Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (42 page)

           
Girl, more like. She sat not so very
far away, clad in gray wool skirt and blouse, leather tabard, boots. And she
bared a knife in her hand.

           
Corin bunked. She did not vanish
into the air. She remained seated and silent, watching him warily.

           
He tried to move and found it
incredibly painful. Gritting his teeth, he forced arms and legs to straighten.
It drew a hiss of discomfort from him. The girl, he saw, frowned. The knife
glinted in her hand.

           
He swallowed. His throat was dry.
Even his teeth hurt.

           
He tongued them, relieved to find
human instead of vulpine. He felt fully human. But he knew he could not be sure.

           
"Am I a man?" he asked,
and heard the croak that issued forth. It stirred him into a movement his body
was yet unready for; he fell back, gasping, and wished he had not tried.
"Am I a man?" he repeated; this time the words made sense.

           
"With two arms, two legs, a
head," the girl agreed. "Did you think you might not be?"

           
He sighed. "Aye . . . aye,
there was a chance." Slowly he sat up, locking his jaw against the
stiffness. and felt a little of it fading. Perhaps once he was up and moving,
things would return to normal. He looked at nails, fingers, hands. Then he
touched his face.

           
"
Man.
" she told him firmly. "What else
might you be?"

           
Corin touched Kiri, who sat so close
beside him. "Fox," he told her. "Like this one, though dog
instead of vixen."

           
Her eyes narrowed. She was
brown-haired, brown-eyed. Not pretty, not plain, though her features had a
familiar cast as well as an uncanny, arresting power.

           
Oddly, she reminded him of Aileen.
"Are you Cheysuli, then?"

           
He nodded. "Aye. Kiri is my lir."

           
After a moment of consideration, she
slid the knife home in the sheath attached to her belt. "I heard you
shouting," she said. "I heard you screaming. So I came to see what
caused it, and found you there, on the ground, all bound up like a newbom babe."
One hand splayed briefly across her abdomen; the gesture was eloquent,
divulging much to Corin. "But when I found you, I saw nothing that caused
such pain. Nothing except the fox, and she wanted only to protect you."

           
Corin rolled shoulders, head; flexed
hands. Everything responded, though a residual ache remained. "I tried to
assume lir-shape," he said. "Something prevented me. Something
twisted the magic." He looked more closely at her, seeing a look in her
eye that hinted at wariness, and something close to fear. "I promise, I
mean no harm."

           
"Something might mean you
harm," she said flatly, pointing to his wrist. "That is the witch's
handiwork."

           
Corin smiled. "You do not
appreciate Lillith?"

           
The girl shivered. “I would sooner
live without her."

           
She pressed herself up from the
ground, shaking out gray skirts. "There is a tower not far from here ...
an old watchtower, built to warn us of Erinnish invaders. But it is mine, now;
will you come? I think you could use the rest."

           
Corin got up slowly, hearing joints
and tendons snap.

           
He could not recall ever feeling so
stiff and sore, not even after lengthy arms practice with Hart or Brennan, or
even against his uncle.

           
She took him to the tower on a cliff
overlooking the Dragon's Tail. The edge of the world, it was; jagged, craggy,
promising death to the man who fell over it. He could see Erinn from here, and
the palisades, showing their chalk-white faces. It made him think of Aileen.

           
The interior was clean, washed white
with lime. The tower was round, supporting only a second story. A wooden stair
was tucked behind the studded door, winding to the upper floor and beyond, up
to the watchtower roof. There was a table, benches, chests, and baskets of
wildflowers. Also the dome of a tiny fireplace where she undoubtedly cooked her
food. It was a cozy, airy home unlike any he had ever known.

           
She served him bread, cheese, ale.
Her name was Sidra, she told him; she owned a goat, some chickens, grew
vegetables, made cloth out of wool on her loom. In town she traded for the
other things she might need.

           
He looked at her in surprise.
"You are alone?"

           
"Aye," she said; her chin
rose a little.

           
"Why? Have you no husband
"

           
"No husband."

           
"And no man to protect
you?"

           
"I protect myself."

           
"With what, that knife?"

           
"I have also a sword," she
said clearly, looking toward one of the trunks.

           
Corin thought of Keely, so proud of
her weapons-skill; of her independence. But Keely, he thought, had sound reason
for both. She was skilled with sword and bow and knife, because her brothers
and uncle had taught her. As well as her father's arms-master before Niall had
stopped it.

           
"Sidra," he said quietly,
"what are you hiding from me?"

           
She sighed, staring down at the
table as she turned her cup in restless circles. "No man will harm
me," she said quietly. "No man who knows who I am, and my father
takes care to make it known."

           
"Why?"

           
She lifted her head to look at him.
"I am Alaric's bastard daughter."

           
"Alaric's bastard?" Corin
stared at her in surprise. And then he began to laugh.

