Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (31 page)

           
The spine went rigid. She spun,
bracing herself with hands thrust against the casement sill. "What?"

           
"I am not Carillon."

           
I saw a mixture of emotions in her
face: astonishment, perplexity, a trace of apprehension. As if she began to
understand precisely what I meant to say. "Niall—"

           
"And if you mean to tell me so
emphatically that of course I am not, I wish you would gainsay it.
Mother—"

           
I stopped. "Jehana, too many
times in the past you have made me to feel inferior. You did not mean it, I
know. If anything, you meant to bolster what manhood I claim by comparing me to
him, but it has always made me feel the reverse. Incapable. Incompetent. A
shadow of the man your father was." I spread my hands. "I have his
height, his weight, his color—certainly a legacy I might respect . . . were I
allowed to respect myself."

           
Still she braced herself against the
sill, head held rigidly upon a slender neck. Garnets glittered in her ears; I
saw a flash of the gold chain around her throat. The links dipped down beneath
the bodice of her gown, caught between flesh and fabric. I thought she might
speak; she did not. She did not even move.

           
"He was not perfect," I
told her. "He was flawed, as any man is flawed. It does not make him less
than the legend he has become. It merely makes him a man ... as his grandson is
a man." I felt the weight of the gold upon my arms. The ache in my left earlobe.
At last, I am Cheysuli. "I need to be myself. I need to know my own name.
I need to walk unhindered by the weight of my grandsire's legend." I
paused. "I need to be allowed to respect the memory of the man, instead of
resenting it."

           
I saw the pain in her eyes.
"Have I done that to you?"

           
"You did not intend it."

           
"Have I done that to you?"

           
I swallowed tightly, loath to hurt
her any more. "I think—perhaps. ..." I stopped short; why avoid the
truth in the name of tact when I had already made the wound? "Aye."

           
She flinched. Only a little, but
there was no doubting the blade had gone cleanly home.

           
"Oh—gods—" she said, and
covered her face with her bands.

           
I went to her at once, wrapping her
up in my arms.

           
She did not sob aloud, merely cried
silently into my leathers. Such dignity, has my mother . . . such rigid
awareness of self.

           
When she was done with tears she
lifted her head and looked up into my face. "I loved him so much. He was
everything to me. I had no mother for most of my life ... he had already
banished her. And when at last I did come to know my mother, it was to know
also that she intended to use me against him." The anguish laid bare her
soul; she had carried her own weight of guilt. "He was my world for so
many years of my life ... and then he was taken from it."

           
"Men die, jehana.”

           
"Not Carillon of Homana."
Her tone was very grim. "Men such as he are kept alive in lays and sagas;
we have the harpers to thank for that."

           
“Then let him live," I agreed.
"Let the truth of his deeds live on in the magic of the music."

           
"But not in the life of his
grandson?" She nodded a little, though mostly to herself. "I know ...
he became what he was because he had to, to make Homana whole. I cannot—and
should not—expect you to mimic him. The times are different now ... the
requirements different also. It is not fair to ask you to be someone other than
yourself." She sighed. Fingers traced the shapes m the gold on my arm.
"For so long you have been Homana's Homanan prince, when you are also
Cheysuli. But it was so much easier to follow the mold already made, than to
trouble myself with fashioning another."

           
I shrugged. "I am whatever I
am: Cheysuli, Homanan, Solindish. The rest is up to me."

           
"The rest is up to the
gods." She smiled even as I bent to kiss her brow, before I took my arms
away. "It is difficult for a woman with only one child not to try to shape
the clay precisely as she wishes. And more difficult yet to realize the clay
may prefer to shape itself."

           
"Well, I think the day is
unfired." I smiled, shrugging. "Who can say what I will become?"

           
"All of them," she said
seriously. "All of them will say. The councils, the races—the loyalists
and the rebels. And certainly the enemy." Pensively, she smoothed the silk
of her shining hair. "Be wary, Niall ... be wary of everyone. Friend and
foe alike."

           
And into the room on the tail of her
words came the echo of Strahan's voice: "Look to your friends . . . your
enemies . . . your kin—lest they form an alliance against you."

           
I lost my freedom almost as soon as
I had won it. It was nothing my mother, my father, the Cheysuli or even the
Homanans had done. It was a combination of factors: imminent war, the plague,
civil turmoil. Although the a'saii were, for the moment, disarmed, I knew it
was possible the Cheysuli fanatics might seek other avenues to replace me. No
one could say I lacked the gifts of my race, not with Serri and our link so
blatantly obvious, but they could say they preferred someone with a different
strain of the required blood. And perhaps they would.

           
The plague began to prey upon Homana
in earnest.

