Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (23 page)

           
There was an expression of grim
determination on my father's face, though the eyes retained the blank, detached
stare. It was as if he were the hungry hunter running down terrified prey:
unflagging flight and an unremitting pursuit.

           
Gisella writhed in the bed, though
no one touched her but me. She cried out.

           
"Wait—" I blurted.
"Father." No. Jehan. But I could not say the word. "Wait
you—"

           
But his fingers locked around the
wrist of her other hand—she screamed—

           
—Gods, how she screamed—

           
"Jehan—no!" Now the word
came easily as I tried to break the grip. I tried to break it—but the sudden
burst of fire within my skull hurled me back, back, away from the bed, until I
crashed into the tapestried wall.

           
The world was upside down. Or was it
me? I could not tell. I crawled on hands and knees to the bed, leaving a trail
of blood behind. My nose was numb; I could not feel the blood, only taste it.
My ears buzzed, rang, hummed. My vision was obscured by broken images.

           
—my father—Gisella—Taj and Lorn—

           
Bleeding, I sprawled face down
across the bed and tried to touch my father, to tell him no, no—to somehow
gainsay the power he leveled against her. Images blurred, twisted, revolved.
The movement made me retch.

           
"Niall? Niall!”

           
My father's voice? My name? I could
be certain of neither; my ears made too much noise.

           
"Niall—oh gods, let the boy be
all right!" Hands caught me, pulled me up from the bed and then settled me
on the floor with the side of the bed serving as backrest.

           
"Niall?"

           
His face was split into sixths; I
could make no order of the pieces.

           
"Niall, can you hear me?"

           
Blood ran down my chin. "Why?
Why—harm—her—?"

           
One of his hands slipped behind my
neck and cradled my wobbly head. "Never, never, touch a Cheysuli in
mind-link, Niall. Have you not been warned against it?"

           
His face was in thirds, now. An
improvement. And I could hear him better. "What did you do to
Gisella?"

           
"Nothing," he said firmly.
"Better to ask: what did she do to me?"

           
"You?" My eyes shut of
their own accord. I put the back of my hand to my face and tried to stanch the
blood.

           
"What you felt did not come
from me, Niall. It was all Gisella's doing." His tone was grim.
"Later, we will discuss it. Not now. Not in front of her.

           
"She will be my wife," I
protested weakly. "It should all be in front of her."

           
"Look at me." I did as
told. "Aye, you are better. Can you rise?"

           
Only with his help, and even then I
nearly fell down again. I grasped the closest tester with one shaking hand; the
other I locked under my nose. But the river was slowing to a stream. "What
happened?"

           
"You broke the link," he
said; now, looking at him with normal vision again, I saw the traces of blood
in his own nostrils. "But it is just as well. Gisella was preparing to
throw me out, which would have been more painful yet." He smiled a little
and rubbed at bloodshot eyes.

           
"For all she was raised far
from any clan—and by an Ihlini, at that—she knows many of our tricks. And has
many of our strengths." The smile fell away. "But: none of our sense,
I fear. When Alaric slew Bronwyn, he slew the girl's wits as well." He
shook his head. "What happened to her cannot be healed, even by a
Cheysuli—even by several Cheysuli. The damage was too severe."

           
I raised a silencing hand and turned
to see if Gisella had heard. But she slept. She slept deeply; she slept
smiling, as if pleased by what she had wrought.

           
I shivered. And then I looked at my
father. "There was no trap-link, then?"

           
"No. There was no hint of
Ihlini meddling—at least, not within her mind." His tone was level,
unyielding; he would play no games with me. "Perhaps only to it, from
things the others told her."

           
Others. Lillith, no doubt. And
Alaric.

           
I nodded. "How soon can we have
the wedding?"

           
I thought he meant to protest; to
make some comment regarding my witlessness. But he did not. Bleakly, he said,
"As soon as arrangements are made."

           
Again, I nodded. "Things will
be better, then."

           
My father looked at Gisella. But he
said nothing at all.

           
Arrangements were made in an almost
obscene haste. I knew it was Homanan custom, particularly royal custom, to
invite neighboring aristocracy as well as royalty, as a means of sealing the
ceremony. In this way no one could claim the throne was unsecured, and make
plans to invade Homana. I had no doubts the Homanan Council, as well as my
mother—and possibly even my father—would have preferred the custom adhered to,
for the sake of displaying the Lion's successor and his Cheysuli bride to as
many people as possible. But because of Gisella's advanced state and the
domestic threat promised by Carillon's bastard, as well as Strahan himself, we
could not afford to wait.

           
I put on the finest clothes I had
for the wedding, since we could not even delay in order to have new ones made. And
so Torvald made certain I was fit to appear before the guests, laying out the
silks and velvets Homanans preferred, while also selecting Cheysuli
ornamentation from my jewel chest. I wore garments of amber, sienna and russet,
set off with gold and garnets; a braided torque, hammered flat, with matching
plated wristlets, and a belt studded with unfaceted garnets, glowing in the
sunset.

