Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (11 page)

           
"No," I blurted instantly.
"At least up here I can breathe."

           
Ian smiled as I turned to spit
again. "Can you?" The humor faded as he squinted past me into the
wind. "Niall—perhaps we should do as he says. The waves will surely swamp
us."

           
I looked at the roiling ocean. The
swells were watery mountains; the troughs a common grave.

           
I glanced back at Ian. Wet black
hair was flattened against his head. Bare-armed, the water polished his gold-
His leathers were soaked, but no more so than my woolen breeches and padded
doublet.

           
"Where is Tasha?" I asked.

           
"I sent her below. She hates
the water so, I could not bear to keep her with me." Ian squinted into the
slanting rain. "Gods. Niall—look at that!"

           
I looked. Out of the pewter-green
skies came a tracery of lilac. Delicate fingers touched here, touched there,
insinuating themselves between the lobes of heavy clouds.

           
It spread; spreading, it began to
swallow the waves as well as the sky.

           
"I have seen nothing like that
before," I declared.

           
"Nor have I," he agreed
grimly, "but neither of us is a sailor."

           
No, we were neither of us a sailor.
But it does not take a sailor to know when a storm is a bad one, or when the
waves are more than water.

           
Gods—how they rise—how they prepare
to swallow us all—

           
And then I forgot the waves and
stared only at the heavens. "By the gods, the sky is alive!"

           
The ship dropped, prow-first, into a
deep trough. It seemed almost to stand on end. I clutched the rail and braced
myself against the slippery deck.

           
"Niall—the wave—hold on—"

           
Crushing weight descended upon me.
It drove me to the deck, battering at flesh and bones, until I slid freely
across flooded decking and came to rest, however briefly, against a pile of
massive rope. I clutched at the nearest coil, locking rigid fingers .as the
huge wave rolled over the deck. Timbers groaned and shuddered. Like a surly
stallion, the ship bucked beneath my body.

           
The water lived. It tried to swallow
me down a sea-dragon's gullet, sucking, sucking, threatening to chew, until I lodged
against a sore tooth and kicked, kicked, still clutching my coil of rope.
Heaving, the sea-dragon spat me out; exhaled bleeding, screaming debris as well
as silent bags of broken bone and shredded flesh.

           
My mouth was filled with blood and
salt. My ears, deafened by pressure as well as by sound, throbbed painfully.
Water and blood was streaming from my nose.

           
"Ian," I mumbled thickly,
"Ian—where are you, rujho?"

           
The mast snapped. Spars broke and
were flung through the air, skewering flesh and canvas. Sheets and shredded
sail collapsed across the deck, tangling men within heavy folds and the deadly
embroidery of knots and coils.

           
"Niall!" Distantly, I
heard him. "Niall—where are you—?"

           
"Here!" But in the heart
of the storm I could hardly hear myself.

           
Something pierced my leg. With the
pitching of the ship I tried to pull myself onto hands and knees, but the
slippery deck denied me proper purchase. Face down, I slid from my coil of rope
toward the skeletal silhouette of the taffrail, fragile promise against the
violence of the storm.

           
And heard the scream of a mountain
cat.

           
Ian? No. More likely Tasha,
searching for her lir.

           
Pitch, roll, heave ... I slid nearer
the side of the ship, knowing a negligent dap of the dragon's tail could sunder
the wood and sweep me into the seas beyond.

           
Tasha. Screaming. Ian?

           
I lurched upward, lunging for solid
wood. Found it; what it was I could not say, knowing so little of ships. It
creaked. Groaned. But it held.

           
Lurid lightning spilled like blood
through the blackened clouds and lit up the drowning ship. In its glare I saw
Tasha, huddled against a heavy sea chest. Wedged, the chest showed no signs of
giving itself over to the storm. Timing the swells, I let go of my handhold and
ran.

