Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (8 page)

           
I could not be as calm as the woman
so obviously was, but neither could I experience the same measure of shock as
everyone save my mother. "Ian—what is she?"

           
"Ihlini," he hissed in an
undertone. Then, more loudly, "By the gods, she is Ihlini!”

           
"What is the meaning of
this?" my mother cried. "Alaric sends an enemy to show what he thinks
of the betrothal?"

           
"Not at all," Varien said
smoothly. "He sends a lady he holds very highly in his esteem."

           
"I am Ihlini," Lillith
said quietly. "I do not deny it. But what is between your race and mine
has nothing to do with the betrothal. Be assured, Alaric desires the
marriage."

           
"Ihlini and Cheysuli do not
treat with one another." My father's tone was deadly. "Is this some
trick of Strahan's?"

           
Arched black brows rose below the
silver circlet. "My lord Mujhar, I say again: Alaric desires the marriage.
Strahan has no hand in this. Was it not you yourself who agreed to this
alliance sealed by a marriage between your son and your sister's
daughter?"

           
"It was agreed by Homana and
Atvia," the Mujhar said. 'There was no mention of Ihlini."

           
"He did not know me then."

           
She was deadly serious. But I
wondered if she was as calm as she appeared. An Ihlini in the halls of
Homana-Mujhar? No more calm, I thought, than I would be within the halls of
Duini Valgaard.

           
"Did he know, when he sent you,
he gave us every opportunity to break off this betrothal?" my father demanded.

           
Lillith's eyes were unwavering. Her
expression did not alter. “The enmity between Ihlini and Cheysuli is known to
all men, my lord. But Alaric intended no insult. He sent me because he wished
to, regardless of my blood." Briefly, black eyes narrowed. "Are the
Cheysuli so hostile they cannot set aside their hatred for the sake of realms
and children?"

           
"Ask us where our hostility
comes from," my father commanded. "Ask us how we came so close to
being annihilated by our own Homanan allies. Because of the Ihlini, Lady
Lillith of Atvia. Because fear and hostility were fostered by the Ihlini, who
reaped the benefits of a mad king's attempted extirpation of my race."

           
Lillith did not answer at once. I
had seen my father this angry only once or twice, and I liked it no better this
time. A man of iron control; it is painful to see him let it go-Varien made a movement
as if to speak, but Lillith put a hand upon his wrist and he said nothing after
all.

           
Instead, she took a single step
forward toward my father.

           
They were close. Very close. She had
only to put out her hand to touch him. Uneasily, I thought of Strahan and his
cold Ihlini fire.

           
I heard the metallic scrape of a
knife pulled from its sheath. Ian's lips were moving in silent prayer or silent
curse as he clenched his hand upon the hilt; I could not say which. But I saw
how the swollen pupils turned his yellow eyes black. I saw how he watched the
Ihlini woman, and knew she would live no longer than was humanly possible if
she sought to slay our father.

           
"My lord Mujhar,” she said
quietly in her honeyed, husky voice. "I see no Ihlini within the halls of
Homana-Mujhar. I would say we lost the battle for the Lion."

           
Donal of Homana merely laughed.
"Oh, aye, you lost the battle for the Lion. But never, never do us the
discourtesy of thinking we are foolish enough to discount the Ihlini so long as
they serve the god of the netherworld."

           
Lillith met his steady gaze. She did
not so much as blink. "And do you think, my lord Mujhar, that I serve
Asar-Suti?"

           
After a moment, my father smiled.
"Lady, I would wager you lie down with the dark god himself."

           
It was Lillith's turn to laugh. The
husky sound filled up the chamber. "Oh, no, my lord Mujhar ... I only lie
down with Alaric."

           
My mother recoiled a single step,
then caught herself, as if she preferred not to show the Ihlini woman she could
be taken by surprise. "You are Alaric's whore?"

           
Lillith looked at her calmly.
"Whore? In the Cheysuli Old Tongue women such as I are called meijhas and offered
honor. In the Homanan language, the proper word is light woman. Yet the Queen
herself resorts to the low speech of the streets?"

           
"If it is the truth," my
mother answered. "You insult the Mujhar, Lady Lillith. Do you forget his
sister was Alaric's wife?"

           
"Bronwyn has been dead nearly
eighteen years," Lillith told her calmly. "Before she died, she gave
my lord little welcome in her bed. And once she had conceived, she denied him
utterly. Do you expect Alaric to keep himself faithful when he is wed to a
woman like that?"

           
My father's hand was a blur as be
reached out and caught one of Lillith's velveted wrists. "That is enough
from you, Ihlini! You will keep your mouth from my rufholla's name!"

           
I was a little surprised by my
father's vehemence. He and my aunt had parted on unhappy terms when Alaric came
awooing from Atvia. My mother had told me

           
Bronwyn wanted nothing to do with
the marriage, but because of politics and the prophecy, my father had seen fit
to wed her to Alaric even against her wishes.