           
As Torvald finished, my mother came
into the chamber, At her nod he bowed and took his leave. And then she came to
me. "You look well. Very well." But she did not smile. "Niall,
there is still a tittle time."

           
I nodded absently, bending to adjust
the droop of my amber-dyed boots.

           
"Niall, do you understand what
I am saying? You do not have to go through with this."

           
Sighing, I straightened. In yellow,
she was lovely. It made her gold-netted hair more vivid than ever. "I have
said it before: I have every intention of marrying Gisella."

           
"Why?" she demanded.
"That erratic, addled girl is a poor choice for Donal’s heir!"

           
"And for Carillon's
grandson?" I turned from her and paced to my jewel chest, studying the
remaining contents idly. I approved Torvald's choices, but it gave me something
to do. "We were cradle-betrothed, mother. Such a thing is not broken
lightly, even if I wished to have it broken. And I do not." I picked
through the brooches, wristlets, rings, then turned to face her. "She is
mad. Aye. I will not deny it. But it does not mean she cannot be my wife."

           
"She will be queen."

           
"One day," I agreed.
"By then, perhaps she will be better."

           
She stared at me in obvious
perplexity. Slowly she shook her head. "I do not understand. You are
not—the same. Not since you went away."

           
"In fourteen months, I was
bound to become a different man." I shrugged. "Perhaps I have grown
up."

           
Again she shook her head.
"There is something—" But she broke it off. "Niall, do you truly
love her?"

           
"I think, as much as I am
able." I shrugged. "I say that because you ask. My father would know
better, being Cheysuli. So perhaps it is that the Homanan portion of me loves
her, while what little Cheysuli is in me will not admit the feeling."

           
"Then you do have
reservations." She came close, resting a hand upon my arm. "Niall, if
you are not completely reconciled to this match, I will have it broken."

           
"And give Alaric cause to march
against Homana?" I shook my head. "You are Queen, and undoubtedly you
have the power to sway most if not all of the Homanan Council . . . but I doubt
you would sway my father. I doubt you would sway the Cheysuli."

           
Her hand tightened. "I know
there is the prophecy! How could I not, being wife and mother to men fully
caught in its demands? But it does not name Gisella! It does not say she is the
one you must wed, merely that you must wed to gain another bloodline. What of
Erinn, Niall? Shaine himself wed an Erinnish princess before he wed Lorsilla.
Save the Atvian line until later ... the Erinnish might serve as well. We could
speak with Shea."

           
'Wo." Quite suddenly, I felt
ill. A hasty swallow steadied my belly again, but I could feel it threatening,
waiting.

           
A beacon-fire on the cliff.

           
And I had lighted the fire.

           
"Niall?" A hand, tugging
gently at my arm. "Niall?"

           
All I could see was the fire in my
eyes, and the blackness of the night as I stood upon the top of the dragon's
skull.

           
"Niall!"

           
The vision faded, but it left me
with the bitter taste of guilt. An immense, abiding guilt, made worse because I
could not say why I should feel guilty.

           
"No," I said. "I wish
to wed Gisella."

           
"And so you shall." lan's
voice; he stood in the doorway, ablaze with Cheysuli gold: his fir-bands were
whole again, unblemished by Alaric's hand. His leathers were pure, unsullied
white edged with scarlet silk. "Everyone waits below."

           
"Then we shall go." I put
out my arm to my mother.

           
Reluctantly, she took it.

           
To match the preparations, the
ceremony itself was brief in the extreme. The Homanan priest said the same
words he had said more than a year before when he had performed the proxy
wedding. The shar tahl, summoned from Clankeep, echoed the other's sentiments,
but in the Old Tongue. I understood all of it well enough, having learned the
language in childhood, but Gisella, listening closely, merely looked left out.
It made the bond between us stronger, I thought; I was left out of all the
magic, while she lacked the language.

           
When it was done and Gisella and I
were truly wed, my father announced the celebration would begin in an adjoining
audience hall. But those who had cause to give the Prince and Princess formal
greeting were to stay behind and do so. And so I was able to watch and name to
myself those Homanans who had no wish to greet me formally, and I realized that
was precisely why my father had arranged it that way.

           
Gisella was seated in a chair upon
the dais, near the Lion itself. I stood beside her, noting with concern the weariness
in her face. There was no hiding her pregnancy and no one had bothered to try;
she wore loose, full robes that swathed most of her body, billowing over the
mound that was my child.

           
My father and mother themselves went
into the adjoining chamber, to give us this time alone. I knew why.

           
There are men in the world who do
things only when their lord's eye is on them, to curry favor, no matter what
they think. And so by leaving, the Mujhar made certain those who stayed to
greet me were doing so for reasons other than those. No doubt he would expect
me to mark who said what, and report it to him later.

