Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (3 page)

 
          
She
saw his hands doubled up in a soaked nightrobe. She saw the urine stain.
Anguish flared anew—he felt it most distinctly, like a burning band thrust into
his spirit—but she said nothing of it. She merely knelt down at his side, putting
a hand on his shoulder. "Aidan—why are you here? Your nurse came, speaking
of a nightmare… but when I came, you were gone. What are you doing here?"

 
          
He
looked up into her face as she knelt down next to him. Into eyes green as
glass; green as Erinnish turf. " 'Tis gone," he told her plainly,
unconsciously adopting her accent.

 
          
She
wore blue velvet chamber robe over white linen night-shift. Her hair was
braided for sleeping: a single thick red plait, hanging down her back. "
What's
gone, my lad?"

 
          
"The
chain," he explained, though he knew she would not understand. No one
understood; no one
could
understand.

 
          
Sudden
anguish was overwhelming. He craved reassurance as much as understanding. The
former he could get. As the hated tears renewed themselves, he went willingly
into her arms.

 
          
She
pressed her cheek against his head, twining arms around small shoulders to
still the wracking sobs. "Oh, Aidan, Aidan… 'twas only a dream, my lad… a
wee bit of a dream come to trouble your sleep. There's no harm in it, I
promise, but you mustn't be thinking 'tis real."

 
          
"
'
Twas
real," he insisted, crying
hard into her shoulder. " 'Twas real—I
swear
…
and the Lion—the Lion meant to
eat
me—"

 
          
"Aidan,
no. Oh, my sweet bairn, no. There's naught to the Lion's teeth but bits of
rotting wood."

 
          
"
'Twas real—'twas
there
—"

 
          
"Aidan,
hush—"

 
          
"It
woke me up, calling…" He drew his head away so he could see her face, to
judge what she thought. "It wanted me to come—"

 
          
"The
Lion?"

 
          
Fiercely,
he shook his head. "Not the Lion—the
chain
—"

 
          
"Oh,
Aidan—"

 
          
She
did not believe him. He hurled himself against her, trembling from a complex
welter of fear, anguish, insistence: he needed her to believe him. She was his
rock, his anchor—if
she
did not
believe him—

 
          
In
Erinnish, she tried to soothe him. He needed her warmth, her compassion, her
love, but he was aware, if distantly, he also required something more.
Something very real, no matter what she said: the solidity of the chain in his
small-fingered child's hands, because it was his
tahlmorra
. Because he knew, without knowing why, the golden links
in his dreams bound him as fully as his blood.

 
          
A
sound: the whisper of leather on stone, announcing someone's presence. Pressed
against his mother, Aidan peered one-eyed over a velveted shoulder and saw his
father in the hall. His tall, black-haired father with eyes undeniably yellow,
feral as Aidan's own; a creature of the shadows as much as flesh and bone.
Brennan's dress was haphazard and the black hair mussed. Alarm and concern stiffened
the flesh of his face.

 
          
"The
nursemaid came—what is wrong?"

 
          
Aidan
felt his mother turn on her knees even as her arms tightened slightly.
"Oh, naught but a bad dream. Something to do with the Lion." Forced
lightness. Forced calm. But Aidan read the nuances. For him, a simple task.

 
          
The
alarm faded as Brennan walked to the dais. The tension in his features relaxed.
"Ah, well, there was a time it frightened
me
."

 
          
Aidan
did not wait. "I wanted the chain,
jehan
.
It called me. It
wanted
me… and I
needed
it
."

 
          
Brennan
frowned. "The chain?"

 
          
"In
the Lion. The chain." Aidan twisted in Aileen's arms and pointed. "
'Twas
there
," he insisted.
"I came to fetch it because it wanted me to. But the Lion swallowed
it."

 
          
Brennan's
smile was tired. Aidan knew his father sat up late often to discuss politics
with the Mujhar. "No one ever said the Lion does not hunger. But it does
not eat little boys. Not even little princes."

 
          
Vision
blurred oddly. "It will eat
me
.
. ."

 
          
"Aidan,
hush."

 
          
"
'Tis fanciful foolishness," Aileen admonished, rising to stand.
"We'll be having no more of it."

