Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (28 page)

           
Hart led the way outside. Once
there, he was pleased to see the look of shock on Dar's face. "My horse,
Solindishman. Worth enough, do you think?"

           
"That is Lisa's horse! I myself
bred him, raised him, trained him ... I sold him to her only because she
refused to accept him as a gift." His face was white with anger. "How
does he come to be with you?"

           
"A gift," Hart said
lightly, "from the lady to me."

           
Dar's breath hissed. "You lie!”

           
"Send a messenger to ask
her." Purposely, Hart kept his tone light. He had known all along
divulging the source of the stallion would force Dar's hand, although he had
not known the man himself had bred the stallion.

           
It made the challenge all the
sweeter. "If you will recall from the lady's story of our meeting in the
wood, my own mount broke both forelegs and had to be destroyed. This horse was
sent to replace him."

           
"This horse—" Dar was
nearly incoherent as he swung to face Hart directly. "Name your wager,
shapechanger. This horse is worth more than the gold I offer."

           
Blandly, Hart smiled. "The
Third Seal of Solinde."

           
After a moment of taut silence, Dar
said something succint in explicit—and idiomatic—Solindish. Hart's grasp of the
language extended only to a few halting phrases; slang was beyond him. But the
tone told him more than enough.

           
"Undoubtedly I am whatever you
claimed I am," he said cheerfully. "Now, shall we go back inside and
settle this?"

           
Dar looked at the stallion, who
tugged at his reins and tried to reach out to the Solindishman. It set white
dents of anger at the corners of Dar's mouth. His eyes were black as he stared
at Hart. "You risked the Seal without knowing its worth," he said
flatly. "I am not so foolish—I know its worth. Do you think I will risk it
on a thing so inconsequential as a game?"

           
"Perhaps not," Hart said
calmly. "But will you risk it for a woman?"

           
Dar spat at the ground, just missing
Hart's boots.

           
"That for your game!" he
said tightly. "Inside, shapechanger, and we shall see who gains that
woman."

           
In silence, they played a final game
of Bezat. Hart did not look at the Solindish ring that sat atop the pile of red
gold in front of Dar; he did not dare to. Nor did he look at his own pile, upon
which waited the sapphire ring he risked as well as the horse. The stakes were
not anything like the game in which he had risked his life, but he found it no
less fascinating. If he won, it would prove there was a place in the world for
his gaming.

           
If he won. If he had won.

           
But he did not.

           
Dar laughed aloud as he turned over
the final rune-stone. No bezats, but the worth of his stones outweighed the
worth of Hart's. And so the man who had risked more won more; Hart was left to
stare at the gold that was now Dar's, knowing the sapphire and the horse were
lost also.

           
The Solindishman raked red gold
across the table amidst hearty congratulations. The Solindish ring he slipped
onto his forefinger again; the sapphire he tossed to the wine-girl, Oma.
"There!" he cried, in Homanan for Hart's benefit. "A token of my
thanks, Oma, for good service throughout the years."

           
Hart found himself on his feet.
"That ring is worthy of more respect, Solindish!"

           
"Is it?" Dar shrugged.
"It is Homanan, is it not? And I say again, this is Solinde." He
poured his winnings into his belt-purse. "I will tell the lady how little
you thought of her gift, shapechanger; so little you wagered it in a silly
gambling game." His smile was eloquently derisive.

           
"Lisa does not entirely approve
of such feckless pursuits, being so personally involved in something as
important as the future of her realm."

           
"What of you?" Hart
demanded. "Will you tell her how often you wager your wealth in silly
gambling games?"

           
Dar laughed. "I thought I would
leave it to the lady to reform me." He tied the now-bulging purse onto his
belt.

           
"I bid you good night and good
morning, shapechanger . . . and my thanks for a worthwhile game,"

           
Inwardly, Hart swore. Outwardly, he
took his lir and left, hating the laughter that followed him.

