Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (39 page)

           
She would never be beautiful, but he
was blinded by her pride; by the brilliance of her spirit. "You showed me
what it was to look out of myself to others," he told her gently. "You
showed me how to be myself, not judging myself against others, or what others
wanted of me. You taught me to be free in spirit if not in body, bowing to
necessity, and to accept the latter with grace." He smiled a little.
"Lastily, you taught me to love my brother, and for that I am very
grateful. Leijhana tu'sai, meijhana . . . but I cannot steal his queen."

           
Aileen's face was a white blotch
against red hair. Her eyes swam with tears. But she said nothing, nothing at
all; she merely turned and walked from the room.

           
After a moment, Liam put a large
hand on Corin's shoulder and gripped it briefly, then released him. "Until
this moment I never regretted what Niall and I did, promising sons and
daughters to one another. 'Tis the way of royal houses; the requirements of
rank." He picked up Corin's forgotten cup of wine and put it into his
hands. "But it seems we dealt too lightly with unborn souls."

           
Corin stared into the lukewarm wine.
"I came here to tell you my jehan desires the wedding to go forth."
He looked at Liam. "Aileen is to make ready for the voyage."

           
There was pain in Liam's green eyes,
and more than a share of regret. Slowly he reached out and took the cup away.
"Go to her, lad. She's a spirited lass, saying what she thinks, and likely
she'll have harsh words for you . . . but go. I'll not be making the mistake my
father did when Niall was sent from Deirdre. Go to Aileen and say your
good-byes. It won't be enough, but at least 'tis something."

           
All Corin could do was nod. And then
he left the chamber.

           
At last he found her on the
battlements of the fortress.

           
If she cried he could not tell; the
wind scrubbed her face clean of everything save the starkness she turned on
him.

           
Her fingers clutched the brick: The
line of her spine was rigid. "Go, Corin. I'm wanting to be alone,"

           
"That is a lie," he told
her plainly. "What you want is for me to say I was wrong ... to say I'll
take you regardless of consequences ... to say I want you badly enough to steal
my rujholli's betrothed."

           
The mobile mouth was tightly drawn.
"But you won't. You don't."

           
He stood next to her, turning to
stare out at the sea that pounded Erinn's shores. "I want you," he
said simply, knowing no other way, no better way, to put it. "If it is not
enough that I say it without qualifications, then I am sorry for you. But I
know you better, Aileen ... I know you better than anyone save Keely, if in an
entirely different sense."

           
"Do you?" They were close
enough to touch, but neither moved to do it.

           
"Aye." The wind carried most
of it away, "I know that if I turned my back on my kin, my race, my
tahlmorra, eventually you would hate me. Perhaps even tomorrow."

           
He turned to her, scraping leather
knife sheath against the wind-scoured stone. "There are women in the world
who would be pleased to have such sacrifice made in their names, but you are
not one of them."

           
Her hair was a banner in the wind,
whipping back from her face. "No," she said, "I am not . . . but
I almost wish I could be."

           
A laugh rose from deep inside of
Corin, a single gust of sound. "If you were," he told her, "if
you were, I could never love you the way I do."

           
Aileen swore bitterly and banged the
wall with her fist. "Why is it," she cried, "why is it I meddle
where I should not? Why is it I took it into my head to ease a man's pain, to
show him what it is to know contentment within oneself?" Slowly she shook
her head. "If I'd left you alone, never trying to understand you, never
trying to ease that pain, we'd not be in this coil!"

           
"Why is it you took it into
your head to show me that underneath all my childish resentment, I really care
for Brennan?" Corin sighed and rubbed aching eyes with rigid fingers.
"Well, we have fashioned me into someone I can live with, and now I must
live without you."

           
"Brennan," she said
bitterly. "Each time I look on him, I will think of you. Even in
bed—"

           
It was a vision he had purposely
pushed aside, and now she brought it back in all its intensity. He could not
bear it. "Aileen, stop." He caught her wrists. "Stop. You punish
me as well as yourself."

           
All the anguish was in her face, but
so was her pride. "And when I call him by your name?"

           
Corin shook his head. "Aileen,
I swear, when you meet Brennan you will understand. You will never mistake him
for me. We are so different, so very different . . . temperament, coloring,
preferences ... so many other things." He swallowed tightly. "I
promise you, Aileen, it will not be an empty marriage."

           
She jerked her wrists away. "I
might prefer it that way."

