Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (6 page)

           
"Just—not."

           
My father smiled. No man would call
him old; he is not so far past forty, but neither would a woman call him young.
Still, his smile banished the gravity of his title and set him free again.
"No, not yet. But soon." A glint of amusement showed in his yellow
eyes. "You have a little time. Atvian custom demands a proxy wedding
before the true marriage is made."

           
I frowned in distraction at a
purplish bruise on my right knee. "How soon will this proxy wedding be
performed?"

           
"Oh, I think in the morning.
... I did say you had a little time." The glint in his eyes was more
pronounced.

           
"In the morning!" I stared
at him in dismay. "Without warning?"

           
He sighed. "Aye, I would have
preferred it myself. And that is what upsets your jehana. She swears it is a
purposeful insult and that we should send them home at once until proper homage
is made, along with a respectful request, since Alaric owes me fealty, and not
the other way around." His smile was wry; my mother, born to such things
as royal rights and expectations, was much more cognizant of details my father
thought less important. "But Alaric's envoy says a message was sent some
months ago, though it never arrived. Perhaps it was." He shrugged,
patently dubious. "Regardless of that and the lack of proper homage, the
betrothal was made in good faith. Alaric has the right to ask the wedding be
performed. At seventeen, Gisella is old enough. Once the proxy ceremony is
completed, you will go to Atvia to bring your cheysula home to a Homanan
wedding.”

           
Cheysula. He used the Old Tongue
word for wife. But his mouth shaped it differently than mine; like Ian, he had
been keep-raised. They were very alike, my father and my brother. I was like
neither of them.

           
As Strahan had taken infinite pains
to point out.

           
Almost at once I forgot about
cheysulas and proxy weddings. "Jehan," the Cheysuli word slipped out
more easily than usual. "The man who told me not to wed Gisella—" I
broke off a moment, not knowing how to say it. "It was the Ihlini.
Jehan—the man was Strahan."

           
He stood up at once, my father; so
quickly, so abruptly he overset the stool. I heard the thump of wood against
stone. The hiss of his indrawn breath.

           
But "Strahan" was all he
said.

           
In the heat of the scented, steaming
water, I was cold.

           
To see that look in my father's
eyes—

           
"Aye." Mostly it was a
whisper. "Jehan—"

           
"You are certain." The
tone was a whiplash of sound.

           
No longer did I face my father. Nor
did I face the Mujhar. What man I saw was a warrior filled up with a virulent
hatred, dedicated to revenge.

           
"Certain," I echoed.
"I saw his eyes: one blue, one brown. And he lacked an ear."

           
"Aye, he lacks an ear! Finn
made certain of that much before he died!"

           
He broke off. I saw the spasm of
grief contort his face.

           
Almost as quickly, the mask was back
in place. But he did not veil his eyes. Perhaps he could not. And what I saw
sent an icy finger down my spine. “Jehan—"

           
"By the gods, I have prayed
that Strahan would come within my grasp." Both hands were extended.
Fisted.

           
I saw how the sinews stood up
beneath the flesh; bow the nails dug into the palms. "By the gods, I have
prayed for this!"

           
I had not known such hatred could
live in my father.

           
He can show anger, aye, and
irritation, and more than a little intolerance of things he considers foolish,
but to see such bitter hatred in his eyes, to hear it in his voice, made me a
child again. It stripped me of size and confidence and made me small again.

           
I sat in the cask with water lapping
around my chest and stared at the warrior who had sired me. And wondered what
manner of man I might be had the Ihlini served me such pain and grief upon my
platter.

           
"He did not harm you?"

           
Slowly, I shook my head.
"He—gave me a taste of his power. But he did me no lasting harm." I
thought again on his parting words to me and the vividness of his painting. True?
Or false? A trick to undermine my trust in Homanans and Cheysuli? More than
likely. It was the Ihlini way.

           
And I knew it might succeed.

           
I looked away from my father.
Replace me, Strahan had said. With another. Friends, enemies, kin. An alliance
uniting them.

