Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (56 page)

           
He smiled wryly. "She would not
sell to me."

           
"She did not sell to
me.
" Lisa answered his smile. "I won
it from her, Hart."

           
He stared at her in shock. And then
began to laugh.

           
Lisa smiled also, but the amusement
faded quickly,

           
"Will you come. Hart? Solinde
has need of you."

           
"To give the order for a
patriot's execution."

           
Her gaze did not waver. "If you
would prefer—if it is a test—I will do it myself."

           
"As you would have put down my
broken-legged horse."

           
Her chin rose minutely. "I do
what must be done. There are requirements of state."

           
His eyes were oddly intent. "I
have been told," he said slowly, "that in Solinde the customs are
different."

           
"Aye." Her tone was
guarded.

           
"I am told that in Solinde, it
does not matter so much that a man lacks a hand. That a king lacks a
hand."

           
Comprehension lighted her eyes.
"My lord, in Solinde all that matters—in kings—As that they do not lack
the wherewithal to sire children on their wives."

           
Hart smiled crookedly. "No,"
he said, "I do not."

           
She lifted a delicate chin.
"Then will you come home with me?"

           
He studied her a long moment. And
then he turned and set the Trey of Solinde down onto a table, and stepped
closer to the woman. He took the sapphire signet from her palm and slipped it
onto her thumb, knowing it too large for any of her fingers.

           
He did not smile. "Only if you
wear this."

           
"The requirements of
state." But there was laughter in her eyes.

           
Niall sat slumped in his chair.
Nearly all of them were gone; his sons, his daughter, his brother. Only his
meijha remained.

           
Deirdre stood behind his chair. She
leaned down, caught his neck in both arms, hugged briefly. "All of
them," she said; nothing more was needed.

           
"All of them," he echoed.
"But gods, how changed they are."

           
"Were you expecting something
else?" She asked it gently, knowing it would hurt him. "You, who lost
an eye to the Ihlini?"

           
He sighed, reached up to catch her
arms beneath his chin, held them. "Each," he said, "so changed.
Corin, I think for the better, though there is pain in him; I saw it. And
Brennan—something in his eyes, something—" He shivered. "And Hart—“
Abruptly, Niall checked, took his left hand from Deirdre's arm and stared at
it, studying palm, fingers, thumb. "Gone," he said hollowly, then
dropped it to his thigh. "He will not stop, meijhana. I know him and his
kind too well ... the Ihlini will not stop."

           
She moved around the chair to stand
close beside him, one hand stroking back silvering hair. "No."

           
"He will seek them out again,
or me, or Ian, or someone else of the proper blood ... he will seek them out,
and take them, and do his best to twist them to his needs ... to fulfill his
god's desires."

           
"I know."

           
"Strahan does not give
up."

           
"No." Deirdre knelt beside
the chair and locked her hands around his forearm, feeling the tension in the
sinew beneath the bare flesh. On his arms, lir-gold glowed.

           
"But neither do the Cheysuli.
Neither did your sons."

           
"No." Niall closed one of
her hands in his. "Leijhana tu'suai for that." He sighed. Looked at
the folds of yarn and tapestry. Studied it absently. And slowly, some of the
tension drained away; amusement crept in to replace it. "Which lion did
you say was me?"

           
Deirdre laughed, and showed him.

           
She walked steadily through the
corridor of spiraling columns, passing beneath tier upon tier of glass forming
interlocked arches above her head. So lovely, all of it, in its glassy
magnificence; in its sharp-edged, threatening beauty. Much like her brother,
she thought.

           
She saw him, then, where he had
spent the entirety of the night, and all of the following day. It was night now
again, although within the heart of Valgaard it was difficult to tell. When one
wanted light, one needed only to summon the godfire.

           
Lillith did not. In darkness she
walked to the Gate.

           
There she paused, and waited.

           
He did not look up. He did not, in
any way, acknowledge her presence. He sat cross-legged by the lip of the Gate,
head bowed, staring fixedly into the hole. Black hair spilled over his
shoulders. The glow of godfire touched the circlet and set it ablaze in the
heavy darkness.

           
"So," she said, "they
are gone. You have lost them yet again."

           
Strahan did not answer.

           
"Brooding will not help."

           
“I am thinking, hardly brooding . .
. there is a decided difference."

           
She was relieved. He sounded normal.
"Aye," she agreed, "there is, and I am glad you know it."

           
Strahan sighed. "What do you
want, Liliith?"

           
"To offer condolences, if you
want them; encouragement, if you need it."

           
"No and no." One pale,
slender hand brushed nonexistent dust from a knee.

           
Liltith waited. He said nothing
more. Perhaps he was brooding. "Strahan." She knelt down, spreading
blood-red skirts, and looked at his face across the Gate. It was a mask in the
glare, lacking definition. "You did try."

           
After a moment, he nodded. "And
I will try again. Perhaps this time I will succeed . . . already I have a
plan."

           
A plan. Lillith smiled. She felt
anticipation.

           
At last he looked at her. "It
does not matter: time."

           
She lifted winged brows. His face
was so like hers, except for the mismatched eyes.

           
Casually, he said: "I have all
the days of forever."