The Song of Homana (14 page)

“What would you do, then?” I asked.

The laughter had died. He looked at me directly. “Spy for you, Carillon. Go into Mujhara, to the palace itself, and see what Bellam does.”

“Dangerous,” Finn said from behind me. “The hare asks to break.”

“Aye,” Lachlan agreed. “But who else could do it? No Cheysuli, that is certain. No Homanan, for whom would Bellam admit without good reason? But I,
I
am a harper, and harpers go where they will.”

It is true harpers are admitted to places other men cannot go. I knew from my own boyhood, when my uncle had hosted harpers from far and wide within Homana-Mujhar. A harper would be a perfect spy, that I did not doubt.

And yet— “Lachlan of Ellas,” I said, “what service would you do me?”

His fingers flew against the strings. It was a lively tune, evocative of dance and laughter and youth. It conjured up a vision before my eyes: a young woman, lithe and lovely, with tawny-dark hair and bright blue eyes. Laughter was in her mouth and gaiety in her soul. My sister, Tourmaline, as I recalled her. At nineteen, when I had seen her last, though she would be twenty-four now.

Tourmaline, hostage to Bellam himself. And Lachlan knew it well.

I was off my horse at once, crossing to the beech in two long steps. My hands went out to stop his fingers in the strings, but I did not touch them after all. I felt a sudden upsurge of power so great it near threw me back from the man. I took a single step backward against my will, all unexpected, and then I stood very still.

His fingers slowed. The tune fell away until only an echo hung in the air. And then that, too, was gone, and silence built a wall between us.

“No,” he said quietly. “No man gainsays the truth.”

“You do not ensorcel
me!
”

“
I
do not,” he agreed. “What power there is comes of
Lodhi, not His servant. And do you seek to injure my Lady, she will injure you.” He did not smile. “I mean you no harm, my lord, nor my harp; yet harm may come to the man who means
me
harm.”

I felt the upsurge of anger in my chest until it filled my throat. “I meant you no harm,” I said thickly. “I merely wanted it to
stop
—”

“My Lady takes where she will,” he said gently. “It is your sister who lives within you now, because of Bellam’s power. I merely wished to show it to you, so you would know what I can do.”

Finn was at my side. “What would you do?” he asked. “Free his sister from Bellam?”

Lachlan shook his head. “I could not do so much, not even with all of Lodhi’s aid. But I
can
take her any word you might wish to give her, as well as learn what I can of Bellam’s and Tynstar’s plans.”

“Gods!” The word hissed between my teeth. “Could I but trust you…”

“Do, my lord,” he said gently. “Trust your liege man, if not me. Has he not questioned my intent?”

I let out my breath all at once, until my chest felt hollow and thin. I looked at Finn and saw the solemnity in his face. So much like Duncan, I thought, and at such odd times.

He looked directly at Lachlan. The sunlight set his
lir
-gold to shining like the strings in the harper’s Lady. Neither man said a word, as if they judged one another; I found my own judgment sorely lacking, as if I had not the mind to discern what should be done. I was weary and hungry and overcome, suddenly, with the knowledge of what I must do.

“Trust him,” Finn said finally, as if disliking the taste. “What is the worst he could do—tell Bellam where we are?” His smile held little humor. “Does he do that, and Bellam sends soldiers, we will simply slay them all.”

No doubt he could do it, with three hundred Cheysuli warriors. And no doubt Lachlan knew it.

He stood up from the beech with his Lady clasped in his arms. Slowly he went down on one knee, still hugging the harp, and bowed his head a little. A proud man,
Lachlan; the homage was unexpected. It did not suit him, as if he were meant to receive it instead of offer. “I will serve you in this as I would have you serve me, were the roles reversed.” His face was grimly set, and yet I saw the accustomed serenity in his eyes. That certainty of his fate.

Like Finn and his
tahlmorra
.

I nodded. “Well enough. Go you to Homana-Mujhar, and tend my service well.”

“My lord.” He knelt a moment longer, supplicant to a king instead of a god, and then he rose. He was gone almost at once, hidden by the shrubbery, with no word of parting in his mouth. But the harpsong, oddly, lingered on, as if he had called it from the air.

“Come,” Finn said finally, “Duncan waits.”