 
          
A
dark-skinned, callused hand was extended for Aidan to grasp. Brennan smiled
kindly. "Come, little prince. Time you were safe in bed."

 
          
It
was shock, complete and absolute.
They do
not believe me
, either
of them
—

 
          
His
mother and his father, so wise and trustworthy, did not
believe
him. Did not believe their
son
.

 
          
He
gazed blindly at the hand still extended from above. Then he looked into the
face. A strong, angular face, full of planes and hollows; of heritage and
power.

 
          
His
father knew everything. But if his father did not
believe
him.

 
          
Aidan
felt cold. And hollow. And old. Something inside flared painfully, then
crumbled into ash.

 
          
They will think I am
LYING.

 
          
It
hurt very badly.

 
          
"Aidan."
Brennan wiggled fingers. "Are you coming with me?"

 
          
A
new resolve was born.
If I tell them
nothing, they cannot think I am lying
.

 
          
"Aidan,"
Aileen said, "go with your father. 'Tis time you were back in bed."

 
          
Where I might dream again.

 
          
He
shivered. He gazed up at the hand.

 
          
"Aidan,"
Aileen murmured. Then, in a flare of stifled impatience, "Take him to bed,
Brennan. If he cannot be taking himself."

 
          
That
hurt, too.

 
          
Neither of them believe me.

 
          
The
emptiness increased.

 
          
Will
anyone
believe
me?

 
          
"Aidan,"
Brennan said. "Would you have me carry you?"

 
          
For
a moment, he wanted it. But the new knowledge was too painful. Betrayal was not
a word he knew, but was beginning to comprehend.

 
          
Slowly
he reached out and took the hand. It was callused, large, warm. For a moment he
forgot about the betrayal: the hand of his father was a talisman of power; it
would chase away the dreams.

 
          
Aidan
went with his father, followed by his mother. Behind them, in the darkness,
crouched the Lion Throne of Homana, showing impotent teeth.

 
          
He
clutched his father's hand. Inside his head, rebelling, he said it silently:
I want my chain
.

 
          
Gentle
fingers touched his hair, feathering it from his brow. " 'Twas only a
dream," she promised.

 
          
Foreboding
knotted his belly. But he did not tell her she lied. He wanted his mother to
sleep, even if he could not.

 
          
«
^
»

 
          
Deirdre's
solar had become a place of comfort to all of them. Of renewal. A place where
rank did not matter, nor titles, nor the accent with which one spoke: Erinnish,
Cheysuli, Homanan. It was, Aileen felt, a place where
all
of them could gather, regardless of differing bloodlines, to
share the heavy, unspoken bonds of heritage. It had nothing to do with magic,
breeding, or homeland. Only with the overriding knowledge of what it was to
rule.

 
          
She
knew what Keely would say;
had
said,
often enough, phrased in many different—and explicit—ways. That women had no
place in the male-dominated succession lining up for the Lion Throne. But
Aileen knew better. Keely would not agree—she seldom agreed with anything
concerning the disposition of women—but it was true. Women
did
have a place in the line of succession. As long as kings needed
queens to bear sons for the Lion, women would have a place.

 
          
Not
the place Keely—or others—might want, but it was something nonetheless. It made
women important, if for womb instead of brain.

 
          
Aileen's
womb had given Homana one son. Twin boys, enough to shore up Aidan's tenuous
place in the succession, were miscarried; the ordeal had left her barren. She
was, therefore, a princess of precarious reknown, and potentially threatened
future. Brennan would not, she knew, set her aside willingly—he had made that
clear—but there were others to be reckoned with besides the Prince of Homana.
He
was
only a prince; kings bore
precedence. And while the Mujhar showed no signs of concern regarding her son's
odd habits, she knew very well even Niall was not the sole arbiter. There was
also the Homanan Council. She was the daughter of a king, albeit the island was
small; nonetheless, she understood the demands of a kingship. The demands of a
council.

 
          
Only
one son for Homana. One son who was—different.

 
          
She
shivered. The solar was comfortable, but her peace of mind nonexistent. It was
why she had gone to Deirdre.

 
          
Aileen
stood rigidly before the casement in the solar with sunlight in her hair,
setting it ablaze. A wisp drifted near her eyes; distracted, she stripped it
back. The gesture was abrupt, impatient, lacking the grace she had mastered
after twenty-four years as Princess of Homana; twenty-four years as her aunt's
protegee, in blood as well as deportment.

