Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (6 page)

 
          
"I
know—I
know
how it sounds… but it is
what I feel, what I
dream
—"

 
          
"Aidan,"
Niall said quietly, "stop trying to look through my eyes."

 
          
Brought
up short, Aidan shut his mouth and waited. He had been carefully tutored.

 
          
Niall's
gaze was kind. "You are wasting too much time trying to imagine what I
will think. Simply say it.
Tell
it;
you may find me less ignorant than you believe."

 
          
Aidan
clenched his teeth; how could anyone, kin or not, fully understand?

 
          
But
in the end, it was very easy. "I have to have it," he said plainly.
"If I do not, the world ends."

 
          
Niall's
expression was startled. "The world—
ends
?"

 
          
Aidan
gestured acknowledgment; it sounded as odd to him. "The entire
world," he agreed dryly. "At least—for me." And then he gestured
again. "I know, I
know
—now I am
being selfish, to think of the entire world, and its fate, being determined by
what I do… but that is what I dream. Over and over again."

 
          
He
waited. Before him the old man sat hunched on the dais, silvered brows knit
with thought. Niall frowned pensively, but his expression gave nothing away.

 
          
The
thought was fleeting and unwelcome.
There
is madness in my kinfolk
—

 
          
But
Aidan knew better than to say it. Niall would only deny it; or, rather, deny
its cause as anything other than accident. He had said, time and time again,
the madness of Aidan's Atvian granddame, Gisella, was induced by an early,
traumatic birth—but Aidan sometimes wondered. He was capable of intense
thoughts and impulses, sometimes as disturbing as his dreams, though he always
suppressed them. He had heard the same said of Gisella. And he knew from
repeated stories his
su'fala
, Keely,
had never been fully convinced the madness was not hereditary.

 
          
"Well,"
Niall said finally, "everyone dreams.
My
dreams are odd enough—"

 
          
For
the first time in his life, Aidan cut him off. "I
have to have it
, grandsire. Do you understand? It is a need as
strong as the need of a man for a woman… as the need of warrior for
lir
. There is no difference, grandsire…
it
makes
me come here. Every time I
dream it."

 
          
Niall
stared at him, clearly startled by the passion. "If it disturbs you this
much—"

 
          
Aidan
laughed aloud. "Disturbs me? Aye, that is one way of saying it…" He
banished the desperation with effort, striving for equanamity. "Grandsire,
perhaps it is better put like so: what if, as you reached to take her into your
arms, Deirdre was turned to dust? To
nothingness
in your hands, even as you touched her, wanting her so badly you think you
might burst with it."

 
          
Niall's
expression was arrested. Aidan knew, as he always knew, the emotions his
grandsire felt. Shock. Disbelief. The merest trace of anger, that Aidan could
compare a chain to the Mujhar's beloved
meijha
…
and then the comprehension of what the failure meant.

 
          
After
a moment, Niall got up with a muffled grunt of effort and mounted the dais
steps. He paused before the Lion, placed a hand upon it, then turned awkwardly
and sat down. It was not, Aidan knew, an attempt to use his rank, but the
desire of an old man wishing for softness under his buttocks while he contemplated
his grandson.

 
          
The
Mujhar rubbed at deep scar-creases mostly hidden beneath the patch, as if the
empty socket ached. "What happens, then, when you come looking for this
chain?"

 
          
Aidan
shrugged, trying to diminish the desperation he always felt. "I put out my
hand to take it, and the chain is changed to dust."

 
          
"Dust,"
Niall echoed thoughtfully.

 
          
Aidan
extended his right hand. It shook; he tried to suppress it. "I have to
have it, grandsire… I
have to have the
chain
—and yet when I touch it, only dust is left." He shut his hand
tightly. "But even the dust goes before I can really touch it."

 
          
Niall's
single eye was steady. "Have you seen the priests?"

 
          
Aidan
grinned derisively, slapping his hand down. "They are Homanans."

 
          
A
silver brow arched. Mildly, the Mujhar said, "They are also men of the
gods."

 
          
Aidan
made an impatient gesture. "They would laugh."

 
          
Niall
rubbed meditatively at his bottom lip. "No priest of Homana-Mujhar would
ever deign to laugh at the man who will one day rule."

 
          
Aidan
sighed. "No, perhaps not… but they would tell those stories.
Already
people tell stories." He
tapped his bare chest. "The servants are full of gossip about the Prince
of Homana's fey son—the man who walks by night because he requires no
sleep."

 
          
Niall's
smile was faint. "Oh, you require it. And they should know it, too—they
have only to look at your face."

 
          
"So
it shows…" He had known it did, to him; he had hoped others were blind to
it. "I have done so many things, trying to banish the dreams. Petitions to
the gods. Even turning to women." His mouth twisted in self-contempt.
"I have lost count of how many women… each one I hoped could do it, could
banish all the feelings by substituting others. It is a sweet release,
grandsire, but it gave me no freedom." He sighed heavily. "None of
them was ungrateful—it was the heir to the Prince of Homana, grandson to the
Mujhar!—and I like women too much to cast them off indiscreetly… but after a
while, it palled. Physical satisfaction was no longer enough… all the dreams
came back."