           
They had neither seen one another
nor corresponded again, though I knew my father would have given the world to
make peace with his sister.

           
Lillith's chin rose a little.
Sunlight set the winged circlet aglow against raven hair. "Plain speech, I
freely admit; I meant it so, just as the Queen meant her question. But I ask
you this, my lord: if the Cheysuli are so dedicated to the tolerance of all
races—as claimed in the prophecy of the Firstborn—then why am I renounced for
mine?"

           
"Alaric's whore," my
mother repeated distinctly. "Oh, aye, I use the low speech of the streets.
Because you are not worthy of better." She stepped down from the dais and
moved to stand next to her husband, confronting Lillith directly. The first
shock had passed; she faced the woman possessed of a quiet dignity and an
equally eloquent air of command. "You may return home to Atvia, Lady
Lillith, and tell Alaric he will have to look elsewhere for a husband for his
daughter."

           
"Take your hand from me."
Lillith did not acknowledge my mother's words, looking steadily at my father.
"Take your hand from me."

           
After a moment, my father did so, as
if he could not bear to touch her.

           
"My lord." Varien,
smiling, still couched his words in unruffled courtesy. "My lord Mujhar, I
well understand the Queen's feelings in this matter. But I think she may wish
to reconsider what she has just said." He inclined his head to my mother.
"It is true the Lady Lillith is Ihlini. But it is as I said; my lord
Alaric esteems her highly."

           
"In his bed." It was Ian,
shocking us all with his virulence; I stared at him in surprise.

           
Lillith turned her head far enough
to slant him an inquiring glance out of eloquent eyes. A delicate silver wing
glittered against her hair. "In his bed and out of it. Why? Do you wish to
share it as well?"

           
Ian's laugh was a gust of air
expelled with all the force of disbelief. "I would sooner lie down with a
leper!"

           
Lillith's eyelids lowered as if she
consulted an inner voice. It gave her a shuttered, secretive look of incredible
insularity. It made me wish to ask aloud what she thought; what she intended to
say. But I did not. What Ihlini would tell a Cheysuli the truth?

           
Shut up within her thoughts, she
presented an incongruous picture of maidenly decorum. I knew better. She was
Ihlini; I had faced Strahan, And as for maidenly decorum, she had already
proclaimed herself Alaric's light woman. It gave her a passkey to vulgarity, if
she wished to use it.

           
But apparently she did not. When the
kohl-smudged lids lifted again, baring her eyes to all, I saw nothing but
resolute innocence.

           
Her head lifted minutely. Her chin
and jaw were distinctly molded, so that a tilt of a head this way or that
divulged a multitude of things otherwise left unsaid.

           
Someone had schooled her well in the
use of her body.

           
Or perhaps witches such as Lillith
and Electra are born to manipulate men with a smile, a look, a sigh.

           
Pale hands gathered heavy velvet.
Smoothly she put her back to the Mujhar and the Queen of Homana and turned
instead to face Ian and me, hair swinging, skirts swirling, silver nails
flashing against the rich texture of the velvet.

           
She looked at me, but briefly; her attention
was blatantly fixed on Ian. "Are you kin to the Prince of Homana?"

           
Somehow, it was not what either of
us expected. I frowned; Ian answered because of innate courtesy, though the
tone did not reflect it. "We share the same jehan."

           
It was clear she knew the word. The
painted lips, still smiling, parted in silent comprehension. "Then you are
the bastard son."

           
It took us all by surprise, her
pointedly casual comment, but Ian more so than anyone else, I think. I saw the
color drain out of his face until it was chalky-gray.

           
He was not one generally much
perturbed by insults—being so obviously Cheysuli, he was used to occasional
Homanan curses—and bastardy bears no stigma in the clans. But this was from a
woman, emphatically unprovoked, and an Ihlini woman at that. Somehow her
precise explicitness honed the words more sharply. Without a doubt the knife
cut more deeply than ever before.

           
Angrily, I swung back a rigid hand,
fully intending to bring it across her lovely face. But Ian stopped me by reaching
out to catch my wrist. "No."

           
"Rujho—"

           
"No," he said evenly.
"Do not soil your hands."

           
"Lillith." My mother's
voice, calm, cool, supremely in command of the situation. She was all queen
now, standing tall in yellow silk and royal gold. What I witnessed was
Carillon's legacy.

           
I saw the instinctive response in
the Ihlini woman as she turned almost at once; saw also how that reaction
surprised her by its alacrity. And how much it sat ill with her.

           
"Lillith." My mother
smiled her lovely, deadly smile. "I will allow you to insult my husband's
son no more than I will allow you to insult my own." Her face was smooth,
untroubled; I saw a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. "Or, regardless of
whose bed you sleep in, I will have you cast bodily out of this palace."

