Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (30 page)

           
The finger stopped on a bright blue
rune. There were none under it, only a blank space waiting for the name of my
newborn sons.

           
But Arlen looked at me. "And
here is Niall, son of Aislinn and Donal, who shall inherit the Lion from his
jehan and name a son to inherit it from him."

           
I smiled. "Brennan," I
told the shar tahl. "There is a son already born; I shall call him
Brennan. And behind him. Hart.
Liege
man
if he chooses; rufholli, companion, kinspirit—they were born in a single labor
of Gisella of Atvia, daughter to Alaric and Donal’s rujholla, Bronwyn."

           
Arlen inclined he head briefly to
acknowledge the furthering of the succession, then re-rolled the deerskin and
moved back to his place in the front ranking of warriors and women.

           
It was Rylan's turn once more.
"There is now the bestowing of the lir-gold upon the newborn warrior. It
is customary for the warrior to choose a shu'maii, a sponsor, from among his
fellow warriors. It is the task of the shu'maii to pierce the lobe and place
the earring in it, as well as placing the bands upon the arms. It is a mark of
respect from warrior to shu'maii to ask; it is acknowledgment from shu'maii to
warrior before Clan Council and others of the clan that he accepts the
responsibilities of a bond almost as binding as that of the lir or a liege man.
That he honors the newborn warrior with all the honor of his heritage as a
Cheysuli born of the clan and all its traditions."

           
He said nothing more, having
explained the final task that faced me. Like the others, he waited for my
decision.

           
I looked at the empty place in the ranks
ringing me.

           
Empty because my father had returned
to Homana.

           
Mujhar, unable to remain even for my
Ceremony of Honors. I would have named him as my shu'maii, naming his name with
great pride, but be had gone, and I could not say the name of a man who did not
exist in the moment of my birth.

           
I looked at my brother, sitting
beside the empty place, and saw how he waited with eyes downcast. He was the
natural choice, I knew, and certainly the most appropriate. But Ian was already
pledged to me.

           
And so I looked at Rylan. "I
name the name of Ceinn."

           
I heard a woman gasp: Isolde. And I
heard the low-voiced murmurings of the men.

           
It was to my brother I looked first,
to see if I had hurt him. Perhaps I had, but he did not show it to me. He merely
smiled a tiny smile, as if I had done a thing that surprised him with its
shrewdness but also met with belated understanding. He smiled, did my brother,
and I knew I had chosen well.

           
"Ceinn," Rylan said.
"Do you accept the honor offered?"

           
His face was a mask to me, but his
eyes were not.

           
From out of the mask they stared,
hard and cold and yellow, and in their depths blazed the flame of fanaticism.
Oh, aye, he would accept. In the face of his dedication to clan and custom, he
could not do otherwise.

           
"Ja'hai-na," he said only,
and rose to make his way through the others to the cairn. He sat down on my
right side; Serri was at my left.

           
Rylan accepted the leather pouch
offered him by another warrior. From it he took a silver awl and handed it to
Ceinn. Firelight glinted off the silver. The point was ground quite fine, but I
knew it would hurt regardless.

           
I pushed the hair behind my ear and
faced Ceinn, kneeling. Saying nothing, he pinched and pulled down my left
earlobe, stretching it thin, then pressed the awl against the flesh. I set my
teeth; the point slid in, beyond... I felt Ceinn twist it into my flesh, until
I heard the pop of completion. He withdrew the awl and put out his hand; into
his palm Rylan set the golden earring-Wolf-shaped, of course; a small wolf born
of incredible skill, showing face and paws and tail. From its back rose the
curving prong. Ceinn shut his fingers on the wolf and pushed the prong through
the hole he had made; hooked the tip into the loop with a deft twist. I heard the
tiny snap and knew the thing was done.

           
My earlobe stung. The weight of the
gold set up an ache I found bearable regardless of its irritation: I was very
nearly a warrior.

           
Rylan set the heavy armbands into
Ceinn's waiting hands. The mask was shown me again; such a hard, cold mask,
expressing bleak acknowledgment that what he did made a pledge that could not
be broken; his time with the a'saii was done, even if he preferred otherwise.
He would not, could not break the bond, or forswear the traditions that bound
him of all men so very tightly.

           
The armbands clinked together as
Ceinn brought them closer to me. Such massive, magnificent things, full of
runes braided one into the other, tangling cheek-by-jowl all the way around at
top and bottom edge. And in the center of each, flowing around the curves, was
the shape of a running wolf, fluid in the metal, as if he would leap out of the
gold and into the midst of us all.

           
Gods—how beautiful is my lir—

           
Ceinn slipped one over my left wrist
and slid it up until it went over my elbow and was snugged against muscles.

