Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (45 page)

           
Ian listened, then came around to
sit down on a stool in front of me. "It is heresy, Niall. You know that.
It goes against all the teachings—what the shar tahls have told every child."

           
"Perhaps they had reason for
censoring the teachings ... for withholding all the truth."

           
"Why would they do it, Niall?
There is no reason for it!"

           
"There is," I told him
wearily. "How would you react if you were told you were kin to the Ihlini;
that once you lay down with Ihlini women?"

           
He did not answer.

           
"If you were a shar tahl and
your duty—your honor—lay in defending the prophecy, would you shake the
foundations of that honor by tainting it with the entire truth if part of that
truth had to do with the kinship between Ihlini and Cheysuli?" I sighed.
"Consider it, rujho—do you think a Cheysuli warrior would keep himself
from an Ihlini woman merely because of her race—if he wanted her badly
enough?"

           
Silence filled the hut. And then Ian
broke it. "I am the last one to answer that . . . after what Lillith made
me do."

           
My eye opened. I straightened.
Slowly I leaned forward.

           
His face was ravaged. There was
shame, guilt, disgust; more than a little self-hatred.

           
"Do not blame yourself," I
told him. "You believed yourself lirless—you were, since Lillith used a
spell to cut off the link between you and Tasha. Do you think I cannot
understand?"

           
His face was gray. "I thought
i'toshaa-ni would help. I thought it would absolve me. But I am still soiled. I
remain unclean."

           
"Ian, stop.” I touched his arm.
"Lillith had a purpose. It becomes clearer even now. Do you see? Merge the
blood and you merge the power . . . Cheysuli and Ihlini."

           
He looked at me in horror. "She
wanted a child of me—"

           
And I thought it likely she had
gotten one. Even Varien had said it: she has what she wants from your brother.

           
"But—it would not be a
Firstborn, not a true one," I mused. "The other blood is needed. Yet
if the Ihlini got a child of both our races, they would move perilously closer
to fulfillment of the prophecy."

           
"But it means their death!” Ian
cried, "Why would they do such a thing?"

           
I released a breath of
comprehension. "If they bred their own—if they controlled the bloodlines,
they could control the prophecy. They could make the Firstborn theirs. They
could twist the prophecy." I stared at him in realization. "A
Firstborn child in Ihlini hands would be the demise of the Cheysuli. Taliesin
even said something about it." I frowned, trying to remember. "He
said—he said when the child of the prophecy is born, the lir will know a new
master."

           
"Gods—no—" He stared at me
in horror. "The lir would never leave us!"

           
"But if they did. ..." I
looked at Tasha, so close to Ian's leg. And then I looked at Serri. Lir, I
said, would you?

           
Serri did not answer. And neither, I
thought, did Tasha, as Ian asked her the same.

           
My brother slid off his stool. He
knelt. He locked his hands in the plush velvet pelt of Tasha's hide. I saw how
rigid was his posture; how tightly he hung onto his lir.

           
'They will go?" he asked.
"The lir will go from us?"

           
"He wants my sons," I said
blankly. "Strahan wants my sons. As Lillith wanted your child. . . ."

           
Ian looked at me. "Then I will
have to kill it."

           
"I think the plague is
over," Ian said. "People are in the streets again."

           
"And they do not spit, do not
run, do not make the ward-signs against us," I agreed. "Gods, I
thought it would slay us all."

           
We walked through the streets of
Mujhara in human form with lir on either side. We were warm in our heavy winter
leathers; the first tentative tendrils had unfurled from the blossom known as
spring, melting the snow and the mud and turning the streets into slushy
quagmires.

           
Even the cobbles did not help.

           
"If you wish to rest, rujho,
say it."

           
I smiled a little. Already Ian knew
when the headaches came upon me. Such painful, blinding headaches, sometimes so
bad I had to stop, lie down, not even move until the pain had passed. Sometimes
so bad I could not keep food or water in my belly.

           
I shook my head. "We are too
close, now." And we were. Even though I was weary and had the beginnings
of a headache, I was not about to stop. "One more corner, and we will be
at the gates." And Gisella will be unmasked. "Do you know, there is a
chance she is not mad at all. That she has presented herself so under orders
from Strahan through Lillith."

