Then who are
you, ye skilfin, and why were you kissing my daughter?"

           
"I am Niall's son, my lord ...
he has three, if you will recall. I am the youngest of them."

           
Liam's levity and high spirits were
banished, replaced with a frowning intensity. The sheer power in the man's gaze
made Corin want to squirm. But he held his ground, unmoving.

           
"Corin," Liam said
finally. "That much I know from Niall's letters." He flicked a glance
past Corin to Aileen and his mouth tautened. "Well, lad, have you come to
tell me Brennan and Hart are dead, and you are heir to the Lion?" His tone
was harsh. "I'll accept no other explanation for why you would take the
liberty of kissing Brennan's betrothed."

           
"Will you take this one?"
Aileen spoke for the first time since Liam had entered the room. She moved
forward to stand by Corin, facing her father even as he did, but with less
courtesy. "Will you accept it when I say I'll be taking Corin in place of
Brennan?"

           
Corin snapped his head around to
stare at her in shock, Liam's brows rose. "Will you?" he asked
mildly. "D'ye think it so easy, then?"

           
Corin had expected more than that
from him. But when he looked back at Liam, he saw the light tone did not
entirely dispell the intentness of his manner. He put Corin in mind of a
mountain cat feigning indolence until it was time to leap. But who is prey? he
wondered uneasily. Aileen, or myself?

           
"Not easy," Aileen said,
"but right. I know it was a political thing, the betrothal ... I have no
quarrel with that. But I'm saying we need only wed me to Corin in place of
Brennan."

           
Liam turned idly and walked around
the table to the immense fireplace. He stared into the flames, putting his back
to them. He wore black hunting leathers and golden spurs; blond hair was
tumbled against his shoulders, combed by the wind of his ride. Around him,
wolfhounds gathered.

           
"Corin is pledged to
Atvia."

           
It was all Liam said, and to the
flames. Corin and Aileen exchanged puzzled glances; she shrugged a little,
indicating ignorance of the reason for Liam's odd manner.

           
"Aye, to Atvia," she said
finally, when it became apparent her father intended to say no more. "But
'twould be a good alliance, my lord . . . 'twould help to forge peace between
the realms."

           
" Twill be for others to do,
when Alaric and I are dead." Liam turned, warming his back, and Corin saw
the Lord of Erinn was not as indifferent as he sounded.

           
Not indifferent at all. . .he merely
waits for the proper time.

           
"What would it alter?"
Aileen asked. "Brennan and I have never met, nor even exchanged letters.
He won't be missing what he never had, nor made any effort to have."

           
She gestured. "There is Ellas,
Falia,
Caledon
... let him have one of their princesses
instead of Erinn's only one."

           
Liam's eyes flicked to Corin.
"D'ye want her, lad?"

           
He raised his head. "Aye, my
lord, I do.'"

           
Liam looked down at his dogs.
"I could write Niall," he said absently. "I could write him . .
. could be telling him the very things you've told me ... perhaps it could be
arranged—" he looked up from his dogs, "—but then 'twould be the end
of the prophecy ... the end of the Cheysuli."

           
In shock, Corin stared back at him.
In despair, he saw the truth in Liam's compassionate eyes. He knew, did Liam;
he understood very well. Better than Aileen, who heard only the denial; better
even than Corin, who knew a great shame in overlooking the obvious. In nearly
betraying his blood.

           
"Are ye daft?" Aileen
asked. "How could it be the end of anything? And what does a prophecy have
to do with us?"

           
"Aileen." Corin wanted to
touch her, but did not dare it. "Aileen, I have told you of the prophecy .
. . how it governs Cheysuli lives."

           
"Aye, aye," she said
impatiently, "you've told me all about it. Tis a fine, shining thing,
Corin, and worthy of dedication, but what has it to do with us?"

           
"With you," he said clearly.
"The first son you bear Brennan will be another link in the chain, taking
us one step closer to fulfillment."

           
Aileen shrugged. "And if I bore
your son, would it not please the gods as well?"

           
Corin slowly shook his head.

           
"Why not?" she cried.
" 'Tis a son they want, is it not? Then I'll give them that son!"

           
"Aileen." Corin drew in a
breath, "It comes down to Brennan. It comes down to you. I do not figure
in it."

           
"And why not?"

           
"Because—" he gestured
emptily. "Because it has to do with how the blood is mixed. Brennan is
Homanan, Solindish and Atvian. You are Erinnish." He sighed. "The
prophecy requires—"

           
"But you have all those
bloodlines, Corin!"

           
"But I am not the Prince of
Homana!"

           
They stared at one another,
transfixed by pride, by anger, by anguish. And then Aileen made a gesture of
defiance and determination. "Does it matter so much that I wed the Prince
of Homana?"

           
"Aye," he said wearily.
"It all begins with Homana . . . one day it will end with Homana."

           
"Aileen." It was Liam, very
quiet. "Aileen, has he taught you nothing of the Cheysuli? D'ye see
nothing of his pride, his honor, the strength of will that rules his
life?" He looked older now, and saddened by what he said. "Niall
spent a twelve-month here, and in that time I learned a little of the
Cheysuli—enough to respect them and their determination."

           
"D'ye not respect me?" she
asked. "D'ye not think me capable of judging a man? Why else d'ye think I
want him?"

           
"Then ask him," Liam said
gently. "Look at him and ask him."

           
After a moment, Aileen turned to
Corin. "D'ye say you're not wanting me?"