Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (41 page)

           
"I have listened," he
said. "I have heard. But I think you are mistaken." He closed the lid
of the trunk. I heard the catch click shut.

           
I wanted Serri. I wanted Ian. I
wanted free of this place.

           
I wet my paper-dry lips. "There
was the night you came to Mujhara. For me, you said you came. And it was then
you told me not to wed Gisella."

           
"Aye." He shrugged.
"I said you should not, but you maintained you would." He crossed to
a heavy book lying open on a stand. "You know, of course, I might have
slain you then," he said casually. "It would have been simple enough.
But I knew you would be coming. I prefer to make men do my bidding before I end
their lives."

           
I looked at the book. Grimoire? I
wondered. The source of so much Ihlini magic?

           
Frowning absently, he paged through
the book. And as each page turned, I saw the faintest of flames flash out of
the red-scripted pages.

           
"Strahan—"

           
"You wed her, Niall. You wed
Alaric's addled daughter."

           
"Aye." My lips were dry
again. "I will offer you a bargain,"

           
He did not appear to hear. He
stopped turning pages, read something with close attention; then nodded and
closed the book. "I thought so. Not so hard, I think." He smiled at
me, and the distractedness was gone. He was decidedly intent. "So, you
came here to offer yourself in exchange for the ending of the plague. To offer me
something of value."

           
"I am," I said with what
dignity I could muster. "I am part of the prophecy."

           
He nodded. "Part of the
prophecy. A tarnished link, perhaps? Or dross instead of gold?"

           
He meant to make me angry. And he
very nearly succeeded. Inwardly I seethed, but I would not show it to him.
"Dross, gold—does it matter? I am the Prince of Homana."

           
"Donal's son," he mused,
"and Aislinn's as well, which makes you my kinsman as well as my
enemy." Briefly he glanced down at the thing he held in his hand. "Well,
once I might have accepted, when the bargain was a bargain, but now there is
nothing in it. Nothing for you or me."

           
"I give you the prophecy!"
I cried. "Its future is in your hands!"

           
"Well, no—not precisely."
He shrugged a little, brows raised, and shook his head at me. "Indeed, it
is some measure of sacrifice to offer yourself to me, but there is little value
in it. You have little value; you married Alaric's daughter. And she has given
you sons."

           
I opened my mouth. Shut it. And all
at once I understood.

           
Not me. Not me at all. Once, aye,
before my sons were born—but now the seed is planted. My link is no longer the
last.

           
Strahan spread his hands. "You
are too late, Niall. The wheel has turned without you."

           
I wanted to sit down. I wanted to
fall down. I wanted to turn my back on the man. But I could do none of those
things.

           
"Of course," he said,
"were you to offer me your sons—"

           
“What—" I blurted. "Give
over my sons to you?"

           
"But then the bargain would be
worth the making." He shrugged. "You may give them, or I may take
them. The choice is up to you."

           
So—this is what he has wanted all
along; why he did not slay me once he determined my eventual worth—as a sire, if
nothing else—like a horse valued for his bloodlines. He wanted the sons I would
get on Gisella.

           
I smiled. "No," I told him
plainly.

           
"All right," he said
calmly, "all right. Then I shall simply take them . . . when Gisella
brings them to me."

           
"Gisella!" I stared.
"Gisella would never bring them!”

           
"But she will," he said
gently, "when Varien tells her to."

           
Slowly I shook my head. "You
are mad."

           
"No," he said,
"Gisella is mad . . ." He paused deliberately, smiling. "Unless,
of course, she is not—and does this for other reasons."

           
He had silenced me at last. In the
face of Gisella's treachery and deceit I could do nothing but stare at the
Ihlini. Not mad? All of it contrived—an act?

           
Strahan watched the play of emotions
in my face. And he laughed. "Something to consider, is it not?" He
was truly amused. "Oh, aye, Lillith is a dutiful sister—she serves me very
well. And when Alaric wed a Cheysuli woman, it was Lillith who suggested the
children—or child—be made to serve as well."

           
"Not Gisella. Gisella is Cheysuli!”

           
He made a dismissive gesture.
"Cheysuli, Ihlini—do you think it really matters? We were born of
identical parents, the gods who made Homana." He lifted a silencing hand.
"Cheysuli, aye, she is, and therefore immune to much of our power, but
there are tricks that can be taught. Beliefs that can be instilled. Loyalties
that are secured. I warned you, Niall. That night in Mujhara when your horse
had gone lame ... I warned you not to wed her." How he watched me,
gloating silently. "But you did—and so I devised another plan."

           
"You will not harm my
sons!"

           
"No, Niall. Of course not—I
have no wish to harm them; I only wish to use them." He smiled. "And
I shall. One son upon the Lion, one son on the throne of Solinde. And
answerable to me."

           
Alaric. Lillith. Varien. Even, I
knew now, Gisella. All serving Strahan's interests? Gods, but how tightly was I
bound. How helpless had he made me.

           
"Gisella," I said aloud.
"Gods, they are her sons!"

