Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (3 page)

           
It muffled the sounds of the Keep
and drove the Cheysuli inside their painted pavilions.

           
Except for Isolde. I should have
known; 'Solde adores the rain, preferring thunder and lightning in abundance.

           
But this misting shower, I knew,
would do; it was better than boring sunlight.

           
"Ian! Niall! Both my rufholli
at once?" She wore crimson, which was like her; it stood out against the
damp grayness of the day as much as her bright ebullience did. I saw her come
dashing through the drifting wet curtains as if she hardly felt them, damp wool
skirts gathered up to show off furred boots of sleek dark otter pelt. Silver
bells rimmed the cuffs of the boots, chiming as she ran. Matching bells were
braided into thick black hair; like Ian, she was all Cheysuli. Even to the Old
Blood in her veins.

           
"What is this?" She
stopped as we did, putting out a hand to push a questing wet muzzle from her
face; Ian's gray stallion was a curious sort, and oddly affectionate toward our
sister. But then, perhaps it was the magic in her showing. "The king
stag!" Yellow eyes widened as she looked up at Ian and me. "How did
you come by this?"

           
'Solde seemed untroubled by the
rain, falling harder now, that pasted hair against scalp and dulled the shine
of all her bells. One hand still on the stallion's muzzle, she waited
expectantly for an explanation.

           
I blew a drop of water off the end
of my nose. " 'Solde, you have eyes. The king stag, aye, and brought down
by Ian's hand—" I paused "—in a manner of speaking.”

           
Ian glared. "What nonsense is
this? In a manner of speaking? I took him down with a single arrow! You were
there."

           
"How kind of you to recall
it." I smiled down at 'Solde. "He set Tasha on me the moment I
prepared to loose my own arrow, and the cat spoiled my shot."

           
'Solde laughed, smothered it with a
hand, then attempted, unsuccessfully, to give Ian a stem glance of remonstration.
At three years younger than Ian and two years older than I, she did what she
could to mother us both. Though I had my own mother in Homana-Mujhar, 'Solde
and lan did not; Sorcha was long dead.

           
Rain fell harder yet. My chestnut
gelding snorted and shook himself. Jostling all my bones. I was already a
trifle stiff from Tasha's mock attack; I needed no further reminding of human
fragility. " 'Solde, do you mind if we go into Ian's pavilion? You may
like the rain, but we have been out in it longer than I prefer."

           
Her slim brown fingers caressed the
crown bedecking the king stag's head. "So fine, so fine ... a gift for our
jehan?” She asked it of Ian, whose stallion bore the stag before the Cheysuli
saddle.

           
"He will be pleased, I
think," Ian agreed " 'Solde, Niall has the right of it. I will shrink
like an old wool tunic if I stay out in this downpour a moment longer."

           
'Solde stepped aside, shaking her
head in disappointment, and all the bright bells rang. "Babies, both of you,
to be so particular about the weather. Warriors must be prepared for anything.
Warriors never complain about the weather. Warriors—"

           
" 'Solde, be still," Ian
suggested, calmly reining his stallion toward the nearest pavilion. "What
you know of warriors could be fit into an acorn."

           
"No," she said, "at
least a walnut. Or so Ceinn tells me."

           
The stallion was stopped short, so
short my own mount nearly walked into the dappled rump, which is not something
I particularly care to see happen around Ian's prickly stallion. But for once
the gray did nothing.

           
Ian, however, did.
"Ceinn?" He twisted in the saddle and looked back at our smug-faced
sister- "What has Ceinn to say about how much you know of warriors?"

           
"Quite a lot," she
answered off-handedly. "He has asked me to be his cheysula."

           
"Cemn?" Ian, knowing the
warriors better than I, could afford to sound astonished; all I could do was
stare. "Are you sure he said cheysula and not meijha?"

           
"The words do have entirely
different sounds," 'Solde told him pointedly, which would not please Ian
any at all. But then, of course, she did not mean to. "And I do know the
difference."

           
Ian scowled. "Isolde, he has
said nothing to me about it."

           
"You have been in
Mujhara," she reminded him. "For weeks. Months. And besides, he is
not required to say anything to you. It is me for whom he wishes to
offer."

