Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (24 page)

           
" 'Solde—enough." That
from Ceinn, as if he had no more time for verbal maneuverings even from his
wife. "Plain speech, aye; and aye, I serve the prophecy! So do the rest of
us." He turned a bit closer to me, edging Isolde out entirely. We confronted
one another squarely.

           
"You have some of the blood, it
is true, but you also bear other blood—"

           
"So does Ion," I said
clearly. "If it is true the a'saii desire a return to the days of purebred
clans, how does it serve the prophecy? The prophecy demands a mixture—it points
us to other realms."

           
"Other realms, aye," he
agreed. "I do not contest the need for the blood of other realms; it can
only strengthen us. But I do contest your absolute lirlessness, your lack of
Cheysuli gifts, your lack of Cheysuli customs." He drew in a breath made
uneven by the intensity of his anger; by the depth of fanaticism. "There
are so few of us left now, those with untainted blood, and if it were possible
I would prefer one of the a'saii to take the Lion on Donal's death. But we are
not so blind as to turn our backs on a warrior who has more right than
most—"

           
“—that warrior being Ian," I
finished. I thrust out a band and pointed at Gisella, still huddled in her
chair.

           
"In her body lies the seed of
that prophecy, Ceinn—a child born of Homana, Solinde, Atvia and the Cheysuli.
How can you tell me that child should be replaced?"

           
"Because it should be. And will
be." He reached out and caught Isolde's elbow. "Come, 'Solde. My
business with him is finished. Let us go to the other hall."

           
"Ceinn—wait.” She pulled free
of him even as he had pulled free of me. "Is it the truth? You want Ian to
take Niall's place?" She thrust up a silencing hand even as he began to answer
her question. "You know Ian would never do it. He is Niall's liege man as
well as his rujholli. Do you think he would break that service merely to accept
yours?"

           
Ceinn's mouth was grimly set, lips
pressed tight against one another. "If he will not, we will simply find
another with similar heritage."

           
"Similar heritage—“ Isolde fell
back a step. Then she stood very still. "Would identical be better?"
she inquired bitterly. "Augmented by yours, no doubt ... do you think a
child from us would do?" Isolde smiled, but it was the smile of a
predator. "My jehan is likely to live for at least another twenty years,
perhaps more. By then, no doubt a son of ours would be old enough to accept the
Lion. Is that it? Is that it, Ceinn?"

           
" 'Solde-—"

           
"Just answer!" she cried.
"Just answer. I do not want an explanation. Tell me aye or nay!"

           
Whatever else he was, Ceinn was not
a liar. "Aye," he told her evenly. "I want our son to
rule."

           
Isolde shook visibly, she was so
angry; so shocked, so bound up in what she had learned. I saw tears welling
into her eyes but they were not solely the tears of sorrow, though that was
present also. They were the tears of rage and discovery; of a discovery so
devastating it breaks the world into pieces.

           
'Solde's world, at least. I have
shown her the man she has married.

           
"Well," she said, and I
was amazed at her self-possession, "I think there will be no son."

           
" 'Solde!”

           
"No." She did not shout
it, scream it, cry it. She merely said it; I saw my father in my sister.
"No." She pulled the bear-torque from her throat and dropped it to
the stone at Ceinn's feet. "No."

           
Crimson skirts swirled as she
turned. Ceinn reached out to catch an arm, but I caught his and jerked him
back. "You heard what my sister said."

           
"Ku'reshtini" he swore.
"Do you think I only wanted her for the child? I wanted her—still want
her—for herself!"

           
I laughed aloud. "Then tell me
you love her, Cheysuli. Say the Homanan words to me, since there are none of
the Old Tongue."

           
As I released his arm, Ceinn bent
and scooped up the gleaming lir-torque, the mark of Cheysuli marriage. When he
faced me again, I saw how tightly he clutched the torque; how tightly he
clenched his jaw. But in clear, fluent Homanan, lacking Cheysuli accent or
hesitation, he told me he loved my sister.

           
I had no answer for mm. And he had
none for me.

           
I watched the proud, angry warrior
stride away from me, going after Isolde. And I-began to think he was more of an
enemy than at first I had believed. Because a man, so dedicated to a certain
thing that there is no room for anything other than zealotry in his life, does
not consider how or why he slays. But a man who loves, a man able to express
that love, will think of what he does even as he does it, because he has
something—someone—he believes is worth the thing he does. Even if it is
assassination.

           
"Niall?" It was Gisella,
at my side. "Niall ... can we go see the dancing?"

           
I did not want to go. "You look
weary," I told her truthfully. "It might be better if you went to bed
instead."

           
"I want to see the
dancing."

           
And so I took her to see the
dancing.

           
I saw to it Gisella was settled
comfortably in a cushioned chair on the dais with three other chairs. Two were
for the Mujhar and his queen, the other for me. But all three remained empty.

