Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (28 page)

           
I shrugged. "I did."

           
Ian's face was taut. "Once we
found the horse, I thought a beast had taken you."

           
"One did," I said grimly.
"A Cheysuli beast called Ceinn."

           
"Ceinn!" Ian stared.
"What has Ceinn to do with this?"

           
"What has Ceinn to do with anything?"
I asked bitterly. "He very nearly had his heart's desire, rujho—Niall
dead, and only Ian left to accept the Lion Throne."

           
"Rujho—"

           
"It is the truth,” I told him
gently. "And when we see him, you may ask him."

           
The first shock of my appearance had
worn off. Now Ian looked more closely than he had before. I saw him begin to
frown.

           
"The beard," I told him.

           
"No—well, aye, but not only the
beard. There is more. You are—harder."

           
"Grown up," I told him.
"Aye, a little." I bent down on one knee to greet Tasha as she glided
through the trampled fern. She purred, butting her head beneath my jaw in her
customary greeting. "Still the lovely girl," I told her warmly.
"If Ian ever grows weary of you, you may come to me."

           
Ian grunted eloquent dissent.

           
"Oh, aye, I know. You would not
weary of her anymore than I would weary of Serri." I grinned. "Would
you care to meet my lir?"

           
Before he could answer, I summoned
Serri through the link. And when the wolf came, eyes slitted against the sunlight,
I turned to watch my brother's reaction.

           
He stood incredibly still for a long
moment. And then, slowly, he knelt down amidst the tangle of deadfall, brush
and bracken. "Oh wolf," he whispered, "leijhana tu'sai—leijhana
tu'sai for making my rujholli whole. . . ."

           
And put a shaking hand against
Serri's lovely head, A moment later, almost awkwardly, he rose and turned to
face me squarely. "How could I not have seen it? How could I not have
known?"

           
"How could you have known, Ian?
I did not know myself."

           
He shook his head. "I myself
have been lir-sick. I know what the craving is, the emptiness that drives a boy
out into the forest to find his lir. I have seen it before; I have felt before
. . . rujho, I should have known."

           
"Well enough, I curse you for
it." I spoke the weakest one I could think of. "Now, shall we go on
to Clankeep? I have business there with Ceinn and the other a’saii."

           
He looked troubled. "Perhaps
the a'saii might wait."

           
"Perhaps not," I
suggested. "I would prefer to settle the question of my worthiness once
and for all. I think now the clans might accept me willingly."

           
"They might," Ian agreed
grimly, "but what of the Homanan zealots? Your blood at last asserts
itself; your magic is no longer 'hidden.' It will give them further cause for
alarm and outcry."

           
"But it will not give them the
Lion."

           
He caught my arm as I turned to go.
"It might," he said flatly. "Niall, have you forgotten how to
count? You were in Erinn and Atvia for more than a year. And then, barely home
again, you disappear for another month. You have given the Homanan rebels every
opportunity to gain a foothold in this battle for the Lion."

           
"Carillon's bastard," I
said grimly.

           
"Aye, Carillon's bastard."
He glared. "Niall, he has begun to gather an army."

           
"The bastard?" It was my
turn to stare in disbelief.

           
"How can he do that?"

           
Ian shmgged. "How not? He wants
to take the throne."

           
"But—our father is
Mujhar."

           
My brother sighed a little.
"The cost of growing up in a realm at peace is complacency, I see—or,
perhaps, ignorance. Have you no comprehension of politics?"

           
"Do you?"

           
"Some," he said shortly.
"Cheysuli or no, I understand what this means. As you should. ..." He
shook his head. "Even now he gathers an army as well as public opinion in
his favor—"

           
"—and when he has enough of
both, he can petition the Homanan Council for a change in the succession."
I nodded, pleased to see the surprise in Ian’s eyes; he had expected me to
understand nothing at all. "And, of course, the Council, led by our
father, will decline the petition—"

           
"—which will open the road to
civil war," Ian finished.

           
"It is no idle threat, Niall;
no unlikely happenstance. And you forget something else: the Council is made up
of Homanans. All of them served under Carillon; our jehan has appointed no one,
except for Rowan, and even he might prefer Carillon's son as opposed to
Carillon's grandson."

           
"Rowan?"

           
Ian shrugged. "Perhaps. Who can
say for certain? When you look at the petition closely, you will see there are
possibilities for its approval. He is Carillon's son, and therefore a part of
the prophecy."

           
"But he is not Cheysuli."

           
Ian did not smile. "Let us say
the Homanans are less impressed with the need to fulfill the prophecy than the
Cheysuli are, Niall. But let us say also there are those on the Council who do
desire to see the prophecy fulfilled . . . how better to lay proper claim to
the Lion than to wed the claimant to a woman with the necessary
bloodlines?"