           
In private chambers, the Homanan
regent of Solinde perused parchments attentively. He read through one
carefully, nodded thoughtfully, set it aside for further review. The next he
scanned, then put it atop another pile. Briefly he glanced at the young man who
waited impatiently near the table.

           
"You—lost?" Tarron nodded
before Hart could answer. "Aye, I thought that was what you said. Well then,
we must live with the fact the Third Seal is in the hands of the enemy, and we
can no longer govern Solinde." His faint smile was wintry. "I have
written to the Mujhar."

           
Hart swore, then scowled at Tarron.
"There is still a chance I can get it back from him."

           
"In yet another game?"
Tarron sat back in his chair. "My instructions from your father are quite
clear, my lord. I am to give you no money other than the allowance he will
provide."

           
"Payable how often?"

           
Tarron smiled. "Once a
year."

           
"Once a year!" Hart nearly
gaped. "How am I to make it last the entire twelve-month? Has he gone mad?
Have you gone mad? How am I to live?"

           
"By learning not to wager it in
foolish fortune-games."

           
Tarron picked up another parchment.
"My lord, if you will excuse me, there are things I must attend to."

           
"Then give it to me now."

           
After a moment, the regent glanced
up from the parchment. "My lord?"

           
"My allowance. Give it to me
now."

           
"I think not, my lord. It has
not yet arrived from Homana."

           
Hart bit back another curse.
"Then loan me the coin until it comes, and pay yourself back from
that."

           
"I think not, my lord."

           
"Tarron!"

           
The regent set down the parchment.
"Aye, my lord?"

           
Hart stepped very close to the
table. "I can order you," he said quietly. "I am your liege
lord,"

           
Unexpectedly, Tarron laughed.
"No," be said, "you cannot. Because you are not. My liege lord
is Niall of Homana."

           
Hart glared at him angrily. "Do
you think I have no resources, regent? Do you think I need your coin? No-No. I have
gold, good Cheysuli gold, and plenty of gemstones, in wristlets, buckles,
rings—countless other baubles. Do you think denying me coin can keep me from
the game?"

           
Tarron's face was austere, yet oddly
compassionate.

           
"My lord, you are welcome to
strip your caskets of every piece of jewelry you possess; it changes nothing.
You may beggar yourself, my lord, but it will not change my mind. I have my
orders from the Mujhar."

           
Pushed too far. Hart bared his teeth
at the regent. "And when I am king in his place?"

           
The answering tone was very calm.
"The day that happens, my lord, I will excuse myself from your
service."

           
Hart's anger evaporated instantly,
replaced with cold shock. He stared at the man in dawning acknowledgment.
"You hate me that much."

           
"What is there to hate, my
lord?" Tarron asked. "No. I dislike you, aye, because you waste
yourself. I know your father well; I know his good sense, his mettle, his
generosity. I know the Prince of Homana; he is a responsible, mature adult who
will do as well as his father when he assumes the throne. But what do I know of
you?" He spread his hands. "I know you prefer taverns to council
chambers, games to governing, personal gratification to responsibilities.
Certainly there are many men who feel as you do. But none of them are Prince of
Solinde."

           
Guilty, Hart chafed beneath the
gentle reprimand. "Aye, aye, I know—and one day I will become the man you
think I can be— "

           
"But not yet?" Tarron did
not smile. "If you are not very careful, you will not live long enough to
become that man."

           
Hart pressed both hands against the
regent's table and leaned forward. "I can win the ring back, if you let
me," he promised, working hard to charm the man. "I know I can. And I
will. All I require—"

           
"No."

           
"Tarron—"

           
The regent was not charmed.
"No."

           
"You ku'reshtin—"

           
But Tarron cut him off. "My
lord, if you will forgive me, there is much I must attend to. Without the Seal,
many things must be handled with delicacy and deliberation." He gestured
toward the stacks of parchments.

           
"Unless you care to aid
me—?"

           
Hart merely laughed at him.

           
Tarron nodded. "Well enough, I
shall deal with it. But if I may suggest it, my lord, you might wish to
consider what you will wear to the feast."

