Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (16 page)

           
Under my breath, I swore. "I
wish I had magic to hide."

           
"I know it, Niall." The
tone altered; I heard a trace of empathy for the first time. "They claim
you will unveil your true self only after you hold the throne."

           
"So, they want to replace me
with Carillon's bastard, who is wholly Homanan."

           
"Aye."

           
“I am tainted by the Solindish
witch's blood."

           
"Aye."

           
I sat forward and rubbed my eyes
with rigid fingers.

           
"What would they say if they
knew there are some Cheysuli who feel the same?" I asked wearily.
"Gods, I think I was never meant to inherit the Lion."

           
"You were. You will."

           
"Have you seen him?" I
raised my head. "Have you seen this misbegotten image of myself?'

           
"No. He is too well-guarded by
Homanans dedicated to his cause. They say if his location were divulged, Donal
would have him slain. They wait to gather men to his cause." He spread his
hands in a futile gesture. "They allowed the priest and the shal tahl to
see him, to prove he exists. That is all. Neither spoke with him."

           
I slumped back in the chair again.
"A pretty coil, Rowan. How do we get free of it?"

           
"By having you leave Erinn for
Atvia, where you will settle things with Alaric and bring Gisella home to
Horoana," Rowan said flatly. "Your absence has strengthened the
bastard's cause. When we feared you dead—"

           
He shrugged. "We need you home.
As soon as possible. With Gisella and Ian . . . I think only Ian can settle
this thing with the a'saii, since he is the one they wish to put upon the
throne."

           
"You knew," I mused,
thinking of the a'saii. Then I was on my feet. "You do not know! Gods,
Rowan, there is no Ian! He died in the storm."

           
All the color ran out of his face,
leaving it a stark, empty mask of shock that only slowly was refilled by a
comprehension and grief so intense it made me want to run from the man, the
room, the castle.

           
To find my brother in the belly of
the dragon.

           
"Rujho," I said; no more.
The pain was new again.

           
After a moment, Rowan cleared his
throat. "I must send word to Donal."

           
"Take it to him," I said
at last. "I think—it would be better if you told him."

           
"And what do I tell him of
you?"

           
"That I live." I drew in a
breath that cleared my head.

           
"That I will be home with
Gisella as soon as possible."

           
"And if Shea does not let you
go?"

           
"Then I will have to break my
parole."

           
Looking at me steadily, Rowan shook
his head. Just a little. "Whatever else this captivity has done, it has
also tempered the sword."

           
"What is left to hone the
edge?" I asked. "War?"

           
"Assuredly," he answered
softly, and then came forward to hug me again. "The gods be with you,
Niall."

           
"With them, without them—what
does it matter?" I asked. "They are the ones who fashioned this
tahlmorra."

           
I could not sleep. In the darkness
of my room, my bed, my spirit, I stared sightlessly up at the woven curtains
forming my Erinnish womb and tried to think of things other than war, a'saii,
bastards. I tried to think of everything, and nothing at all made sense.

           
Until Deirdre came to me,

           
In the darkness, all unknowing, I
thought of enemies. I rolled and reached through the slit in the curtain for my
knife and remembered I did not have one.

           
"You'd be needing no weapon
against me, Niall."

           
"Deirdre—"

           
"I heard you speak to your
father's man. Is that what a true Cheysuli looks like? So fierce, so solemn ...
so dangerous. I'm thinking I like you better as a Homanan."

           
"Deirdre—you heard?"

           
"There are secrets in Kilore
even Shea does not know, or has forgotten already. Do not worry. No one else
was there when you spoke of breaking your parole."

           
"Deirdre—"

           
"Have we driven you from us,
Niall? Have we kenneled you too closely, like one of Liam's hounds?"

           
The blackness of the room was not so
all-encompassing as my eyes adjusted to it. I could just see Deirdre in my bed,
and put out a hand to draw her to me. As she came, she shed linen shift and I
realized she was naked.

           
"Gods, you drive me only to
madness ..." I groaned against her throat. "Deirdre—"

           
Her hand covered my mouth as I moved
to cover hers.

           
"Do not speak. I have not come
here for speech. There is something more than that, Fm thinking, between us,
you and me."

