The Shapechangers (24 page)

“Why? I have ears that hear as well as anyone’s.”

“But you never
listen.
”

Finn sighed and sat down next to her, carefully avoiding any contact. “He is my
rujho
, Alix, but it does not make him perfect. If you wish to tell me how abominable he is being to you, I will listen readily enough.”

She shot him a repressive glance. “Duncan is never abominable.”

His brows lifted. “Oh…he can be. Do you forget I grew up with him?”

Something in the lightness of his tone broke her down farther, destroying her last reservation. Most of the tears had gone, but she was still upset.

“He has never been
angry
with me before,” she whispered.

Finn’s mouth twitched. “Did you think Duncan beyond it? Most of the time he loses himself in the burdens of being clan-leader to a dwindling race, but he is like any other. He has ever been more solemn than I, but he has just as much anger and bitterness. It is only he hides it better.”

She thought of the cause of Duncan’s anger, but could not tell Finn. It was too new; too private.

“It is too hard,” she said, pushing away the last of the tears.

“Being his
cheysula
?” he asked in surprise. “Well, there was a way out of that…once.” He grinned sardonically. “You had only to be
meijha
to me.”

“I did not mean that,” she said sharply. “I spoke of learning new customs, and conducting myself the way a Cheysuli woman does.”

Finn thought about it. “Perhaps that is true. I had never thought of it.” He shrugged. “This is the only life I know.”

“I know two,” she told him heavily. “The one you stole me from, and this. There are times I wish you had never seen me.”

“So you could dally with the princeling and grow up to be his light woman?”

Alix glared at him. “Perhaps. But
you
ended any chance of that.”

“You had best not say that where Duncan can hear it,” Finn said tonelessly.

Alix was startled. “Duncan knows how I felt about Carillon. How could he not?”

Finn dragged at his boot, as if delaying his answer. Then his mouth twisted. “He still fears you may go back to the princeling.”

“Why?”

“Carillion offers more than we can.” His eyes were expressionless. “The magnificence of Homana-Mujhar, wealth, the honor in being a prince’s light woman. It is more than any Cheysuli can give.”

“I do not take a man for what he gives me,” she said firmly. “I take him out of love. Duncan can say it was
tahlmorra
that brought us together—perhaps it was—but it is not that which keeps us together.”

Finn seemed suddenly uncomfortable. “Then you will remain with the clan?”

“Duncan would not let me go; nor, I think, would you.” Alix held his eyes. “I have no real wish to go back…now. My place is with Duncan.”

“Even though it be hard to learn our ways?”

Alix sighed resignedly. “I will learn…eventually.”

Finn lifted her hand, encircling her wrist with his fingers as he had done so long before. “Does what you feel for him pall, Alix, or he dies in this war we face…you may come to me.” He silenced her before she could protest. “No. I do not mean it out of my own desire for you, though that is unchanged.” He
shrugged, dismissing it. “I mean for you to come to me in safety, should you ever need it.”

“Finn—”

He released her wrist. “I am not always so harsh,
rujholla.
But you never gave me the chance to show you otherwise.”

He left before she could say anything more. Alix, staring after him, wondered if perhaps she had done him an injustice in her thoughts.

Duncan said little to her in the morning as they parted. Though he had come back to the pavilion sorry he had frightened her and much less angry, he was still determined she would do nothing to endanger the child or herself. Aloud she agreed with him, admitting her foolishness; inwardly she calmly considered when would be the best time to assume
lir
-shape and go by herself.

But when Duncan bid her farewell she clung to him in helpless anguish, silent, and made no reference to her secret plans.

Alix found, to her anguish, Cheysuli women did not say good-bye in the privacy of the pavilion. Instead a
cheysula
or
meijha
stood outside, before the tent, bidding her warrior safe journey in the open. The custom, Duncan said, came from a wish to make parting easier on the warriors. It was difficult to leave a sobbing woman with any degree of confidence.

She stared fiercely after them as they rode out of the stone Keep. The winged
lir
flew ahead, scouting; the four-footed beasts paced beside the horses. Alix saw Cai swoop above the treetops, Storr lope easily beside Finn, and the others go silently with their
lir.

And I will be them all
, she thought in grim satisfaction.