           
"Not mad?" Ian stared at
me in surprise. "If that is true—if she has fooled us all—she is the best
mummer I have ever seen."

           
"Aye. And it means the choice
is taken from me."

           
"Choice?"

           
"What to do with her," I
told him grimly. "Do you think I will keep her by me? She means to give my
children to Strahan. I cannot allow her to remain near them. Who is to say she
would not try it again?"

           
Ian nodded. He frowned thoughtfully.
“What choice, rujhol What will you do with her?"

           
"Either put her on the Crystal
Isle, as Carillon did with Electra . . . send her home to Atvia ... or have her
executed."

           
"The latter is—serious."

           
"But the crime is worthy of it.
Giving my sons to the enemy?"

           
"The Council may
disagree."

           
"The Council will have no
choice. When I tell them about the bastard, they will have no choice at all.
They will see that I am the one who is the rightful heir."

           
"Tell them what about the
bastard?’

           
"What I am intending to tell
you." So I told him, quietly, the truth. And when I was done, we stood
before the bronze-and-timber gates of Homana-Mujhar.

           
Both leaves bore the black slash
identifying a house of death. It made me think of Rowan.

           
Ian shook his head as I signaled the
gates open. "After all that—all their plotting and planning ... it is
futile. For naught"

           
"Thank the gods. And when the
Council learns of it, the petition will be dismissed."

           
We hastened through the baileys,
outer and inner, briefly acknowledged welcoming shouts and good wishes of the
men and boys, climbed the stairs into the archivolted entrance. Even as Ian was
detained by one of the servants, I went on. I climbed the stairs to the nursery
and went in to see my sons before I faced my wife.

           
But she was there as well.

           
Squinting a little against the
worsening pain in my head, I drew my sword. "Stand away from my sons,
Gisella. Stand away now."

           
She swung, fell back a step, pressed
herself against the oak-and-ivory cradle. She was cloaked, hooded, patently
prepared to leave. In her arms she held a bundled baby.

           
"What happened to your
face?" she asked in shock.

           
"Put him down," I told her
distinctly. "Put him down, Gisella, and stand away from the cradle."

           
She was transfixed by my face, until
her attention was switched to the tip of my sword as I advanced. Her mouth hung
open inelegantly; had she thought I would be slain, and her plans never known?

           
"Put him down," I
repeated.

           
She bunked. Shut her mouth.
"Her," she declared indignantly. "Do not call your daughter a
him.”

           
"Daughter?" My hand
twitched on the grip; the sword tip wavered. I looked at Gisella more closely
and saw that beneath the cloak she was slender again. "By the gods, you
have borne the child!"

           
It should not have surprised me. I
could not say how long I had been gone, but certainly long enough; she had only
been two months away from the birth when I had come home from Solinde.

           
She clutched the child more closely
against her breast.

           
But she looked sideways at a second
cradle. From it I heard the squall of a baby disturbed from sleep.

           
The tip wavered once more; I lowered
the sword. I was diverted from my intent. "Again?" I asked weakly.

           
Gisella nodded slowly, still staring
at my face; at the scars and the leather patch. "A girl. A boy. Three sons
and a daughter, now."

           
"And all meant for
Strahan?" I let the tip drift up again; teased the air before her face.
"All of them, Gisella?"

           
Her eyes filled with sudden tears.
"But—I have to—I have to—Lillith said I had to. Varien says I have to—I have
to do it because all of them told me to."

           
"Stop." No more diplomacy.
"Put the baby down, Gisella. Put her with her brother."

           
She turned abruptly and did as I
told her to. Relief allowed me to breathe again.

           
"I had to," she said.
"They told me I had to do it."

           
"Gisella—look at me."

           
The tears had spilled over. She
thrust a hand against her cheeks and tried to wipe them away. She trembled-She
clutched at the cloak and waited for me to sheathe the sword in her body.

           
By the names of all the gods, how do
you ask someone if they are sane or mad? How can you know if they tell the
truth?

           
Must you ask her at all? Serri
inquired. Look at her, lir. What manner of woman do you see?

           
"Gisella," I said
helplessly, "do you understand what they meant you to do? What the result
would be?"

           
"They told me I had to do
it."

           
"Why?"

           
"Because Strahan wanted
it."