           
The ship rolled, wallowing like a
drunken man in a pool of urine and vomit. I fell to both knees, skidded, slid
into the terrified cat, apologized silently, and peeled myself up from the
deck. The chest had brass handles; I grabbed one and held on.

           
Tasha's amber eyes were dyed
yellow-green in the livid light. Tufted ears flattened against her head.
Tightly, so tightly, she clamped her tail around quivering haunches.

           
Diminished by the storm, she was
little more than a terrified housecat.

           
It made me tremendously angry, that
gods—or demons—would play with the mountain cat so.

           
"Tasha, Tasha—shansu. Be easy,
my lovely girl . . . the storm will come to an end." A hand against soaked
shoulder found rigid flesh and hardened sinew. She shook, even as I did; from
the rain, from the cold, from the fear.

           
"Tasha, where is your lir?"
I knew she could not tell me, but I could not hold back the question.

           
The cat snarled, baring lethal teeth
in rage and pain.

           
In the lightning I saw the gaping
hole in her flank.

           
"Oh Tasha—no!"

           
It was deep. Jagged. It bled freely,
but the rain washed it open again. And again; I watched her life spill onto the
deck.

           
"No!" The shout tore out
of my throat. "Gods, Tasha, not you—if you die, Ian dies—"

           
A heavy line slapped across my face,
knocking me to the deck- Stunned, I felt the stinging spring up in my cheek and
the pain growing in one eye. Groping fingers sought the welt and found it, as
well as the cut over my eye. Already the lid swelled closed.

           
“Tasha—" I saw the cat's third
eyelid rise. Sluggish, weakened, she panted, exposing slack pink tongue. From
deep in her chest I heard the ongoing wail of pain and fatigue. Rising,
dropping; a song of death and regret and futility.

           
If Ian was not already dead, Tasha's
death would destroy him completely. Drive him into madness. Drive him into
seeking the death-ritual.

           
Briefly, I thought of my grandsire,
Duncan
. Tynstar had slain his lir, Cai, the hawk.
And so he had also slain
Duncan
.

           
Oh gods, if my brother must die, I
beg you—let him die in another way. . . . Not a petition I was proud of, but I
could not bear to lose him twice.

           
I crawled to Tasha. Peeled off my
padded doublet, sodden and dripping with rain, and folded it, pressing it
against the wound in Tasha's flank. My linen shirt plastered itself against my
battered body. I shivered. My cheek and eye hurt; vision was restricted to my
left eye only.

           
The ship rolled. Caught. Shuddered
like a man expending himself in a woman. Stopped dead.

           
I was thrown to the deck, flung
completely away from Tasha, and saw the taffrail tilt eerily. Beyond it lay the
horizon, backlighted by saffron, and silver. The moon, I realized, balanced
itself on the blade of the horizon.

           
Free of trunk, of handle, of Tasha,
I slid toward the maw of the dragon. Stiffened fingers and boot toes scrabbled
against wet wood.

           
Shuddering again, the ship tilted
farther yet and slid more deeply into the sea. Another wave drove it deeper,
scraping the deck free of debris. At the broken rail I was caught by rigging;
dragged up again as the ship wallowed, foundered, tried to pull free of the
sea. As I grabbed for rope and spar, I saw Tasha swept by me into the dragon's
mouth.

           
In shock, I could not grieve, I
could only mouth the names of my brother and his lir.

           
The ship shuddered again, groaning
as the hull splintered against jagged rocks. I felt the vibration through my
body and realized what it meant.

           
"Land?" I croaked aloud.
"But—how can there be land?"

           
I flailed in the rigging, trying to
right myself. The ship, solidly aground, no longer pitched or wallowed. But it
had tilted to an alarming degree; no more was there a deck on which I could
stand. Knees grated against the rigging, lapped about with water, and slipped
loose in the force of the waves.

           
"Niall."

           
I wrenched my head around and saw
the woman clinging to a spar. It slashed a diagonal wound across the fabric of
the sky. The storm had broken; behind her, the moon bled silver light.