She was calm in her decision, acknowledging the difficulties. She had been a wolf only twice, and then with disastrous results, but that was hardly her fault. She would do better. Yet she was concerned with the knowledge she would have to go as a bird, an unknown shape, for a wolf would move too slowly for her to catch up to the party of warriors.

I wish Cai were here to teach me to fly
, she thought uneasily.
It must be frightening to seek the air for the first time, trusting your life to fragile wings.

But she knew she would go.

Alix prepared rapidly, wanting to leave no later than afternoon. She drew a pair of Duncan’s worn leggings and soft jerkin from a chest, cutting both garments to her smaller size. The jerkin she put on over the top half of the gown she had worn at Homana-Mujhar, using it as a rough shirt to cover her arms and hide her figure. A leather strap served as a belt, and she pulled on her
wolfskin boots, cross-gartered to the knees. Grimly she looked down at herself.

I look no more a warrior than some Cheysuli boy playing at it Well, it will have to do. I cannot go to war wearing skirts.

She sat down on the spotted pelt by the fire cairn and stared sightlessly into the coals.

How to make oneself a bird…
?

Carefully Alix detached her mind from her surroundings, dismissing the familiarity of soft pelts and colored tapestries and the mundane tools of daily life. The coals blurred before her eyes into a collage of rose and gray, transfixing her mind.

She thought of treetops and fields and clouds. She thought of a falcon, swift and light; of feathers and talons and hooked beak; bright eyes and hollow bones and the marvelous freedom of flight.

When she broke out of the pavilion and air rushed gloriously through her outstretched wings she knew she had succeeded, and rejoiced.

At first she wheeled in exultation, dipping and circling, playing among the currents. Below her lay the Keep, spreading to shelter the last of Homana’s ancient race. The pavilion was a speck of slate against the neutral tones of the Keep and surrounding forest.

Then Alix put away the joy of such freedom and flew on to seek a
lir.

But she wearied quickly. Unaccustomed to prolonged flight, Alix at last admitted defeat and perched herself upon a tree. She was weary and hungry, tense with the effort to keep
lir
-shape, and realized she had nearly reached her limit.

She flew again to the ground and blurred herself from her falcon-shape into human form. Again she marveled at the gods-given ability of the
lir
-bond, for her clothing changed with her when she assumed
lir
-shape, and returned when she shifted back.

That is fortunate
, she thought wryly.
I would not care to be caught in the middle of a forest unclothed.

Alix climbed up a gentle spill of dirt packed against the mountainside and halted as she found a brush-covered hollow half-hidden in the shadows of dusk. Carefully she moved closer, peering through the boughs. The limbs and leafy branches had been woven together roughly, as if to form a cover, and as she inspected it closely she knew it could only be human-made. She pulled the covering aside and crept into the shallow cave.

She discovered a coarse, poorly woven brown blanket spread on the uneven floor of the rocky cave. Next to it lay a leather
bag fastened with a wooden pin, and a small fire snapped at freshly piled kindling. She hesitated, wondering suddenly if she would not be welcome. Perhaps she trusted too easily.

The sound of breaking twigs sent her whirling on hands and knees, eyes widened in fear.

The man ducked his head as he crawled into the cave through the narrow opening, eyes on the stone floor. Over his shoulder he wore a crude bow, but the long-knife at his belt looked more efficient. Under one arm he held the drooping body of a slain rabbit.

Alix withdrew farther, stone wall biting at her back as she pressed against it. The sound penetrated the silence like an enemy’s shout. The man dropped the rabbit and drew his long-knife in a single motion, bracing himself on one knee as he came up from the floor to strike.

Then she saw shock and amazement flare in his brown eyes as he realized she was a woman.

He swore softly in wonder and shoved the knife back into its sheath. Carefully he eased into a squatting position, as if he feared to frighten her.

“Lady, I will not harm you. If you seek shelter here, you must be a refugee from Bellam’s troops also.”

“Refugee!”

He nodded. “Aye. From the war.” He frowned. “Surely you have heard of the war, lady.”

“I have heard.” She stared blankly at his crusted, age-cracked leather-and-mail, and the soiled scarlet tunic bearing the Mujhar’s rampant black lion. His mail was rusted, as if washed with blood, and she shivered against the sudden foreboding in her bones.

