Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (72 page)

 
          
"STOP!"
Aidan cried.

 
          
"There are more ways to geld a man than
with a knife."

 
          
Shona.
Shona.

 
          
Shona.

 
          
—everything
slipping away—

 
          
—the
sharpness, the brightness—

 
          
—memories
of discovery, the exultation of the flesh—

 
          
All of it slipping away…

 
          
Dissolving
as he reached, until nothing at all was left save a distant recollection of
what he had been.

 
          
"Shona,"
he whispered.

 
          
Shona
had come to his bed. Now he came to hers, seeking a rapport. A residue of her
life in place of the memory of her death.

 
          
He
floated in nothingness, a cork caught in the millrace, until the millwheel—no,
the
Wheel
—trapped him at last and
cast him down into the pond.

 
          
If I could drown myself
… But the thought
was driven away by the presence of a hound.

 
          
The
male. He stood at the bedside, pressing his chest into the mattress as he
stretched out long neck and head. Nostrils expanded, then closed as he whuffed
softly, inspection completed. Folded ears rose, then flattened. Chin resting on
bedclothes, he gazed fixedly at Aidan.

 
          
Waiting.
Deep in his throat, he whined.

 
          
Stiffly,
Aidan reached out and touched the long muzzle with trembling, tentative
fingers. Then traveled the stop between liquid dark eyes onto the dome of the
skull itself. Hair was coarse and wiry, the bone beneath crested. A
self-possessed, dignified dog of massive, powerful elegance and abiding
loyalty.

 
          
Deep
inside, Aidan ached. For the hound as well as himself.
He
knew what had happened; the wolfhound understood nothing save
the woman no longer came.

 
          
The
ache intensified. Aidan rolled closer and thrust a clutching hand into muscled
shoulders, locking fingers into hair. "I know, my braw boyo… he has stolen
her from us both." Grief narrowed his throat. "But 'tis for me to do
alone
, this buying back of my child. No
matter what anyone says."

 
          
He
took his
lir
, a knife, and a horse,
packed with saddle-pouches. He did not yet trust himself to
lir
-shape for any length of time.
Eventually, he felt, the strength and control needed for sustained
lir
-shape would return—he had already
tested it in several short flights—tout for now he could not rely on it. The
journey was too important.

 
          
If the child still lives. If Lochiel sees
fit to
let
it—

 
          
He
shut off the thought at once.

 
          
Much
of the harshness of winter had passed, leaving only a residue of frost and
wind. He rode wrapped in furs, feeling the cold more; would he ever feel well
again? Or was he destined to be different on the outside as well as the inside?

 
          
At
long last he reached the Bluetooth and took the ferry across, clutching the
wooden rails as the barge fought the current. The Bluetooth was the delineation
between northern Homana and southern, although the division was not equal. The
high north was not as large or as populated because of harsh winters, and was
usually called the Wastes; somewhere there was a Keep, but Aidan was not
disposed to seek it out. His path went to Solinde, not to northern Homana.
Perhaps another time.

 
          
The
Wastes gave way to mountains. Aidan rode ever higher, resting at night in
frigid passes cut out of wolf-toothed peaks, until at last he crossed over the
Molon and exchanged Homana for Solinde.

 
          
When
finally they reached the narrow defile his father had described as the gateway
to Valgaard, Aidan pulled up. Beyond lay the canyon housing Lochiel's fortress,
and the wards set by him. He had heard the place described countless times: a
field of glassy rock, pocked with smoking vents belching forth the breath of
the Seker; huge, monstrous beasts shaped of stone by Ihlini testing their
strength. All could be used against him.

 
          
He
glanced skyward, seeking Teel.
You will
have to remain here
.

 
          
The
raven fluttered down to perch upon a wind-wracked tree.
Is this your choice
?

 
          
I have no choice.

 
          
Is this what you wish to do?

 
          
This is what I
must
do
.

 
          
Teel's
eye was bright.
The Ihlini could kill you
.

 
          
Aidan
smiled.
He could. He might. He probably
will—but not immediately. He will want to gloat, first. And that may buy me the
time to do what I need to do
.

 
          
Teel
made no answer for a very long moment. Then he fluffed black feathers.
Well. I have lived a long time
.

 
          
And will longer still, if I succeed.

 
          
The
raven's echo was odd.
If you succeed
.

 
          
Aidan
knew better than to ask for explanation.

 
          
He
made his way through the defile, across the steaming field of beasts, around
the rents in the earth that gave way to the netherworld. Never had he felt so
vulnerable, so weak, and yet he knew it was required. It did not enter his mind
to turn back, or even to think twice about what he intended to do.

 
          
Gates.
And guards, of course. Aidan walked up the steam-bathed pathway and paused,
pushing the hood from his head. In winter light, his earring gleamed.
"Take me to Lochiel," he said. "Tell him my name: Aidan. He will
be most anxious to see me."