           
Then the other on my right, holding
my wrist as he settled the band into place. Again, he snugged it, and I saw the
rich flash of his own gold in the firelight as be made me a man before the
others.

           
"Leijhana tu'sai," I said
quietly. And I meant it.

           
His lips thinned. "Cheysuli
i'halla shansu." But I knew the last thing he intended me was Cheysuli
peace.

           
And yet he could do nothing about
it. I swallowed heavily. I had no wish to show what I felt to the others. And
yet I could not help but show it to Ceinn; he was too close, too intent. He
could not help but see how moved I was. And I saw him begin to frown.

           
Rylan's voice broke the moment, and
then made it more poignant yet. "Ja'hai-na," he said simply. "By
the clan, by the gods, by the lir, the warrior is accepted."

           
It was for Ceinn, the shu'rmai, to
begin the welcomings. I waited, and when he rose he also pulled me up, clasping
my arms above the lir-bands to give me Cheysuli welcome.

           
At my right he stood, keeping
himself in silence as the others filed by. Rylan. Arlen. Others I could not
name.

           
And Isolde, reaching up to kiss my
cheek even as I bent down to hug her in a blatant display of affection. A
sidelong look at Ceinn showed a rigid, unyielding face as my sister went by him
without a word, and then I saw the blaze of grief in bis eyes.

           
Lastly, Ian, who forgot proprieties
as quickly as our sister; who embraced me twice and said very little because he
could not manage it. "Rujho," he said only, "you make a man
proud to be Cheysuli."

           
And then he and the others were
gone, save for Serri, Ceinn and a handful of the a'saii.

           
They did not come to me. I knew I
had taken their weapon from them because my lirlessness was banished, and yet they
did not come to me. As one they looked at Ceinn, and as one they turned their
backs on him and exited through the back nap. In their silence was eloquence. He
took a single step forward, as if he meant to go after them, to say a word or
two; to ask them what they meant. But be knew very well what they meant. He of
all people.

           
He stopped. He did not go after
them. He did not ask.

           
He stared blindly into the emptiness
of the pavilion.

           
"Shu'mau,” I said quietly,
"when a man cannot make a friend of an enemy, be takes the enemy from his friends."

           
After a moment, he shrugged.
"Why not?" he asked dully, "You have already taken his
cheysula."

           
" 'Solde does as 'Solde
chooses; surely you understand that better than most. But I would not have it
said she cannot change her mind."

           
He looked at me sharply. "Would
she?"

           
I shrugged. "I cannot speak for
her—not now; not anymore than I did when she publicly renounced you. But she
renounced you because you were a'saii. . . and now you are shu'maii."

           
He expelled a ragged breath of
realization. "Gods—do you think—?" But he did not finish. He stared
at me in rigid silence, unable to voice his hope for the intensity of his
emotion; the magnitude of his fear that, once spoken, the hope would be taken
away.

           
"I think I took an enemy from
his friends, and gave a friend back to his cheysula."

           
As well as saving him from the Lion.

           
A muscle leaped in his cheek.
"Do you think it is so easy to fashion friends out of enemies? I believed
in what I did. And if you were still a lirless man, I would do it all
again!"

           
"I know that," I said
gently, "A man can also be measured by the dedication of his spirit. Aye,
you believed. Too much, perhaps, in the old traditions, but it was a true
belief. I cannot condone it. You tried to slay me, but I can comprehend it. Can
you not see it, Ceinn? It takes men like you to restore a blighted race. Men
like you . . . Carillon ... my jehan. And I will need every one I can
find."

           
"For what?" he asked
sharply. "What do you intend to do?"

           
"Rule Homana," I told him.
"Hold the Lion, once my jehan is dead."

           
He looked at Serri. He looked at the
gold he himself had given me in my Ceremony of Honors. And then he turned
sharply as if to go; to leave me alone in the tent with my lir and my memories.

           
But he swung back. "Ru'shalla'tu,"
he said flatly, and then he was gone from the pavilion.

           
I smiled. And then I laughed aloud.

           
May it be so? Serri's tone told me
he did not understand my amusement.

           
"Aye," I agreed, still
laughing. "But—from Ceinn."

           
My sons, I said to Serri in
amazement. Slowly I shook my head. Of this imperfect vessel are magnificent
children made.

           
Given time, Serri agreed as he
leaned against my knee; the posture was becoming habitual whenever I stood
still.

           
At this age, there is not much
magnificent about them except a magnificent odor. His lips peeled back from his
teeth; Serri sneezed. And then he went away from me to flop down upon a rug
near the fireplace.