“My name is Oran,” he said, rubbing a dirty hand through matted, lank brown hair. “I am a soldier of Homana.”

She frowned at him. “Then why are you here? Should you not be with your lord?”

“My lord is slain. Keough of Atvia, Bellam’s foul accomplice, overran the army twenty days ago like a pack of savage dogs.” His eyes narrowed angrily. “It was night, moonless and dark. We slept, wearied from a three-day battle. The Atvian host crept upon us in all stealth, and routed us before the dawn.”

Alix wet her dry lips. “Where, Oran? Mujhara?”

He laughed. “Not Mujhara. I am not one of the Mujhar’s fine guard. I am a common soldier who once was a tenant crofter for Prince Fergus, the Mujhar’s own brother.”

“Fergus.” She eased herself away from the rocky wall, kneeling before him. “Then it was Fergus you served in the field?”

“Aye, seven days’ ride out of Mujhara.” He hawked and spat, turning his head from her. He wiped the spittle from his lips and looked at her bleakly. “Prince Fergus was slain.”

“Why did you not stay?” she demanded. “Why did you forsake your lord?”

His grimy, stubbled face was ugly. “I sickened of it. I was not meant to slay men like beasts on the order of a man who keeps himself safe behind the ensorcelled walls of Homana-Mujhar.” Oran spat again. “Shaine has set wards, lady; instruments of sorcery to keep the Ihlini out. He keeps himself safe, while thousands die in his name.”

Alix drew a trembling breath, clenching fists against her knees. “What of Carillon? What of the prince?”

Oran’s mouth twisted. “Carillon is prisoner to Keough himself.”

“Prisoner!”

“Aye. I saw him slay two who sought to take him, fighting like a demon, but it was Keough’s own son who broke his guard and disarmed him. Thorne. The Atvian prince took Carillon’s sword, then Carillon himself, and marched him to his father.” Oran stared at her narrowly. “They will slay him, lady, or take him to Bellam in Mujhara.”

“No…”

He shrugged. “It is his lot. He is the Mujhar’s heir, and valuable. Keough will keep him close until he is in Bellam’s hands. Or Tynstar’s.”

Alix closed her eyes and summoned up his face, recalling his warm blue eyes and stubborn jaw. And his smile, whenever he looked on her.

Oran shifted and she opened her eyes. He grinned, displaying broken, yellowed teeth, and took up the leather pouch. He undid the pin and spilled the contents across the blanket.

It was a stream of gems glowing richly in the shadowed cave. Brooches, rings of delicate gold and silver, and a wristband of copper. Oran prodded the cache with a finger.

“Solindish, lady. And fine, as you can see.”

She frowned at them. “Where did you get them?”

He laughed crudely. “From men who no longer had need of such things.”

She recoiled. “You stole them from dead men?”

“How else does a poor soldier make his way? I am not one of your rich lordlings, like Carillon; nor am I a Mujhara noble born to silks and jewels. How else am I to get such things?”

Avarice glinted in his eyes. She saw them travel her body expectantly. She wore the golden
lir
-torque Duncan had given her and delicate topaz drops hung at her ears.

“So,” she said on a long breath, “you will slay me for my wealth as well.”

He grinned. “There need be no slaying, lady. You have only to give them to me.” He stroked his bottom lip. “I have never seen your like before. Are you some lord’s light woman?”

The insult did not touch her. Oran, in his commonness, did not recognize it as such. And the Cheysuli had begun to change her perceptions of such things.

Alix slowly tensed. “No.”

“Then how came you by such things?”

Enlightenment flared within her mind. Carefully she damned the sudden realization of her power and looked at him calmly.

“My
cheysul
gave them to me.”

He scowled at her. “Speak Homanan, lady. What do you say?”

“My husband, Oran. He made me these things.”

He grinned. “Then he can make more, Here, lady; give them to me.”

“No.” She looked at him levelly. “It is not wise for a Homanan to seek that fashioned by a Cheysuli.”

“Cheysuli!” His brows slid up. “You live among the shapechangers?”

“I
am
one.”

For a moment fear flashed in his eyes. Then it faded, replaced with determination and greed. “The shapechangers are under the Mujhar’s death decree. I should slay you, and then all you have would be mine.”