Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (18 page)

 
          
"Tasha,
too—" Ian also broke off. Then, with exceeding mildness, "I think we
had better run."

 
          
Behind
them the world was dark. Aidan glanced back toward Solinde—summer-clad Solinde—then
back again to Homana, wearing wind-torn robes of black and gray, edged with a
hem of lightning. "How do we outrun
that
?"

 
          
"By
trying," Ian suggested, setting heels to his horse.

 
          
Aidan
wasted a moment staring at the storm sweeping inexorably toward them both,
rolling out of Homana like a wave of brackish ocean. It was impossible to
believe; where they were it was warm, bright, still.

 
          
Then
stillness began to move. Brightness began to fade.

 
          
By trying
, Aidan agreed, then followed
Ian's lead, sending his dun after the gray. Above him the rising wind buffeted
Teel, who cried his displeasure.

 
          
"There
is no cover!" Aidan shouted ahead to his kinsman. "The border is too
barren… there is no place we can go!"

 
          
"Just
run!" came Ian's reply, tossed back over a shoulder.

 
          
Aidan
hunched down over the dun's neck, recalling the last storm-flight he and the
gelding had shared. Then it had proved disastrous; he feared now might be the
same. There were no trees with which to collide, but the scrubby grass of the
borderlands could hide all manner of holes. A horse, falling in flight, could
easily break his neck.

 
          
Or the head of the man who rides it
—

 
          
He
chanced a glance over a shoulder, squinting back stinging hair. The sky was
indigo-black. He could not see the horizon. "Teel!" he shouted.
Lir—

 
          
Here
, the raven answered.
This wind disturbs my feathers
.

 
          
Aidan
peered upward, reassured to see the raven. Teel was battling wind and winning, though
his pattern was erratic.

 
          
We need trees
, Aidan sent.
Trees—or better, a croft-Too late—
Teel
cried.

 
          
The
curtain of darkness caught up, then settled its folds about them. It turned the
day to night.

 
          
The
dun was laboring. Fear dotted a line of sweat across summer-slick shoulders,
brown in place of dun. Cold, clammy wind bathed exposed flesh. "
Su'fali—"
Aidan shouted. "We
cannot run them forever!"

 
          
The
first bolt of lightning broke free from the sky and struck the ground in front
of them, blasting apart the earth in a rain of dirt and grass. The brilliance
blinded Aidan. The explosion of thunder was deafening, buffeting his skull.

 
          
The
dun gelding screamed, then tried to bolt. That he did not was only because
Aidan used all the strength and skill he had to hold the horse in place; a
blind man tipped off a frightened horse was surely bound for death. He fought
even as the horse fought, spitting dirt from a gritty mouth, and blinked
burning eyes repeatedly, trying to banish blackness.

 
          
—
not blind
—
I am
not—

 
          
"Teel!"
he shouted. "
Su'fali
—" In
thunder-bruised ears it was merely noise.

 
          
No
rain, only wind. The darkness was absolute. It muffled the world around him
like swaddling cloths on a corpse.

 
          
Teel—
Through the link.

 
          
Lightning
plunged into earth before him. The air stank and sizzled, raising the hair on
his arms. Silhouetted against the brilliance was the shape of a man on
horseback.

 
          
"
Ian
—" Aidan screamed. "Oh,
gods—no—not
him…
"

 
          
The
gelding thrashed and reared, as blinded and deafened as Aidan.

 
          
"Wait—
wait
, you thrice-cursed nag from the
netherworld—"

 
          
But
the dun chose not to wait. He shed Aidan easily and galloped off into keening
darkness.

 
          
Aidan
landed hard, one arm crooked awkwardly, but scrambled up without thinking about
his own discomfort. Somewhere before him was his great-uncle and the gray horse
who had fallen.

 
          
Teel
, he sent frenziedly.
Lir—where is he… ask Tasha
—

 
          
Through
the link came the familiar tone, naked of customary bite.
Six paces ahead, no more
.

 
          
Six
paces… Aidan counted. And nearly tripped over Tasha, huddled by Ian's side.

 
          
"Su'fali—? Su'fali—"

 
          
Ian
offered no answer.

 
          
"Oh,
gods, not like this… please, do not be dead—"

 
          
Eyelids
twitched. "No," Ian blurted. "No—not like this… agh, gods,
harani
…" The voice was tight with
pain. "How—is the horse?"

 
          
Aidan
looked, scraping hair out of his face. The wind was merciless. "Where—oh."
The gray stood exhausted on three legs; a shattered foreleg dangled. Aidan
looked back to his kinsman. "Broken leg," he answered tersely. "
Su'fali
—what of you?"

