Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (5 page)

           
"Oh, gods," Brennan said
when Taggart had told them where they must go. "He is angry."

           
"And are you a woman or a
warrior?" Corin demanded crossly. "We are too big to spank, Brennan;
why do you dread facing him so much?"

           
"Probably because only rarely
have I had to be reprimanded. It is you who have spent so much of your time in
his bad graces." Brennan turned on his heel and marched out of the solar.

           
"So has Hart," Corin said
defensively, following. Still he cradled the sore wrist, wondering if it were
cracked or merely badly bruised. "I am not the only one who has been sent
before our jehan."

           
"Is that a point of
pride?" Brennan asked acidly.

           
"Your arm hurts," Hart
announced, bringing up the rear. "You are irritable, rujho."

           
"If I am irritable, it is
because I am plagued with a young rujholli who lacks the wit to know when to
humble himself," Brennan declared. "He will only make it worse, if he
gives our jehan defiance instead of contrition."

           
Corin swore in disgust. "It was
Reynold's fault, not mine. And I was the last to join the fight. You, Brennan,
were first."

           
"Aye," Hart agreed.
"And that is precisely why I think he will not be so angry. He is
accustomed to our scrapes, Corin. But with Brennan involved in this one, I
think he will believe it had merit."

           
Brennan sighed. "That is
something, I suppose." And he swung into the open doorway to the Mujhar's
royal apartments.

           
Niall watched them file in. Brennan
first, of course; as always. The eldest was plainly out of sorts in clothing as
well as temper, though he tried to hide both by forcing his face into a calm,
neutral expression and attempting to straighten the fit of his velvet doublet.
Niall saw wine stains, blood stains, gaping rents. Through the remains of the
left sleeve, lir-gold gleamed faintly.

           
Hart, now second in line, looked
much worse. His dark blue doublet was as stained and torn, but his face was
badly bruised and already showed the beginnings of a black eye. There was no
blood or wound visible, but he walked with the odd, stiffly upright posture of
a man afraid to move anything above his waist. Ribs, then.

           
As for Corin, the youngest trailed
the other two as if to defy his father, jaw jutting out to advertise his unwillingness
to accept responsibility for his actions. It was a familiar posture to Niall,
who murmured inwardly that one day, if it pleased the gods, Corin might grow
up—and was relieved to see the son who looked so much like him showed no signs
of serious physical discomfort. Even if he did favor his right wrist, which
looked suspiciously swollen.

           
Brennan glanced briefly at Deirdre,
so silent in her chair, and halted before his father. Niall stood before one of
the casements, hands folded behind his back. He waited as Hart halted, and then
Corin, who promptly sat down on the nearest stool.

           
Hart leaned a little in Corin's
direction and hissed, "Stand up."

           
Corin stubbornly remained seated. He
stared at his father with an unrepentent, unwavering gaze.

           
Inwardly, Niall sighed. "One at
a time," he said aloud.

           
"Who shall be first?"

           
Brennan opened his mouth to answer,
as always, first, but Corin got there before him. "It was a girl," he
said flatly, indelicately, and made both his brothers scowl their disapproval. He
colored. "It was."

           
"A girl." Somehow, Niall
had not quite expected that.

           
Generally it was something more, or
something else.

           
Hart wet his lips. "A
wine-girl," he said. Then, as if hearing how ludicrous it sounded, he
added, "But not a common sort of wine-girl, or a common sort of
tavern."

           
"Far be it for my sons to
frequent a common tavern with merely common wine-girls." The Mujhar's tone
was deceptively mild.

           
Brennan was not deceived. His eyes
narrowed as he tried to judge his father's mood; Niall was pleased to see none
of them could do it. He smiled and outwaited them.

           
"There was also a Caledonese
ku'reshtin," Corin added. "Anyone will tell you."

           
"Will you?" Niall asked.

           
"I just have."

           
"Corin—" Hart began, in
warning.

           
Niall waved it away with a raised
ringer that silenced his middle son immediately. "Say on."

           
"He hit the girl," Corin
told him seriously. "He nearly knocked her down, and she did not deserve
it. She had already cut her hand on the broken winejug."

           
Hart nodded. "He refused to
apologize."

           
Niall's left brow lifted; the right
one, divided by the talon scar, was mostly hidden beneath the diagonal slash of
leather strap that held the patch in place. "A wine-girl asked apology of
a Caledonese prince?"

           
"No," Corin said lightly.
"That took Brennan, of course."

           
"Ah." Niall’s single eye
flicked to his eldest son. "Then it was you who began it?"

           
Brennan did not flinch from the tone
in his father's voice, which managed to express surprise, disappointment,
disapproval, all at once. "Aye," he answered clearly.

           
"You."

           
"I," Brennan agreed.
"Jehan—he was unnecessarily rude. He hurt her."

           
"So you stepped in and defended
her honor, if such still exists."

           
Deirdre opened her mouth as if to
protest, shut it, waited for the interview to be finished.

           
Brennan frowned at his father.
"Are you saying that because she is a wine-girl, she is undeserving of aid
when someone mistreats her?"

           
"No," Niall answered.
"I am saying that I hope she was worth the loss of a trade alliance
between Homana and
Caledon
."