           
"Niall." He reached- down
and caught my left arm, gripping me by the wrist. "He did not harm
you?"

           
"No." I said it as calmly
as I could. "He said I was to tender you his regards."

           
After a moment, my father released
my arm. He swore beneath his breath. "Aye, he would. Ever polite, is
Strahan. Even when he kills."

           
"But why did he let me live?
Surely it would suit his plans better if I were not in his way to the
throne?"

           
"You are not in his way, not
really." My father, looking infinitely older, shook his head and sighed.
"The gods know why, but it is an Ihlini trait to play with an enemy before
the kill. They twist the mind before they twist the body, as if it makes the
final snap that much more satisfying. Tynstar did it with Carillon for years,
though in the end, as you know. Carillon slew Tynstar."

           
Of course I knew. It was all a part
of the legend. "It may be a perverse manifestation of the power." He
shrugged again. "Who can say? Strahan did not let you live out of kindness.
No. More like—anticipation." His expression was very grim. "It means
he has other plans for you. It means you are part of his game. And when he is
done playing with you, he will end it. As he ended it for Finn."

           
When he is done playing with you, he
will end it. I shivered. My father's tone was so matter-of-fact, so certain of
Strahans intentions. He did not shout or bluster or claim we would put an end
to Strahan's plans. And it emphasized the Ihlini’s power.

           
I recalled how Strahan had invited
me to come to him, one day. I recalled how he had said he intended to take my
sons. And I wondered how he could be so certain there would be sons to take, as
well as that he would take them.

           
But mostly, I looked at my father.
What does Strahan mean to him?

           
His face was stark. The man was a
stranger to me.

           
"Jehan." I straightened in
the cask. "If—if I had known how much you hated him ... I would have tried
to slay him."

           
He did nothing at all at once. He
only stared down at me, as if he had not heard what I had said. In perfect
stillness, perfect silence; a statue carved out of human flesh.

           
And then he said something in the
Old Tongue, something that came out of his mouth on a rushing of breath, and I
saw the tears forming in his eyes as he knelt down on one knee to grasp my hand
in both of his.

           
"Never," he said hoarsely,
"Never, never, Niall. He would slay you. He would slay you. He would take
you from me as he has taken all the others, and I would be alone."

           
I stared at him. His hands were
cold, so cold, and I realized he was afraid. I had meant to comfort him, to
offer what I could of loyalty. Instead, I had broken the fox from its den and
set the hounds upon its trail.

           
By the gods, my father is afraid. .
. .

           
"How?" I asked, when I
could. "How could you be alone when you have so many others?"

           
"Name them," he said
unevenly. "Say their names to me."

           
"My mother!" I was amazed
he could not do it for himself. "Taj and Lorn. General Rowan. Ian and
Isolde." I stared at him. "Jehan, how could you be alone?"

           
His breath was harsh. "I have
them, aye, I have all of them: cheysula, lir, children, trusted general. But—it
is not the same." He rose abruptly, turning his back on me.

           
His spine was rigid beneath leather jerkin
and human flesh. Then, just as abruptly, he swung around to face me. "Look
what I have done to your jehana. I would offer her the sort of love she craves,
if I could, but so much was burned out of me when Sorcha—died." Even now,
he could not speak the truth: that his Cheysuli meijha, Ian's and Isolde's
mother, had slain herself because she could not bear to share him with a
Homanan.

           
"There is much affection
between Aislinn and me, of course, and honor, regard, respect—but that is not
what she wants. Nor is it what she needs." His anguish was manifest.
"But I cannot offer falsehood to her when she is deserving of so much
better."

           
I listened in shocked silence,
grateful I knew the truth at last, but unsettled at the hearing. He was an
adult speaking to an adult, man to man, and yet I still felt so very young.