           
Sidra was unamused. Color stained
her cheeks and set her ale-brown eyes to guttering; she moved to rise, but he
reached across and caught her hand.

           
"No," he said, "no.
Forgive me-. I do not laugh at you, but at the situation." He suppressed
another laugh, though the sound threatened his throat. "How old are you,
Sidra? Eighteen? Nineteen?"

           
"Nineteen." She removed
her hand from his. "Why do you ask?"

           
"Because you are my
su'fala." He smiled at her frown of incomprehension. "Aunt," he
told her plainly. "Gisella, who is your half-sister, is also my
mother."

           
This time there was no quick color
in Sidra's cheeks, but a draining of it entirely. "Gisella's—" She
broke off, staring at him blankly, and then she thrust her stool away to rise
and move from the table. "Cheysuli. . . aye, now I see it. Gisella's
son—one of them . . . would your name be Corin?"

           
He affirmed it with a nod.

           
Sidra sighed, combing brown hair
absently. She did not braid it like so many other woman, but wore it tied back
with a strip of leather. Mostly free, it curled to her nips. "Corin,"
she murmured, "Crown Prince of Atvia ... if the witch lets you have
it." She turned back sharply. "You do understand what she does, do
you not? The witch? My father's Ihlini whore?”

           
Corin recalled very well what Alaric
looked and sounded like. He wondered how much Sidra knew. "I have seen him
only today."

           
"Then you do know."
Abruptly she sat down again, leaning forward against the table. "He was
not like this, Corin—not always. Oh, aye, I have heard all the stories-you have
little reason to love Atvia or my father—but I swear, he was not always as you
see him. That took her"

           
"Sidra—"

           
"I saw it," she
interrupted. "I saw what she did to him, and what it meant, and I told
him. I told him to send her away, to make her stop it, so she would not destroy
him. But I should have known. I should have reckoned with her power over
him." She shrugged a little, pulling slender shoulders forward; the
gesture was eloquent as a sign of her helplessness. "Lillith had me sent
from the castle."

           
"Against Alaric's wishes?"

           
Sidra sighed heavily, staring
blindly at her cup of ale.

           
"By then he had no more
wishes—no more power to demand them of her. But she is not a fool; she used no
sorcery against me, nor tried to have me slain. No. She simply sent me here . .
. where I am away from my father."

           
Corin could not reconcile the Alaric
of his father's stories and the Alaric of the girl's. "Forgive me, Sidra—but
I do not see him as you do."

           
"No." She scraped a nail
against the wood and drew an idle pattern. "No, you would not." She
fell silent again, then flicked him a glance from under heavy-lashed lids.
"It was after Gisella went to Homana to marry the Mujhar. The Lord of
Atvia, being lonely without his daughter, turned to other women. My mother was
one of them. And on her he sired a daughter, whom he named Sidra." Her
mouth hooked down briefly. "My mother died. He took me in. There was no
secret of my birth, but he did not care. He loved me, and made it known."

           
"What happens when he is
dead?"

           
The question was cruel, but she did
not avoid it. "What more than this?" she asked. "I have no place
in the succession. My mother was a simple Atvian girl whose beauty, briefly,
caught the eye of Atvia's lord. She was nothing to him. Once, I might have
been, but Lillith ended that." Sidra shook her head. "I have nothing
to offer Atvia."

           
"Except the child you
carry."

           
Again he saw the telltale hand
splaying itself across her belly. "How do you—"

           
"You give it away
yourself." He mimicked her gesture distinctly. "I have seen it
before."

           
Sidra looked away from him. "It
was one of .my father's guardsmen. He is gone, now—sent away by the witch . . .
but at least she leaves me the child."

           
"For now." Corin shook his
head. "I have grown up in the midst of political intrigue, Sidra. Bastard
you may be, and the child, but it bears royal blood. If it is a son, what is to
keep the people of Atvia from deciding to follow him instead of a stranger who shifts
his shape?"

           
She stared. "Do you think it
will threaten you?"

           
"You yourself said Lillith
allowed you to keep the child—at least for now. But once it is born, and if it
is a son, what is to say she will not take it for herself? Surely a child would
be easier for her to control than a Cheysuli immune to her power."

           
"Immune," Sidra echoed.
"Is that why you wear her wristlet?"

           
He had forgotten. Now, reminded of
it, he felt the weight on his wrist. Cold. It was so cold. Bleakly, he shook
his head.

           
Unexpectedly, Sidra smiled.
"Aunt," she said in amusement, "to a man who is older than
I."

           
He might have smiled back, but he
was thinking of Aileen.

           
"What is it?" Sidra asked.
"What troubles you, my lord?"

           
It was the first time she had used
his rank. It was customary, and something to which he had grown accustomed
since childhood, but it was odd coming from her.

           
"Corin," he said. "I
was thinking of a woman."

           
"Ah." She nodded, sighing.
"Even as I think of a man."

           
His hand was lost in Kiri's pelt as
she sat by his stool.