           
Laughing softly, I hooked hands over
the side of the big oak-and-ivory cradle and leaned down to look more closely
at the contents. Two babies, swaddled in costly linens and mostly hidden
beneath a white silken coverlet stitched with crimson rampant lions. That I had
fathered one was a miracle in itself; two was utterly incomprehensible to me.

           
Carefully I smoothed the coverlet
and felt the lumpy bodies beneath. "You will be warriors of the
clan," I told them quietly, "as well as princes of Homana. And one of
you will be Mujhar."

           
That one, Serri told me, even from
the rug. I caon feel it in him as you touch him . . . he is firstborn—he will
be Mujhar.

           
"And the other?"

           
Prince of Solinde?

           
I grunted. "Solinde prepares
for war yet again ... I begin to think no Mujhar of Homana will ever hold that
realm in peace. At least—not a long-lasting peace."

           
Prince of Atvia?

           
I nodded thoughtfully. "Possibly.
With no male heirs, Alaric has only Gisella's son to look to for a man to
succeed him as Lord of Atvia."

           
Then again, there is Erinn.

           
I felt the old pain flare up in my
belly. The grief renewed itself. "No, lir ... not Erinn. I think the Erinn
I knew is gone forever."

           
Again I smoothed the silken coverlet,
trying not to recall how I had lighted the beacon-fire that signaled Alaric's
assassins to begin. Two small heads I touched, very close together. Both soft
with fine black fuzz; black-haired were my sons, my half-Cheysuli sons.

           
One of them stirred beneath my hand.
And almost instantly, the other one did as well. Some form of communication?
They were children of the same birth . . . who could say what the strength of
their link would be?

           
"Mujhar," I whispered to
the one Serri had named the firstborn. "Such a heavy title for such a
little boy."

           
Face down, he turned his head even
as his brother did.

           
They opened their eyes and peered at
one another uncertainly, as if to make sure the other one was present. And I
saw, looking at their eyes, why my father had said one could tell them apart
already. The older, Brennan, had the brass-brown eyes that would turn Cheysuli
yellow.

           
Hart, the younger, had eyes the
color of the sky on a summer day. Very like my own.

           
I smiled and cupped a palm over each
of the black-fuzzed heads. "Cheysuli i'halla shansu, little warriors. And
may your lives be long and full."

           
Lir— Serri said sharply, and I swung
around with a hand to my borrowed knife.

           
But it was only Gisella—no, not
only. Never would I attach that word to her name again.

           
She stood in the open doorway and
stared at me sorrowfully- "You went away from me," she accused.
"On our wedding night."

           
I felt a vague sense of guilt; aye,
I had left her on our wedding night, when a man and woman should spend the time
together. Even heavy with the babies, she was due common courtesy from her
husband.

           
And then the guilt evaporated; what
I felt was anger. Anger and helplessness, because she was no more responsible
for her actions than were our two small sons, soiling nightwrappings in their
sleep.

           
"I went away," I told her,
"because I had to go."

           
She trailed a wine-red bedrobe
across the floor as she wandered into the chamber. Beneath the robe, which hung
mostly off her shoulders, was a linen nightshirt. Her feet were bare upon the
cold stone floor.

           
"You went away from me."
She was a heartbroken child, repeating the thing that had hurt her. "You
left me all alone."

           
"Gisella—"

           
But her face brightened abruptly.
"Have you seen my babies? Have you seen my sons?"

           
"Our sons, Gisella," I
said gently, even as she hastened across the floor to bend over the cradle.
'They are mine as well as yours."

           
"Babies,” she whispered, and
reached down to tuck the coverlet more closely around their bodies.

           
"Gisella." I caught a
shoulder and pulled her around to face me. "Gisella—do you recall the
night upon the cliffs, when your father told me to light the beacon-fire?"

           
She stared at me blankly. Her hair
was bound back from her face in a single loosely woven braid. It hung over a
shoulder and dangled against her hips. Gone was the bulk and weight of
pregnancy. Her face was reminiscent of Isolde's, I thought, but that was not
unusual as many Cheysuli resemble one another. She had regained her grace and
allure. In sheer cream linen and wine-colored velvet she was a woman who would
make another man think of bed, but I could not think of bedding her without
also thinking of Deirdre.

           
"Gisella, do you
remember?"

           
"You mean—in Atvia."

           
"Aye. In Atvia."

           
Abruptly she twisted away from me,
pulling out from under my hand. Her back was to me, but I saw her drag the bedrobe
up to cover her shoulders. She pulled the velvet very tight around her body,
nails scraping rigidly at the nap, and I saw the silver tips. They reminded me
of Lillith.

           
"Gisella—"

           
"You think of her instead of
me." I saw how the nails dug into the velvet, as if she meant to hurt
herself. "You think of her instead of me."