 
          
She
folded arms beneath her breasts and hugged herself, hard. "I've
tried
," she said in despair.
"I've tried to understand, to believe 'twould all pass… but there's no
hiding from it now. It started in childhood… he thinks we're not knowing… he
believes he's fooled us all, but servants know the truth. They
always
know the truth—d'ye think they'd
keep it secret?" Her tone now echoed the rumors. "The heir to Homana
rarely spends a whole night in sleep—and he goes to talk to the Lion, to rail
against a
chair…
" She let it
trail off, then hugged herself harder. "What are we to do? I think he'll
never
be—right." Her voice broke on
the last word. With it her hardwon composure; tears welled into green eyes.
"What are we to do? How can he hold the throne if everyone thinks him
mad?"

 
          
Deirdre
of Erinn, seated near the window with lap full of yarn and linen, regarded
Aileen with compassion and sympathy. At more than sixty years of age she was no
longer young—brass-blonde hair was silver, green eyes couched in creases, the
flesh less taut on her bones—but her empathy was undiminished even if beauty
was. She knew what it was like to fear for a child; she had borne the Mujhar a
daughter. But Maeve, for all her troubles, had never been like Aidan. Her
niece's fears were legitimate. They all realized Aidan was—different.

 
          
Deirdre
knew better than to attempt to placate Aileen with useless platitudes, no
matter how well-meant. So she gave her niece the truth: " 'Twill be years
before Aidan comes close to inheriting. There is Brennan to get through first,
and Niall is nowhere near dying. Don't be borrowing trouble, or wishing it on
others."

 
          
Aileen
made a jerky gesture meant to dispel the bad-wishing, a thing Erinnish
abhorred. "No, no… gods willing—" she grimaced "—
or
their eternal
tahlmorras
—Aidan
will
be
old… but am I wrong to worry? 'Twas one thing to dream as a child—he's a grown
man now, and the dreams are worse than ever!"

 
          
Deirdre's
mouth tightened. "Has he said nothing of it? You used to be close, you and
Aidan—and he as close to Brennan. What has he said to you?"

 
          
Aileen's
expulsion of breath was underscored with bitterness. "Aidan? Aidan says
nothing. Aye, once we were close—when he was so little… but now he says
nothing. Not to either of us. 'Tis as if he cannot
trust
us—" She pressed the palms of her hands against temples,
trying to massage away the ache. "If I say aught to him—if I ask him what
troubles him, he tells me nothing. He
lies
to me, Deirdre! And he knows I know it. But does it change his answer? No, not
his… he is, if nothing else, stubborn as a blind mule."

 
          
"Aye,
well, he's getting that from both sides of his heritage." Deirdre's smile
was kind. "He is but twenty-three. Young men are often secretive."

 
          
"No—not
like Aidan." Aileen, pacing before the window, lifted a hand, then let it
drop to slap against her skirts. "The whole palace knows it… the whole
city
knows it—likely all of
Homana." She stopped, swung to face Deirdre, half-sitting against the
casement sill. "Some of them go so far as to say he's mad, mad as
Gisella."

 
          
"Enough!"
Deirdre said sharply. "Do you want to give fuel to such talk? You're
knowing as well as I there's nothing in that rumor. He could no more inherit
insanity than
I
did, or you."
She sat straighter in her chair, unconscious of creased linen. "He's
Erinnish, too, as well as Cheysuli… how d'ye know he's not showing a bit of
our
magic? There's more than a little in
the House of Eagles—"

 
          
Aileen
cut her off. "Oh, aye, I know… but the Cheysuli is so dominant I doubt our
magic can show itself."

 
          
Deirdre
lifted an eyebrow. "That's not so certain, I'm thinking, with your hair on
his head."

 
          
Aileen
grimaced, one hand drifting to brilliant locks. Aidan's was darker, but still
red; only the eyes were Cheysuli. "There's nothing about my son that
bespeaks Erinnish roots—he's as bad as any of
them
."

 
          
Deirdre's
smile was faint. "By 'them,' you're meaning Cheysuli?"

 
          
"Cheysuli,"
Aileen echoed, forehead creased in absent concern. "One moment they're all
so human… the next, they're
alien
."

