Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (49 page)

           
"I know," Hart repeated.
"I know what I did was right. I know it was for the best—to remove the
possibility I might succumb to the temptation—but knowing it makes it no
better. Corin did succumb . . . what I did was for naught."

           
Brennan drew in a steadying breath.
"Not for naught," he said quietly. "That bargain was offered me
as well, before you were brought into the cavern. And once I saw your face, how
the knowledge ravaged your spirit, I knew there was a very good chance Strahan
had judged me too weak."

           
"He promised you my hand?"

           
"To make you whole again, just
as he promised you."

           
Brennan scratched viciously as a
louse ran against his scalp.

           
"What else?"

           
Brennan sighed. "The lives of
all my kin." He looked at Hart. "And release from the fear."

           
Hart massaged his forearm above the
cuff. He frowned a little, clearly reluctant to speak. "You never told
me," he said finally, obviously hurt. "You never told me about your
fear. You told me everything—"

           
"Everything but that."
Brennan stared at the floor. "I was ashamed."

           
"To tell me?"

           
"To tell anyone." He
flickered a glance at Hart. "You most of all; you are afraid of
nothing."

           
Hart's face tightened; his mouth
hooked down briefly in mute argument. "So you locked it away inside of
you, until Strahan discovered the secret." He sighed heavily.

           
"Oh, rujho, I am sorry ... I
might have helped you with it."

           
"For me to do." Brennan
shrugged. "But now—" He stopped. "Oh, gods. Hart—what are we to
do? How do we deal with Corin?"

           
"As we have dealt with
Strahan."

           
"He is our rujholli!"

           
"And he has turned his back on
his race to serve Asar-Suti."

           
"Has he?" Brennan asked.
"Has he?"

           
"You saw his eyes. You saw how
his legs were healed.”

           
Hart leaned his head against the
wall. "You saw how he rose and walked; how he knelt down at the rim of the
Gate."

           
"To make his obeisance to the
Seker." Twitching in distaste, Brennan shut his eyes. "What will
Strahan do with him?"

           
"Use him," Hart said
flatly. "What else is leverage for?"

           
Brennan turned his head and looked
at his brother.

           
Before, overwhelmed by what the loss
of Hart's hand represented, he had looked at nothing else, seeing nothing else.
But now he looked, now he saw, and was shocked by the tension in the body so like
his own; equally stunned by the pronounced lack of conditioning.

           
Hart had lost weight, muscle tone,
the hard fitness characteristic of a Cheysuli.

           
Worse, and indicative of something
far graver than physical discomforts, Brennan saw Hart had also lost the
high-spirited good humor that marked him different from any of Niall's other
children.

           
It frightened him for some obscure
reason. He did not expect Hart to be amused by the circumstances, nor
particularly cheerful, but Brennan was accustomed to his brother's uncanny
ability to find the good in the bad. He realized, in that moment, that for all
he had longed for Hart to shed some immaturity, he treasured his brother's
relentless search for diverting entertainment. And now that propensity was
lacking.

           
Brennan forced a smile. "If we
had us a fortune-game—"

           
Something flared in Hart's eyes.
First shock, then recollection, then a deep and abiding anger that stunned
Brennan with its virulence.

           
"No game!" Hart said
viciously.

           
"Hart—"

           
"No game—" And he was up,
thrusting himself one-armed from the cot, to pace the cell like an animal.

           
Brennan stared in shock.
"Hart—what happened in Solinde?"

           
"This!" Hart thrust out
his left arm. "This—and my stupidity ... my incredible gullibility."

           
"Hart—everyone is gullible at
one time or another."

           
"Not like this." Hart
stopped pacing and fell back against the wall, pressing shoulders into stone.
"Oh, Brennan, I was such a fool. They laid a trap most carefully, baiting
it so well, and I gobbled it whole, not even bothering to sniff." He
sighed. "But I thought she was a pawn as much as I."

           
"Ah." Brennan sighed.
"She."

           
"Never have I been such a
blind, witless fool."

           
"You are not the first."

           
"But I should have known ... I
should have seen it."

           
Hart closed his eyes. "All a
wager, the ultimate wager, and I primed to be the loser, regardless if I
won."

           
It was too obscure for Brennan, who
was more concerned with Hart's well-being than his reference. "Aye, well,
take consolation in the fact you did not give Strahan the child he
wanted." He pushed himself back until he leaned against the wall.
"The girl from The Rampant Lion—do you recall?"

           
Hart frowned. "The Lion? No.
What girl? And what child?"

           
"The girl I rescued from
Reynald of Caledon, Einar's illustrious cousin."

           
"Oh, aye, I recall." Hart
frowned. "What has she to do with this?"

           
"She set a trap for me, A most
intricate trap indeed."

           
He hooked one arm across his face.
"I made her my meijha. Hart. I sired a child on her."

           
"It does happen. But why—"

           
"She is Ihlini. Daughter to
Lillith and Ian." He removed the arm. "The child who will lie with
Strahan's child to give him the power he needs."