           
"Cheysuli," I blurted.
"But who would agree to such a thing? I am the rightful heir!"

           
"Gisella might," he said
evenly. "With you dead, why should she decline the chance to be Queen of
Homana? The title was promised her at birth the moment her gender was
known."

           
It shook me, as he intended it to.
Aye, Gisella might.

           
And the gods knew she had the proper
blood; it was why

           
I had had to wed her.

           
"Gisella!" I said
bitterly. "Gods, but I wish she had died in her mother's fall!"

           
"Niall!" Again, Ian caught
my arm. "Niall—by the gods, you know—"

           
"That she ensorcelled me? Aye,
I know—I knew the moment I gained my lir. Whatever spell she wove must have had
Ihlini origins, not Cheysuli. I remembered it all once I had linked with
Serri." And then all the pain and grief welled up again. "Oh gods—Ian
. . . what they made me do—'

           
"I know." He caught me in
a compassionate embrace.

           
"Oh rujho, I know . . . they
made me watch as you lit the fire."

           
"All of them," I cried.
"All the eagles in the aerie—" I hugged him as I never had before,
never having required it so badly before. "Gods, they made me give the
order to slay Liam—Shea—Deirdre—"

           
He heard the change in my tone as I
said her name; the pain, the anguish, the grief .”Deirdre," he echoed,
mostly to himself, and it intensified the pain to hear him say her name.

           
Oh—gods—Deirdre—

           
I sank down to kneel in the trampled
grass and ferns.

           
"They made me murder
Deirdre."

           
Silently he knelt down on one knee
and caught the back of my neck with a single hand, forcing me to look into his
face. "Rujho," he said, "if you loved her that much, I am truly
sorry."

           
It shocked me, even in my grief.
"You speak of love?"

           
"Why not? It exists, no matter
what the customs say. Do you think there is no love between our jehan and his
cheysula?"

           
"Is there?"

           
"Of course. I see them
differently, rujho, because they allow me to. Or—" smiling a little, he
shrugged "—perhaps they do not allow it, and yet I see it. But be certain
it exists."

           
"There was Sorcha first. Your
mother."

           
"Aye. But she died many years
ago, and there is no law that says a warrior may not love another woman."

           
I saw Deirdre in the distance.
"Not I," I said remotely. "By the gods, not I... I will never
love Gisella."

           
After a moment, he sighed.
"No," he agreed. "No, I think not. I think no man will ever love
Gisella . . . except, perhaps, her jehan."

           
"Alaric?"

           
"Aye. You were too bedazzled by
what the girl had done to you—but aye, Alaric loves her. And I think he does
not forgive himself for being the man who made her the way she is."

           
"Compassion for the
enemy?"

           
"Compassion for the
jehan." He clasped my neck briefly and pulled my head against one shoulder
in a brotherly gesture of affection, then tousled my hair as he rose.

           
"Perhaps you have the right of
it rujho. I think we should go to Clankeep."

           
I stood up. "After telling me
we should not?"

           
"There is something left for
you to do." He grinned, and then he laughed aloud. "After all these
years, have you forgotten the lir-gold? It is your right to wear it, now."

           
My right. I looked down at Serri,
waiting beside my left leg. Lir-gold, Serri!

           
It is your right to wear it.

           
I laughed. "Aye! It is!" I
caught Ian's neck and hugged him awkwardly, nearly jerking him off his feet.
"Aye, rujho, let us go and get my gold!"

           
Frowning a little, he felt at the
lobe that bore the cat-shaped earring. "We have only one mount, and you
are too heavy for my horse to carry both of us. There are times he wants
nothing to do with me."

           
"Who speaks of riding, rujho?"
And as he watched bemusedly, I blurred into my lir-shape.

           
As I ran, I heard him curse, because
he had a horse.

           
Because, like me, he wanted to go in
lir-shape.

           
And I laughed, because there is not
a Cheysuli alive who prefers a horse when he has another form to serve him.

           
Gods—what freedom there is in
lir-shape—

           
I took back my human form at the
gates of Clankeep and turned to watch Ian come up on his stallion. Beside him
ran Tasha, sleek and sinuous in the sunlight, chestnut coat burnished bronze.
Serri warded my left leg, pressing a shoulder against my knee; through the lir-link,
I sensed his insecurity.

           
A lir? I asked in surprise.

           
In my place, how would you feel? he
returned. Clankeep is a place of many people, many lir . . . and I have known
none of them.

           
It was amazing insight into how a lir
felt about things.

           
All too often it was easier simply
to believe them above us all, closer to the gods, and yet Serri's defensive
tone reminded me of myself when faced with a thing I could not fully
understand.

           
Was it the same for Tasha?

           
Serri peered around my knee as the
mountain cat came to join us. The same for us all, when the link is first made.
We are not so different from men.