           
"Lillith." The name was
hardly a sound.

           
Sodden hair tangled at her hips. She
bad shed the indigo cloak. The gown she wore was deepest black, so that except
for face and hands she was a part of the darkness itself.

           
I saw her reach out a hand. I saw
the silver flash of her painted nails. But mostly I saw her beguiling smile,
promising life, survival, continuance.

           
"Your choice," she said.
"I will not make it for you."

           
I drew in a trembling breath.
"And the price of Ihlini aid?"

           
"Whatever your life is
worth."

           
I tried to swallow and found the
task too painful. "My brother," I croaked, "and his lir."

           
Lillith smiled. And then she
laughed. "I am sorry," she said at last. "His choice is already
made."

           
I spat. And then I cursed her.

           
The pale band rose. I saw a line of
purple flame come hissing from out of the darkness to dance in the palm of her
hand. In its lurid light her face was thrown into relief, hollowed: a fragile
mask of death.

           
She carried the flame to her mouth,
pursed her lips and blew. In the explosion of smoke and fire, Lillith
disappeared.

           
Alone, alone, I cursed the woman.
And then I threw back my head. "If you want me, if you want me—then, by
the gods, you must take me!"

           
For a moment a hushed silence
descended upon the ship. A quiver of fear and awe ran through my body.

           
The spar Lillith had clung to broke.
Falling, it tangled me in its rigging. The weight of it crushed my chest.

           
I tumbled helplessly into the sea.

           
I roused to the taste of salt in my
mouth, my teeth, in the crusted cuts on my tips. It burned. I sought to spit it
out, but my mouth would not form the proper shape.

           
My flesh also burned and itched. The
cloying touch of salt was in every crease of my skin, in every crease of the
rags that remained of my clothing. One hand twitched. I pushed it weakly to and
fro, relieving an itch by scraping the back of my hand against damp, rounded
rock- Once done, my hand fell limply into water.

           
Water.

           
Realization awoke knowledge within
my sluggish mind.

           
Water. All around. It dampened my
clothing and puddled beneath my cheek.

           
Asking nothing else of my battered
body, I tried to open my eyes and found only one answered my bidding.

           
Sand and pebbles grated beneath my
face. I tongued my lips and tasted salt, the ever-present salt, and felt the
swollen dryness of split flesh and crusted sores.

           
Move, arm. The arm moved. It lifted
and carried wet fingers to my face. The fingers awkwardly brushed away sand
from my good eye and peeled back crusted salt.

           
Dimly, I saw tumbled rocks and
rounded boulders.

           
And the sea. Waves lapped gently at
the stone nearest me, and I realized the tide was coming in.

           
I must move.

           
The pain was exquisite. Never had I
felt such before, not even when the barber had jerked out a rotten tooth; the
intensity astonished me. My hand, searching gently, felt damp cloth on my chest
and shredded flesh beneath.

           
My linen shirt was badly torn. The
bones within bruised flesh ached with a fitful ferocity.

           
I twitched all over, once. The
involuntary movement awoke dull fire within every limb and brought full
consciousness rushing in. I remembered it all.

           
I sat up carefully, hugging my sore
chest with one arm.

           
The other I braced against the sand,
holding myself upright. Dazedly I stared out to sea and saw the ship was gone.

           
Rujho—?

           
The crying of a seabird pierced the
dullness in my ears and drew my burning eyes. Clusters of fellow gulls swooped
and circled in the air, crying shrilly. I saw I was not on land at all, but a
craggy fingerbone of stone. Sand clogged some pockets, water pooled in others.
My salvation was but thirty paces from the shore; still, I felt too weak to
make the attempt.

           
Waves lapped at my feet. One boot
was missing, sucked off by the sea-dragon's spite. I shuddered. The sea was my
enemy, as it had been my brother's.

           
Oh gods, you have taken my brother
from me—

           
But I was too dry for tears.