           
Ian, still scowling, cast a glance
at me. "Well? Are you going to say nothing to her?"

           
"Perhaps I might wish her
luck," I answered gravely, "Whenever has anything we have said to her
made the slightest amount of difference?"

           
"Oh, it has," Isolde said.
"You just never noticed."

           
Ian shut his eyes. "Her mind,
small as it is, astonishes me with its capacity for stubbornness, once a
decision is made." Eyes open again, he twisted his mouth in a wry grimace
of resignation. "Niall has the right of it: nothing we say will make any
difference. But—why Ceinn?"

           
"Ceinn pleases me," she
answered simply. "Should there be another reason?"

           
Ian glanced at me, and I knew our
thoughts ran along similar paths: for a woman like our sister, a free Cheysuli
woman with only bastard ties to royalty, there need be no other reason.

           
For the Prince of Homana, however,
there were multitudinous other reasons. Which was why I had been
cradle-betrothed to a cousin I had never seen.

           
Gisella was her name. Gisella of
Atvia. Daughter of Alaric himself, and my father's sister, Bronwyn.

           
I smiled down at my Cheysuli
half-sister. "No, 'Solde. No other reason. If he pleases you, that is
enough for Ian and me."

           
"Aye," Ian agreed glumly.
"And now that you have taken us by surprise, ‘Solde, as you intended all
along, may we get out of the rain?"

           
'Solde grinned the grin that Ian
usually wore. "There is a fire in your pavilion, rujho, and hot honey
brew, fresh bread, cheese and a bit of venison."

           
Ian sighed. "You knew we were
coming."

           
'Solde laughed. "Of course I
did. Tasha told me."

           
And with those well-intentioned
words, my sister once more reminded me even she claimed gifts that I could not.

           
The rain began to fall a trifle
harder. Isolde flapped a hand at us both. "Go in, go in, before the food
and drink grow cold. I have my own fire to tend, and then I will come
back."

           
She was gone, crimson skirts dyed
dark by the weight of the rain. I heard the chime of bells as 'Solde ran toward
her pavilion (did she share it now with Ceinn?) and reflected the sound suited
my sister. There was nothing of dark silence about Isolde.

           
"Go on," Ian told me.
"Old Newlyn will wish to see the stag now in order how best to judge the
preparation. There is no need for you to get any wetter. Tasha will keep you
company."

           
Ian did not bother to wait for my
answer; much as I dislike to admit it, he is accustomed to having me do as he
tells me to. Prince of Homana-liege man; one would think Ian did my bidding,
but he does it only rarely. Only when it suits that which he believes
appropriate to a liege man's conduct.

           
I watched him go much as 'Solde had
gone, fading into the wind and rain like a creature born of both. And she had
the right of it, my rujholla; warriors did not complain about the weather.
Warriors were prepared for anything.

           
Or perhaps it was just that they
knew how to make themselves look prepared, thereby fooling us all.

           
I grinned and swung off my gelding,
looping the reins over a wooden picket-stake before the pavilion doorflap.

           
As I pulled the flap back, Tasha
moved by me into the interior, damp fur slicking back against muscle and bone
as she pressed briefly against my leg. I wondered if she hated the rain as most
housecats did; but then, she would hardly thank me for comparing her to a
common creature such as knew the tame freedom of Mujhara's alleys and the
corridors of Homana-Mujhar.

           
Ian's pavilion was dyed a pale
saffron color. The exterior bore a stylized painting of a mountain cat in
vermillion, honoring his lir. The interior was illuminated by the small fire
'Solde had lighted, but because of the gray of the day the shadows lay deep and
thick. Trunks merged with walls and tapestries, the divider curtain with the
faint haze of silver woodsmoke. Nothing seemed of substance except the fire in
the cairn.

           
Tasha wasted no time. She stretched
her damp, substantial length upon the silver-blue pelt of a snow bear and began
to lick herself dry. Unfortunately, I could not do the same with my own soaked
skin, not having the proper tongue.