           
"But she has been mine since
birth. My sister made her so."

           
For nothing—everything for nothing—
"For nothing!”

           
Overcome, I shouted aloud.

           
Strahan smiled as I shouted.
"No. Not for nothing. You believed in what you did. Some men never have anything
to believe in." He gestured toward the door. "Now, come with me.
There is something I will show you."

           
He took me out of the tower into the
bailey, and then ordered the gates swung open. Before us lay the field of
stinking smoke. The breath of Asar-Suti.

           
"There," he said,
"lies your freedom, I think I will give it to you."

           
"I am not a fool," I
began. "If you think I will believe that."

           
"Then believe this." He
held out something that dangled on a chain. A tooth, capped with gold, and
hanging from a thin golden chain. I had had one of my own, before I threw it
away at Serri's behest.

           
'Take it," he said, and put it
into my hand.

           
I did not want it. I wanted nothing
to do with it. And as he took his hand away, I threw it into the smoke.

           
Strahan laughed. "I thought so.
And now the beast is free."

           
Out of the smoke and stench was born
an Ihlini wolf.

           
His pelt was white, his eyes were
blue; he looked a lot like me.

           
"Illusion," I said curtly.

           
"Was it illusion on the Crystal
Isle when I slew Finn?" Strahan asked. "Aye, you know the story—how I
slew Donal’s uncle. Aye, I see you know it." He smiled.

           
"And do you recall what
happened to his wolf?"

           
"Storr—died. He was too old to
live without his lir."

           
"He—died." How he mocked
me. "Aye, as a lir dies—supposedly there is nothing left when an old lir
dies. But there was a little left of Storr. Only a little—four teeth—and those
I claimed for myself once your father and the Ellasian had gone. And with those
four teeth I fashioned powerful magic with the aid of Asar-Suti—powerful magic,
Niall . . . enough to hide Varien's identity, of course—that is easily done . .
. but also enough to raze Homana.

           
Enough to purge the land of all
Cheysuli." He looked at the white wolf wreathed in the breath of the god.
"Illusion. you say. Is he? I think not. I think he is the deliverance of
Homana." The Ihlini smiled as I looked at him sharply. "The plague is
born of wolves, Niall. White wolves—animals of legend and superstition. All but
one is dead now, slain for the bounty offered, but now it does not matter. They
have done their work." He nodded at the wolf who waited, cloaked in
hissing steam. "Slay him, Niall, and you will end the plague."

           
"Why?" I asked. "Why
do you give me the answer? Why do you give me the chance?"

           
He shrugged. "Enough have died
already. I prefer to rule living subjects, when I have made Homana mine."

           
"I do not believe you." I
said.

           
Strahan looked at the wolf.
"Go," he said. "Your task is incomplete. There are Cheysuli in the
world—rid Homana of them."

           
The wolf turned, ran, disappeared,
even as I cried out.

           
"Go," Strahan told me.
"You have knife, bow, sword. It is up to you to stop him."

           
I thought, very briefly, of trying
to slay Strahan instead. But by then I would lose the wolf.

           
Strahan's smile was one of subtle
triumph, but I saw speculation in his eyes. "Your choice, Niall. Save your
sons—or save the Cheysuli." The smile grew. "But which will you
choose, I wonder? Gisella ... or the wolf?"

           
The chasm opened beneath my feet.

           
"Your sons ... or your
race?"

           
I made my voice as steady and cold
as I could. "I can make other sons."

           
Strahan laughed. "But how many
on Gisella? How many who will claim the proper blood—the blood the prophecy
requires?"

           
I stared after the running wolf.
Without the Cheysuli, without Homana . . . there is no need for my sons. . . .

           
I ran.

           
First the wolf—then Gisella—

           
Gods, how I ran.

           
The stench filled my nostrils.
Rising steam veiled my vision. I tasted the tang of sulfur and bile.

           
I ran, threading my way through
hissing vents and pud-dles of steaming water, trying always to see the wolf.
But he was gone, made invisible, swallowed by smoke and steam.

           
Serri! In the link I screamed for
help, but the echoes remained unanswered. The task was mine alone.

           
The ground roared. Vibration stirred
my feet. Tongues of flame licked lips of stone; darted out from gaping mouths.

           
I tripped, fell to one knee, thrust
myself up again.

           
Hot water splattered my face.

           
I ran.

           
A shape loomed out of the steam, I
ignored it—until the shape reached out of itself and tried to swat me down,
like a man swatting a fly- I ducked, dodged, nearly fell again as I gaped; the
shape was made of stone.

           
Moving, stalking stone.

           
I ran. And as I ran, I coughed.

           
—the breath of the god is foul—

           
Scraping followed; the grate of
stone on stone. The gurgle and belch of sulfur; the hiss and roar of vomited
steam. And through the smoke-smeared distances I heard the howl of a wolf who
sings for the love of it. For the joy of being alive. But not the song of
Serri; I know his voice too well. It was the white Ihlini wolf; the demon in
the pelt: singing his song of death.