Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (48 page)

           
And exploded in ecstacy as it
swallowed the rest of him, The fire died quickly before their astonished eyes.
In its place was a delicate webwork of lavender lace, a lattice of living light
that cloaked exposed flesh. Hands. Throat. Face. It even pooled in his mouth;
licked out of nostrils as he breathed. Through it all, Strahan laughed.

           
He rose. He went directly to Corin;
inclined his glowing head. And then knelt to catch the wrist that still bore
the silver shackle.

           
"No more need for this."
It caught fire, flowed off Corin's hand, pooled in Strahan's webworked palm.
And then shaped itself into a silver goblet. "There." Strahan rose,
turned, knelt again at the rim of the Gate. Dipped the cup. Came up with
dripping godfire. His smile was for Corin alone. "I give you the baptismal
cup . . . and good welcome to the world."

           
Corin's face was awash in the glow
of he cup. His eyes were blue, all blue, with only a speck of pupil,

           
"Corin!" Brennan shouted.

           
Corin's gaze was transfixed by
Strahan's altered appearance. The Ihlini offered the cup. Fingernails glowed.

           
"Drink of Asar-Suti."

           
Hart struggled impotently against
the man who held him, "Corin, no—I threw it away—I threw it away—no need
for this sacrifice—"

           
"Drink," Strahan said, and
helped Corin hold the cup.

           
"Ku'reshtin!” Brennan shouted.
"Did you do this for Aileen?"

           
"No." Corin said, "I
do this for myself."

           
And drank of Asar-Suti.

           
In Strahan's luxurious tower
chamber, they faced the sorcerer. They did not sit, though he did, preferring
instead to stand. Hart cradled his arm; Brennan waited rigidly.

           
The Ihlini stretched out elegantly
booted legs. The unearthly living lace had died from his flesh, but there
remained an aura of power. Subtle, but intoxicating; both Cheysuli felt it.
Neither succumbed to it.

           
In his chair, Strahan smiled.
"The game is somewhat altered."

           
"Is that what this is?"
Brennan asked harshly. "An afternoon's entertainment?"

           
"It is entertaining."
Strahan, chin in hand, slouched casually against the chair arm and braced his
elbow on it.

           
"Entertaining as well as
enlightening ... but no, not a game. For none of us, now; certainly not for
Conn.
"

           
Hart took a single step forward.
"What have you done to him?"

           
"I?" One winged black brow
rose. "I have done nothing at all."

           
"That bile you made him
drink—"

           
"The blood of Asar-Suti,"
Strahan corrected calmly.

           
"And I made him drink nothing;
did you see him turn away? Did you see him choke? Did you see him spit it
out?" The Ihlini shook his head with its fall of raven hair. "No. He
did none of those things. He drank it willingly, and was filled with the spirit
of the Seker. You saw his eyes."

           
Brennan's temper flared. "He
had no choice—"

           
"He had every choice."
Strahan leaned forward in the chair. "He accepted my offer of his own free
will. He drank of his own free will. I used nothing at all on him save
persuasion, and that, my Cheysuli kinsman, is power no different from your
own." He sat back again. The elaborate courtesy and negligent humor were
gone, replaced by a sharp intensity. "Now. I have Corin; that is finished.
What do I do with you?"

           
"Finished," Hart echoed.
"Finished? If you think we will let it rest—"

           
Strahan's eyes blazed. "I think
you will do exactly as I tell you.”

           
It stopped both of them cold.

           
The Ihlini uncoiled and pressed
himself out of the chair. He stepped very close to Hart, though he did not
touch him, and held him in place with an unwavering stare. "It is your
misfortune," he said clearly, "that you chose to destroy your own
flesh. Now you are truly cut off from your people, and through your own doing.
Blame yourself for that; I will have none of it!"

           
Hart wanted to fall back, but forced
himself to stand still. This close to the Ihlini he could feel Strahan's power
as if it leaked out of the pores of his skin.

           
"Your determination is
commendable." Strahan continued, "and its seeming boundlessness is a trait
I do admire. I want steadfast, loyal men, willing to sacrifice that which they
prize most. But I think you misjudge my willingness to mold such men into the
shapes that serve me best."

           
"Willingness." Brennan was
elaborately distinct. "A familiar refrain, Ihlini . . . but why is it so
important? If you have so much power, why not force Hart and me to do your
bidding? Why not mold us into the shapes that serve you best?" He spread
his hands. "Here we stand, sorcerer—why not shape the clay?"

           
Something flickered in Strahan's
mismatched eyes.

           
Briefly, so briefly, but Hart had
seen it, and so had Brennan.

           
Hart's eyes narrowed. "You have
us," he said intently.

           
"What can we do to gainsay you?
Make us the minions you want."

           
Strahan flicked a finger and the
door slammed open.

           
"You are dismissed."

           
Hart held his ground. Brennan moved
to stand beside him.

           
Strahan's fair skin burned darker in
slanted cheekbones, "You are dismissed."

           
"All those threats," Hart
said quietly. "All those promises . . . empty, all of them?"

           
"Is it that we must be
willing?" Brennan asked. "Why else do you waste so much time on
trying to break us physically, hoping to persuade us? Is it that an unwilling
minion lacks something you need in us? Something peculiar to us?"

           
"So peculiar that without it,
your efforts would be in vain?" Hart smiled. "I think we have beaten
you, Strahan. I think we have won at last."

           
Strahan said nothing at all.

           
Brennan began to smile. "And
what are we? Princes. More than Cheysuli, but princes, meant to inherit realms.
Homana. Solinde." He nodded. "You cannot rule on your own, so you
hope to rule through us. But there is no puppet-king if the king is too much a
puppet—"

           
"You need us sane," Hart
said intently. "You need us complete in wits. And if you force us to your
service, we will lack the thing you require—"

           
"—and the people will throw us
down." Slowly, Brennan spread his hands. "Kill our bodies, kill our
wits . . . and you are left with nothing."