           
I felt at my waist and discovered my
belt was whole, as was the silver-laced sheath; the knife itself was gone. But
the ruby signet ring on my right hand glowed brilliantly in the sunlight, and I
realized I had managed to keep my deliverance. For the worth of this ring,
surely someone would give me aid.

           
I pressed myself to knees, then
feet, and wavered alarmingly. My bones were brittle, hollow things; I feared
they might shatter at any moment. My right eye ached and burned. The pain in my
chest made me hunch, to relieve the strain on my ribs.

           
The tide is coming in. If you do not
move, the sea will finish what the Ihlini witch began,

           
Slowly, with infinite care, I waded
across the shallow inlet to the shore. By the time I reached it, the sea had
swallowed my rocky perch. And so I stared inland, knowing my safety lay there,
and wondered if I had come, however tragically, to Atvia at last.

           
Maps.

           
I thought back on the maps I had
seen in my father's council chambers. I recalled the rugged coast of western Solinde,
and even the channel separating Erinn and Atvia.

           
But no matter how hard I thought
back, I could not recall if Rondule lay north or south, east or west. For that
matter, I could not begin to say where I was in relation to the city.

           
Ian would say I deserve it, for
shirking my geography.

           
Oh, Ion, I would give anything to
have you present. Your reprimand would be welcome.

           
I heard hoofbeats before I saw the
riders. I turned immediately south toward the sound. Mounted men pounded toward
me, garbed in plain, badgeless clothing that clearly was not household livery.
The men wore caps on their heads. Baldrics dyed bright green slashed diagonally
across their chests.

           
Perhaps some manner of household
badge after all, waited, holding myself stiffly upright, and tried to think of
what to say.

           
Twelve men. They surrounded me
almost immediately at lancepoint. Somewhat startled by the reception—I was a
single bedraggled man—I stared first at the gleaming points, then looked at the
men who bore them.

           
Strong men all; I saw it at once.
With all of Carillon's youthful height and bulk, I am hardly what one might
regard as small. But, even horseback, I judged very few of the men would have
to look up at me when they dismounted. They were bearded, toughened soldiers,
fully experienced in what I believed had to be the Erinnish/Atvian war; I knew,
looking at them, even clean, fed and whole, I would offer them little threat.

           
I summoned what dignity I could.
"Is this Atvia?" The croak I emitted was hardly human; a second try
produced a hoarse but recognizable question.

           
Eleven men remained perfectly still
atop wary horses; the twelfth rode slowly forward until the tip of his lance
rested against my vulnerable, sunburned throat. He wore an age-polished leather
cap fastened with a strap beneath his jaw, which was forested by heavy blond
beard. His green eyes were shrewd. His expression was unrelenting.

           
"Atvia," he said softly.
" Tis Atvia you're wanting?”

           
Swallowing was painful. What I
needed was water, but would not ask for it from him. "My ship was bound
for Atvia. It went down in the storm. I do not know where I am.

           
A humorless smile carved deep
creases at the corners of his eyes. "Not Atvia, lad. Tis Erinn, held by
Shea himself, and Lord of the Idrian Isles. Erinn, lad, not Atvia. Atvia's
enemy."

           
"You have a truce," I
blurted, startled.

           
The green eyes narrowed
consideringly. "What would you be knowing of a truce between your
betters?"

           
"Betters," I muttered. I
ached. I did not need this interrogation. "Take me to your lord, if you
will. What I have to say will be for him."

           
The lance dug a hole in my neck, but
did not cut me, quite. "What would you be saying to Lord Shea, ye
bedraggled pup?"

           
I wanted to laugh, but could find
neither strength nor voice. So I tried to strip the signet from my finger, to
prove my right to a royal audience, but discovered my joints too swollen for
the effort. Finally I extended my arm toward the man. "If you will look at
the stone, you will see a rampant lion. I am Niall of Homana."

           
"Niall of Homana," the
Erinnish man mocked. "What would Homana be wanting with Erinn?"

