Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (39 page)

           
I faced what remained of the council
in one of my father's audience chambers. It was not the same chamber that had
borne witness to the murders of Same and Elek, but it was enough like it to
instantly set the memories before our eyes. I saw glances exchanged among the
Homanans as I took my place in a chair upon the dais, and knew precisely what
they recalled. Precisely what they thought.

           
Ian stood beside my chair. He did
not sit, though he had the right; though a second chair stood empty. He stood.
As if to illustrate the reality of my rank, and my right to call the assembly
in the absence of the Mujhar.

           
Old men, most of them, or hampered
by illness and ancient injuries. Those who were young enough, strong enough,
competent enough had assumed their places with the armies. But these men were
enough, I knew, to bear witness to my announcement.

           
I leaned forward a little. I felt
Serri's warmth and weight against my foot; he lay beside the chair. "This
plague is not happenstance," I told them. "Not a cruel test devised
by the gods and visited upon us. It is Ihlini treachery, meant to strip Homana
of the Cheysuli."

           
Once again, sidelong glances were
exchanged. And I knew what some of them meant: strip Homana of the Cheysuli,
and the land is Homanan again.

           
"In the morning," I told
them, "I will leave Mujhara.

           
Ian and I are bound for Solinde
across the
Bluetooth
River
, across the Northern Wastes. We seek
Valgaard, Strahan's fortress. We seek the root of this demon-plague."

           
"My lord." One of the
councillors rose. "What does the Mujhar say to this?"

           
"There is no time to inform him
before we go. He will be told, of course—but Ian and I will be gone."

           
I heard murmuring. I heard
low-voiced comments made.

           
I knew what many of them were
thinking. And I knew I would have to gainsay it.

           
"You have served the Mujhar
well," I told them. "And, gods willing, you will serve me equally
well when the time is come. But for this moment we must look farther down the
road and see another man who is meant for the Lion Throne."

           
They were silent now, staring at me
attentively.

           
"Carillon," I said.
"Carillon betrothed his Homanan-Solindish daughter to a Cheysuli warrior.
He did it because he had to. He did it because he was meant to, to make certain
the throne was secured. And, in time, a son was born to the Prince and Princess
of Homana, and the Lion was secured." I drew in a steadying breath.
"A son has been born to the son; a boy intended for the Lion. And I will
not leave this place until your loyalty is sworn."

           
Another of the councillors, rose.
"My lord, this is unnecessary!"

           
"Is it?" I shook my head.
"If I am slain, there must be an heir for my father. In my place, I put my
son. He will assume the title if Strahan takes it from me."

           
"My lord—"

           
"I require it," I said
quietly. "I am not blind to the knowledge I may be slain, or the threat
offered by Carillon's bastard. My first responsibility is owed to my father, my
second one to the throne. My third to the prophecy." I knew they were one
and the same, and equally important, but I thought it would please the Homanans
if I made each one separate. "It is not so much," I told them.
"Surely it is a loyalty you would offer one day anyway. Why not do it
now?"

           
When no one offered argument, I took
it for acquiescence. And so I signaled to the guard at the door, who stepped
outside a moment, and then the door was opened.

           
Two women came in with my sons.

           
They brought them to the dais, where
I bade the women to face the assembly. Two swaddled bundles, hardly enough to
carry the titles I would give them. But I knew it could be done. I had done it
myself.

           
I rose, rounded the end of the
table, took my place between the women. One hand I placed on Brennan's head.
The other I placed on Hart's. "Before the gods of Homana and the Cheysuli,
I pledge the lives of my sons into the service of the Lion; into the service of
Homana. My firstborn, Brennan, I acknowledge as my heir; he will be Prince of
Homana. My second son, Hart, I acknowledge as Brennan's heir until such a time
as Brennan weds and sires his own. He will be Prince of Solinde."

           
I saw the startled expressions;
heard the startled exclamations. But what better way of stating my confidence
in the army than by making Hart prince of a realm we fought?