 
          
They
took him. Having stripped him of all save leathers and gold, they ushered him
into a small tower chamber and left him there, alone, as he contemplated the
comfort of a fire and other amenities. He sought none of them, neither chair
nor warmth nor wine, and waited as they had left him, in the center of the
chamber.

 
          
Lochiel
came. In amber-dyed velvets and soft-worked suede, he was the same man with the
same lithe movements and handsome looks Aidan had marked before, gaming with
him in Lestra. Pale, ale-brown eyes; short-cropped, thick dark hair; a clarity
of feature that reminded Aidan of someone. Someone he should know.

 
          
Aidan
forced a smile. And then it required no force; a cold self-possession took
control of expression and tone. "Surely you knew I survived. You did not
intend it, I know; I have come to save you the trouble of seeking me out."

 
          
Pale
eyes weighed him. Aidan's
kivarna
told him his arrival had taken the Ihlini completely by surprise, who was not
pleased by it. But Lochiel gave nothing away in expression, which remained
austerely smooth, and nothing away in eyes, which marked in Aidan a certain
pallor and gauntness of face in addition to the white wing in auburn hair.

 
          
Lids
lowered, shielding eyes. His lashes were long, like a woman's; the smoothly
defined forehead and arched brows tugged at Aidan's memory.

 
          
Lillith? No. Someone else…

 
          
Lochiel
moved. He did not walk: he prowled. Aidan stood very still, waiting mutely, as
the Ihlini paced slowly around him. It was unsettling to be so raptly observed,
like a mouse beneath an owl, but he made no indication. It was important to
show Lochiel a serenity he would not anticipate.

 
          
The
Ihlini halted before Aidan at last, the heel of his left hand resting idly on
his knife hilt. He wore, as always, a sapphire ring on his forefinger:
Brennan's. On his right hand, a bloodstone, rimmed in rune-wrought gold.

 
          
Aidan
watched him closely. Something about the suppleness of the Ihlini's body merged
with the line of his brow, the set of his mouth, to tickle Aidan's awareness.
He was not an easy man to decipher, even with
kivarna
. He was, Aidan reflected, a wound wire ready to snap.

 
          
The
chiseled mouth moved. A muscle ticked high in the cheek. Ale-brown eyes,
abruptly shielded again behind lowered lids, changed color in Aidan's mind.

 
          
Something
clicked into place.

 
          
"Have
you a son?" he asked.

 
          
Lids
lifted. Lochiel appraised him intently. And then he smiled. "No. I have no
son." He paused. "I have
yours
."

 
          
Aidan
tensed all over. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to rip Lochiel to
pieces. But the reaction was what Lochiel waited for, and so Aidan, with great
effort, damped down the impulse.

 
          
He
smiled pleasantly. "Do you know a man called Cynric?"

 
          
The
smooth brow tightened. "No. And if you hope to confuse me with such
babblings, save your effort. I have heard reports you are mad… do you think I
care?"

 
          
Aidan's
certainty vanished. The brief likeness he had seen faded. He did not think
again of the young man in his dreams, the young man so much like Lochiel, but
of himself, of his child, and of the man before him.

 
          
Ihlini,
he knew, did not fully come into their power until they reached puberty, much
as a Cheysuli warrior gained a
lir
.
There was a time of learning, of refining, just as there was in Cheysuli
custom. And a time of complete assumption, when power was understood and
properly wielded.

 
          
Lochiel
was young, but well past puberty. He was, Aidan judged, of his own age. And in
Valgaard, the very font of Ihlini power, Lochiel would have recourse to all the
dark arts he needed.

 
          
Aidan
inhaled a careful breath. "What did you do with my son?"

 
          
Lochiel
smiled. Aidan, unsettled, was put in mind of the elegant young man who had so
charmed Cluna and Jennet—and Blythe. "I intend him no harm. On the
contrary: I took him for a purpose. I will raise him as my own. He will come to
know his proper place in the prophecy, as all Cheysuli do, so that he can aid
its destruction. I will turn him from his
tahlmorra
and make him work against it."

 
          
Aidan
bit back the retort he longed to make. Quietly, he denied it. "That is not
possible."

 
          
"Oh?"
Dark brows arched. "There
was
a
Cheysuli woman, a kinswoman of yours, named Gisella. She was turned, and
used."

 
          
Aidan
shrugged indolently. "I will prevent you."

 
          
"You?"
Lochiel smiled. "With what? Power? You have none here… this is Valgaard,
Aidan. The Gate is here, entry to the netherworld. Even if you could summon
your
lir
, even if you could summon
lir
-shape, or compulsion—what could you
do with either? This is
Valgaard
. I
can snuff you out like a spark."