           
Stunned, Hart stared. "Oh,
Brennan—"

           
"But I did not lose a
hand." Brennan rose and went to Hart, hooking an arm around his neck to
pull him close.

           
"Gods, rujho—I am so very
sorry—"

           
The door swung open. Corin came into
the cell.

           
He was whole, lacking splints or
bandages. He had shaved, bathed, was clean again, smelling of scented oil
instead of the stink of Valgaard's bowels. His hair was washed, cut, shining,
indisputably free of lice. His clothing was immaculate, and of a decided Ihlini
cut.

           
At his side was Kiri. Behind him two
Ihlini.

           
"I wanted my lir," he
said, "and Strahan gave her to me,"

           
Brennan unwound his arm from Hart.

           
Corin lifted his right hand and
displayed the ruby signet ring that once had hugged Brennan's forefinger.
"I wanted Homana," he said, "and Strahan promised me it."
His eyes were odd, more iris than pupil, with an eerie, unfocused cast. "I
wanted your title, I wanted your throne, I said I wanted your woman. And
Strahan will give her to me."

           
"This is for Aileen?"

           
"Aileen and all the rest."

           
Brennan's belly rolled. "By all
the gods of Homana—"

           
But Corin shook his head. "By
the god of the netherworld."

           
"No—" Hart cried, but
missed as Brennan leaped.

           
Corin was slammed back against the
wall. Brennan's lingers dug deeply into the flesh of his throat. "I swear,
I will save the Seker the trouble of freeing your soul of its shell."

           
"Brennan, no." Hart
grasped at Brennan's arm and caught only cloth. "Brennan—"

           
The two Ihlini plucked Brennan from
Corin and threw him across the cell. He tripped, fell, stayed down, legs asprawl
as he hitched himself'up on both elbows and stared unblinkingly at Corin, who
gestured the two away.

           
They went as far as the corridor.

           
"Your treatment is up to
you." Corin told his brothers. "Certainly this sort of accommodation
is not required."

           
"Provided we do what Strahan
wants," Hart said sourly.

           
"There is that." Corin
looked at the cot, the slops pail, the two dim candles. Then he looked at
Brennan. "You have never been a fool. Not in all the years I have known
you. Why be one now?"

           
Brennan turned his head and spat
deliberately.

           
"Corin—" Hart moved
forward, saw the Ihlini tense, stopped and held his ground. "Corin, you
know what he has done to you—what he made you do—"

           
"I did it of my own
choosing." His eyes should have been dilated black in the shadows, but his
pupils were nonexistent. "There are things in this world I have always
wanted, and this is how I get them,"

           
"By stealing them."
Brennan's tone was deadly as he slowly sat up. "My title, my throne, my bride—"

           
"Aye!"
Conn
hissed. "Why should you want her? You
never even bothered to write."

           
Brennan stood and tried to pull his
crusted jerkin into something resembling a proper fit. "Obviously you did
more than that while in Erinn,"

           
A thin white line banded
Conn
's mouth. "I did not come to speak of
Aileen. I came to speak to you, to suggest the course you should take."

           
"To tell us, no doubt, that we
should do as Strahan suggests," Hart said in dry disgust.

           
"It is best," Corin told
him quietly. "You have the right of it, both of you." He flicked a
glance at the silent Ihlini. "He does require men willing to become
minions. Without that willingness, the Seker exerts force ... the results
are—unattractive." His strange eyes focused a moment, than resumed their
eerie cast."Strahan prefers to rule through men with minds, as you have
said. But he is willing to do it another way." He brushed back a lock of
hair, frowned, then continued. "If it becomes necessary, he will force you
to accede, and use what is left of you."

           
"He can hardly rule through
idiots," Brennan said.

           
"The people will never accept
us."

           
"For a while they would. You
would not go mad right away." Corin shrugged. "It would take time,
during which Strahan could firm his grasp on the thrones of Solinde and Homana.
Eventually, of course, no wits would be left in your heads, and you would be
locked away. But by then, the damage would be done." He looked from one to
the other. "Why persist in refusal? It does no good, none at all ... he
will break you, and eventually you will die. Lirless, friendless, alone."
He stopped short, frowned again, then sighed. "Consider this: accept him
and rule with dignity, with integrity, or deny him and lose anything even
slightly resembling freedom of mind and soul."

           
Brennan drew in a deep, deep breath.
"There was a time, Corin, and not so many years ago, that you swore an
oath before kin and clan. Your Ceremony of Honors, where you named as shu'maii
our jehan. Where you put on the lir-gold and accepted the responsibilities of a
warrior, and all the loyalties it entails." His voice was very steady.
"Do you stand here before me now and say you willingly break that
oath?"

           
Corin did not blink. "I have
sworn another."

           
Hart sat down awkwardly on the cot,
as if his ham-strings had been cut. "No—no—no—"

           
"Oh, aye, he has," Brennan
said coldly, "and I renounce him as my rujholli."