           
I would have disagreed, verbally or
otherwise, but Ian jumped off his horse and called out in the Old Tongue for
the warriors guarding the entrance to open the gates for us.

           
I waved away drifting dust, then
stepped back as the wooden gates swung open. Once, I had been told, there was
no need for gates to shut the Cheysuli in. But the time had come to shut the
enemy out, and the gates had become traditional. More and more, Clankeep
reminded me of Mujhara.

           
Ian, leading his fractious stallion,
fell into step beside me. "We will go to the shar tahl. It is for him to
make the arrangements for the Ceremony of Honors."

           
I felt a shiver of pride and
excitement lift the flesh on my bones. Ceremony of Honors . . . and at last I
would wear the gold.

           
But even as we walked away from the
gates, one of the warriors called us back. "The shar tahl is not at his
pavilion, Ian. He is with Rylan, and the Mujhar is with them both."

           
"Jehan?" Frowning, Ian
glanced at me sharply. "Something serious, I think . . . what else would
bring him out of Mujhara now?"

           
I thought the emphasis strange, and
said so. But Ian, walking fast enough to pull the stallion into a trot, merely
shook his head. "I will let him explain ... no doubt he has much to say to
you. Rujho—hurry."

           
And so I stretched out my longer
legs and moved ahead of him entirely, which afforded me the chance to tell him
to hurry. But Ian was too preoccupied to be amused.

           
Serri?

           
I cannot say, lir. I am new to the
politics of Homana.

           
Then what does Tasha tell you?

           
Only that her lir is very worried.
It has to do with Ihlini, the plague, the bastard . . . there is much he
concerns himself with. Much.

           
Grimly, I agreed. Ian is better
suited to politics than I. He understands them better.

           
We would our way through clustered
pavilions, dodging the black-haired children who played some game in the trees and
knee-high bracken, spilling out into the beaten earth of the walkways.
Woodsmoke smudged the skyline; I smelled oak, ash, a hint of fresh-cut cedar.
But mostly I smelled the meat. Bear, I thought; someone roasted a bear. And it
made me think of Ceinn.

           
"Ian." I intended to
address the problem of the a'saii, but he was calling out to one of the running
children; a boy, who swerved away from the game and trotted over.

           
"Blaine, will you do me the
favor of taking my horse to my pavilion? I have business with the
clan-leader,"

           
"Aye." Blaine reached out
for the reins. "Did you know the Mujhar is here?"

           
"Aye. Leijharw tu'sai."
Relieved of his horse, Ian nearly ran.

           
Worried, Serri told me.

           
That I can see for myself.

           
"Here," Ian stopped before
a green pavilion bearing a silver-painted fox half hidden in its folds, hardly
noticing as Tasha threw herself down on a rug beside the doorflap.

           
Lorn was there as well, blinking
sleepily in the sunlight.

           
Golden Taj perched upon the
ridgepole. And the brown fox curling next to Lorn moved over to offer Tasha room.
I did not know his name, only that he was Rylan's lir.

           
So little time have I spent here
that I know too little of my clan, I reflected guiltily. It is no wonder there
are warriors who prefer to see Ian in my place. I think Ian knows everyone.

           
My brother scratched at the doorflap
and identified himself. A moment later the clan-leader himself pulled the folds
aside; when he saw me he opened his mouth to speak, then shut it sharply. I saw
the flicker of surprise in his eyes; I was the last man he had expected to see,
and in such a guise as this.

           
And then he smiled. "You had
best go straight to the Mujhar, Niall. He is with Isolde, walking the wall
path."

           
"Go," Ian told me.
"It is important he knows you are alive. I will stay here with Rylan and
the shar tahl to speak of the arrangements."

           
"Wait!" I swung down the
pouch from my shoulder and pulled wide the thong-snugged mouth. Reaching
inside, I caught the heavy belt I had worn at the wedding and pulled most of it
free of the pouch. "Gold," I told the clan-leader. "Cheysuli
gold, made by a master's hands. I would wear it again, but in the proper
shapes."

           
Rylan looked at the wolf who stood
so close to my side. I saw him begin to smile.

           
Ian took the pouch and stuffed the
belt inside it once again. "Rujho, go. I will see to the gold." But
even as I turned, he caught my upper arm. "There is also
i'toshaa-ni," he said seriously. "All will be explained, but you must
prepare yourself."

           
"Will you be the one to explain
it?"

           
He grinned, suddenly young again in
the time before he had learned so much of responsibility, and the concern in
his face was banished. "If that is what you wish."

           
"I wish." And then I was
gone, running after my father, with Serri running at my side.