           
"Do you know why? Did they tell
you what it meant?"

           
"They said I had to."

           
"Gisella!"

           
She trembled even harder. "I
just—I just—did what they said to do. There was the spotted puppy—two of
them—there was the gray kitten—they said I had to do it. Strahan wanted me to
do it."

           
I stared at her in growing alarm.
"Wanted you to do what, Gisella? The puppies—the kitten—?"

           
She tangled a hand in her hair,
twined it through her fingers. "They said—they said I had to—so I did—I
did!”

           
"Did what, Gisella?"

           
Her mouth opened, closed. Opened
again. Her breathing came very fast. "I—put the puppies down a well—because
they told me to!"

           
I drew in an uneven breath.
"And—the kitten?"

           
She shrugged one shoulder a little.
"The cliff—the top of the dragon's head." She shrugged again. "I
let him fall."

           
"Why?" I asked in horror.
"Because they told you to?"

           
She was sobbing now. "They said
I must get used to losing things—losing live things—because one day I would
have to give up my children—"

           
"Oh—gods—" I sheathed the
sword. Went to her.

           
Pulled her into my arms.
"Oh—Gisella—oh gods . . . what have they done to you?"

           
"It was what we needed to
do." Varien's voice, so smooth and silken, as he came into the room.
"Do you think it is a simple thing to ask a woman—even a mad one—to
willingly give up her children? Gisella had to be trained."

           
"You filth," I told him,
when I could speak again.

           
"You gods-cursed filth! How
could you do this to her? How in the name of all the gods could you do this to
a woman?"

           
"No," he said urbanely.
"Not in the name of all the gods—in the name of only one. My lord is
Asar-Suti."

           
"Gisella—stand away." I
pushed her, gently but firmly.

           
And as she went, I drew my sword.

           
Varien frowned a little. He studied
my sword intently.

           
Then his expression cleared. "A
Homanan sword," he said.

           
"Still a sword," I told
him. I lunged.

           
"A Homanan sword," he
repeated, and put up an eloquent hand. Easily, so easily, he caught the blade
in his hand.

           
Well enough—sever the hand, then
sever the neck.

           
But he stopped the blade dead in his
palm. I saw fire explode from his fingers, coat the blade, run down from tip to
cross-piece. The steel turned black at once.

           
As he meant me to, I released the
hilt. And only the hilt struck the ground; the blade no longer existed.

           
What is left to lose—he will take
the children anyway—I leaped. Empty-handed, I threw myself across the room and
caught handfuls of Varien's doublet, bearing him to the ground. He went down
easily enough, but was sinuous as a serpent; writhing, he nearly squirmed away.

           
We struggled for dominance on the
floor on the nursery. I thought of my children, so close to violence. I thought
of how I risked them. I even thought of Gisella.

           
"Serri;' I shouted "the
children!”

           
There was no answer discernible in
the link. There could not be, with Varien so close. But I knew my lir would
protect the children. He would give his life for them.

           
And, of course, give mine.

           
Varien clawed at my face and caught
a corner of my patch. He tore it away, snapping the leather strap; tried to
scrape away tender flesh. The pain was manifest, but it only gave me another
reason to fight.

           
We rolled. My head was slammed
against the stone floor. I cried out—the pain of the headache was magnified at
once, filling my skull with coruscating light. I fat my belly rise.

           
Fingers reached again for my empty
socket. Childishly, I retaliated by grabbing the stones in his ears and ripping
them through the lobes.

           
Varien screamed. I thought it odd.
Torn lobes are painful, I imagine, but hardly enough to make a man scream.

           
Unless, of course, it is not the
pain that makes him scream but the loss of the stones themselves.

           
I clutched both in my fist. I
thought of the old Ihlini woman with the pale pink crystal called a lifestone.

           
Varien was shouting at me, denying
me the stones. I was one-handed now as well as one-eyed, not daring to risk the
loss of the stones clutched in my fist. Varien was on the bottom, pinned
beneath my substantial weight, but now he bucked and twisted and nearly
succeeded in flinging me off.

           
Again, we rolled. I felt an
obstruction against my spine; the tripod legs of the nearest brazier. It
rocked, tipped, fell, spilled oil across the floor. A sheet of flame followed
and set the stone afire.