           
Beneath my hands the smooth soft
brows were cool. "I request these acknowledgements be formally accepted by
the Homanan Council. I request that fealty be sworn."

           
They could refuse me, each and every
man. I had no power over them; I was not Mujhar. Such a request is more
ordinarily made by the king, but my father was not present. B nothing else, my
request was a test of their loyally to me. And I think each one of them
knew-it.

           
It was Ian who took the oath first.
He left his place beside my empty chair and came around the table with Tasha at
his side. He stopped in front of the dais where I stood between the women who
held my sons. He drew his Cheysuli knife from its rune-worked sheath, kissed
the hilt and blade, then bent to kiss each of my sons. He was my liege man, but
he offered them his service also.

           
He offered them his life.

           
He stepped aside. And one by one,
slowly, what was left of the Council came forward. My sons were acknowledged my
heirs; the Lion was secured.

           
If the gods see fit to take me, my
death will not be in vain.

           
Twelve days out of Mujhara, Ian’s
stallion broke a foreleg. Crashing through crusted snow to treacherous deadfall
beneath, the gray snapped ha leg and threw my brother as he fell. Ian dug
himself out of the snow quickly enough, but the stallion was not so lucky.

           
I said nothing. I watched, hunched
in my saddle, as Ian knelt down and cut the stallion's jugular. And then, as
the bright life spilled into the snow, Ian stroked the speckled jaw and spoke
quietly to the gray until the life was spent.

           
He rose. His boots were sodden with
blood. He unlaced the saddlepacks and tugged them free of the fallen horse,
then pushed through the snow to me.

           
I reached down to catch the packs as
he handed them up. "I am sorry."

           
"Better the horse than
me." But beneath the brutal candor I heard the trace of genuine grief.

           
I draped the packs across the pommel
in front of my thighs and kicked free of my left stirrup. Ian stepped up, swung
a leg across the roan's wide rump, settled himself behind me. "We will buy
another," I told him.

           
"We will have to," he
agreed. "Or risk slaying this one with too great a burden in heavy
going."

           
I watched as Tasha and Serri ran
ahead to break a trail. "There will be another," I told him
confidently.

           
There was not. It crossed my mind we
should turn back, to go home for another horse. But we were two weeks out of
Mujhara; the choice had been taken from me. It was unlikely my own horse would
survive even the journey home again.

           
Eighteen days out of Mujhara, the
roan died even as we dismounted. Although during the shapechange we could store
in the earth such things as clothing, weapons, packs—perishables would spoil.
And so we did not bother to carry the packs. In lir-shape, we went on.

           
Five days later, Ian began to cough.
And as we neared the Bluetooth he fell markedly behind. I stopped, turned back,
looked for two cats and saw only one; saw my brother on hands and knees.

           
In wolf-shape I ran back to him, but
as a human I knelt beside him. "Ian!"

           
He clawed wool from his face and
coughed, spitting into the snow. His breathing was loud, labored, rattling in
his chest. I heard a sound I had heard before. I saw a face I had seen before.

           
Rowan's before he died. "Oh
gods—" I said, "—oh, no—'

           
He knelt in the snow, coughing;
obscene obeisance to the plague. His face was deathly gray, filmed with sweat;
his lips had begun to swell. His eyes were mostly black.

           
"No—no—" I cried,
"—not Ian—'

           
He coughed. His eyes glittered with
fever. Sweat dampened his hair and dripped into the snow.

           
I thought of Rowan. I thought of
Isolde. Pain enough, in those deaths. More than enough grief. But I could not
begin to consider what life would be like without Ian.

           
Not again—gods, not again—I have
already done it once. I could not bear it again— "Serri!" The wolf
was at my side. "Serri—find shelter! Any sort; it does not matter. But let
it be warm and out of the wind."