           
I nearly gaped in surprise. To hear
her protecting Ian so definitively was shocking as well as welcome; they said
little enough to one another, being uneasy companions at best, and certainly
nothing in the past had warranted such loyalty on the part of my mother. And
yet she sounded as fierce as if she defended me.

           
Smiling inwardly, I flicked a
pleased glance at Ian. His color was back, though a little more flushed than
normal; shock had been replaced by anger at the Ihlini. No doubt my mother's
defense startled him as much as it had me, but he did not show it. He showed
nothing but a mask.

           
Lillith inclined her head. "As
you wish, lady. No more insults. I offer choices instead."

           
The mask slipped.
"Choices?" Ian demanded roughly. "What choices could an Ihlini
offer us?"

           
Lillith looked at the Mujhar.
"Your choice, my lord: send Varien and me back to Atvia, and have the
betrothal broken." She tilted her head a little to one side. “I have given
you reason enough."

           
"Purposely," he said
lightly. "Aye, I have seen that clearly. There is a purpose to all of
this." He smiled. It was not the smile of a man he showed her, but of a
predator whose attention is fixed upon the spoor of lively game. "Now,
Lady Lillith, give me the other half so I may know the choice."

           
But it was not Lillith who answered.
Varien spread his hands. "Simple, my lord: ignore the lady's heritage and
allow the ceremony to go on."

           
My mother laughed aloud. "Do
you expect us to overlook what she has said, let alone what she is?"

           
No. My instinctive response was
immediate. If for no other reason than the pain she brought to my brother, I
would send her back to Alaric.

           
"Choices," Varien said.
"My lord?"

           
My father did not answer at once. I
saw the fine-drawn tension in my mother as she waited, and felt it in myself.

           
Not because I particularly wanted to
marry Gisella—cousin or no, I did not know the girl—but because some
deep-seated instinct told me the choice facing my father carried more weight
than usual.

           
He knew it as well as I, perhaps
better, being who he is. I saw him smile again, mostly to himself, and then he
turned it fully on the Atvian envoy. "Alaric and Shea have made a
truce."

           
I frowned. It made no sense; none of
it. What had a truce between Alaric of Atvia and Shea of Erinn to do with my
marriage?

           
Varien's lips tightened. Briefly, oh
so briefly, I saw anger in his eyes, and then he covered it. He was himself
again, urbane, diplomatic, yet I knew my father's response was not what he
expected.

           
I looked immediately at the woman,
knowing instinctively she was a truer diviner of emotions. But if Lillith was
angry, she hid it well. Instead, she smiled, and nodded once to herself. As if
she had won a wager.

           
Or understood us better than anyone
wished to believe.

           
"A truce," my father
repeated. Still smiling, he sat down at last in the padded chair and gestured
for my mother to do the same. After a moment's hesitation, she did so. But I
knew she understood my father's manner no better than I, even as he laughed.
"Let me speculate aloud, envoy, for a moment. Please correct me if I am
wrong." He straightened a little and tapped one finger against the wooden
arm. "Alaric and Shea, regardless of their respective reasons, have agreed
to a truce. I think it unlikely Shea would ally himself with Alaric for any
reason, judging by the turbulent history of the islands; nonetheless, a
cessation of hostilities leaves Alaric in possession of a united warhost for
the first time in decades." He paused, and I saw he no longer smiled.
"Have I the right of it thus far?"

           
Varien's schooled face exhibited
neither resentment nor regret; he merely ackowledged my father's summation with
a brief inclination of his head.

           
"What is he doing?" I
whispered to Ian. "What has a truce between Alaric and Shea have to do
with anything?"

           
I saw the ironic curling of his
mouth; Lillith's insult had not banished his sense of humor. "If you would
close your mouth and open your ears, perhaps you would find out."

           
But my father went on before I could
respond. "If I broke off the betrothal for reasons well known to all of us
in this chamber, Alaric would have the right to consider the alliance
shattered; the right to levy war." The Mujhar's face displayed no tension,
only calmness. He had the right of it. Wars had been started over more trivial
matters than this. "The past has proven Atvia incapable of defeating
Homana in battle because her armies have been divided. Shea's meddling made it
necessary for a portion of the warhost to be left at home to protect Atvia, and
so it was that much easier for Homana to defeat her enemy. Now, of course, with
Erinn and Atvia at peace, no matter how brief the duration, Alaric can levy
half again as many men against Homana."

           
"My lord." Varien said
nothing more; nothing more was needed. Even I began to see.

           
"And so if the betrothal is
broken and Alaric comes against me, as would be his right, it is potentially
possible that Homana could be defeated . . . and Alaric made Mujhar." My
father shut his mouth on that; patently, he was finished discussing the thing.