           
I locked my fingers in her hair. Its
color was muted in the darkness, but I gloried in its texture. "I am not
one for gainsaying you in this, the gods know—" fervently

           
"—but do you know what you are
about?"

           
She pressed herself against me,
winding heavy locks of hair around my neck as if she sought to set iron there.

           
"Only rarely am I not knowing
what I am about, my lord.” Her breath was warm against my ear. Low-voiced, she
said, "Don't be worrying about what I heard today. I have no intention of
telling my father or brother. We'll be keeping it between us."

           
I bore her down with me, shivering
with pleasure at the sensual touch of her hair and skin. "Meijha—"
Then purposely, I used the Erinnish inflection—you will have me thinking you
are not jealous of Gisella . . . and I am knowing better."

           
Laughing softly, she stroked my
naked shoulder, tracing shapes of her own devising in a languid, sensuous
fashion, then set lips and tongue against it. "Tis a jealous woman I am,
but I know when I have lost. What was that word you called me?"

           
"Meij'ha,” I breathed,
"Cheysuli. . . "

           
"That much I was thinking
myself." A trembling fore-finger traced the line of my mouth. "What
does it mean?"

           
I kissed the fingertip, then reached
for the hand, the arm, the breast. "Do not judge too hastily a people you
cannot know," I whispered. "In the clans, warriors may have both wife
and light woman—cheysula and meijha. There is no dishonor, none at all, for the
woman who is not a wife. I swear by all the gods of Erinn and Homana—"

           
"Don't be swearing by gods
you're knowing nothing about." Her breath came faster still. "Tis
disastrous when they take note of it."

           
"Gisella is Cheysuli. I think
she would understand the custom, once I have explained it."

           
She drew back a little. "Are
you telling me 'tis what I would be? Your—meijha?"

           
Her accent twisted the word. I did
not correct her. "If you wish it, Deirdre." I wish it, I wish it.

           
In the shadows I could not see her
expression. "I might prefer to be a wife."

           
I set my forehead against her shoulder
in defeat.

           
"Deirdre—"

           
"But if I cannot be taking you
that way, I'll be taking you the other. Now enough of this babble, Niall, and
let us be making our own alliance between Erinn and Homana.”

           
Laughing exultantly into her untamed
hair, I covered her body with my own.

           
It was three days before I could
pursue my intention to escape, and even then it was coincidence that gave me
the opportunity. Liam, riding out to hawk with me along the cliffs, was called
back by a servant from the castle.

           
And because Liam himself had come
with me, the six human hounds had been dismissed.

           
I did not hesitate. I spurred the
gray gelding toward the broken clifftop and rode off the edge of the world.

           
The gray plunged down the chalky
slope, jarring my spine until I felt at least a handspan shorter. I cursed
raggedly, not daring to shout my discomfort aloud, and hooked stirrups forward
to brace against the jolting downward momentum.

           
Below me, fishing boats were
scattered like pebbles along the shoreline, most of them untended as the
fisher-men dragged bulging nets onto the sandy beach. I must steal one quickly
and, using the knowledge Shea had divulged, somehow sail it across the Dragon's
Tail to the rocky coast of
Atvia
.

           
Almost down—

           
The horse stumbled beneath me,
lurching forward onto his knees. I could not wait to see if he had injured
himself or had the heart to go on. I threw the reins free and scrambled out of
the saddle—

           
—sliding, sliding, scrabbling at the
chalky escarpment of the tumbled base of the cliffs—

           
Gods, get me down from here with
both legs and arms left whole—

           
—sliding, churning up clouds of
white chalk dust to coat my face, my clothing; to settle on my tongue and make
me mouth my distaste. I wanted to spit; it would have to wait until I was down.

           
On my buttocks I went down, down,
down, one hand thrust back to brace myself against the broken cliff. The chalk
crumbled away, spilling me over like a round rock in a storm-fed stream. I
fell; falling, I rolled—

           
—came up into a crouch at the bottom
of the cliff; spitting, I thrust myself upward and ran.