           
The wall path. . . Rylan meant the
footpath that edged the green-gray wall surrounding Clankeep. It reminded me a
little of the sentry-walks atop the battlements of a castle, ringing the
parapets, but there was nothing of castles about a Cheysuli Keep. Only a wall,
curving through the trees like a granite serpent, lacking merlons and crenels,
showing only an undulating line of piled stone, unmortared, but sealed with
moss and ivy. The vines threaded their way up lichened flanks and clung tenaciously,
setting roots and questing fingers into cracks and crevices. Trees from the
other side sent reconnaissance patrols across over the wall and down, breaching
Cheysuli security. Mistletoe clustered in crotches. Columbine twined the boughs
and mantled the top of the wall.

           
I saw them ahead of me. Isolde sat
on a shattered tree stump with head bowed and all her thick hair hanging around
her face. I could not see her expression. Then she cried, I knew; one hand was
pressed to her face and I could see how her shoulders trembled.

           
My father stood over her, one hand
placed upon the crown of her head. And then the other; he squatted down so he
could look into her face, and I saw how gently he smoothed the hair back behind
her ears.

           
I could not hear what he said. But I
saw 'Solde lean forward, hug him awkwardly, then rise and hasten away.

           
My father remained squatting by the
stump a moment, head bowed, as if he felt a measure of his daughter's pain. And
then, as I slowed from a run to a walk, he rose and turned toward me.

           
And recoiled. "Carillon—"
he blurted.

           
I stopped walking. I stood in the
middle of the footpath quite alone; Serri had paused along the way to make the
acquaintance of a coney too far from his burrow. My first instinct was to
resent the mistaken identity; once, I would have, but now I could not. I was
too shocked. Though others often did, never had my father even remarked upon
the resemblance. Never had he so much as likened me to my grandsire. Certainly
he had never looked at me and called me by Carillon's name.

           
Not even by mistake.

           
And it was not a mistake now.
Because, for that instant, he believed I was.

           
It passed. It passed quickly. I saw
the shock turn to startled recognition, and then the color was back in his
face. But he did not move at once. We faced each other, my father and I, across
an acre of ground that was only the length of a man.

           
"No," I said finally.
"Niall."

           
"I know." His tone was
odd. "I—know. Forgive me."

           
I shrugged. "It is
nothing."

           
"It is something. Do you think
I do not know?"

           
I started to answer, to dismiss the
common mistake, but his raised hand silenced me. "There are many things to
be said, not the least of which is to note you are alive when everyone eke
believes you are dead, but even that will wait. There is something else.
Something I should have told you long ago."

           
He sighed. And then he sat down on
the stump Isolde had vacated and sighed again, as if searching for the proper
words. "He was an incredibly couragous man. An incredibly strong man, and
I do not speak of the physical, though there was that as well. No. I speak of
spirit, of dedication, of the willingness to shoulder burdens far beyond the
ken of most men." He reached down, plucked a jointed blade of grass from
the ground, began to tear it apart. "After Tynstar stole his youth and
gave him the disease, he lost much of his remarkable strength. But none of the
dedication. None of the willingness to take on so many burdens. Because it was
his duty. Because it was his tahlmorra.

           
He looked up at me; I nodded and he
went on. "Every day I looked at him, seeing how he drove himself to make
Homana whole—seeing how he drove himself to serve a prophecy not even of his
people, and I wondered. I wondered: how will I ever be able to take the Lion
from this man? How will I ever be able to carry on the things he has
begun?"

           
I stared at his hands. I watched him
shred the stalk of grass, and then I saw him spill the pieces through his
fingers as easily as now he spilled the self-doubts of his youth.

           
"He told me; be Donal. He told
me: you should not judge yourself by others. But, of course, I did. Even as you
do now."

           
"I hate him," I said
hollowly. "I hate a dead man, jehan."

           
"But mostly you hate
yourself."

           
I sat down awkwardly in the middle
of the footpath because I could no longer stand in the face of the realization.
"Aye," I said on rushing breath. "Oh, jehan ... I have."

           
"Be Niall," he said
gently. "Do not judge yourself by others."

           
I laughed. I heard the sound cut through
arching boughs like a scythe through summer grass, "And when Carillon told
you that, jehan, did it mean anything to you?"

           
My father did not smile. "It
meant something that he said it."

           
Abashed, I looked at the dirt
between my deerhide boots. "Aye. Aye, jehan, it does."

           
"He left me a legacy. He left
me the knowledge I had nothing to be ashamed of; that I would do the best I
could do, no matter what the odds. And I have." He smiled a little.
"Oh, aye. There are people who will disagree; people who claim I serve
only my own self-interests, but I try to serve Homana. Homana and the
Cheysuli." I saw the smile begin to widen. "I think only as I watch
my own children wrestle with the power of adulthood do I come to understand
that I am not a failure. That I am not a bad Mujnar. And the day will dawn when
you come to know the same about the Mujhar who follows Donal."