           
My father sighed and scraped a lock
of black hair out of his eyes. "As for Taj and Lorn, aye—I share
everything with my lir a warrior should. But they are lir, not men. Not kin. As
for Rowan——" He grimaced. "Rowan and I work well together in the
ordering of the realm, but we will never be easy together in personal things. I
am not Carillon, whom he worshipped." He bent and righted the stool.
"Ian and Isolde are everything a jehan could desire in his children. But I
am the Mujhar of Homana, and the Homanans perceive them as bastards. It makes
them different. It soils them in Homanan eyes, and that perception affects me.
And so it leaves me only you, Niall." He smiled a little, but it had a
bittersweet twist. "None of them are you. None of them are born of the
prophecy." I saw the trace of anguish in his eyes. "None of them will
know the things I have known. Not as you will know them."

           
For a long moment I said nothing at
all, being unable to speak. But when I could speak again, I asked a thing all
men might desire to ask of warriors and Mujhars.

           
"Would you have it
differently?"

           
My father laughed, but there was no
humor in the sound—only pain. "What warrior, looking fully into the face
of his tahlmorra, would not?" His smile was twisted; wry and regretful.
"I would change everything; I would change nothing. A paradox, Niall, that
only a few men have known. Only a few men will know." He sighed.

           
"Carillon could tell you. So
could Duncan and Finn. But all of them are gone, and I lack the proper
words."

           
"Jehan—"

           
But even as I began, he turned and
walked out of the room.

           
In my dreams I was a raptor,
circling in the sky. I felt the buoyant uprush of warm air beneath my wings
lifting me heavenward, carrying me higher yet. But higher was not where I
wished to go. And so I angled outspread wings, tilting toward the ground, and
swept downward, downward, in an ever-tightening spiral, until I drifted in
idle-ness over the walls of the castle garden, and saw the two girls plainly.

           
Young. Very young, yet much the same
age. They knelt upon the lush grass of a new spring, surrounded by a profusion
of brilliant blossoms, and shared a game of their own devising. I heard sweet
soprano voices rising on the sibilant breeze. And yet the sweetness was
tempered by an odd possessiveness.

           
Closer. My shadow was a winged
blotch upon the ground, darkness itself sweeping across the grass until it
swallowed both girls whole. Enough, I thought, to make even a man shiver from
the omen. But the two small girls took no notice of my shadow, or of me.
Instead, they fixed one another with feral, angry glares and tugged in
opposition at something held between them.

           
My shadow swept onward, turned, then
hastened back again. More closely yet I drifted, raptor's eyes caught by the
glint of something on the thing they shared. Closer still; the thing, I saw,
was a cloth doll, nothing more, with a cheap gilt brooch fastened to its
forehead in a child's mimicry of a crown. But only one doll and two girls; no
good would come of it. Sharing does not always serve.

           
A glint from the brooch. A sparkle,
bright as glass.

           
Ravenlike, I yearned to make that brightness
mine. But I was raptor, not raven; if I stooped to claim a prize it would never
be a bit of tin or glass. No. Something worth far more.

           
Angry, accusative voices, fitted
with hate and scorn. I had heard the like in my childhood, had shared the tone
with Ian and Isolde once or twice. But those days had long passed and the girls
below me were strangers.

           
I saw no faces, only the color of
their hair as they knelt stiffly upon the grass with the doll clenched in their
hands.

           
Each was the antithesis of the
other: blue-black hair/thick gold hair. Young skin the color of
copper-bronze/young skin the color of cream.

           
Antithesis, aye. As Ion and I to one
another.

           
"Mine, mine!" cried the
black-haired girl.

           
"Mine, mine!" cried the
gold-haired girl.

           
Closer. Closer. I saw how the doll's
arms and legs were spread and pulled taut, tugged at until the seams threatened
to split. Beneath the gilt brooch-crown someone had stitched on a face with
colored thread. The red mouth smiled. The blue eyes gazed vacantly into the
heavens, blissfully blind to the fate I so dearly foresaw. And even as I opened
beak to cry out a warning, the tortured toy split apart and spilled out its
dried-bean blood onto the grass. I heard the hiss and rattle as the beans
poured out and a shriek from each of the girls.