After a moment I looked at him. “Duncan? How does he know I have come?”

Finn grinned. “You are forgetting, my lord—we are in a Keep, of sorts. There are
lir
. And gossiping women, I do not doubt.” The grin came again. “Blame me, or Storr, or even Cai, whom Storr tells me is the one who told Duncan you had come. He waits, does my
rujho
, somewhat impatiently.”

“Duncan has never been impatient in his life.” In irritation I turned back to my horse and swung up into the saddle. “Do you come? Or do I go without you?”

“
Now
who is impatient?” He did not wait for an answer, which I did not intend to give; he mounted and led the way.

I saw Duncan before he saw me, for he was intent upon his son. I thought it was his son, the boy was small enough for a five-year-old, and his solemnity matched that I had seen so often on his father’s face. He was a small Cheysuli warrior, in leathers and boots but lacking the gold, for he was not a man as yet and had no
lir
. That would come in time.

The boy listened well. Black hair, curly as was common in Cheysuli childhood, framed his dark face with its inquisitive yellow eyes. There was little of Alix in the boy, I thought, and then he smiled, and I saw her, and realized how much it hurt that Donal was Duncan’s son instead of mine.

Abruptly Duncan bent down and caught the boy in his arms, sweeping him up to perch upon one shoulder. He turned, smiling a wry, familiar smile—Finn’s smile—and I realized there was much of Duncan I did not know. What I had seen was a rival, a man who sought the woman I sought; the man who had won her, when I could not. The man who had led an exiled race back from the edge of death to the promise of life again. I had given him little thought past what he had been to me. Now I thought about what he was to the Cheysuli…and to the boy he carried on his shoulder.

The boy laughed. It was a pure soprano tone, girlish in its youth, unabashed and without the fear of discovery. No doubt Donal knew what it was to hide, having hidden for all of his short life, but he had not lost his spirit with it. Duncan and Alix had seen to it he had his small freedoms.

The Keep suddenly receded. The humming of voices and the laughter of other children became an underscore to the moment. I knew, as I looked at Duncan and his son, I looked upon the future of Homana. From the man had come the son, who would no doubt rule in his father’s place when Duncan’s time was done. And would my son rule alongside him? Homanan Mujhar and Cheysuli clan-leader. Under them would a nation reborn from war purge into life again. Better, stronger than ever.

I laughed. It rang out, bass rather than Donal’s soprano, and for just a moment the voices mingled. I saw the momentary surprise on Duncan’s face and then the recognition, and finally the acknowledgment. He swung his son down from his shoulder and waited, while I got off my horse.

It was Donal I went to, not his father. The boy, so small beside the man, and so wary of me suddenly. He knew enough of strangers to know they sometimes brought danger with them.

I dwarfed him, taller even than Duncan. At once I went down on one knee so as not to loom over him like a hungry demon. It put us on a level: tall prince, small boy; warriors both, past, present and future.

“I am Carillon,” I told him, “and I thank the gods you are here to give me aid.”

The wariness faded, replaced by recognition. I saw wonder and confusion and uncertainty, but I also saw pride. Donal detached his hand from his father’s and stood before me, frowningly intent, with color in his sun-bronzed cheeks. He was a pretty boy; he would make a handsome man. But then the Cheysuli are not an ugly race.

“My
jehan
serves you,” he said softly.

“Aye.”

“And my
su’fali
.”

I thought of Finn, knowing he was behind me. “Aye. Very well.”

Donal’s gaze did not waver. There was little of indecision in him, or hesitation. I saw the comprehension in his face and knew he understood what he said, even as he said it. “Then I will serve you also.”

Such a small oath, from so small a boy. And yet I doubted none of its integrity, or his honor. Such things are in all of the Cheysuli, burning in their blood. Donal was years from being a warrior, and yet I did not doubt his resolve.

I put both hands on his slender shoulders. I felt suddenly overlarge, as I had with my mother, for there was little of gentleness about me. And nothing at all of fatherhood.

But honor and pride I know, and I treasured it from him. “Could I have but one Cheysuli by my side, it would be you,” I told him, meaning it.

He grinned. “You already have my
su’fali!
”

I laughed. “Aye, I do, and I am grateful for him. I doubt not I will have him for a long time. But should I need another, I know to whom I will come.”