           
I heard an outcry from the top of
the cliff and knew the voice was Liam's. What he shouted I could not decipher,
hearing only anger and epithets. I did not look around, intent only on reaching
the boats before Liam could form a proper pursuit. I did not blame him for his
rage, no more than I blamed myself for causing it, And yet I did blame myself;
a broken oath is no simple thing. I thought of how I had proclaimed myself
incapable of ending the betrothal to Gisella because I could not break an oath.
Now I broke an oath equally important.

           
For the sake of Homana— And I knew
it was. As much as wedding Gisella was for the sake of the prophecy.

           
Chalk dust filled my lungs. I
coughed, spat, wheezed, still running for the boats. Almost. Almost.

           
Netting tripped me up, throwing me
sprawling to the wet sand. I scrambled up, trying to run again, but the net was
tangled around my spurs. Cursing aloud I ripped frenziedly at the strands, then
stopped yanking, still cursing, and carefully picked them free. I ran again.

           
The first boat was too far, bobbing
in the waves at the end of its tether. I went on to the next one, reaching for
the line that anchored it to the shore. Waves slapped at my boots as I bent to
jerk it free. I heard the pounding of hooves echoing against the cliffs. Closer,
coming closer.

           
Oh gods, it is Liam!

           
I saw his furious face as he urged
his horse on faster, riding directly at me. At me, as if he would ride me down.

           
Forgoing the boat, I dropped the
line and ran.

           
The horse's chest caught me high on
the left hip. A hoof ripped the heel off my boot entirely, clipped my heel,
drove me headlong to the ground. I curled, sucking air as another hoof came
down on the side of my thigh.

           
The horse squealed, flailing thick legs
desperately, trying to avoid me even as I tried to roll away. I tasted sand and
salt and seawater. And blood from a bitten lip.

           
The hooves were gone. I tried to me,
to run again, but Liam leaned down from the saddle and buffeted me on the
temple with a gloved, powerful fist. "False prince!" he cried.
"False friend!"

           
I fell. I spat blood. Saw two of
everything. Tried to clear my vision. By the time I did, Liam was off his horse
and hauling me to my feet.

           
"I should slay you here, even
unarmed as you are!"

           
I am tall, I am heavy, but Liam
himself is not small.

           
And in his rage he was larger than
any man ever born.

           
By my tunic, he lifted me almost
completely clear of the sand. "Liam—"

           
"I should slay you! D’ye hear,
ye faithless cur of a faithless bitch? By the gods, I swear I will!"

           
But he did not. He released me with
a shove, as if he could no longer bear to touch me, and stood stanng at me with
chalk and spittle fouling his gilded beard. His chest heaved; like me, he
panted.

           
"Liam—" Breathless, I
could hardly manage a word.

           
"Liam—I had to—I had to ... for
the war, for the realm." I tried to catch my breath. "Alaric—Alaric
intends to join Strahan—there is domestic dissension at home!"

           
"I care nothing at all for your
incestuous domestic wars!" Liam roared. "Not when you're in Erinn
seducing my sister!"

           
Prepared to defend our incestuous
domestic wars, I discovered we were at odds over something else. Something I
could not defend at all. And so I shut my mouth.

           
"False prince," Liam said
hoarsely, "you have betrayed my father's trust, and mine. When we have
honored you with our favor!"

           
"Liam—"

           
"Were you armed—"

           
"Then give me a knife!" I
shouted. "I am not shirking the fight!"

           
Liam spat blood and chalk. His green
eyes were hard as glass. "I'll not be giving you the honor of a fight!
I'll be letting you taste the hospitality you should have known before.”

           
No protest. I could not. Because
before I could summon a word, Liam loosed a blow that felled me to the ground
as easily as if I were a stalk of wheat.

           
The dungeons of Kilore are damp and
smelly. Sore and more than a little sullen, I sat against a clammy wall because
I had no other choice. Someone—Liam, no doubt—had ordered me chained in place,
though there was no place I could go.

           
The stone beneath my buttocks was
cold and damp.

           
What straw existed was musty, stale,
undoubtedly filled with vermin. Seawater dripped from the ceiling. I was cold
and lonely and afraid, and also filled with guilt.

           
Deirdre came to me willingly, but
how can I say that to her father and brother? What sense is there in
besmirching her reputation?