           
Brennan grasped the implications
more quickly than the others. "Oh."

           
"Aye. Oh."

           
"Do you mean it?" Hart
asked. "Prince Einar will refuse to negotiate because of this?"

           
"Possibly."

           
"But you do not know
that," Corin observed shrewdly. "Do you, jehan?"

           
"There is a possibility the
negotiations will be postponed, even canceled. There are certainly precedents
for such things, when princes meddle in politics even though they are more
suited to drinking wine in uncommon taverns."

           
“Usca" Corin corrected quietly.
Hart looked at him as if he had lost his wits.

           
Niall nodded a little, "Perhaps
you were correct to defend the wine-girl's honor; I will not protest that. It
is good manners, if nothing else. But I will protest the disregard you had for
the delicacy of relationships between realms. I will also protest your
inability to recall that diplomacy is necessary in nearly every situation,
certainly this one. And I will most decidedly protest your inability to
remember that Cheysuli warriors do not brawl in taverns." He paused,
marking their shocked faces.

           
"Princes do not brawl in
taverns. My sons do not brawl in taverns." Again he paused, and heard the
echo of his voice ringing in the chamber. "Do I make myself clear?"

           
Corin stared at him defiantly.
"We have done it before."

           
Hart moved closer to Brennan, taking
a definitive step away from his younger brother.

           
Slowly Niall moved from the
casement. He walked to his youngest son and paused before the stool. And abruptly,
before Corin could speak or make any sort of protest, Niall reached down and
grasped the injured wrist, snapping Corin to his feet.

           
“Jehan—" But Corin, though
clearly in pain, broke off his protest when he saw the expression on his
father's face.

           
"You have spent twenty years in
Homana-Mujhar, sharing in the bounty of your birth," Niall said in a tone
that, for all its gentleness, implied more displeasure than shouting might
have. "Your jehana was Princess of Atvia in her own right, bred of
Cheysuli warriors and Homanan kings. I care little enough what you may think of
me, or what I do—but you will respect the blood that flows in your veins."
Niall drew in a breath that did nothing to dispel the rising anger in his tone.
"That blood you have spilled all too often in petty tavern brawls. It must
stop, Corin. It must. Rid yourself of this resentment and hostility and conduct
yourself as a prince and Cheysuli warrior should." He paused, looking for
something in Corin's blue eyes. "It is not worthy of you," he said,
more quietly.

           
Corin set his teeth. "And I am
not worthy of you."

           
Niall released the injured wrist
instantly. His jaw slackened momentarily and something odd glinted in his good
eye; something that spoke of shock, of memories and unexpected pain, in
addition to the sudden flaring of an intense, abiding regret-Deirdre wanted to
go to him at once, but refrained. It would undermine his authority completely
if she showed his sons how much Corin's words had hurt him; now, at this
moment, Niall needed all the strength and resolution he could find, if he were
to command their respect and obedience.

           
The Mujhar turned away a moment,
then swung back to face them all. He looked at Hart and Brennan, ignoring Corin
as if he had nothing more to say to him. Or as if he could not bear to look at
him and see the son who so closely resembled the young Niall in coloring as
well as insecurity.

           
"What I have said to Corin
applies equally to you," he told his twin-born sons. "I have raised
none of you to behave as common soldiers on leave, fighting over petty slights
and imagined insults, nor as crofters spending their few coins on liquor and
wine-girls . . . nor on foolish wagers." His eye flicked to Hart, then
returned to Brennan. "I expected such behavior out of you least of
all."

           
Brennan stood very straight, but his
shoulders lost their set.

           
Quickly Hart spoke up. "Blame
him no more than me, jehan."

           
"No," Niall agreed.
"But less than you, aye. It was your idea to go there, was it not?"

           
Hart opened his mouth, then shut it.
After a moment, he nodded. "We meant only to drink a little, jehan. Not to
fight. You know I would rather throw the dice and rune-sticks than fight."

           
"Reynald deserved it,
jehan," Corin said flatly. "And if the rest of the Caledonese royal
house is like him, you do not wish to make an alliance with them anyway."

           
"Do I not?" Niall looked
calmly at his youngest son."I see—I am to base the future of Homanan
economy solely on the personalities of
Caledon
's rulers. At least, so you say."

           
"Jehan—"

           
"Corin, I think you have very
much to learn about dealing with other kingdoms," the Mujhar said gently.
"And I suggest you begin now, because in two or three years you will be
going to Atvia to take your rightful place as heir to Alaric's throne."

           
"Atvia," Corin said in
disgust. "And if I would prefer to remain here?"

           
"Well, there is a choice,"
Niall said. "You may remain here as a dispossessed, disinherited son, or
accept your tahlmarra and go to Atvia."

           
Corin's eyes narrowed. "I might
also stay here with the clans, jehan. You cannot dispossess me of my heritage,
nor disinherit me from my lir."

           
"I would not need to dispossess
you of your Cheysuli heritage," Niall told him quietly, "A warrior
turning his back on his tahlmorra is solely to blame for his disinheritance,
which also includes loss of the afterworld." He paused a moment.
"Corin, this serves nothing and is not necessary. What is necessary,
however, is for all of you to acknowledge that you have been immature and irresponsible,
and to accept your punishment."