           
Enough Homanans came by with a word
or two of congratulations that soon enough I could not name them all. I did not
bother to keep track of each one, no more than I did with the Cheysuli. But
when Isolde and Ceinn came through at the end of the line, I forgot my
detachment entirely.

           
"So handsome!" But
'Solde's bright eyes mocked me as they had even in childhood. "I would
have welcomed you to my wedding, rujho, had you not been gone so long."

           
"You have already wed?" I
looked sharply at Ceinn, whose expression was once again blandly cordial and
utterly closed to me.

           
"Aye," she answered.
"About a sixth-month after you and Ian sailed for Atvia." One hand
went out to briefly touch Ceinn's hand; for a Cheysuli, a broad display of
emotion. But I saw nothing in his eyes that indicated he wished she had not
done it.

           
Does he truly care for her? Or is
she so valuable to his cause he will let her do as she wishes?

           
'Solde slanted a sidelong glance at
Gisella, who was staring blankly into the emptied hall. "Is she—all
right?"

           
I turned. "Gisella," I
said. Then, more forcefully, "Gisella!"

           
Her black hair had been braided
Cheysuli fashion and looped against her head, pinned with silver combs hung
about with tiny silver bells. As I called her name, she started, and all the
bells rang out.

           
'Solde, never one for hanging back,
reached out and caught Gisella's hand. "I am Niall's rujholla," she
said, "so now I am yours as well."

           
"Rujholla,” Gisella echoed.

           
'Solde frowned only briefly. And
then she laughed. "I forget. You have been reared in Atvia, so why should
you know our language? It is only that you look more Cheysuli than anything
else, and so I expect you to know the customs as well as the language."
She glanced at me and laughed. "Niall will teach you everything, I am sure."

           
"Isolde is my sister," I
told Gisella. "Rujholla, in the Old Tongue."

           
"Niall's sister?" Gisella
stared at her. "Oh, of course, my father told me. You are the Mujhar's
bastard daughter."

           
All the gaiety died out of 'Solde.
White-faced, she stared blindly at Gisella. Then, abruptly, she let go of
Gisella's hand at once and turned to leave the nearly empty hall.

           
" 'Solde—'Solde . . . wait!"
I caught up to her, leaving the dais and my blunt-speaking wife behind. "
'Solde, she does not understand our ways. And she is weary, so weary of the
child. I beg you, try to understand."

           
'Solde's arm was rigid beneath my
delaying fingers. “I understand," she said clearly. "I understand
very well, Niall. I should have expected it.” I had anticipated anger from her,
and harsh words—'Solde is not a silent sort—but not the magnitude of her pain.
She shrugged. "She was reared by the enemy."

           
"Gods, 'Solde, do not judge her
so harshly. You do not understand."

           
Suddenly, Ceinn was at my side.
"She understands as well as I do, my lord." His pupils had shrunk so
that I saw mostly yellow, an intense, intent yellow. "Forgive my plain
speech, my lord, but you have worsened your position with the clans by taking
Gisella as your cheysula."

           
"She is half Cheysuli," I
pointed out evenly, trying not to lose my temper. "She is the Mujhar's
niece."

           
"She may be his harana—"
the Cheysuli word was emphasized, as if to point out my use of Homanan in its
place "—but she is also Atvian. Daughter to Alaric, who is no friend of
ours."

           
"Atvian, aye." I was
through with diplomacy. "And necessary to the prophecy." I caught his
arm as he reached out to turn Isolde away, as if he intended to leave my
presence and take my sister with him. "No," I told him plainly,
"I am not finished with you."

           
His bare arm slid out of my grasping
fingers as he jerked it sharply away. My nails scraped across the bear-shape
worked into the gold of his lir-band. "Finished with me?" he echoed,
though he knew precisely what I had said. "Oh, no, my lord. I think we are
finished with you."

           
"Ceinn!" 'Solde was clearly
shocked by the virulence in his tone.

           
"I think the time has come for
plain speech." Somehow I managed to summon an even tone, though I wanted
to shout at him. "Well enough, hear what I have to say."

           
I moved a step closer to him and was
pleased to see that this time, he fell back a single step. "I am fully
aware of the existence of the a'saii, and the preferences for my replacement in
the line of succession. But I challenge you to tell me how that would serve the
prophecy you claim to know better than other warriors." I made a beckoning
gesture. "Well? I wait."

           
"Niall." Isolde, again,
trying to turn my rising anger before it could burst its banks. "How can
you say that to Ceinn? Of course he serves the prophecy."

           
"By seeing to it I am
slain?" Though I watched Ceinn, I saw her twitch of shock. "What did
you think he wanted from me, 'Solde—a peaceful retirement into the
country?"

           
"Niall—"