Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (23 page)

 
          
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Hart
led Aidan back through empty halls and corridors, striding purposefully without
pause, and out into the bailey. He waited, smiling faintly, and after only a
moment horseboys came running from the stable block. A tall black stallion was
brought to Hart, saddled and waiting; a bay was given to Aidan.

 
          
"I
have a horse," he said.

 
          
Hart's
voice was bland. "Undoubtedly weary from the journey. Try this one
instead." He swung up and gathered reins into the only hand he had,
looking down patiently at Aidan. "What is it?"

 
          
Aidan
sighed and gave in. "The way you keep your castle…
su'fali
, you know I mean no disrespect, but when I came here no one
seemed perturbed by a stranger's presence. No one even asked if I was here to
see
you
, or merely a tradesman come
for business." He stroked the bay's nose. "And when I went into the
castle—"

 
          
"—no
one even bothered to ask who you were," Hart finished. "Aye, is it
not soothing? No servants underfoot, no 'my lord' this, 'my lord' that before
you can even think." He smiled down on Aidan. "I am not much like the
Mujhar, drowning in too-helpful servants, and little like my
rujho
, so weighed down by responsibility
that he can barely breathe. Protocol I find tedious… oh, I do what I must when
I must—Ilsa sees to that—but I am happiest with my children and the freedom to
be what I am." He swung the stallion gateward. "Do you plan to wait
all day? Dawn only lasts so long."

 
          
Hastily
Aidan mounted, settling into the bay. The stallion had a fiery eye, but his
manners were excellent. Aidan smiled with pleasure and turned him after the
black.

 
          
Hart
led him through the winding streets without apparent confusion—Aidan expected
none—and up toward the line of hills on the western outskirts of the city. When
at last they climbed to the summit, Aidan was suitably impressed. Whitewashed
buildings damp with dew glittered in the sunrise, pale pink and silver-gilt.
Skeins of woodsmoke drifted from gray stone chimneys, knotting and tearing
apart; Aidan was abruptly reminded of the Weaver's colorless yarns and the
brilliant tapestry.

 
          
He
shivered. One hand touched the two heavy links depending from his belt. Still
there. Still real. He had dreamed none of it.

 
          
"There,"
Hart said.

 
          
With
effort, Aidan took his hand away from the links. His palm was damp, but oddly
warm, as if the metal had warmed it. The sensation was unsettling.
Surreptitiously he wiped his hand against a leather-clad thigh, and looked for
what Hart indicated.

 
          
At
first he saw nothing; then a blot against the dawn. He squinted, trying to distinguish
pale blot from new daylight. White wings clove the air in powerful, graceful
sweeps, then flattened gently to soar.

 
          
"Rael,"
he murmured aloud.

 
          
The
dark-eyed hawk was magnificent. White edged with jet, each feather delineated.
He swept through the air with deceptive ease and grace, riding the currents of
dawn.

 
          
Through
the link there came a sardonic whisper. Aidan smiled, tilting his head. "
And
there."

 
          
Frowning,
Hart glanced over. "Where?"

 
          
"There."
Aidan pointed. "Not so large as Rael, perhaps, but feathered nonetheless.
His name is Teel."

 
          
Hart
looked, smiling. "Brennan wrote me when you received him… somewhat out of
the ordinary, I think—there has not been a raven
lir
for more than one hundred years. They tell stories about
him."

 
          
"Lorcha,"
Aidan agreed. "His
lir
died in
the
qu'mahlin
. And as for stories,
well…"He grinned. "I think Teel will inspire more. If not, he will
make his own."

 
          
Hart
tipped his head back as Teel, following Rael, sliced through the air. Then he
looked at Aidan. "How is my
rujho
?"

 
          
"Very
well—" Aidan began dutifully, then dismissed the platitudes. Hart knew
Brennan better than any. "Settled," he said quietly. "The rank
is heavy, aye, but he likes the responsibility. You know how he is… it makes
him feel needed."

 
          
Hart's
smile was faint. "He would make a good shepherd."

 
          
At
first he was astounded. Then Aidan laughed out loud; he had never heard his
father's competence phrased in quite that way. "Aye, so he would… and the
flock would prosper for it." He shifted in the saddle, leaning forward on
braced arms. "I know what you ask, without asking it." He did.
"How does the marriage go? Is my
jehan
happy? Is he content within himself?"

 
          
"All
of that, and more." Hart sighed, hooking reins over the pommel. The
leather cuff rested on one indigo-clad thigh. "He writes, of course, and
often—but it is not the same. There was always a private place in Brennan, a
place where he went away from everyone."

 
          
Aidan
was startled. "Even away from you?"

 
          
"I
think he believed I could not—or
would
not, more likely—understand what he felt." Hart's expression was
momentarily ashamed. "And I admit, I was not the most perceptive of
rujholli
. Twin-born, I understood him
better
—but not everything. Brennan and I
are different. He was always the shepherd—" briefly, he grinned "—and
I always the black lamb wandering too far from the flock."

