Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (22 page)

           
Immediately he stepped forward.
"Gisella, there is no need for that—'

           
—and she was up, clawing godfire
from the air with her left hand while her right hand clawed for his face.

           
No. Not clawed. Her hand was filled
with a knife.

           
"Gisella—no!" I caught her
from behind even as she lunged for my father. I clamped her arms against her
body, hugging her with all my force, while she struggled impotently to twist
free of me to strike at him again.

           
"Dead—dead—dead—" she
chanted. "Dead—dead-dead."

           
"Gisella—no—"

           
The air was choked with lilac smoke.
The godfire was gone, but its aftereffects were not. My mother coughed,
pressing an arm against nose and mouth. My father, having fallen back from
Gisella's attack, now reached for the knife still clutched in her hand.

           
"Dead—-dead—dead—"

           
"No," I told him,
"let her be."

           
"Niall!"

           
"Let her be!" I shouted.
"She is weary, so weary of the child. She is not herself—not Gisella—not
Gisella at all."

           
Still I held her, clamping her arms
against her sides.

           
"You do not understand
her."

           
"I understand she has just
tried to murder me," my father said angrily. "Am I not to question
it?"

           
"I question it!" my mother
cried. "By the gods, I will!"

           
"No," I told her flatly.
"Let Gisella be. She will be better when she has rested."

           
"Better!' My mother stood by my
father now, buttressing his side as if she were a soldier. "You speak as
if this were only a momentary aberration, Niall."

           
"She is weary.'"

           
"She is mad!" my mother
interrupted coldly. "Do you think you will marry that?"

           
"I have every intention of
it."

           
"Mad?" my father asked.
"Or is it something Liilith has done?"

           
Gisella stopped struggling.
"Lillith," she said. "Lillith is my mother."

           
"No, no. . . ." Already I
could see the shock forming in their faces. "No, Lillith is not your
mother, Gisella. Bronwyn was your mother."

           
"She died," Gisella told
them,earnestly. "He shot her out of the sky."

           
My father recoiled as if she had
struck out at him again, but this time the blade went home.

           
"Out of the sky," Gisella
repeated. "And she fell ... and she fell. . . and she crashed against the
ground. . . ."

           
She sighed. "After I was born,
she died. She died of her broken body—"

           
"No more," I told her
softly. "Gisella, say no more."

           
Because I could not bear to see the
look in my father's eyes.

           
"My father slew my
mother," she said brightly, and sucked on a piece of hair.

           
"Gods," my father choked.
"That ku'reshtin murdered Bronwyn, but it was I who sent her there."

           
"Donal, no, do not blame
yourself!" My mother's hands were on his arm. "I beg you; do not do
this to yourself—"

           
"I gave her in marriage to that
man . . . I made her wed him when she wanted nothing of it!"

           
"Donal, you had no
choice," she told him firmly.

           
"You told me yourself—there was
the prophecy to think of."

           
"Prophecy." He said it
like a curse. "Gods, Aislinn—when I think of the things I have done in the
name of that thing ... ail the lives I have altered—"

           
"Donal."

           
"Even yours," he said.
"Even yours."

           
There was the tone of bittersweet
acknowledgment in her voice. "Aye," she said, "even mine. But do
you hear me curse you for it?"

           
"No," he said at last,
"though the gods know I deserve it."

           
"She died," Gisella said.
"He shot her out of the sky."

           
"Hush." I pulled the hair
out of her mouth. "Hush, Gisella . . . please."

           
My mother looked at Gisella.
"You cannot marry that."

           
"He has to," my father
said wearily. "The prophecy requires it."

           
"She just tried to slay
you!"

           
"And once, you tried to do the
same."

           
It was clear she had made herself
forget that once she had been no less a tool for murder than Gisella. That once
Tynstar, through Electra, had set a compulsion within her mind: to slay the man
she was meant to wed. I knew the story. My father had told me once.

           
"Oh gods,” she said brokenly,
and tried to turn away.

           
But my father did not let her.
"Shansu," he said, "it is over. A long time over."

           
She turned back. She did not bother
to wipe the tears away. They—and her anguish—remained. "And if Gisella
tries again?"

           
"You did not," he told
her.

           
"Because you had Finn go in and
find the trap-link," she said impatiently. "Donal, have sense!
Gisella has spent her life with an Ihlini witch as well as with a father who
despises you. Do you think she will not try again?"

           
"Not if I defuse the trap-link
. . . if there is a trap-link." He looked at me. "Niall, you know
what I must do."

           
I shook my head. "You see how
weary she is."

           
"All the better. There will be
less resistance." He looked at Gisella, who still held the glittering
knife. "I will risk neither my son nor myself to the chance she may be
ruled by an Ihlini."