           
All the pain rose up. "Do you
think I want that?" he cried. "Do you think I want to spend my life
knowing you hate every moment with my rujholli, when there is nothing for me to
do? No, Aileen. I would sooner believe you content enough than living your life
in sorrow, lost in some futile hope that someday I might come. It would twist
you, twist me ... it would destroy any hope of happiness for either one of
us."

           
"So," she said, "you
tell me to go to Homana and wed your brother ... to be his wife and bear his
children . . . to be everything to him that I want to be to you."

           
"Aye," he said harshly.
"That is what I tell you."

           
She drew in a deep, unsteady breath.
"You are a hard man," she said, "and I wish I could soften you.
But in doing it, I would destroy the thing I love."

           
"Aileen—"

           
She thrust up a silencing hand.
"No more," she said. "No more from you, I say. And now I must go
... 'tis time I began to pack."

           
He watched her go. And when she was
gone, when he stood alone on the battlements, he slid slowly down the stone to
sit with legs drawn up, staring blindly at his knees.

           
Later, Liam came to him in his
chambers. "Come out with me, lad. Now."

           
"Out with you—?"

           
But Liam did not answer. He motioned
Corin to follow him out of the chamber and immediately left it, dogs trailing
in his wake, and after a moment Corin went as well.

           
They left Kilore entirely, riding
across the headlands with an escort of giant dogs, and also Kiri, a blotch of
rust and black against emerald turf. Liam said nothing at all of his intentions,
nor what he expected of Corin; he merely rode, wrapping himself in silence, and
Corin rode with him.

           
At last Liam halted. Before them was
a grassy tor, swelling out of the turf, and Corin saw a crude stone altar on
its crest. He thought they might dismount and go up to it, but Liam remained in
the saddle. In his eyes was the opacity of memories recalled.

           
" Tis of the cileann, this
place," he said finally. "The oldfolk of Erinn, born of ages past.
The tor is sacred, blessed with ancient magic . . . can ye not feel it,
lad?"

           
"Aye, my lord. I do."

           
Liam looked at the tor. " Twas
where I took Niall when he went out of Erinn to Atvia . . . leaving my sister
behind."

           
Pain rose; he would leave Liam's
daughter behind.

           
Thinking: You forget, my lord. Niall
left her, but Deirdre came to him later. I cannot hope for the same.

           
"I was angry, lad ... angry
with Niall, with Deirdre—angry with myself." Liam grimaced. "I
thought it a waste, that a man such as your father had to bow to the dictates
of his fate and trade Deirdre for Gisella. I saw what was between them as
clearly as I see the thing between you and Aileen. And I cursed it, and them,
and myself, because I knew I would have to end it." He fell silent a
moment, and the wind teased his hair. "Lad, 'twas no easier for me then
than it is now. And I understand it no better. But I know it must be done.
Niall taught me that much, and you have reminded me."

           
The horse stomped under Corin, who
soothed it absently. "I am nothing like my jehan. I wish I might be, that
I could offer her better; or that I was firstborn, so I would be more like
Brennan—" He broke off. "But even then, I could offer her
nothing."

           
"And you're a blind man,
lad." Liam turned his horse. "Come, then. One day you will be king in
Alaric's place; we must speak now of trade and treaties, while we have the
time."

           
Silently Corin followed, while the
wind blew down the tor.

           
She was, he thought, the most
beautiful woman he had ever seen. The power of her allure touched him as it touched
all men, nearly engulfing his wits. But he knew better. He knew her: Lillith of
the Ihlini, sister to Strahan himself.

           
Corin drew in a steadying breath as
he dismounted in front of the palace steps. A boy took his horse. Alone, afoot,
afraid, he faced the sorceress.

           
She stood at the very top of the
steps. She watched him. And she smiled. "You are well come to
Rondule."

           
"Am I?" He made himself
mount the first step.

           
"But of course. Are you not the
Crown Prince of Atvia?"

           
A second step. "That is for
Alaric to say."

           
"But of course." Still Lillith
smiled. "If Alaric can."

           
Corin paused, then forced himself to
climb. "An odd thing to say."

           
"Not when you have seen
him." She wore blue, deep, rich blue, girdled with silver and pearls.
Large, irregular pearls, some creamy, some gray, some black, with a tinge of
silver-blue. More threaded the weave of her braid.