           
What had initially begun as a vague
illness defined mostly as fever in Homanan herders and crofters spread down
from the north to invade central Homana, and Mujhara lay in its path. Reports
of deaths were brought to the Mujhar, and, too soon, the vague illness was
diagnosed as something far graver. From Homanan crofters and herders, isolated
in the Northern Wastes and the greater distances between towns and villages,
the sickness reached out to touch even the Keeps, and word came of Cheysuli
deaths.

           
The bounty on white wolves rose. A
trip to the furrier in the
Market Square
showed me a man whose purse was fattened
almost daily by trappers coming in with pelts.

           
Some were ruddy, others silver, some
a charcoal gray, as if the trappers took no chances and slew all the wolves
they could catch. But there were white pelts as well . . . pelts as white as my
own, when I wore my lir-shape.

           
And so, when I went into the city, I
made the greatest sacrifice of all: I left Serri in Homana-Mujhar. I would not
risk losing my lir to an overzealous citizen intent on ridding Homana of the
plague, or—more likely—intent on putting a silver piece in the palm of his
bloodied hand.

           
I did not like leaving Serri behind.
Not at all. But certainly no more or less than my father liked leaving Lorn
behind when he went into the city.

           
Or even to Clankeep.

           
My sons thrived, though I learned
all too quickly demands upon my time by governmental matters stole away the
hours I had meant to spend with them. I saw them infrequently at best; mostly I
toiled with my father in sessions of strategy and hypothetical situations,
learning how men plotted the course of war. Lessons in my youth had taught me
Homana's history of wars and civil turmoil; I began to see why they had been
required of me.

           
All too often one of the councillors
tossed the name of this battle or that into the discussions to cite an example
of proper procedure, thoughtful initiative, even dismal failure. Alt too often
I heard the name of Carillon invoked . . . and then one day, in listening to
yet another discourse on what the late Mujhar had done as well as why, I began
to see the reasons for the invocations. My grandsire, flawed man that he was,
as I had taken care to point out to my mother, had known instinctively what
might win the battle, and so the war as well.

           
Or was it instinct? Perhaps it was
simply experience, won from out of the midst of carnage and put to use in later
confrontations.

           
If it was instinct, perhaps I had
inherited a portion of it. And if it was experience, I had little doubt I would
soon know that as well.

           
Relations with Gisella continued much
as before. She was quixotic, unreliable, unpredictable. Servants disliked
serving her and argued among themselves as to who would take her trays, for she
only rarely came down to meals in the dining hall, preferring, she said, to eat
with the babies. Quietly I made certain there were always two or more women
with her and the children; I did not wish to risk my sons to the whims and odd
fancies of a woman such as Gisella.

           
We spent little time together
because of the demands of the planning sessions. More and more my father asked
me for my opinions in an attempt, I thought, to familiarize me with the idea of
conducting a war as much as familiarizing the others with the idea of my
contribution.

           
Ian, also present, said less than I
and was asked less, even by my father; his place was at my side, not in the
line of succession for the Lion or even in orchestrating wars. But I did not
doubt that when the time came, his responsibilities would be as great as mine.
Simply drawn from a different background.

           
Gisella did not appear to miss my
company, although she was always glad to see me. I thought surely she would
stifle, ever keeping herself within the confines of Homana-Mujhar, but she said
no. She did not wish to go to Clankeep or into Mujhara or even outside the
walls of Homana-Mujhar. She wished only to stay with the babies.

           
I could not forbid it, any more than
I could force her to leave the palace. And I was not certain I wanted her to
leave Homana-Mujhar; there was no telling what she might do or say in the city
or at Clankeep. The gods knew I could never predict it.

           
Any more than I could have predicted
her desire.

           
I had not sought her bed since the
birth of Brennan and Hart, even though enough time had passed to make it physically
possible for her. It was repugnant to me. She was not—it was just that I could
recall so little of the time before Serri had freed me from Gisella's ensorcellment.
The idea that I had been little more than a toy to her, performing at her whim,
disturbed me deeply. I had no desire to learn how malleable I had been in her
bed.

           
And yet it seemed I would.

           
She came into my bedchamber as I
prepared to blow out the candle. Naked, I glanced up as the latch lifted (I did
not sleep with it locked) and stared in surprise as Gisella slipped through and
shut it with scarcely a sound.

           
She wore only a nightshirt and the
black cloak of her shining hair. As she turned toward the bed, seeking me, I
heard the whisper of the linen; saw the cloak swing against breasts and thighs.

           
She saw me through the filmy screen
of the gauzy hangings. She stopped. Stood very still. Then, slowly, a spread
hand caressed her breasts, sliding diagonally from the left shoulder to stop
eventually at the dimple of her navel. The hand trapped a portion of the linen
and pulled the fabric tight against her loins.

           
Even against my will, I felt myself
respond.

           
She said nothing. She crossed the
room, came to me, placed her hands upon my shoulders. Her palms were warm as she
kneaded my warming flesh.