           
Wet leathers smell. So do wet
mountain cats. Between myself and Ian's lir, there was little left that did not
offend my nose. And because Ian and I were not at all of a size, me being both
a hand-span taller and at least thirty pounds heavier, I could not borrow dry
leathers from one of his clothing chests. So I wrapped myself up in yet another
bear pelt, this one chestnut-brown, and hunched down beside the fire with my
back to the doorflap.

           
I poured a cup of hot honey brew and
inhaled the pungent steam.

           
"Ian." The voice outside
startled me into nearly spilling my drink. "Ian, we must talk. About your
rujholli’s future and the future of the Lion—" Without waiting for the
word admitting entrance, the man who spoke jerked aside the doorflap and ducked
inside. "Your decision can wait no long—"

           
He broke off at once as I turned on
my knees to look at him. He was a stranger to me; clearly, I was not to him.
And neither was his subject.

           
I rose, shedding bear pelt, and
faced him directly. He was young, but several years older than I. Quite
obviously all Cheysuli and just as obviously all warrior. He wore leathers, damp
at the shoulders, dyed the color of beech leaves. His gold bore the incised
shapes of a rock bear, a breed smaller than that most commonly found in Homana,
but doubly deadly. I had not heard of a warrior bonding with a rock bear for
years.

           
By the fire I judged the man. And by
the look of him, he was not one to allow another man tune to speak when he had
words of his own in his mouth. Even in all its youth, his face was hard, made
of sharp angles, sharper than is common. His nose was a blade that sliced his
face in half. There was the feint tracery of an old scar cutting the flesh at
the comer of one eye. Though not so much older than I in years, I knew he was
decades older in self-confidence.

           
But I have learned how tall men can
occasionally intimidate shorter men. I reached out and took up the weapon.
"Aye?" I asked. "You spoke of me?"

           
I waited. Dull color stained his
dark face darker, but only for a moment. The yellow eyes veiled themselves at
once; he was not a man I could intimidate with height or rank. But then I
should have known better than to try; Cheysuli are intimidated by no one.

           
" 'Solde said her rufholli was
here." He gave up nothing in manner or speech.

           
"He is," I agreed.
"Did she not say—both?"

           
He judged me. I could see it. He
judged me, as if he sought something in my face, my voice, my eyes. And then I
saw the brief glance at my left ear, naked of gold, and knew the judgment
reached.

           
Or perhaps merely recalled, as if it
were no new thing.

           
"No," he said smoothly.
"She mentioned only Ian."

           
My fingers clenched briefly on the
cup; carefully, I unlocked the stiffened joints. With effort, I kept my voice
from reflecting the pain his casual words had caused.

           
That much I had learned from my
father; kingcraft often requires delicacy of speech as well as subterfuge. This
meeting would afford me the chance to practice both.

           
"My rujholli is with Newlyn.
But if you would prefer it, you may wait here for his return." I paused.
"Or leave your message with me.”

           
I knew he would not. I could smell
it on him: a great need for confidence, secrecy; his manner bespoke an arrested
anticipation. Whatever news he had for Ian was important to them both. And
would therefore be important to me as well, I thought, a trifle mystified; I
wondered anew at the stranger's attitude.

           
"With you?" He nearly
smiled. And then he did, dearly, and I saw he was not so much older than I after
all. "My thanks, but no. I think not, my lord; it is better done in
private."

           
He spoke politely, but I knew well
enough what he did. Cheysuli warriors only rarely give rank to another, and
then only to a Homanan such as my grandsire had been. To another warrior,
never, because Cheysuli are born and remain equal until they die. And so he
reminded me, as perhaps he meant to, that he viewed me as nothing more than a
Homanan.

           
An unblessed man, as lirless
Homanans are called.

           
Well, perhaps he is not so wrong.

           
Politely, he bowed his head in
subtle acknowledgment of my rank. It grated in my soul, that acknowledgment; I
would trade every Homanan rank in the world for acceptance in all the clans.

           
"Tell your brother Ceinn has
words for him," he said quietly, using the Homanan tongue as if I were
deaf to the Cheysuli. "And forgive me for interrupting."

           
He was gone before I could stop him;
before I could say a word about my sister's marriage. It was not my place to
say nay or yea to the union; Cheysuli women are free to take what warrior they
will, but there was little good in making no effort to like the man she would
wed.

           
Well, the effort would have to wait.