Shyness overcame him. He was still a boy, and still quite young. The intimacy had faded; I was a prince again, and he merely Duncan’s son, and the time for such oaths was done.

“Donal,” Finn said from behind me, “do you wish to serve your lord as I do, you might see to his mount. Come and tend it for him.”

The boy was gone at once. I turned, rising, and saw the light in his face as he ran to do Finn’s bidding. My horse’s reins were taken up and the gelding led away with great
care toward the picket-string in the forest. Finn, like Donal, walked, and I saw the calm happiness in his face as he accompanied the boy. Indeed, he needed a son.

“You honor me with that,” Duncan said.

I looked at him. His voice held an odd tone; a mixture, I thought, of surprise, humility and pride. What had he expected of me? A dismissal of the boy? But I could do nothing so cruel, not to Alix’s son.

And then I realized what he meant. He had forgotten none of what lay between us; perhaps he had even dreaded our first meeting. No, not dreaded; not Duncan, who knew me too well for that. Perhaps he had merely anticipated antipathy.

Well, there was that. Or would be. There was still Alix between us.

“I honor you with that,” I agreed, “but also the boy himself. I have not spent five years with Finn without learning a little of your customs, and how you raise your children. I will not dishonor Donal by dismissing him as a child, when he is merely a warrior who is not fully grown.”

Duncan sighed. I saw a rueful expression leach his face of its customary solemnity. He shook his head. “Forgive me, Carillon, for undervaluing you.”

I laughed, suddenly lighthearted. “You have your brother to thank for that. Finn has made me what I am.”

“Not in his image, I hope.”

“Could you not stand two?”

“Gods,” he said in horror, “two of Finn? One is too much!” But I heard the ring of affection in his tone and saw the pleasure in his face; I realized, belatedly, he had undoubtedly missed Finn as much as Finn had missed him. No matter how much they disagreed when they were together.

I put out my hand to clasp his arm in the familiar Cheysuli greeting. “I thank you for him, Duncan. Through him, you have saved my life many times.”

His hand closed around my upper arm. “What Finn knows, he learned elsewhere,” he retorted. “Little enough of me is in him. Though the gods know I tried—” He grinned, forgoing the complaint. “He did not lie. He said you had come home a man.”

That got me laughing. “He would not say that within
my
hearing.”

“Perhaps not,” Duncan conceded, “but he said it within mine, and now I have told it to you.”

Men judge men by handclasps. We held ours a moment, remembering the past, and there was no failing in his grasp, nor none in mine. There was much between us, and neither of us would forget.

We broke the clasp at last, two different men, I thought, than we had been before. Some unknown communication had passed between us: his recognition of me as someone other than I had been, when he had first known me, and my recognition of what he was. Not a rival, but a friend, and a man I could trust with my life. That is not so easy a thing to claim when a king has set gold on your head.

“My tent is too small for Mujhars,” he said quietly, and when I looked harder I saw the glint of humor in his eyes. “My tent is particularly too small for
you
, now. Come with me, and I will give you a throne better suited, perhaps, than another. At least until you have slain the man who makes it his.”

I said nothing. I had heard the grim tone in his voice and realized, for the first time, Duncan probably hated as well as I did. I had not thought of it before, so caught up in my own personal—and sometimes selfish—quest. I wanted the throne for myself as well as Homana. Duncan wanted me to have it for his own reasons.

He took me away from the tents to a pile of huge granite boulders, gray and green and velveted with moss. The sunlight turned the moss into an emerald cloak, thick and rich and glowing, like the stone in Lachlan’s Lady. The throne was one rump-sized stone resting against another that formed a backrest. The moss offered me a cushion. Gods-made, Finn would say; I sat down upon it and smiled.

“Little enough to offer the rightful Mujhar.” Duncan perched himself upon a companion rock. The veil of tree limbs hanging over us shifted in a breeze so that the sunlight and shadow played across his face, limning the planes and hollows and habitual solemnity. Duncan had always been less prone to gaiety than Finn; steadier, more
serious, almost dour. Seeming old though he was still young by most men’s reckoning. Young for a clan-leader, I knew, ruling because his elders were already dead in Shaine’s
qu’mahlin
.