 
          
"And
Corin was the dog?"

 
          
Hart
laughed. "Corin? No, not the
dog
…
more like the fox in the henyard, making trouble for the cook."

 
          
Aidan
shrugged. "Well, Kiri
is
a
fox."

 
          
Hart's
tone was solemn, though his eyes glinted amusement. "The gods are always
wise."

 
          
Aidan
looked for Teel, found him; the raven still circled, even as Rael.
Are they
? he asked intently.

 
          
Teel's
tone was bland.
You know them better than
I
.

 
          
"So,"
Hart said, "he and Aileen have made their peace at last."

 
          
Pulled
back out of the link, Aidan shrugged. "They were never at war."

 
          
"No,
but—"

 
          
"But?"
He raised ruddy brows. "Do you want me to tell you things my own father
has not told you?"

 
          
Hart
was unabashed. "If you know those things."

 
          
To
delay, Aidan plaited mane. He felt odd discussing his parents, even with his
uncle. The thing he now knew as
kivarna
made him far more perceptive than anyone else, yet also more intrusive. And now
Hart wanted answers to questions Aidan found discomfiting.

 
          
"They
are content enough," he said finally. "
Jehana
would be happier if there was another son, or two… but I am
in no danger of dying—at least, not as I used to be—and I think Council is no
longer so vocal about the Prince of Homana looking to another princess."

 
          
Hart
was aghast. "They would have asked it of him?"

 
          
"They
did. When I was young, and ill for the thousandth time." Aidan sighed and
looked across Lestra, frowning in recollection. "No one meant her
disrespect, of course… they promised a courtesy title and a generous yearly
pension, and all the honor due her. I think they hoped she would take herself
back to Erinn, so things would not be so awkward—"

 
          
Hart's
laugh was a curt bark of sound. "Brennan would never stand for that."

 
          
"No.
Nor did he. And now they know better." Aidan shrugged. "But I know it
troubles her. There are things other than a sickly childhood to threaten the
Prince's heir. Niall had
three
sons;
everyone, I think, would be happier with that."

 
          
Hart
said nothing for a long moment. The morning was loud with silence. Then,
quietly, "It must be especially difficult for you."

 
          
Aidan
looked at him sharply.

 
          
Hart
shrugged. "To know so many people crowded around your cradle, fearing you
would die… and even when you outgrew that, they still attached the
question
—" He sighed and rubbed at
red-rimmed eyes. "When they discussed your
jehana
, did no one think of you?"

 
          
It
was an odd thought. "Why should they think of me?"

 
          
Hart
looked squarely at him. "I grew up without a
jehana
—a true blood
jehana
—because
she was sent away. But it was made clear, at an early age, that Gisella was
quite mad. That she had done the unspeakable and tried to give her sons to
Strahan. Exiling her was just."

 
          
Uncomfortable,
Aidan waited.

 
          
Hart's
voice was very quiet. "But you grew up differently. You had a
jehana
—a true blood
jehana
—more than fit to claim the name. Yet they thought to send
her away because she bore only one son. And that devalued you. Surely you must
have known it—must have
felt
it."

 
          
Surely
he had.

 
          
Aidan
looked away, staring down into the city. After a moment, he cleared his throat.
"No one knew I knew. No one thought about the servants, talking among
themselves. I was very young… no one knew I was there."

 
          
"Did
you ever say anything to Brennan?"

 
          
"No."
Aidan unplaited the mane. "No. What was there to say?"

 
          
"To
Aileen?"

 
          
"No.
To no one."
Except to the Lion. And,
later, of course, to Teel
.

 
          
"No,
neither would I." Hart smiled at Aidan's startled glance. "We all of
us have our secrets. I will leave yours to you." He shifted in the saddle,
resettling himself. "For all they may have believed in the need for more
princes, they overlooked the obvious. Niall had two other realms to portion out
to extra sons. Brennan lacks the luxury, now that Solinde and Atvia
have
Cheysuli on the thrones. He would
find it much harder if there were more boys than you to place, like a hound
keeper with a litter much larger than expected."

 
          
Aidan
smiled back. "As hard as you do with four girls to marry off?"

 
          
It
hit home. Hart grimaced with a wry twist of his mouth. "Blythe would have
been enough… but after her there were the twins who died in the summer of
sweating fever—both girls—and then Cluna and Jennet. Next, Dulcie." Hart
smiled as a wisp of wind ruffled hair. "I would trade none of them—but how
does
a man deal with four
marriageable girls?"

 
          
"Well,
Dulcie is a
bit
young to count as
marriageable."

 
          
"Not
when it comes to royal fledglings." Hart sighed. "You have been very
fortunate. The eldest son—the heir—is always the most important in the scheme
of who marries whom. My poor
rujho
was betrothed to Aileen before either of them were born."