           
"Did he know there was a
child?"

           
"No." Sidra poured more
ale and drank. "No, he left before I could tell him. Before I knew for
certain."

           
"And if you sent word to him
now?"

           
Her eyes filled with tears. "I
could not begin to say where he is. The witch would never tell me."

           
"And Alaric?"

           
Sidra brushed the tears away
quickly, as if disdaining them. "I doubt he knows. I doubt it was his
doing."

           
"I might ask him for you."

           
Hope colored cheeks and glistened in
widened eyes.

           
"Would you?"

           
"I promise nothing," he
told her gently. "I will ask. But I doubt Lillith would tell me anything
more than she has told you."

           
Sidra nodded, staring down at the
hands she twined in her lap. "Anything is welcome."

           
Corin rose. "I should go back.
I left somewhat abruptly."

           
He was still stiff, still sore, but
the rest had done him good. "I will see what I can find out, and bring you
word as soon as I can."

           
"Oh, my lord, thank you!"

           
Corin shrugged as he turned toward
the tower door.

           
"It is the least I can do after
what you did for me." Kiri trotted past him out into the afternoon. It
grew late, and dark; the sun slipped low in the sky and was hidden behind a
wall of heavy clouds. The wind had an icy bite.

           
Sidra, framed in the doorway,
watched Corin go. "Be wary of the witch."

           
"Here, I am wary of
everything." He lifted his hand in a farewell wave and turned away from
her. And then, abruptly, he stopped. "Why not come with me, Sidra? Ask
Alaric yourself."

           
"With you!" She gaped inelegantly.
"I told you how I was turned out of the castle!"

           
"This time you come at my
invitation. If Lillith desires to turn you out again, she will have to contend
with me."

           
He put out a beckoning hand.
"Come with me, Sidra. We will approach Alaric together."

           
She did not hesitate. She slammed
the door shut behind her and ran down the path to join him.

           
Lillith's black eyes glittered.
"You are a fool," she said coldly.

           
They faced her in one of the private
receiving chambers. Corin had meant to take Sidra immediately to Alaric and had
very nearly succeeded, but Lillith ruled the castle. Guardsmen had halted them
at the Lord of Atvia's door. In short order, at Lillith's command, they had
been forcibly escorted to the chamber.

           
Corin did not flinch beneath her
stare. He was too angry, "What I am, Lillith, is Alaric's grandson and
heir to Atvia's throne. If you think to keep me from him, you had better
reacquaint yourself with the succession."

           
"He is dying," she said
plainly. "He has the night to live, or perhaps tomorrow. I can think of
better ways for you to spend your time than bringing bastards here."

           
"I will bring whomever I
choose," he retorted. "She has more right here than you."

           
"She was sent from this castle
at her father's behest—“

           
"Your behest," Sidra said
sharply. "Why not let me see my father? Let him say if he wants me here or
not."

           
Lillith looked at Corin, ignoring
Sidra altogether. "She has no place here. There is no provision for
bastards in this castle."

           
"I will make provision."

           
"How?" Lillith asked.
"Who are you to do so? A stranger. A foreigner. A shapechanger sent from
the Mujhar, who sucks Atvia dry of wealth. Do you expect a welcome? Do you
expect to be loved? Do you expect to rule?"

           
"By the gods, Ihlini—"

           
"By my god!" Her voice
rang out to fill the chamber. "You are a long way from Homana, Corin. You
are a long way from your gods." Before he could speak, Lillith crossed the
room to him. She put her hand on his wrist and the silver blazed to life. "You
have no power here. But do you feel mine?"

           
The pain was intolerable. He felt it
run through his body like fire, eating at every joint. Yet somehow, dredging up
what remained of his waning strength, he managed to pull away. And in doing so,
he retaliated. Before Lillith could avoid it he struck her full across the
face.

           
She staggered and nearly fell. He
saw the mark of his hand upon her; saw the fury in her eyes. Never had he
witnessed such hatred. Never had he seen such control.

           
"What can you do?" he
taunted. "I am a Cheysuli, witch."

           
Lillith threw fallen hair back from
her face. Corin's handprint was vivid red against the pallor of her skin.

           
"What can I do?" she
asked. And then, oddly, she laughed. "I can watch, Cheysuli. That will be
more than enough."

           
It chilled his bones. "Watch
what?"

           
But she was gone, leaving them alone
in the chamber.

           
"Gods," Sidra said weakly,
"I thought she meant to kill you."

           
"Come," he told her
grimly, "it is time we saw your father."

           
He took her to see Alaric. But her
father was already dead.

           
"No," Sidra said, as they
stood outside the chamber door.

           
"Aye," the guardsman told
them. "Only a moment ago."

           
"Was Lillith here?" Corin
asked curtly.

           
"My lord, she was. She was with
him when he died."

           
"Convenient," he said flatly,
and moved to go inside.