           
Even as the wolf sped through the
snow Ian tried to call him back. "No," he croaked. "Niall—do not
bother."

           
"No bother," I told him.
"You would do the same for me."

           
He coughed. It rose from the deepest
portion of his chest and brought up foulness with it. Fingers clawed at his
throat; freed at last of the woolen wrappings, the swollen buboes were plain to
see.

           
Frenziedly I dragged him up from the
ground. Even as he protested, I half carried him to the nearest tree. There I
settled him, putting his back against the trunk, and wrapped his throat again.

           
He coughed. Gods, how he coughed,
and it ripped his chest apart. Lips split, bled, crusted, split and bled again.

           
His face was a mask of pain.

           
Do not take him, I begged the gods.
Do not take my brother. Once already I feared he was dead—do not make me go
through it again—

           
His eyes were closed, but he did not
sleep. He simply breathed, as Rowan had breathed. And each time the rattle
stopped, I prayed it would start again.

           
Oh gods—not fan—better me instead—

           
1 thought he might be cold, even
with Tasha pressing herself against one side- And so I took on the shape of
wolf and warded his other side. I waited for Serri to come.

           
It was later, much later. A place,
lir. A dwelling near the river.

           
It took us hours. I stumbled,
weaved, staggered beneath the weight of my brother. lan did what he could to
help, but he was so ill and so weak he only made things worse. Tasha and Serri
ran ahead yet again, breaking a track as best they could, and at-last I saw the
glimmer of lantern light through the close-grown trees.

           
"There," I told Ian.
"You see? I have brought you to safety."

           
"Who would succor a man with
plague?" he asked in his ruined voice.

           
"Someone will. I promise."
O gods, I beg you, deliver my brother from this—

           
We staggered onward. And at last we
were free of the trees. The dwelling was very small, a stone hut with thatched
roof huddling against the snow-cloaked shoulder of a mountain. Beyond it lay
the Bluetooth.

           
"The ferry-master's," I
gasped.

           
Ian sagged. I fell as he fell, pulled
off balance, and felt myself swallowed by the snow. I was so weary, too weary,
I struggled up with effort.

           
My brother was unconscious. Serri
and Tasha instantly wrapped themselves around his body as they had throughout
the journey to the dweling, whenever we had stopped.

           
I got up unsteadily and staggered to
the door.

           
"Ferry-master!" I called.
"Master—I need your help!"

           
I fell against the door, banged my
gloved fist on the wood. "Ferry-master—"

           
The door was pulled open even as I
thrust myself aside. I saw a blur of graying mouse-brown hair, brown eyes, a
face creased by winter chafing. "Nae, nae, ye'll nae be needin' me,"
the man told me in a thick northern dialect. "Yon beast be frozen- A man
may walk across, wi' nae need o' my ferry."

           
"No." I said. "No, I
need no ferry. I need your help—“

           
"My help?" He frowned.

           
"My brother—" Leaning
against the cold stone wall of the hut, I gestured toward the fy-shrouded shape
of my brother. "He is ill."

           
"Cheysuli," the ferryman
said sharply. "It be plague, then, aye?"

           
"I need your help," I
begged. "Warmth, shelter, food, drink—is it so much to ask? I can even pay
you—"

           
"He'll likely die off,"
the ferry-master told me flatly, I could barely stand up myself. "Then let
him die in a bed beneath a roof!" I cried. "Let him die as a
man!"

           
Brown eyes studied me fiercely a
moment. Then he stared past me to Ian. At last he hawked, spat out the door,
wiped his mouth and nodded. "Aye. Aye. Ye nae the right oft—isna my place
to turn away a sick man. Coom then, lad, we'll bring him under yon roof."

           
We brought him under 'yon roof and
settled him in the ferry-master's cot. I shook with a fatigue so deep it nearly
made me helpless. As it was, the ferry-master tended Ian more than I myself
did. He stripped my brother of his furs and settled hot cloth-wrapped stones
against his flesh and covered him up again.

