Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (12 page)

 
          
"What
'more' is there?" Aidan demanded. "You know what he has done."

 
          
"And
paid the price for it." Burr's eyes did not waver. "Teirnan has lost
his
lir
."

 
          
"Lost
his—" It brought him up short. Aidan spread a hand, made the gesture
denoting
tahlmorra
. "Then
Teirnan is dead. We need not concern ourselves with him further."

 
          
"I
did not say he was dead."

 
          
"But
he
must
be—he lost his
lir
."

 
          
Burr's
smile was very faint. "The death-ritual is voluntary. It is, to my
knowledge, undertaken when a warrior truly believes in such binding clan
custom."

 
          
Aidan
nodded impatiently. "Of course. It is always done—" And then he
understood. "You are saying Teirnan rejected
that
, too?" It was impossible to believe. "But that means
he is mad.
No
Cheysuli warrior will
countenance that. He has to die. The loss of control, the awareness of loss of
balance, drives him to it. There is no other choice."

 
          
Burr
did not answer. Aidan, staring, heard the echo of his own words inside his
skull.

 
          
Am I mad, too
? he wondered with a new
insight.
Am I bound for Teirnan's course,
to throw myself away? Is that why Shaine
—
or whatever he was
—
tells me I
will not rule
?

 
          
It
nearly overwhelmed him.
Lir
-bonded or
not, was he meant to give up his life to keep the blood free of taint?

 
          
Numbly,
he echoed, "There is no other choice."

 
          
The
shar tahl
spoke quietly. "He
does choose, Aidan. Every warrior
chooses
.
He dies if he wants to die. But that is not Teirnan's way."

 
          
Teirnan
, not Aidan. He pushed away
thoughts of himself and focused on his kinsman.

 
          
More
than bruised ribs ached. Also family pride; the awareness of a betrayal he had
never experienced. He had been told all about Teirnan's defection from the
clan, his rejection of the prophecy and betrayal of heritage, but Aidan had
been conscious of it with a pronounced sense of detachment. He had been too
young to know Teirnan, to comprehend the issues.

 
          
But
he was no longer too young. Now he began to understand why all his kin hated
Teirnan.

 
          
Speculation
took precedence over fear of his own ends. "He wants the Lion," Aidan
said flatly. "He has always wanted the Lion."

 
          
"Aye,
well, men want many things…" Burr neatly turned the subject. "What is
it
you
want?"

 
          
Aidan
was no longer certain he cared to continue the discussion with Burr. The man
was different. He was unlike any
shar
tahl
Aidan had ever known. That he thought differently was obvious. And
what he might do with such thoughts—

 
          
Abruptly,
Aidan laughed.
Is this what they say of
me
?

 
          
Burr's
smile lapsed. The eyes, so like Aidan's own, were fixed and uncannily feral.
The voice was very quiet; the tone a whiplash of sound. "If you question
my own commitment to my race, let me reassure you. My belief in the gods is
unshakable. It has been since I was quite young—I knew as clearly as I knew my
lir
what I was meant to be. It was my
tahlmorra
: I could be nothing else. No
man, no woman, no warrior—proscribed or otherwise—could ever turn me from that,
any more than Teirnan or anyone else could turn you from the Lion. I am a
Cheysuli
shar tahl
, fully cognizant
of my service." Intensity dispersed abruptly, as if no longer needed. The
calm smile returned. "What service may I do you?"

 
          
Something
in Aidan answered. His distrust of Burr faded, replaced with an odd
recognition.
This man is very like me
—He
smiled back slowly, though its twist was decidedly wry. "I have many
questions." He pointed at the link. "What do I do with that?"

 
          
Burr,
for the first time, looked at the link. Aidan knew what it looked like, what it
felt
like; he had carried it by hand
all the way to Clankeep, unable to hide it away. It was nothing and everything,
all bound into the gold and runes, and he dared not let it go.

 
          
For
Burr, he had let it go. It waited on the pelt, glinting dully in wan light.

 
          
Abruptly,
the man was
shar tahl
. Aidan was
startled by the sudden transformation. It was, he thought, merely his own
perspective, somehow altered; this Burr was no different from the Burr of a
moment before, in appearance or manner. And yet Aidan felt the change, the slow
comprehension, that flooded the man with an eerie exaltation.

 
          
Burr
unlaced his hands and reached out, as if to pick up the link. But he refrained.
Fingertips trembled a moment. Then quieted into stillness. He did not touch the
link. He looked searchingly at Aidan. Then abruptly looked away.

 
          
Aidan
frowned. "What is it?"

 
          
Burr
quickly rose to his feet and went directly to the open doorflap. The gesture
was blatant: Aidan was to leave. "I cannot help you," he said.
"You must find your own way."

 
          
Unquestionably
dismissal, in tone and posture. Part of Aidan responded instinctively—a
Cheysuli warrior was carefully tutored to honor a
shar tahl
—until he recalled his other self. The self meant for the
Lion.