           
The cup was cool in my hand. It
would be easy enough to pour out the cold liquor and refill my cup with hot,
but suddenly I wanted no liquor, no food, no pavilion filled with my brother's lir.
Thanks to Ceinn and his careful words, I wanted nothing to do with anyone.

           
Tasha still lay on the pelt. She had
interrupted the grooming ritual to look at me with the fixed, feral gaze of the
mountain cat, as if she sought to read my mind. That she could read Ian's I
knew, but mine was closed to her.

           
As much as hers was to me, and
always would be.

           
Abruptly, I set down the cup and
went back out into the rain. At once I shivered, but did not allow it to turn
me from my intention. I jerked the reins from the picket-stake and swung up
into the wet Homanan saddle.

           
Homanan this, Homanan that—it is w
wonder the Cheysuli look at me with doubt!

           
"Niall!" Ian, coming
through the rain, lacked both stallion and stag. "Rujho—"

           
I cut him off. "I am for
Mujhara after all. I have no taste for Clankeep today." I reined my
fractious chestnut around. "Ceinn came looking for you."

           
Black brows rose a trifle; what I
looked for in his face was missing. There was no guilt in my brother, no
embarrassment, that he discussed me with others behind my back.

           
But I wonder . . . what does he say?

           
Ian shrugged, dismissing Isolde's
warrior. "Niall, stay the night, at least. Why go back in this rain?"

           
"The rain has stopped." It
had, even as we spoke, but the air was heavy with the promise of more. "Ian,
just— just let me be." It came out rather lamely, which irritated me even
more. "Rujho ... let me be."

           
He did. I saw the consternation in
his face and the brief tightening of his mouth, but he said nothing more.

           
One brown hand slapped my chestnut's
rain-darkened rump, and I was away at last. t Away. Again. Away. Gods, how I
hate running—

           
—and yet, as always, it seemed the
only answer.

           
I stopped running at sunset because
my horse went lame. Not far from Mujhara—I could see torchlights just ahead—I
pushed myself out of the damp saddle with effort (wet leather against wet
leather hinders movement considerably) and dropped down into sucking mud. I
swore. Jerked boots free, slipped and slid around to the right foreleg to
inspect the injured hoof. The gelding nosed at me and snorted as I insisted he
lift the leg. I tried to ignore damp questing nostrils at the back of my neck
as I dug balled mud from his hoof.

           
A stone had wedged itself in the
tender frog of the hoof. Cold, stiff fingers did not accomplish much; I
unsheathed my knife and dug carefully at the stone until I pried it loose. The
frog was bruised. It was nothing that would not heal in two or three days, but
for now riding him would only worsen the lameness and delay recovery.

           
And so I took up the reins and
proceeded to lead my horse into the outskirts of Mujhara.

           
The city is centuries older than I.
My father once told me the Cheysuli originally built Mujhara, before they turned
from castles and houses to the freedom of the forests. But the Homanans claimed
their ancestors had built it, though artifacts of Cheysuti origin had been
found in old foundations. I could not say who had the right of it, as both
races had lived in Homana for hundreds and hundreds of years, but I thought it
likely the Cbeysuli had built at least Homana-Mujhar, for the palace was full
of lir-shapes carved in rose-colored stone and rich dark wood.

           
Mujhara itself, however, resembles
little of the city that once held court upon the land. Originally curtain walls
had ringed the city, offering protection against the enemy. But Mujhara was
like a small boy growing to manhood all at once, without warning. It had burst
free of childhood's bones and sinews with new adult growth and strength, as I
myself Had so dramatically two years before; now the city walls and barbican
gates lay nearly-half a league yet inside the outskirts, leaving hundreds
outside we Mujhar's official protection.

           
But we had not been at war for
nearly twenty years, and all the treaties held. Homana was at peace.

           
The gelding limped behind me as I
led him through the narrow, mud-dogged streets. Inside me walls the streets
were cobbled. Outside they were not, since no one could say what dwellings
might go up overnight, thereby creating new streets. Ordinarily the ground was
dry and hardpacked, or frozen solid in winter. But now it was only fall, too
early for true winter. And so I slogged through the mud with my limping horse
behind me.