           
My shadow slanted across them both.
Now they saw

           
me. Now they took notice of my
nearness. Now they threw down the two empty halves of the ruined doll and
turned their faces toward the sky.

           
And I saw clearly, as I had not from
the beginning, that neither girl had a face. Only blankness, endless blankness
amidst the black/gold hair, devoid of a single feature.

           
Weight descended upon me. In a
panic, I tried to sit up and could not; I was pinned to the bed too securely.

           
Even as I opened my mouth to cry
out, the warm, pungent breath of a mountain cat rushed in to replace the sound
I sought to make.

           
Tasha loomed over me. I beard the
deep staccato rattle of her rumbling purr. Her cool nose touched mine briefly,
then she set tongue to flesh and began to lick.

           
"Ian!" Most of my
strangled shout was muffled beneath Tasha's tongue. I did not dare move.
Forepaws on shoulders pinned my upper body; hind ones were thrust between my
naked thighs. No; it was not worth the risk.

           
"Tasha—enough!"

           
I felt the rap of tail against
kneecap. The licking halted momentarily, but the tongue, resolute, remained
attached to cheek and chin. My flesh, abraded, stung; shaving would be painful.

           
The licking renewed itself, but only
for one more swipe.

           
Undaunted by gauzy summer
bed-hangings, Tasha sprang through them to the floor and left me free once
more.

           
I sat up at once, yanking the
bedclothes over my nakedness. "Ian! What——"

           
"You needed waking," he
interposed smoothly. Through the creamy gauze I could see him standing alone at
tee foot of my bed, blurred by the texture of the hangings.

           
"Torvald meant to come, of
course; I told him I would see to the preparations for your wedding." Ian
grinned. "I am no proper body-servant, of course, but I know where the
arms and legs go. I should do well enough."

           
The sudden waking on the heels of an
ugly dream left me with a headache. I glared at Ian and rubbed my forehead,
trying to draw out the pain. "Better I go naked to my wedding than leave
the dressing to you."

           
"Your choice." Ian, still
smiling, shrugged. "No doubt the bride, proxy or no, might prefer it that
way."

           
I grunted. "Only if Alaric
sends me a well-used girl in Gisella's place. . . ,” I frowned at him through
the draperies. "What are you doing here? I thought you would stay at Clankeep."

           
Ian shook his head. In the thin pink
light of dawn the cat-shaped earring glowed against the blackness of his hair.
"Jehan sent word through Taj late last night; I left before dawn."
Briefly, he frowned. "Did you think I would miss your wedding?"

           
“Proxy wedding." I fought my
way through layers of gossamer gauze and stood up beside the bed. Spring or no,
it was cold; Torvald's absence meant an absence of heat as well, since Ian had not
tended braziers or fireplace. I squinted toward the nearest narrow casement.

           
"Dawn, just. Time enough for
food and clothing before this ceremony."

           
"You will eat at the wedding
breakfast, not before."

           
Ian laughed as I swore beneath my
breath. "Fasting might improve your temper."

           
"As much as Tasha improved my
face." I glared sourly at the mountain cat sitting silently near the door.
Amber eyes were slitted; the tip of her tail twitched once. "Your idea,
rujho.”

           
"Tasha is fond of you." Ian,
considering that explanation enough, sat down on the nearest of my storage
chests, leaning against the tapestried wall, and brushed at a smudge upon an
otherwise spotless boot toe. Wedding finery: he wore supple doeskin jerkin and
leggings dyed a soft honey yellow. The boots he tended matched, worked with
copper-colored thread. Tassles trembled as he worked at the smudge. Bare-armed,
the fir-gold shone-Looking at him, I saw what I was not; what I could never be.
Ah gods, I wish you would give me the right to claim a lir and wear the gold on
my arms and in my ear.

           
But I did not say it aloud. Instead,
I answered Ian's comment.