 
          
Ian's
smile was faint, then spilled away. "Broken, too…" he gasped.
"But I think hip in place of leg…" One hand hovered over a hip.
"The horse fell, and rolled… gods, I will shame myself—"

 
          
"Because
it hurts?" Aidan loosened Ian's belt gently. "You can
cry
, if you like—do you think I will
complain?"

 
          
Ian's
face was gray. His bottom lip bled from where teeth had broken through.
"First, tend the horse. He has been a good mount."

 
          
Aidan
did not answer, squinting against the wind and grit and hair as he peeled the
waistband from Ian's abdomen.

 
          
The
weak voice gained authority. "
Harani
,
I will wait. The horse deserves a good death."

 
          
"And
you, none at all." But Aidan knew his kinsman; he went to tend the horse.

 
          
It
was not an easy task. He cared for horses as his father cared: with every bit
of brain and body. But a broken leg was a death sentence, requiring immediate
action. Aidan, with his Erinnish gift, sensed bewilderment and pain as the gray
attempted to walk.

 
          
In
Erinnish, he tried to soothe; the language was made for horses. He eased saddle
and packs from the mount, then stroked the sweating neck. "
Shansu
," he whispered gently,
sliding long-bladed knife from sheath. "The gods will look after their
own."

 
          
He
went back to his kinsman wet with blood, then knelt at Ian's side. Tasha
growled a warning. "
Shansu
,"
Aidan repeated, one hand brushing her shoulders. Tasha growled again, ears
flattening.

 
          
Ian's
eyes were closed. In lightning, his years showed clearly, sharp bones protruding
beneath aging flesh changed from bronze to linen white. Blood smeared his chin.
Thunder boomed distantly.

 
          
"How
can I move you?" Aidan pleaded, mostly of himself. "The pain alone
could kill you. And if not that, what is to say the movement itself will not?"
Wind whipped gray-white hair across Ian's face. Aidan peeled it back. "
Su'fali
, what do I do?"

 
          
Ian's
eyes opened. From pain, they were nearly black. "Bones grow brittle with
age," he remarked. "Take ten years away, and I would only have
bruised."

 
          
Aidan
tried to smile, because Ian wanted him to. "
Su'faili
, what can I do?"

 
          
"Be
true to yourself," Ian murmured. "Be true to the blood in your
veins."

 
          
"Earth
magic," Aidan said numbly. "But—I have never required it. I have
never even
attempted
—" Futility
was painful. "I'm not knowing how to do it!"

 
          
"Ask,"
Ian said raggedly. "You are Cheysuli—
ask
—"

 
          
Aidan
flung back his head, searching black sky for a smaller blackness.
Lir—
he appealed.
Teel—

 
          
Would I tell you any different
? Use
what you have been given
!

 
          
Beside
her
lir
, Tasha wailed.

 
          
"—time—"
Aidan muttered. "Gods—give me the
time
—"

 
          
You waste it
! Teel told him.
What are you waiting for
?

 
          
Aidan
did not know. Courage, he thought dimly; assurances of success.

 
          
Tasha's
wail increased.

 
          
The
raven's voice intruded.
Old men die of
this
!

 
          
Old
men, Aidan echoed. And looked again at his kinsman, who once had known
Carillon.

 
          
Tasha's
tail beat the ground. Angry eyes glowed dimly. The storm raged unabated,
buffeting them with wind. It keened across the land, spitting dirt and grass
and dampness.

 
          
"Now—"
Aidan murmured, digging fingers into soil. "Let us see who is Cheysuli—let
us
see
what gods can do—"

 
          
The
lightning came down a third time and blasted him apart.

 
          
«
^
»

 
          
He
stood before a door. The door swung silently open.

 
          
"Come
in," the woman invited, and put her hand on his arm.

 
          
She
drew him into the croft, where no croft had existed before. It was small,
thatched, lime-washed white, smelling of warmth and wool. He saw three cats:
the black on the hearth, the brown on a stool, the white-booted silver tabby
curled in the tangle of colorless yarns piled in haphazard fashion on the
floor. In the center of the room stood a loom.

 
          
She
shut the door behind him. And, when he tried to speak, closed his mouth with
her hand. "No," she said quietly. "Ian will be well. There is no
need to fear." She gestured toward a chair.

 
          
He
did not intend to sit, but found himself obeying. And staring at her in wonder.

 
          
She
was unremarkable. A small, fragile woman with callused hands, graying hair
snugged back in a knot pinned against her head. She wore a woolen skirt of many
patches, as if she added a swatch of weaving each time the skirt wore thin.
Over it was a tunic the color of winter grass: dull and lacking luster. A
single colorless stone shone on her buckle: lone, unwinking eye. Her own eyes
were blue, faded with time, and the flesh of her face was worn.