           
I shut my eyes a moment; when I opened
them, Gisella was facing me. I saw the tears in her eyes. I saw how the slender
fingers worked their way into the weave of her braid, tugging, tugging, as if
she intended to jerk the hair out of her scalp.

           
"Did you know?" I asked
her. "Did you know what lighting the fire would begin?"

           
"I wanted you for me!"

           
"By the gods, Gisella, did you
know what it would begin?"

           
She pressed the braid against her
mouth and I saw the white teeth bite in. Gods, how she trembled. "It was
so pretty," she whispered over the shining hair. "The fire was so
bright ... it lit up the dragon's smile and I could see all his teeth."

           
"Do you know what you have
done?"

           
"But it was pretty,
Niall!" Suddenly she was angry. She jerked the braid from her mouth.
"I like to see pretty things. I want to see pretty things."

           
I caught her arms before she could
finish. "Do you know what you have done?"

           
"Aye!" she shouted back.
"I have borne you boys—the Lion is secure!"

           
I heard the rising wail issuing from
the cradle. In a moment another joined it; we had disturbed their sleep.

           
I have borne you boys—the Lion is
secure.

           
That much of things she understood
well enough. She had secured her own place as well as the future of Homana.

           
What manner of man would I be if I
set aside the woman who had borne me two healthy sons at a single lying-in?

           
In that moment, looking at her, I
knew a futile anger of the sort that might drive me to murder. What would it
take to place my hands around her throat and squeeze, shutting off her breath
forever? She was responsible for altering my consciousness, for making me a man
with no wits or will ... a man capable of giving the woman he loves over to the
hands of an assassin. And yet I knew Gisella could not be held accountable.
Not—entirely.

           
All the anger spilled out of my
body. Deep despair was left in its place. "Oh—gods—Gisella . . . will you
never understand?" I turned from her and locked my hands onto the side of
the cradle, staring blindly at my sons.

           
"You will never
understand."

           
"The babies are crying, Niall,
We have made the babies cry—" And she was instantly at my side, bending
over the side of the cradle to make certain of their welfare.

           
She sang. Some little atonal melody
I had never heard, and which I found utterly unbearable. How carefully she
tended the babies. How solicitous she was. How concerned she was for their
welfare, even as she ignored—or forgot—how she had made it possible for Deirdre
to be slain.

           
She sang. And as she sang I backed
away. And when I reached the door I turned and lurched out of the chamber even
as Serri lunged up from the rug.

           
I did not get far. Even as I shut
the door with a solid bang, I fell against the wall, pressing my brow against
it.

           
Gods, if I could only shut away the
memories and guilt as easily as I shut away the sound of crying babies; the
sight of their half-witted mother. If only. . . .

           
If only I could go back to Erinn and
repeat my captivity there, because then all the eagles would be alive.

           
"Niall."

           
I spun, feeling Serri's warmth
pressed against my leg.

           
And saw my mother approaching from a
turn in thevcorridor.

           
"Oh, Niall," she said in
sudden concern, "what has put you in such pain?"

           
"Need you ask? The woman I have
married." I shook my head. "I wish I might have listened to you when
you gave me the chance to gainsay the wedding."

           
"Well, you did not, but it was
not within your power."

           
Her eyes were on the wolf.
"Donal told me of your lir . . . and how it was Gisella's sorcery that
blinded you to the truth."

           
"Jehana," I saw the minute
twitch of surprise as I addressed her in the Old Tongue. "Jehana, I think
there is a thing we must discuss, you and I ... will you give me the
time?"

           
"Gladly," she said.
"We have had so little of it to share this past year." She placed a
cool hand upon my wrist. "You know I would give you anything that you
desire.”

           
Inwardly I grimaced; but will you
give me my freedom when I ask you for it now?

           
I escorted her to her favorite
private solar, a round room in one of the comer towers of the palace, with wide,
glassy casements and whitewashed walls. She had six women to attend her
whenever she desired it; three were in the solar now, but before I could
request privacy my mother asked them to leave. And so we were left alone, save
for Serri, and I found myself suddenly reticent to speak of the thing at all.

           
My mother smiled. She turned from me
and went to one of the casements, staring out as if to give me time to assemble
the words I wished to say. I looked at her back and saw the firm arch of her
spine beneath the tight-fitting glove of the green-dyed linen gown. The sleeves
also were very fitted, snugged against her arms from shoulders to midway down
her hands. All the glorious red-gold hair was bound up in a green-wrapped loop
of braid at the back of her slender neck.

           
Still so slim, my mother; still so
youthful looking.

           
I drew in a deep breath, held it a
moment, let it out carefully. "I am not Carillon."