           
I wavered. "Nothing in
particular, except aid for a bedraggled pup of a prince." I tried to smile
disarmingly. "I did not intend to come here. It was the storm."

           
"Aye, the storm," the
other interrupted. " Twas a fierce one, was it not?" He grinned,
showing strong white teeth. "We are accustomed to a bit of weather, now
and then, here in Erinn. How is it with you in Homana?"

           
I glared up at him, too weary to
care about impressions. "In Homana I am treated better, being heir to the
Mujhar."

           
The man exchanged grins with his
fellow riders. "Heir, are ye, to the Mujhar? Is it Donal ye mean? And ye
say you are his son?"

           
"Aye." The word was all I
could manage.

           
"Legitimate, too, or is that
too much to expect?"

           
"Ku'reshtin," I swore
feebly, "I said I was his heir—"

           
There was more I wanted to say and
could not, being overtaken by a painful racking cough. I bent over at once;
some of the sea I had swallowed came up to scour my teeth and throat.

           
I saw the sun glint off the lance
tip as the man at last lowered the weapon. "Have ye had a hard time of it,
puppy?" he inquired in mock solicitude. "Well, I'll be seeing to it
you are treated befitting your rank—" as he paused I glanced up and saw
his green eyes narrow—once the rank is proven."

           
"Ku'reshtin," I muttered
again. "Look at the ring, you fool."

           
The soldier frowned down at me.
"What is that? That word? What name did you call me by?"

           
I summoned an ironic smile. “Ku’reshtin?
It is Cheysuli, of course. The House of Homana is Cheysuli—or did you not
realize that?"

           
I had expected further questions, or
at least a mocking comment. Instead the soldier turned and gave a quiet order
to one of his companions. In weary surprise, I watched as the man dismounted
and brought his horse to me. The reins were held out in invitation.

           
"Take the horse," the
leader said. "I'll be escorting you to Kilore."

           
"Kilore." I frowned.
"Shea's castle?"

           
"Tis my father's home."

           
Reaching for the reins, I froze. I
looked sharply up at the blond-bearded man.

           
"Aye," he said, when I did
not bother to ask it. "Had ye not heard Shea has himself a son, even in
Homana? Tis not that far away!" He grinned. "I am Liam. Prince of
Erinn. Shea himself’s own heir."

           
"No." I said it
distinctly.

           
He laughed. "Oh, I admit I'm
not looking much like a prince at the moment. Still, I am; underneath this
soldier's garb is princely flesh, I swear. But 'tis enough to fool the Atvians,
when they try to land their boats." He jerked his head toward the horse.
"There is your mount, puppy; let us be going home."

           
Sluggish resentment rose.
"Puppy," I muttered wearily. "When I am no longer so sore, I
will knock that word from your mouth."

           
Liam of Erinn laughed and shoved the
leather cap from his head. Blond curls fell around his face and I saw the years
fall with it. Capped, bearded, with his weathered, wind-chafed cheeks, I would
have said the man claimed at least forty years. But now he shed them easily; he
was no more than ten years my senior.

           
I wavered, and Liam's laughter died.
"The sea has treated you poorly, lad, and I no better, have I? Mount your
horse, Homana's heir, and I will see to it you're given the honor a prince
deserves."

           
I turned to the horse in silence and
clutched at pommel and cantle, hoisting myself from the ground. But if the
Erinnish prince had not reached out and caught my arm, I would have fallen
again.

           
Drooping in the saddle, I hunched
forward over the pommel. "Ian," I mumbled, "where are you?"

           
"Here, lad," Liam told me,
thinking I said his name.

           
"No—" I meant to explain,
of course, but the light spilled out of the day.

           
Ropes fell away from wrists.
Belatedly, I realized my face was buried in a horse's braided mane. I spat out
the acrid taste of horsehair and pushed myself upright carefully, wishing I
could neglect to breathe until my ribs had healed.

           
Liam stood by the horse, ropes
dangling from his hands.