           
Closer, ever closer, until he could
see the silver tips of her nails; the kohl-smudged lids. The eerie youthfumess
of features and form.

           
This woman seduced my su'fali.

           
Corin looked at her as he climbed.
He began to understand how. Lirless, Ian had stood no chance. Her power was
manifest.

           
Lillilh smiled, "I see you have
brought your lir"

           
Someone, something, touched an icy
fingertip to his spine. He did not like the way Lillith looked at Kiri. To
change the subject, he said, "My jehan sent word I was coming."

           
"No," Lillith said.
"I already knew."

           
He stopped short. He was but three
steps below her.

           
She was young, he saw, genuinely
young. Not older. Not age, masquerading as youth. He had only to compare her to
Aileen to know that the sorcery was powerful indeed.

           
It did more than lend her the
illusion of youth and beauty, it gave her both in full measure. The Seker was
an unstinting god.

           
Oddly, he recalled
Boyne
's story. The tale of a sorcerer become god.
The memory made him shiver.

           
Lillith smiled. Calmly she stood at
the top of the steps, giving nothing away of her power, but showing it all the
same. "There is no doubt who sired you."

           
He had heard it before. He and Keely
had both inherited Niall's coloring—blue eyes, tawny hair, fair skin—and a
resemblance in facial structure, but neither claimed his frame. Keely was tall
for a woman, but nothing more; he himself was considered short for his Cheysuli
heritage, being less than six feet. Brennan and Hart both topped him by a handspan.

           
"And no doubt who sired
you."

           
Lillith laughed. "And did you
know Tynstar well?"

           
"Only by reputation."

           
"With him, that is all that is
needed."

           
Her tone was a trifle cooler, her
black eyes more assessive; Corin disliked intensely the sensation of being
judged. It was bad enough when his father did it; worse when done by an Ihlini.
"Lillith—"

           
"Come in," she said
abruptly. "There are matters to discuss, and better places to discuss
them."

           
He wanted to refuse her, to leave
her and go somewhere she could not touch him, even with her eyes. But an innate
sense of self-preservation and a desire to play the game very carefully kept
him from blurting it out.

           
This was Atvia, not Homana. Lillith
had been Alaric's light woman for a very long time, and was Ihlini to boot; her
influence would be well established by now. Until he knew better how things
stood, it was not his place to quibble.

           
At least until reason is plainly
given. He followed Lillith in silence.

           
She took him to a private chamber
within the heart of the palace. The servants they passed bowed quickly to
Lillith, but watched him with curious eyes. He wondered how Lillith had known
he was coming; he wondered if she had not, and simply said she had. Mostly, he
wondered how he would manage to last the year.

           
"Here." Lillith indicated
a carved, high-backed chair.

           
The room was shadowed, lacking
windows, illuminated only by candleracks. Most were unlit, like the fireplace.

           
It dulled the colors of the
tapestries and robbed the room of welcome.

           
He sat down. Kiri took her place by
his feet, sitting rigidly in front of his legs. She watched the woman intently
as Lillith poured wine.

           
Corin shook his head as the cup was
offered. Lillith did not withdraw it. "A fool will often go thirsty."

           
"But at least the fool will
live."

           
Briefly she looked at Kiri. She
smiled. "You are a fool, Corin. Why should I stoop to poison when I have
other means? And why, for that matter, should I desire to take your life? You
are more useful to me alive."

           
"Useful?" Lillith still
held out the cup; he stared at her over the rim.

           
She did not answer at once. Instead,
she gazed thoughtfully at the cup she held, as if troubled by his refusal. She
lifted it to her own lips, sipped distinctly so he could see she did indeed
drink the wine. And then, idly—as if it were no more than an afterthought—she
tipped the cup over and poured out the wine.

           
Corin jerked back into the depths of
the chair, trying to avoid the torrent. Even Kiri dodged aside. But there was
no need. In midair, as the wine spilled out of the cup, it turned into coils of
lavender smoke.

           
"One need not concern oneself
with unwanted residue," Lillith said obscurely, and threw the cup to
Corin.

           
He caught it, as she meant him to,
and then cursed himself for following her lead. He leaned over the side of the
chair to put the cup down on the floor; as he did, stretching out his arm, the
cup began to change.

           
Aghast, he jerked his hand away. But
the cup followed. In his hand the silver melted, reformed, braceleted his
flesh. Cursing, he tried to fling the silver away, but it had formed a rigid
cuff around his wrist. A seamless, shining shackle.