           
"Fond of me," I echoed
dryly. "If she loved me, would she use her teeth instead?"

           
"And plenty of claw, as
well." Thoughtfully, Ian looked at an old scar on the underside of one
wrist.

           
Even as I started to move toward my
clothing chests, I stopped. Swung back- "Ask her," I said tersely.
"Ask Tasha why I have no lir."

           
I had never asked it of him before.
The bond he and Tasha shared was intensely private, and even another warrior
knows better than to ask of private things better left between human lir and
animal. And yet I could not put off the request a moment longer. Something
drove me to it.

           
If Ian was surprised, he bid it
well. At first, I saw only a new rigidity in the line of his shoulders. He sat
upright on the trunk, no longer leaning against the tapestry. And as he spread
fingers against the wood of the trunk in a silent and subtle plea for strength
from someone other than me (the gods, perhaps?) I saw the tension in his hands.

           
"I have," he said
tonelessly. "Repeatedly. Did you think I would not try?"

           
"And her answer?"
Consumed, for the moment, with discovering Tasha’s response, I ignored the
faint undertone of pain in Ian's voice. I had wounded him somehow, but I
thought his cut lacked the infection of my own.

           
Ian looked away. Plainly troubled,
he stared at the floor. The uncarpeted stone beneath his boots was red,
rose-red, as were the walls of Homana-Mujhar. A shaft of light working its way
through a blue panel of stained glass in the casement painted the rose a deeper
red, until the shade was nearly purple.

           
I stood barefooted on the Caledonese
carpet by my bed and waited, naked, for my answer.

           
"I have asked," Ian said
again. I saw how the muscles jumped once beneath the firm flesh of his
beardless jaw.

           
Sharp as a blade, the bone beneath
the flesh. And aye, beardless. Because the Cheysuli cannot grow them.

           
But I had to shave each morning, or
look more like Carillon than ever. "And the answer?"

           
When he could, he met my eyes and
shook his head.

           
"I have no answer for
you."

           
"Not from you," I said
roughly, "from her." I jerked my head in Tasha's direction. "She
is lir. The lir have all the answers. They know much more than any warrior can
ever know. Ask her again for an answer!"

           
Ian drew in a deep breath.
"No." Flatly said, with no room for urging or argument-I opened my
mouth to urge, to argue, to plead. And closed it again, because I saw there was
no point. All the anger spilled away as I looked at my older brother. Aye, he
had asked. More than once. But saying nothing to me, until now, because to tell
me was to hurt me.

           
Liege man. Rujholli. And more. Ah
gods, I thank you for my brother.

           
"Niall." He stood up and
faced me. I was taller, heavier, fairer—two puppies sired on different mothers,
but sharing kinship ties stronger than full-blooded brothers.

           
"Rujho, I swear I would take
the pain from you if I had the arts to do it."

           
"I know." I could not look
at him. His pain reflected my own, and that I could not bear. "I do not
mean to berate you."

           
"Nor should you berate
yourself." He did not smile.

           
"Do you think I do not see it?
I know the nights you cannot sleep, cannot eat. I know when you drink too much.
I know when you look to a woman to ease the pain. I am your rujholli, aye, and
liege man as well, but I am not always with you. And yet—I can tell. I can see the
marks on your bade though the whip be invisible."

           
He reached out and caught my arms
above the elbows, where the lir-bands ought to be. "It does not make you
less a man to me."

           
The emphasis was eloquent, though he
did not mean it to be. To him, I was a man. But to the warriors in the clan, I
was merely a Homanan.

           
I looked at him directly. "What
did Ceinn wish to say to you?"

           
He had not expected it. His fingers
tightened in reflex before he could release my arms. "Ceinn?" I saw
the brief loathing in his eyes. "Ceinn is a—fool.” He wanted to say more;
he did not.

           
"It had to do with me."

           
"More to do with me." He
shook his head. "No good would come of it. Rujho, let it go."

           
"And if I do not?"

           
He tried to smile, but it came out
less than amused.