           
As I bent to look at Ian, the
ferryman jerked his head toward me. "Sit ye doon, boy, afore ye fall doon
and crack yon head. I’ll get ye food and usca."

           
Lir, do as he says, Serri told me,
pressing against my leg. He guided me to a chair near the cot.

           
Nodding weakly, I fell into the
chair. It was roughly made, uncomfortable, but it supported my weary body.

           
"Usca," I said. "You
have usca here?"

           
The ferry-master moved to a shelf
pegged into the

           
wall. He caught down earthenware jug
and two dented pewter mugs. "Aye. Yon ferry be the on'y one on the river
road out of the Mujhar's city. There be a road from Ellas as well, and a trade
route into Solinde. Most days I see men, I see their goods as well." He
poured, held one mug out to me. "I hae other drink, but this one warms a
man's soul faster. I keep usca for the cold."

           
Indeed, it warmed my soul, and
everything else besides. I slumped in the chair and sipped, taking strength
from the bite of the liquor. It burned all the way down to my belly, but it
gave me life again.

           
I pulled myself up in the chair and
leaned to look more closely at Ian. Tasha lay just beside the cot, eyes locked
on Ian’s face. He did not move except to breathe; I heard the rattle in his
chest.

           
Oh gods—I beg you—

           
"Be bad," the ferryman
said. "I've seen men die oft afore."

           
"So have I." I thrust one
hand into Serri's pelt and tried to take hope from him. "Master—"

           
"My name be Padgett," the
ferryman told me. "Nae master, me. Jus' Padgett."

           
"Padgett.” I smiled a little
and slumped back again in the chair. "I must trust you with his life. I
cannot stay here to nurse him."

           
The dark brown eyes narrowed
shrewdly. "I've been on yon beast near thirty years. I've seen a thing or
two, but ne'er a man journeying in such weather. What do ye do it for?"

           
The usca threatened to put me to
sleep. "The plague," I said thickly. "Strahan. I must stop him
before he slays more of my race—before he destroys Homana."

           
Padgett's surprise was manifest.
"This plague be man-made, then? Not a thing o' the gods?"

           
"Strahan's," I said
succinctly. "A thing of Asar-Suti."

           
Padgett's brows rose, then knitted
as he frowned. He sat down on a stool and picked at a blackened thumbnail in
consternation. "They've ne'er done a thing to me," he said quietly.
"Oh, aye—a man could say they hae need o' yon ferry, but they be
sorcerers. They canna fly, but there are other ways." He sighed and looked
at Ian.

           
"Folk say the 'lini are evil,
and most'y I gie a nod o' the head and go on—because they ne'er done me any harm.
But—plague—" He shook his head. "Plague be unco' bad. If Strahan
turns his hand to harmin' the folk o' Homana—Cheysuli, Homanan, whate'er—I want
nae truck with them." He sighed pensively. "Go where ye will, lad.
I'll do what I can for yon boy."

           
Boy. Ian was nearly twenty-five. It
made me smile, but then the smile died. I did not want my brother to be this
age forever, become only a memory.

           
"Our coin is gone," I
said, stripping the signet from my finger, "but there is this in place of
gold." I tossed him the ring. "If you save him, ferry-master, be
certain I will give you more than simple trinkets."

           
Padgett turned the ring in the
firelight, squinting to study the incised rampant lion. And then he swore
aloud.

           
"Simple trinket? This? I know
what this is, boy—how did ye coom by it?"

           
I smiled. "My father gave it to
me."

           
"And does he steal from the
Mujhar himself?"

           
"No." I shook my head.

           
Padgett stared at the ring. "I
saw one like this on another man's hand. But then I dinna know it—I thought it
on'y a ring. 'Twas another man, a soldier in royal liv'ry, who told me what it
was." He turned it; the ruby glowed in the light. "A long time
ago—" He broke off.