           
"I will be very plain,"
Lillith said quietly. "If I wanted you, I would take you. There is nothing
you could do."

           
His hand trembled, then spasmed.
"Take it off—"

           
Lillith shook her head. "For
now, I will leave it. It will be a reminder, so you do not forget who holds the
power here." She turned from him and moved to the nearest chair, spreading
blue skirts as she settled into black cushions. She did not seem to notice that
he was transfixed by the silver cuff, unable to look at her. "I want you
to understand very clearly how things are in Atvia."

           
"Lady, I do" He fisted his
hand and thrust it into the air, displaying the shining shackle.

           
"Good." Lillith smiled.
"I have no intention of robbing you of your birthright."

           
He frowned before he could hide it.

           
"No," she said, "why
should I? You are Alaric's grandson, kin to Osric and Thorne and Keough, and
all the lords before them. I would be a fool if I stripped Atvia of her
rightful blood."

           
"Then why are you here?"

           
"Because it pleases me to be
here." Lillith's tone was bland.

           
"As it pleased you to seduce a
lirless Cheysuli?"

           
Black eyes glinted. "Does Ian
dream of me?"

           
"No more than I will,
Ihlini." He tried to ignore the silver on his wrist. But it was cold, so
cold. "What is your purpose? Why do you stay with Alaric? If you speak the
truth about my inheritance, you must know I will not want you here."

           
"By the time you inherit this
realm, there will be no need for me here."

           
"Lillith—"

           
"We must speak of the future,
Corin," she said quietly, overriding him easily. "Alaric is an old
man. His wits fail. Atvia suffers from the lack of a strong hand at the helm.
If something is not done, Atvia will fall to those who wish to conquer her and
take her for their own."

           
He frowned. "Who would benefit
from conquering Atvia? The realm owes fealty to Homana."

           
"Liam would take the island in
a moment if he knew of Alaric's weakness. It has nothing to do with Homana;
Atvia and Erinn have battled for years."

           
That he knew well enough. But he
shook his head.

           
"No. I think Liam—"

           
"No." she said plainly,
"you do not think. You know nothing of Liam at all, having met him only
yesterday."

           
"My jehan—"

           
"Your father has not seen Liam
in twenty-two years," Lillith said flatly. "And even then, he knew
him as Prince of Erinn, not the lord himself. Power changes men. Power will
change you." She spoke coolly, without excess emotion, expressing things
the way his father might.

           
He found he did not like it; Lillith
was enemy. "I will not waste my time trying to convince you Liam means
Atvia harm," she continued. "You would never believe me. But I will
say this: unless a strong man assumes the throne, Atvia will fall. If not to
Liam, to someone else." She paused, and her tone was subdued. "There
are other realms in the world besides those we know."

           
It was an odd statement. To Corin,
the world was made up of a handful of realms: Homana, Solinde, Erinn, Atvia,
Ellas, Falia,
Caledon
, and the Steppes. In childhood, he had learned a little of them all.
There had been no others named.

           
"And you want me to assume the
throne. Now. Ahead of time."

           
Lillith's shrug was eloquent.
“Alaric's time draws short.”

           
"Then why precipitate it?"

           
"For the reasons I have
given."

           
"No," he said flatly,
"there must be something more."

           
He grasped the easorcelled silver
with his left hand, sensing a disorienting ambience in addition to the icy
touch, and tried to twist it off. But the silver was solid, inflexible, hugging
his wrist as firmly as the tir-bands hugged his arms.

           
"It would serve you," she
said. "Take the throne now, establish your claim . . . make certain Atvia
understands you are the lord. Give the people no chance to be swayed by
foreigners.”

           
Foreigners. Again she spoke of
external threats. And yet, to his knowledge, there were no foreigners; the
world was made of eight realms, those he had already named. Four of them were
part of the prophecy.

           
But this was Lillith. "You are
lying," he said curtly. "You are Ihuni, and you are lying, and I want
no part of your plots."

           
"But Atvia is your
responsibility, Corin."

           
She was so cool, so calm, so certain
of her influence.

           
"Not yet," he answered
firmly. "Alaric is lord until the day he dies, and I go home in seven
months."

           
"Alaric will be dead within
seven weeks," Lillith said gently. "Unless, of course, I should
prefer it be seven days—or perhaps seven hours."