           
None. What honor remained to me
(little enough, after breaking my parole) kept me from being able to make the
admission, regardless of the truth.

           
My ears rang. My head ached. Liam's
blow had caught me solidly along the jaw, loosening teeth. I tongued them
gently, afraid to push too hard for shoving them out entirely. Even my
cheekbone hurt.

           
Footsteps. I turned my face toward
the door and listened, trying to determine if the footsteps brought a man to me
or to another prisoner, if there was one. I had no candle by which to see.
There was no light in the cell save for what came in under the wooden door. And
the gods knew that was little enough.

           
The footsteps stopped. Iron rattled:
keys. Finally one was fitted into the lock. I waited, and at last the door was
shoved open. It scraped along the slimy floor.

           
Shea himself. Not Liam, come to
gloat. The old lord instead, holding a fat candle in one hand. It guttered,
danced, flared up again as it took life from the corridor air.

           
Skin was stretched too taut across
age-defined cheekbones. His jaw worked impotently beneath the thinning beard. I
saw the glitter of anger restrained in the cat-green, grieving eyes.

           
Gods, forgive me for what I have
done to this man.

           
" 'Tis how Donal rears a son to
be Mujhar, is it? To be breaking parole and pledge when he has been honorably treated?"
Tears shone briefly in his eyes. "To be taking a lass's virtue beneath her
father's roof?"

           
I looked away and stared blindly
down at my manacled hands. "No."

           
"No? No? Tis all ye have to
say?"

           
I swallowed thickly. "Do not
judge the father by the son."

           
The candleflame guttered violently.
I did not look at Shea.

           
"Well," he said hoarsely,
"come up. I'll say what I say above." He glanced into the corridor
and jerked his head in my direction- "Loose the iron and bring him up.
I'll be seeing him in the hall."

           
The old lord stood in the doorway as
the guardsman slipped by and knelt to unlock my shackles. Limping from a badly
bruised thigh—the horse had struck me squarely—I followed Shea up winding
stairs to the audience hall, I had half expected Liam to be present. He was
not. Neither was Deirdre. It was for Shea alone to pass judgment.

           
He gestured to the guardsman to
leave us alone. I heard the door thud closed. Then I turned and faced the old
man.

           
His nostrils flared. "Ye
stink," he said, plainly offended by my dungeon stench.

           
I felt inordinately ashamed.

           
"Have ye an explanation?"

           
"No."

           
"Were ye for it merely because
'twas offered, or did ye truly want it—much as a dying man cries for
water?"

           
I had thought him diminished by what
I had done to his daughter. Now I realized he was not, it was just that I saw a
man instead of a king. A father instead of a man.

           
I drew in a breath and released it
very slowly. “I needed it," I told him clearly. "I was that dying
man."

           
Shea hooked thumbs in his wide belt
and considered me. And then he spoke, and his tone held all the gruff affection
I had come to expect from him. "She was not meaning to betray ye, lad. “Twas
her unhappy manner that gave ye away. 'Twas the lack of her wildness and
gaiety."

           
"My lord?"

           
"Oh, she was happy enough for
having despoiled herself with you. She told me that. No. 'Twas knowing you must
leave. But by the time I was realizing what she meant, you had ridden out with
Liam." He paused. "She said she was willing, lad."

           
I was silent. Even now, I would say
nothing that might reflect poorly on his daughter, who was a princess. That
much of rank I knew too well.

           
"By Erinnish law I am in my
rights to have you slain."

           
"By any man's law, my
lord."

           
"Yet you are the Mujhar of
Homana's son. His heir. As much as Liam is mine."

           
"Aye, my lord."

           
Shea sighed. "Lad, lad, 'tis
all bound up I am. I'd be seeing the two of you wed, but for that pledge to
Alaric's daughter. That you cannot be breaking, for all you broke the one to me,"
There was no bitterness in his tone.

           
"Deirdre told me what the
Cheysuli general said to you. About war, and bastards, and a throne in
jeopardy. Those things I understand. And so I will not be blaming ye for
breaking your parole. There are pledges taking precedence over other pledges
given." Through the beard, I saw the hint of a weary smile. "I will
not keep ye here when your father needs ye so. I'll be seeing you sent to Atvia
before the day is out."