           
"So," Hart said,
"where is the leverage now? If you kill Sleeta, Brennan will go mad. No
minion in Homana; the people will not have it. Rael you do not have, so what is
there for me?" He lifted his left arm. "I threw it away, Strahan—you
cannot use my hand."

           
"Leverage?" Strahan
nodded, turned away, swung back. "Aye, there is a need. And I do have
it."

           
"What is there left?"
Brennan asked.

           
"Corin," Strahan said, and
their triumph poured away.

           
The youngest of Niall's sons stared
at the man who faced him. For a long moment he did not know him, barely knowing
himself, and then a name came into his head. Strahan. Strahan, called the
Ihhni.

           
Strahan's outline was blurred. His
face was a blaze of white, marred only by the holes for eyes, nose, mouth.

           
And then the blaze became more
distinct, and the holes dissolved themselves into things identifiable, and
Corin knew whom he faced.

           
He shuddered once, like a man
awakening from a deep, dreamless sleep. He was, he realized, ensconced within a
massive chair, supported by tall back, tall sides, cushioned seat. It cradled
his lax body like a woman a sleeping child.

           
Sleeping. Aye, he had been. Or
something close to it.

           
Strahan stood before him, holding a
cup in his hands.

           
A black glass goblet, unlike the
silver one that had held the blood of the god. This one smelled of wine.

           
"Drink." Strahan held it
out. "It will help restore you."

           
Slowly Corin took it. The world was
dulled to him, wrapped in swaddling clothes. He felt heavy, ponderous,
movements slowed accordingly. His ringers closed on the cup, felt the warmth of
the glass, carried it to his mouth.

           
He drank deeply, sighed, felt his
head thump against the chair.

           
Strahan took the cup away. "It
takes time," he said, "to accustom yourself to it. You will know
discomfort, but it will pass. I promise."

           
Corin looked at the sorcerer. He saw
the fine planes of jaw, cheekbones, brow; the oblique angles of mismatched
eyes. Such fine, delicate features, yet there was no mistaking his sex.

           
Strahan smiled and sat down in a
chair opposite. "I thought it might be Hart," he said calmly. "I
underestimated him, believing his need for his race would outweigh his
dedication. But you will do well enough."

           
Corin swallowed heavily. His voice
seemed very distant, as if another man spoke. "Hart is often misjudged. People
see only his fecklessness, his desire for amusement. They look no farther than
that."

           
Strahan considered it. "What
will sway him, then? I cannot replace his hand."

           
"The loss of his place in the
clan." Corin frowned a little. "You have cut away his anchor ... he
will founder on the rocks one day, no matter what he says. Offer him succor. In
time he will repay it."

           
The Ihlini stroked one eyebrow.
"And Brennan?"

           
"Him you may never win."
Corin shifted in the chair.

           
His bones tingled. He itched.
"I know of no way to convince him. Brennan's particular strength lies in
his unequaled loyalty to kin, clan and prophecy." He shrugged. "It
will make him a predictable Mujhar, but also a very good one."

           
"Then perhaps he should not be
Mujhar." Strahan nodded thoughtfully. "I made you promises, and I
intend to keep them. Brennan will undoubtedly become expendable . . . Homana
will need a new king. You I can put in his place.""

           
Corin rubbed at his tingling scalp.
"Aileen . . ." He shivered. "What of Aileen?"

           
Strahan waved a hand. "With
Homana and Solinde under my control, it no longer matters whom she marries. The
prophecy will not be completed no matter what child is born." He shrugged.
"I no longer need her. Alaric failed to spirit her to Atvia, and there was
no time for a second try. Now there is no need. You may have her, Corin. It was
a part of our bargain."

           
Corin bunked repeatedly. The chamber
was bright, too bright; he squinted against the light.

           
"It will be difficult,"
Strahan said softly. "I will not discount the steadfast determination of
your race . . . the arrogance of your convictions. But I need your brothers,
Corin. May I count on you?"

           
Corin frowned. "There may be a
way," he said. "Will you trust me to do it?"

           
Strahan showed even teeth in a
silent laugh. "Trust? There is no need for trust. If I tell you to do a
thing, you will do it without question. That is the way of the service."

           
Something flickered deep inside
Corin. Mute denial.

           
But it was snuffed out so quickly by
apathy he hardly recognized it.

           
"There may be a way," he
said again. "What they want most is freedom. Their need of it may overshadow
their caution and distrust."

           
"Aye." Strahan nodded.
"We shall devise a scenario, and then give them what they want."

           
Corin shut his eyes. The world was
too bright to bear, his flesh too heavy to carry. "I can deliver
them."

           
"Good," Strahan said. He
poured himself more wine.

           
The cell was new to Brennan, though
not so to Hart; larger, brighter, more comfortable than the tiny one Brennan
had known for months. Two fat candles burned in corners opposite one another. A
narrow cot lined one wall, which was, like the others, cool but dry, lacking
fetid slime. The occupant, unlike his brother, had also been provided with a
bucket in which to relieve himself.

           
Hart sat down on the cot and hunched
against the wall, cradling his left arm. He stared into invisible distances.

           
Brennan saw the withdrawal at once.
"Hart—"

           
"Gone," he said.
"Gone." He looked at the emptiness where once his hand had been.
"And I did it to myself."

           
Slowly Brennan sat down on the edge
of the cot. He felt a vague sense of relief that he still had both hands, and
guilt because he did. "If you had accepted Strahan's bargain—"

           
"I know!" Hart cried.
"I know, Brennan—I do not require reminding!"

           
Inwardly Brennan recoiled, though
his body did not move.