 
          
"No,"
he said quietly, still kneeling on the pelt. "I came to you with
questions. You promised answers." Slowly he twisted his head and glanced
over a shoulder at the
shar tahl
.
"Are you the kind of man who can refuse to give them?"

 
          
Burr
did not hesitate. "You ask too much."

 
          
Aidan
was deliberate. "As warrior? Or as a prince?"

 
          
Burr
drew in a breath, then released it audibly. His expression was peculiar.
"We spoke of choices, my lord. We spoke of a warrior's
tahlmorra
. No Cheysuli is truly
forced
to accept his
tahlmorra
—he does have free will—but if
he is truly commited to his people, to the prophecy, to his belief in the
afterworld, he never refuses it. So we are taught: so I believe." The
phrasing was deliberate; Aidan understood. "I came to my own arrangement
with the gods when I was very young. Now you must come to yours."

 
          
"I
know my
tahlmorra"
Aidan
declared. "I came to you for this."

 
          
Burr
did not look at the link. "I have no answer for you."

 
          
Anger
flickered dully. He had come for help, as advised by his grandsire, and this
was what he got. More obscurity. His belly was full of it.

 
          
"Tell
me," he said quietly. "You see something in this. You know what this
is. Why will you not tell me?"

 
          
"I
am not meant to tell you."

 
          
Control
slipped askew. "
Gods
,"
Aidan rasped, "will anyone speak plainly? My
lir
practices obscurity; now so do you. Tell me,
shar tahl
: am I to live, or die?"

 
          
"The
gods will decide that."

 
          
Aidan's
laughter was a sharp bark of blurted sound. "The Hunter tells me
differently.
He
speaks of choices,
even as you do."

 
          
Burr's
eyes glittered. "I do not know everything."

 
          
"Neither
do I," Aidan gritted. "I'm knowing nothing at
all
—d'ye think this is pleasant?" He sat rigidly on the pelt.
"I came to you for help, because grandsire suggested it. Because I think I
am going mad."

 
          
There,
it was said. The silence was very loud.

 
          
Burr
swallowed tightly. For a brief moment there was war in his face, a battle that
underscored, to Aidan, the great need for him to know. Then the
shar tahl
muttered a brief, sibilant
petition and pulled aside the doorflap.

 
          
Aidan
was filled with emptiness. He was six years old once more, faced with adult
betrayal; the inability of anyone—even those who should—to understand the pain
that drove him so desperately. "Nothing," he murmured numbly.
"You give me nothing at all."

 
          
Burr's
jaw was clenched. "If I could, I would. But if your
lir
will not, who am I to do it?" He gazed at the link,
glowing wanly in the light. "I only know part of it."

 
          
Aidan
scooped up the link and rose, turning to face the
shar tahl
. Contempt shaded his tone. "What
do
you have for me?"

 
          
The
yellow eyes were kind. "My lord, my sympathy."

 
          
«
^
»

 
          
It
was dark when Aidan rode into Mujhara, well after sunset. He had come close to
staying one more night at Clankeep, but judged three enough; it was time he
tested his newfound "knowledge" regarding links, Mujhars, and
himself.

 
          
He
rode in through the massive gates of Homana-Mujhar, only vaguely acknowledging
salutes and greetings—he was too weary to offer more—and gave the dun into the
keeping of the horseboy who came running. Brief instructions passed on, Aidan
then went into the palace by way of the kitchens, studiously avoiding his
kinfolk, who would no doubt ask him questions he did not wish to address. He
was not yet in the mood. First things first.

 
          
Word
of his return would not be carried to the Mujhar or his parents once they had
retired for the night. Aidan kept himself to the kitchens, cadging meat, ale,
and bread from servants startled by his presence, until well after bedtime.
Then he sent Teel to his perch in private chambers, and went by himself to the
Great Hall.

 
          
Bootsteps
echoed as he walked the length of the firepit, dividing the hall in half from
dais steps nearly to the doors. As always, he took no lamp or candle; this was
better done in dimness, with only the summer-banked coals for light.

 
          
He
silenced his steps, and stopped. In the darkness, Aidan laughed: bitter irony.
Speaking with the Hunter had changed nothing for the better. Now the dream was
real even when he did not sleep.

 
          
He
stood, as he had stood so often, before the Lion Throne. In its seat was the
chain.

 
          
Aidan
linked hands behind his waist. "No
lir
,"
he declared. "Is that what makes the difference? You want me to come
alone?"

 
          
Nothing
answered him.

 
          
The
challenge faded away. Aidan sighed, smearing one palm against his brow hard
enough to stretch flesh. He was twitching from exhaustion, both mental and
physical; he had not slept very well in the three nights at Clankeep. "—tired,"
he said aloud. "Will you never let me rest?"

 
          
In
dim light, gold gleamed.