 
          
Niall
said nothing.

 
          
"Gods—now
I am started…" Aidan laughed a little. "
And
liquor! I have drunk myself into a stupor more times than I can
count, hoping to banish the dream. And for a night, it may work—but in the
morning, when all a man in his cups desires is for the sun to set again so it
does not blind his eyes, the dream slips through the cracks." Aidan smiled
wryly. "I'll be telling you plain, grandsire, the dream is bad enough when
I've been having no liquor—'tis
worse
when I'm in my cups."

 
          
Niall's
smile widened. "Did you know that when you are upset, you sound very like
your
jehana
?"

 
          
Aidan's
mouth twitched. "Or is it I sound like Deirdre?"

 
          
"No,
no—Dierdre has been in Homana too long… most of Erinn is banished, in her…"
Niall flicked dismissive fingers and straightened in the throne. "But we
are not here to speak of accents. Aidan, if you will not go to Homanan priests,
what of the
shar tahls
?"

 
          
Aidan
stilled. "Clankeep?"

 
          
"There
may be an answer for you."

 
          
"Or
no answer at all."

 
          
"Aidan—"

 
          
"I
thought of it," he admitted. "Many, many times, and each time I did I
convinced myself not to go."

 
          
Niall
frowned. "Why? Clankeep is your home as much as Homana-Mujhar."

 
          
"Is
it?" Aidan shook his head. "Homana-Mujhar is my home—Clankeep is
merely a
place
."

 
          
For
a moment his grandsire's expression was frozen. And then the fretwork of
Niall's face seemed to collapse inwardly. His eye, oddly, was empty of all
expression, until realization crept into it. Followed by blatant grief and regret.

 
          
His
tone was ragged. "So, it comes to pass… Teirnan was right after all."
He slumped back in the throne, digging at the leather strap bisecting his brow.
"All those times he said we would be swallowed up by Homanans; are you the
first, I wonder? Is this the Homanan revenge; if Cheysuli must hold the Lion,
we make the Cheysuli Homanan?"

 
          
Aidan
stared in startled dismay. "Grandsire—"

 
          
Niall
waved a hand. "No, no, I am not mad… nor am I grown suddenly too old for
sense." He pulled himself upright in the massive throne. Now the tone was
bitter. "I am speaking of Tiernan, your kinsman—cousin to your
jehan
, son to my dead
rujholla
. The one who renounced the
prophecy and founded his own clan."

 
          
Aidan
frowned faintly. "I know who he is. We all know who Teirnan is—or
was
." He shrugged. "How many
years has it been since anyone has seen him? Fifteen? Twenty? He may well be
dead."

 
          
Niall's
expression was pensive. "He took his clan into the deepwood somewhere in
Homana… he is still out there, Aidan—he still plots to take the Lion."

 
          
Aidan
did not really believe his grandsire was too old to rule, or growing feeble in
his wits, but he did think perhaps too much weight was given to a man no one
had seen for too many years. The Ihlini were past masters at waiting year after
year to strike at their enemies, but from what he knew of his kinsman, Teirnan
was not that kind.

 
          
"Grandsire—"

 
          
Niall
did not listen. He heaved himself out of the Lion and bent to retrieve the
candle in its cup. He straightened and looked his grandson dead in the eyes.
"Go to Clankeep, Aidan. Discover your true heritage before it is too
late."

 
          
Dumbfounded,
Aidan automatically gave way to his grandfather's passage and watched him go,
saying nothing. Then turned to look at his
lir
once the silver doors had closed. "What does that mean?"

 
          
Teel
observed him thoughtfully.
I did not know
you were deaf
.

 
          
Aidan
scowled. "No, I am not deaf… but what good will Clankeep do?"

 
          
Give you ears to hear with. Give you eyes
with which to see
. Teel rustled feathers.
Go back to bed, deaf lir. No more dreams tonight
.

 
          
Aidan
thought about retorting. Then thought instead about his bed and the sweetness
of dreamless sleep. "Coming?" he asked acerbically, turning away from
the dais.

 
          
Teel
flew ahead.
I could ask the same of you
.

 
          
«
^
»

 
          
The
stallion was old, growing older, but retained enough of his spirit to make
handling him occasionally difficult. The horseboys and grooms of Homana-Mujhar
had long ago learned the tending of the black—appropriately named Bane—was best
left to his owner, who had a true gift. They dealt with him as they could, then
gave him gladly into Brennan's keeping whenever the prince came down to the
stableyard.

 
          
He
came now, dismissing the horseboys flocking to offer attendance, and went into
the wood-and-brick stable to see the stallion. But a true horseman never merely
looks;
he can but tie his hands to
keep from touching the flesh, from the strong-lipped, velveted muzzle, blowing
warmly against his palms.