           
As I stood solicitously by Gisella,
she reached out and caught my hand. The motion reminded me of 'Solde and how
she had reached for Ceinn. It reminded me of the conflict in her face as she
had removed the lir-torque from her throat and told Ceinn there would be no
child.

           
Holding Gisella's hand, I looked
down upon my wife and the child who swelled her body. Fruit of a man's labors,
and a sign of fertility so necessary to the House of Homana. And yet—it seemed
I could hardly recall the first time we had lain together. Only the faintest
flicker of a fleeting memory that told me once I had known someone other than
Gisella.

           
Inwardly, I grimaced. I had hardly
kept myself celibate before sailing to Atvia. No doubt what I recalled so dimly
were the women who did not matter, being more interested in who I was rather
than in what I could do to pleasure them.

           
I thought suddenly of the children
born of such unions, the fruit of a man's labors in fields that had already
been well-tilled. I thought it likely I had no bastards because surely a woman
who conceived of a prince would tell him in hopes of winning coin or jewel or
favor. But I knew also it was entirely possible I had sired a child or two
before the one in Gisella's belly. And it made me think of Carillon, who had
gotten a woman with child, and how that child now threatened my very existence,
let alone my right to inherit the Lion.

           
The Lion of Homana. Gisella had
asked if I were the Lion myself. And now I looked at the man who was.

           
He wore Cheysuli leathers dyed a
rich, deep crimson, hem and collar set with narrow gold plates stitched into
the leather. On his brow he wore a simple circlet of hammered gold and uncut
rubies. And at his left side, scabbarded in rune-worked leather, hung the sword
others claimed was ensorcelled.

           
My father did not move about the
room; he let the room come to him. Quietly he stood near one of the groined
archways and received those who wished to have word with him. He might have
done it from the chair upon the dais, next to me. But it was a mark of his
nature that he did not, preferring to stay away from such trappings as thrones
and trumpeted announcements of his arrival. That he wore the sword surprised
me; only rarely did he clasp the belt around his hips. Only rarely did he ever
put hand to hilt, as if reluctant to display his absolute mastery of it.

           
Of course, he would never admit to
being the master; rather, the servant. He had told me how once the brilliant
ruby, the Mujhar's Eye, had been perverted by Ihlini magic into a thing of
ugliness. A dead black stone, dull and lusterless, had sat within the golden
pommel prongs. For nearly all of the years of Carillon's rule the stone had
remained dull black.

           
Until the day Donal put his hand
upon it, and it came blazing back to life.

           
There is a legend within the clans
that a sword made of Cheysuli craftsmanship bears Cheysuli magic, and knows the
hand of its master even when the master is unknowing, he had told me. The gods
know I was aware my grandsire had made that sword, but it was for Shame, I
thought; for the Mujhar who began the qu'mahlin that nearly destroyed our race.
Shame gave it to Carillon, who bore the blade for all the years of his exile
and all the years of his rule.

           
Only when he was dead did it come
into my keeping.

           
And only at the cost of a warrior's
life: Finn, my father's uncle. Strahan had sheathed the sword in Finn's body,
and in so doing had unintentionally bequeathed the magic unto my father.

           
The magic that slew Osric of Atvia,
Gisella's uncle, and put Alaric on the throne. I glanced down at her pensively.

           
So many people dead . . . and all in
the name of the prophecy.

           
I saw my mother moving among the
guests, speaking quietly with countless members of the aristocracy, Homanan and
otherwise. The gold netting enveloping rich red hair shone in the light of the
setting sun as it slanted through stained glass casements. The rose-red floor
was awash with brilliant color.

           
And then I saw Isolde.

           
I turned to Gisella. "Forgive
me if I leave you, but I must speak with my sister."

           
Her fingers tightened on my own.
"Niall?"

           
"You will be well, I
promise." Carefully I detached myself from her and stepped off the dais,
moving through the throngs of people surrounding the dancers in the center of
the hall. I answered greetings absently, too intent upon reaching 'Solde; when
at last I did, I saw the desolation in her posture. She stood by one of the
casements, back to the hall, as if by ignoring the people she could also ignore
her loss.

           
She turned as I placed a hand on her
shoulder, and then she tried to turn again; to turn her back on me.

           
" 'Solde—"

           
"Leave me be."

           
" 'Solde, please."

           
"Niall—" She broke off the
beginnings of her plea and swung back to face me squarely. I saw bitter grief
in her ravaged face. "I would be the last person in the world to wish you
in peril, Niall. . . but surely you will not blame me if, for the moment, I
wish also to have nothing to do with you."

           
A flicker of grief; a larger one of
defensiveness. "I did not ask you to renounce him."

           
"What else could I do?"
Impatiently she brushed tears away, as if their presence was anathema. And in a
way, they were; Cheysuli do not grieve in public. "Am I to renounce
you?"

           
Sighing deeply, I took her into my
arms and crushed her against my chest. She was rigid, denying herself comfort,
until I rested my cheek on her hair and told her I would forgive her if she
went back to Ceinn.