           
"My lord—"

           
"Prepare her, Niall. I have
already summoned my lir."

           
I did my best to prepare Gisella,
telling her what to expect though I hardly knew myself. All my life I had known
Cheysuli magic existed, gifts from the gods themselves, but never had I seen my
father use it past taking on the shape of wolf or falcon. Even Ian, who had as
much power as any warrior, had shown me nothing other than the shapechange.
Though father and brother also claimed the ability to heal, my childhood hurts
had been allowed to heal naturally, without recourse to magic.

           
Nothing had been serious enough to
require it.

           
Now, I knew, there was. But I wanted
no part of it.

           
I put Gisella to bed, covering the
mound of her belly with a silken coverlet as she leaned back against the
bolsters. She needed food, rest, sleep. She needed to be rid of the weight of
the child.

           
"Two more months," I said
aloud, splaying my hand across her belly. "Two more, Gisella, and you will
be free of this burden."

           
Her own hand covered mine. "A
baby, Niall. Something that will not drown as my puppies drowned, or break as
my kitten broke."

           
Someone touched a cold fingertip
against the base of my spine- But there was no one in the room. "Gisella—a
baby is nothing like an animal. Nothing like a pet." I stroked black hair
away from her weary face. "A baby is more important than anything in the
world."

           
"More important than the
Lion?"

           
Her tone was earnest. So was her
expression. But there was opacity in her eyes, as if she hid from me the other
side of her question.

           
I drew in a careful breath.
"Gisella, if this baby is a boy, he will become the Lion."

           
She giggled. "How can a man
become a lion? There are no lions, Niall. They have all gone out of the world. Not
even I can become a lion!"

           
"He will be the Lion of
Homana," I told her. "Mujhar."

           
I put out my hand and let her see
the ruby ring. "See the stone, Gisella? See the rampant lion?"

           
One finger touched the stone. I saw
her pensive face as she traced the tiny etching in the flat ruby signet-
"The Lion,” she murmured. "The Lion of Homana. ..."

           
Abruptly she looked up at my face.
"Are you the lion, Niall?"

           
I shook my head. "Not yet. Not
for a long time to come."

           
She sighed. "But I want to be a
queen."

           
A step sounded in the room.
"Aislinn has no intention of relinquishing her title for a long time to
come," my father told her bluntly. "Your pride will have to be
satisfied by a lesser title."

           
"Father," I reproved,
"she hardly knows what she says."

           
"Do you?"

           
"Do I? Of course!"

           
"Do you?" he asked again.
"Is that why you almost never refer to me as jehan?" He was
unsmiling. "Is the Cheysuli word so hard for you to say?"

           
It hurt. I felt the twist in the pit
of my belly, "You have Ian to use the Old Tongue."

           
"And you for something
else?" He shook his head as he moved to Gisella's bedside. Taj perched
himself upon the casement sill as Lorn lay down on the floor at the foot of the
bed. "No, now is not the time; my lir remind me of it plainly. You are
just home after more than a year away, and reprimands can wait. I
apologize."

           
An apology from my father. I stared
as he sat down across from me on the edge of Gisella's bed. I could not recall
if he had ever offered me an apology before.

           
Or if I had ever deserved one.

           
Or if I deserved one now.

           
"I will not harm you," he
told her gently. "I promise you that, Gisella. You are Cheysuli yourself;
you know of all the gifts."

           
"I know." She was a
petulant, impatient child, suddenly, claiming superior knowledge. "I know
many things."

           
My father did not smile. "Aye-I
imagine you do. How much, I will find out."

           
He did not touch her. He merely
looked at her, even as I did. And then I looked at him.

           
His eyes matched hers in expression
as well as color: pinpointed pupils, opacity, a look of total detachment.

           
Though my father sat on the bed at
Gisella's side, I knew he had gone elsewhere, seeking her. And I sensed
Gisella's retreat.

           
Still I held her hand. I could feel
the tension in it; the rigidity of flesh and tendons. She did not try to hold
mine. I think she was unable. I think she was enmeshed in a battle of wills
with my father, and had no time for me.

           
Suddenly, I was alone in the
chamber. Gisella was in the bed, my father on its edge, his lir present as
well.

           
And yet, I was alone. So alone . . .
because I was a shadow-man, a shell of nothingness. Lirless, I lacked even the
slightest hint of the power that was manifest in my father. Manifest in Gisella.

           
Is this irony? I asked the gods.
That certain Homanans desire to replace me because they believe I hide my
magic, while certain Cheysuli desire the same because I have no magic at all?

           
Irony, aye. Or my downfall.

           
Gisella's hand clenched itself
within the palm of mine.

           
I felt the fragile, rounded
knucklebones rise up to test the flesh, as if they might break through. And I
heard her moan of pain.