           
Hart, heading toward the door, turned
to look at him blankly. "The feast?"

           
"The feast to celebrate your
arrival, my lord. In one week's time." Tarron waved a negligent hand.
"All the Solindish nobility will be here, as well as all the Homanans in
the city."

           
“All the nobility?"

           
"Aye." Tarron's face was
oddly expressionless. "Including the Lady Lisa, and all the lords who wish
to wed her."

           
"Ku'reshtin," Hart
muttered. "I know what you mean to do."

           
"Do you?" Tarron's raised
his brows. "I think perhaps not, my lord. What purpose would your marriage
to Lisa serve if you refuse to rule Solinde in the realm's best interests? What
purpose if you died unexpectedly? She would still be Princess—or even Queen—and
it would make it that much easier for the Solindish to throw us out of Solinde."
He smiled thinly. "Such a wedding might well prove a disaster."

           
Hart jerked open the door. "I
may be the wastrel second son, regent, but I am not stupid. And if you think I
am blind to your backward attempt to push me into this marriage, you are the stupid
one."

           
Tarron merely laughed. Swearing,
Hart banged the door closed behind him.

           
Hart walked quietly into the Great
Hall of Lestra's palace with Rael perched upon his left forearm and saw the
faces, one by one, turn to stare. Conversations eddied, trailed off, died out
as the gathered Solindish nobility and the Homanans who governed them
recognized the Cheysuli Prince of Solinde. And then the noiae began again:
whispers, murmurs, comments, in Homanan and Solindish, until Hart could no longer
quite control the amusement that threatened to overtake his painstakingly
practiced solemnity.

           
Those who know you, know better.
Rael said pointedly.

           
Aye, but how many here know me?
Tarron? No. He only believes he does. Dar? He knows me only as a mark.

           
As for the lady . . . inwardly. Hart
sighed, by now surely the lady knows me only as a fool who risks her realm in
silly games.

           
The chamberlain mounted the white
marble dais and formally announced the Prince of Solinde. Hart, unaccustomed to
such pageantry arranged solely for his benefit, winced visibly, then recovered
himself almost instantly.

           
His years in Homana-Mujhar had
taught him that kings conducted themselves with decorum at such formal
festivities even when they did not feel it. He was not a king yet, but he
needed the practice. Besides, the Solindish would expect it.

           
Now? Rael asked.

           
Now, Hart agreed. The better to
impress them.

           
Accordingly, Rael lifted from Hart's
arm and circled the huge hall, banking toward the high-backed chair set upon
the dais. Women cried out at his passage and men set hands to knives; Rael
swept relentlessly to the throne and settled himself upon the carved back. He
spread his wings and shrieked aloud his dominance, then settled, folding his
wings away, and surveyed all down the sharp hook of his deadly beak.

           
Hart moved toward the dais, mounting
the steps even as the throng fell back. He was aware of the whispers and hissed
questions, as well as the subtle hostility on the part of the Solindish. From
the Homanans he sensed only a quiet, abiding pride; if they did not relish the
thought of having Homana held by shapechangers in place of Homanans, they at
least were willing enough to put the Solindish in their place by using the
reputation of the Cheysuli.

           
He turned, trying to still the
flutter of nervousness in his belly. Never before had he faced so many people
as a ruler. Even in Homana he was only the second son, the prince who would trade
his home for foreign lands. He was not Brennan, whose duties included nearly as
many rituals and formalities as his father, the Mujhar, In Homana, he was
simply Hart; Prince Hart, perhaps, by dint of his birth, but he had been easily
overlooked.

           
Now, he found he could not be
overlooked, even if he preferred it.

           
How they stare, all the eyes.

           
He drew himself up, though his
posture did not require it. And then he smiled. "I am Hart," he said
quietly, pitching his voice low; he had learned from his father the art of
making men listen by underplaying the moment.