 
          
"Aye,
well, they could say the same of us." Deirdre took up the forgotten
embroidery in her lap, examining it critically. Her skills faded year by year,
but not her desire. The worst thing about aging, she thought, was the inability
physically to do what her mind wanted. "I think women have made that
complaint many times before, whether the man in their bed is a shapechanger, or
nothing more than a
man
."

 
          
For
the first time Aileen smiled. She had never been beautiful, but beauty was not
what made her Aileen. The beauty of Erinn's eagles lay in vividness of spirit,
and a crude physical splendor. "You wouldn't be saying that of the
Mujhar."

 
          
"I
would," Deirdre retorted. "No doubt he's said it of me; no man
understands a woman."

 
          
Aileen's
brief smile faded. "Does a mother understand her son?"

 
          
Deirdre's
hands slowed. "I'll not say you've naught to think about, with Aidan, but
there's no madness in him. And there are worse things to a man than dreams;
worse things to a throne than a dreamer."

 
          
"I
wonder," Aileen murmured.

 
          
Deirdre
schooled her tone into idle inquiry. "What does Brennan say?"

 
          
"Nothing."
Aileen shifted on the sill, cocking one knee against the glazing so that her
weight was on the stone. "He feels it as much as I, but d'ye think he'll
admit it? Admit he doubts his son?" The line of her mouth flattened.
"When Aidan was little, and so sick, Brennan and I shared everything. But
Aidan withdrew, and then so did Brennan. There was nothing left between us.
Now, when he speaks of it at all, he says merely 'tis Aidan's
tahlmorra
to hold the Lion Throne."

 
          
Deirdre
sighed. "So says his birthright. But there are times, to my way of
thinking, they put too much weight on what they believe instead of on what they
feel."

 
          
"They
believe in the prophecy, each and every one of them." Then Aileen laughed.
Bitterness was manifest. "Except, of course, for Teirnan and his
a'saii
, lost in the woods of
Homana."

 
          
Deirdre's
mouth tightened. "Teirnan was a fool."

 
          
"You
only say that because he seduced your daughter… you're not caring a whit what
Teirnan thinks about anything else, after what he did to Maeve." Aileen
shifted restlessly, adjusting heavy skirts. "Maeve is happy now, in Erinn,
and perfectly safe—my son is neither, I'm thinking."

 
          
"Your
son will do well enough." Deirdre bit through a thread. "As you said,
Maeve is happy—and who would have thought
that
possible after what Teirnan did to her?" Deirdre sighed, untangling
colors. "I thank the oldfolk of Erinn for hearing a mother's pleas… Rory
Redbeard's a good man, and has made her a good husband."

 
          
"Since
he couldn't be having Keely." Aileen smiled briefly. "He wanted her,
you know. For all she was meant for Sean, and the Redbeard came here knowing…"
She let it trail off. "Maeve is nothing like Keely. If that was what Rory
wanted, he got something other than expected."

 
          
Deirdre
raised a brow. "By the time Keely and Sean sailed for Erinn, only a fool
would have thought he yet had a chance. After Teirnan's bastard was born, Rory
took Maeve for Maeve's
own
sake, not
as a replacement for Keely."

 
          
Aileen
laughed aloud. "There
is
no
replacement for Keely."

 
          
"And
no replacement for Aidan… the boy will be whatever it is he's meant to
be."

 
          
Brief
amusement fled. Aileen stared at her aunt. Deirdre's composure occasionally
irked, because she claimed so little herself. Just now, it made her want to
shatter it, even as she longed for Deirdre's serenity. It was a thing unknown
to her, with a son such as Aidan.

 
          
"There
is something wrong with him. There is something not
right
." Aileen stared at her aunt, daring her to disagree.
"Next time you see him," she said intensely, "look into his
eyes. Then ask yourself these questions: "Is my grandson happy? Is my
grandson
sane
?" "

 
          
Deirdre
stared, aghast. "I'd
never
do
such a thing!"

 
          
"Ask,"
Aileen suggested. "Better yet, ask
him
.
But don't listen to what he says—look in his eyes, instead. 'Tis where you'll
find the truth. Cheysuli eyes or no, 'tis where you'll find the truth."