           
"Go back!” She pulled away to
stare up at me. "How can you say that after what he has said?"

           
"Because I know what else he has
said." And I told her I thought it would help. I thought it would make her
happy to know her cheysul genuinely cared, not intending to use her merely
because of who she was. But I misjudged her. I misjudged her badly.

           
"Do you value your life so
little?" she asked angrily,

           
"Do you value me so little? How
can you expect me to go back to a man who wishes to see you stripped of your
rank, your title—your life?"

           
"I think it will not come to
that," I told her. "The a'saii are no longer secret, and I have no
intention of allowing them to succeed. They are only a tiny portion of the
Cheysuli, 'Solde, I doubt they have that much power."

           
She shook her head.'"I will not
take the chance."

           
" 'Solde—"

           
"No." She nearly choked on
the word. "How can I, rujho? I already bear his child!"

           
Pain rose up in my belly, the old
familiar pain I associated with lirlessness. Yet now it came as I thought of
what 'Solde must face, bearing alone the child of the man she loved.

           
"Gods," I said, "does
he know?"

           
"No. I planned to tell him
after your wedding. But now," she shook her head. "Now I will say
nothing."

           
" 'Solde, he is the child's
father!” I thought of Gisella.

           
I thought of myself in Ceinn's
place, not knowing my wife carried my child in her body. For all I hated the
man for his zealotry, I could not hate him for desiring a child.

           
Even one he would use against me.

           
'Solde drew in a deep breath.
"Aye. And right now, not knowing, he plots to put Ian on the throne. You
are safe so long as he and the others work toward that goal, rujho, because Ian
will never agree. But once he knows I have conceived, they will have a new
candidate. A candidate they can control." Through her tears, she smiled.
"I am a child of the prophecy as much as you; do you think I will allow my
cheysul to destroy it?"

           
I was touched by her resolve, deeply
touched, but could not ignore the brutal truth of the undeniable transience of
that resolve. " 'Solde, in a month—two, three—the child will begin to
show. What will you say to him then?"

           
She stood very straight before me.
"In a month or two or three, perhaps you will have cut out this canker in
our midst."

           
I wanted to speak, to say something
that might dilute her pain, if only a little- But 'Solde's pride and resolve
took all the words from my mouth; took even the pride from me, because she was
far stronger than I could ever be.

           
She gives her husband over to death.

           
And knew exactly what she did even
as she did it.

           
I tried to swallow down the painful
lump in my throat.

           
"Cheysuli i'halla shansu,"
I said thickly. I could think of nothing more fitting than wishing upon my
Cheysuli sister the peace of the race she served so faithfully.

           
'Solde smiled a little. And then she
put out her hand—palm-up, fingers spread—and made the eloquent gesture that had
the ordering of an entire race. "Tahlmorra," she said quietly, and
then she walked out of the hall.

           
I watched her go, then swung around
abruptly to return to Gisella. And I stopped just as abruptly, because Varien
stood in my path.

           
The Atvian envoy smiled and inclined
his head. "My lord, please accept my congratulations on your marriage to
the Princess of Atvia." The smile, so smooth, widened only a fraction, not
enough to offer offense. "And now the Princess of Homana."

           
"My thanks." I was
brusque, but it was difficult to be polite after witnessing 'Solde's grief.

           
"My lord," He detained me
easily with merely an intonation. "Here, my lord. I have brought you
wine."

           
Each hand held a silver cup. 1 took
the cup he offered because indeed I did desire wine . . . anything to ease the
ache in my spirit. I felt bruised from 'Solde's decision. I could not argue
that it was the right one, but neither was I the sort of man who would be
pleased to see his sister in such pain.

           
Varien, unctuous as always, lifted
his cup in a brief salute. "Your fortune, my lord."

           
I drank deeply. So deeply I drained
the cup too quickly; Varien instantly motioned a servant to refill if. And
then, as I drank again, the Atvian stepped closer. So close, a velvet-clad
shoulder brushed my own.

           
"May I speak freely, my
lord?"

           
My mind was not on Varien at all.
"Of course." I looked past him toward the dais, and saw Gisella picking
half-heartedly at her silken robes.

           
"My lord, I will be frank with
you: your wife is not entirely like other women."

           
Looking at her, I recalled how
changeable were her moods; how violent the swings. "No," I agreed.

           
"This is a delicate subject, my
lord, but I am certain you would prefer it discussed. It has bearing on your
future."

           
I frowned a little, looking at him
more attentively. "If it concerns my wife, of course it has bearing on my
future."

           
Teeth showed briefly, so briefly, he
laughed silently. And then the laughter was gone, leaving in its wake a cool,
quiet amusement. "My lord, let us agree the lady is—of divergent humors.
Because of these humors, it is entirely possible she will not always be a
willing partner." He paused delicately and lifted the cup to his lips. But
he did not drink. "Bed-partner, my lord."

           
I looked at my wife. "That is
something between Gisella and me, envoy."