           
"Hart of Homana, second-born
son of Niall the Mujhar, and styled Prince of Solinde." He saw narrowing
eyes and tightening faces among the Solindish; how glibly he stole their title.
"I am sent to learn kingship in the land I will rule; to learn how to
govern a people in vassalage to Homana." Solindish mouths drew taut and
flat, though some of the faces were conspicuously blank so as not to give
anything away. "It is my wish that Solinde know peace, not war; that the
hostilities of the past be buried along with those who have died." He drew
in a steadying breath. "It is my personal desire that the overweening
ambitions of the Ihlini be laid bare for all to see, so that there need be no
discord in a land that deserves far better."

           
That, as he expected, sparked shocked
murmurs and curses of disbelief among the Solindish; the Homanans merely
watched him curiously.

           
"It is known to Cheysuli and
Homanan alike that the Ihlini call Solinde their homeland," Hart continued
quietly. "It is not my intention to banish them from it, because not all
serve Asar-Suti. But it is my intention to halt the hostility that they foment,
and let Solinde remain Solindish—instead of a servant of the Ihlini."

           
All the eyes stared back, divulging
nothing and everything; Hart realized, somewhat belatedly, that he had learned
more from his father than he had thought.

           
He smiled, spreading his hands.
"Enough of such talk; I am more in mind of a celebration than a
declaration of war. Let the dancing begin." And abruptly he stepped down
from the dais into the gathered throng.

           
It did not take long for Tarron to
make his way through the couples who danced, or those who stood in groups and
discussed politics. The regent, clad in habitual black, stepped to Hart's right
side and said, quietly, "My lord, perhaps it would have been better if you
had worn Solindish garb. Perhaps you should have left your hawk in your
chambers—"

           
"—and perhaps it would have
been better had I not attended at all." Hart smiled coolly at Tarron.
"Would you say so to the Mujhar, regent? Would you bid him dress Homanan
when he is a Cheysuli warrior?"

           
The brown eyes reflected shock.
"My lord—"

           
"I am not my jehan,” Hart said
quietly. "I do not mean to be. But I am, first and foremost, Cheysuli. If
I choose to wear leathers instead of velvets, I shall. If I choose to take Rael
even into my bridal chamber, I shall. I shall, regent, do precisely as I please
when it comes to my personal conduct." He caught up a cup of wine from a
passing servant. "The Solindish will have to accept me as I am, Tarron, So
will you."

           
"So much gold, my lord."
Tarron's distaste was plain. "They will say you are a barbarian.”

           
Hart grinned. "At least a
wealthy one." He sipped wine, watching the regent over the rim of his cup.
He was not surprised Tarron found his garb displeasing, for he was a man who
abhorred ornamentation. The regent's black clothing, though of good cut and
quality, was very plain. Hart's soft leathers, equally black, were also equally
plain—except he had put on rune-scribed wristlets, torque, plated belt, sheath
and knife, all of heavy gold.

           
Tarron's mouth was flat. "And
how long will you keep it?" he asked grimly. "You will lose it all in
a fortune-game."

           
Hart grinned. "Here it is
called Bezat."

           
The regent's jaw bunched as he gritted
teeth. "My lord, if you will excuse me—"

           
"No." Hart smiled blandly.
"It is time you made the introductions, regent, as you are the one who
knows all the Solindish nobility. May I suggest you begin with those lords who
desire to wed the Lady Lisa?"

           
Tarron stared back. "Now, my
lord? All of them?"

           
"Those who desire to wed the
lady," Hart said evenly. "Those whom you think may well have a
chance."

           
Tarron's expression gave away
nothing. "Aye, my lord. Of course,"

           
Over the next two hours Hart met
more men than he cared to acknowledge, and yet he had to. In execrable Homanan
they greeted their newly-arrived prince and bid him courteous, insincere
welcome, politely offering whatever assistance or companionship he might
require.

           
And as he opened his mouth to answer
the first of them, he realized he dared give them only Homanan, or he would
never be understood.

           
Jehan and Brennan—always said I
should pay more attention to my language lessons . . . that one day my
ignorance would catch me up. . . .