           
She smiled. There was no doubt I
wanted her, even when I thought I could say I did not. Her nails scraped down
and caught in the gold on my arms; I heard a metallic scratching as she dragged
tips across the flowing shapes.

           
"Wolf," she whispered,
"I, too, can be a wolf. ..."

           
She pressed herself against me. I
caught handfuls of her hair. I thought suddenly of Serri, curled at the foot of
the bed. Serri, who shared my life through the link.

           
And then I did not care.

           
"Wolves," she whispered.
"Let it be as wolves."

           
"Niall? Rujho, the council has
called an emergency meeting." Ian unlatched and pushed open the door,
speaking even as he .did it. And then he stopped short, silenced abruptly; he
had not expected to find Gisella in my bed.

           
Well, no more than I had—at least,
initially.

           
Light spilled through the casements.
Early morning, too early; I rubbed a hand across my face and tried to wipe the
dullness from my mind. "Emergency?"

           
Ian hovered between divulging an
answer and leaving at once. Beside me, Gisella pulled the coverlet over her
nakedness.

           
"Ian—" I began, frowning.

           
"Just—get dressed. I will wait
outside." As he backed out he pulled the door shut with a thump.

           
I got up and dragged on leggings,
jerkin, hooked a belt around my waist. Boots were last; I tugged them on, then
turned and bent down to kiss Gisella briefly, but the brevity was replaced by
elaboration. She smiled, stretched languorously, promised me the world with her
half-lidded, sleepy eyes.

           
Gods—who can say what is
ensorcellment or lust? I wondered vaguely, and went out the door with Serri at
my heels.

           
Ian's face was conspicuously blank
as I joined him in the corridor. Tasha sat beside him, cleaning a spotless paw.
Wryly, I smiled; my brother would say it was not his place to comment, but it
would not be necessary to say anything at all. By his very blankness I knew
what he was thinking-He gestured down the corridor and we matched our strides
as we walked even as our lir trailed us. "I know little more than
you," he told me. "Some word of the bastard."

           
I swore. "With this war
becoming more and more imminent, the last thing we need is trouble with the
bastard."

           
"Until he is dead, he will make
it," Ian shook his head as I looked at him sharply. "No, I do not
speak of assassination, but no doubt others do."

           
Assassination. It was a political
reality, a tool kings and others used to remove potential rivals as well as very
real ones. Alaric himself had used it against the House of Erinn.

           
And for that very reason, I could
not imagine myself condoning its use against the bastard. Even to lessen the
threat to me. Surely somewhere there would be someone who grieved. His mother.
His foster-father. Perhaps even a wife.

           
We descended spiraling staircases
one behind the other; the steps were too narrow to support more than one man at
a time. Down and down, around and around, with only a rope for a guide on the
inner column. The twisting staircase with its narrow confines was designed for
ease of defense: it was easier to defend the palace against the enemy one man
at a time, instead of one against many.

           
On the bottom floor we passed by
guards in the corridor and nodded greeting to those just outside the wooden
door. One reached in, unlatched, pushed the door open for us; we entered, had
the door pulled closed almost at once—

           
—and walked into the eye of a storm.

           
No one took note of us. Where
ordinarily men stopped speaking to acknowledge me with bows and murmured greetings,
now none even knew I was present. The ranks of benches along the walls and just
before us were filled; more men, standing, lined the walls and filled the
aisles.

           
Sitting, standing, they were
shoulder to shoulder, blocking our view of the dais and its table where our
father customarily sat. Over the low-voiced mumble of constant comments, I
could hear someone haranguing the Mujhar.

           
Ian and I exchanged startled
glances. Then he shrugged and began pushing a way through the standing men,
mumuring apologies even as the others swore, shifted, glared. Many of them, as
I followed, were unknown to me; no doubt they were annoyed by the audacity of
two much younger men.

           
I stepped upon a boot toe,
apologized, nearly tripped over another. The irritation was mutual as the owner
of the toes and I exchanged scowls. Behind me, Serri grumbled aloud; within the
link I felt his disgust with mannerless Homanans. But I also heard the
murmuring arise in our wake; Ian and I were named by those who knew us, and by
the time we reached the center of the hall, where room was left for speakers
and petitioners, the men moved aside willingly. But by then we no longer needed
the courtesy; our father, rising, was summoning us to the dais.

           
We went at once, crossing the open
space in the center of the hall- A man stood before the dais in a posture that
bordered on defiance. He turned as Ian and I approached; I saw his expression
of outrage, as if he intensely resented the interruption. But as he saw me,
following in Ian's wake, the expression changed. He stared. And I saw him
murmur something silently to himself. A prayer.

           
Or a curse.

           
The men on the benches rose. The
sudden silence was loud and very brief; I heard the murmuring begin again
almost at once. There was a note of anticipation in most of the low-voiced
comments. Apprehension in others.