           
Hart looked at the gathered
Solindish aristocracy. Uncomfortably, he realized that the vanquished always
were required to give up more than land or status. They gave up language and
culture as well, replacing both with the preferences of the victor.

           
How was it during Shaine's
qu'mahlin? he wondered idly. How was it for the clans that had to flee Homana
to live in foreign lands?

           
"My lord." Tarron again.
"My lord, may I present Dar of High Crags, born of one of the oldest lines
in Solinde."

           
Hart came out of his brief reverie
to find Dar standing before him in silence. The Solindishman's smile was
blandly polite, offering nothing more than the courtesy demanded of his rank,
but Hart saw the glint in his brown eyes and the twitch of amusement at the comer
of his mouth.

           
"Dar of High Crags," Hart
repeated. "How old a line is it?"

           
"Very old, my lord," Dar
answered politely. "At least as old as the Lady Lisa's; my kin has served
hers for more than seven centuries."

           
"And in all of that time has
none of you ever wed into the royal house?"

           
The barb went home. Dar's eyelids
flickered, but he managed a benign smile. "History changes from one night
to the next, my lord . . . surely you know that better than most. Is it not
true that the Cheysuli ruled Homana for a thousand years, then gave it over to
the Homanans?" He paused for the benefit of Homanan ears. "And now
you take it back?"

           
"In accordance with the wishes
of the gods," Hart said smoothly. "Have you not heard of our
prophecy? Surely you have, Dar . . . surely the Ihlini in service to the Seker
have made certain you know of it, if not the truth." He sipped wine.
"The Wheel of Life is a thing no man may fully know, except that the gods
have a purpose when they set it into motion."

           
"Talmorra." Dar nodded.
"Aye, I have heard of the fatalism that rules your race. And I have heard
how blindly you serve it."

           
Tarron cleared his throat. "My
lord of High Crags—my lord prince—"

           
"I think you may leave the
lord of High Crags with me," Hart interrupted, without taking his eyes
from Dar's. "Are there not things you must attend to?"

           
"Aye, my lord." In obvious
relief, Tarron bowed quickly and departed.

           
"Neatly done." Dar scooped
a cup of wine from a passing servant.

           
Hart was not ready to change the
subject. "There is a purpose in all things," he said quietly.
"All things, Dar . . . even the handing over of a Solindish throne to a
Cheysuli warrior."

           
The woman's voice was cool.
"And was there a purpose in risking my horse in a game?" she asked.
"And the Third Seal, my lord—what purpose in losing that?"

           
Hart inclined his head to
acknowledge Lisa's arrival.

           
"He was my horse, lady—freely
given. As for the Seal, well—" He shrugged, grinning ruefully “—had I
known it was the price that bought your willingness to marry, surely I would
never have risked something so valuable."

           
She gazed at him wide-eyed in
unfeigned astonishment. "My willingness to marry?"

           
Dar interrupted smoothly.
"Lady, he seeks only to turn the subject. That he should be so thoughtless
as to risk your horse on the very day the gift was received, or to risk him at
all—"

           
Hart looked only at Lisa. "You
might ask him," he suggested. "You might ask him how he considers the
ring as a way of securing you for a cheysula.”

           
She frowned. "A what?"

           
"Wife," he amended,
"Do you intend to marry him?"

           
Dar's hand was on Lisa's arm.
"That is none of your concern, shapechanger."

           
She slipped free easily, obviously
well accustomed to avoiding the possessiveness of men, and turned to face Dar
squarely. "But it is my concern." Delicate color deepened in her face
to compete with the frost in her eyes. "Is it true, Dar? Do you think I
will wed you because you hold the Seal, when it should be mine
regardless?"

           
Brown eyes narrowed minutely, weighing
the need for frankness against the requirements of diplomacy; Dar discarded his
elegant courtier's manner instantly. "I think you will wed the man best
able to help Solinde," he said flatly. "You must wed such a man—a
strong, loyal, dedicated Solindishman, who wants only the best for his land ...
a man who can forge the warring factions into one united front—"