Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (32 page)

 
          
Ruddy
brows shot up. " 'A man true to the game'? Do you mean a man who has lost
control?"

 
          
Hart
scowled. "No."

 
          
Aidan
could not resist it. "A man true to
himself
wagers nothing of importance."

 
          
Hart's
scowl deepened. "Then what of those links on your belt? They serve no
useful purpose."

 
          
Tevis
nodded briefly. "I had wondered myself."

 
          
A
hand locked over the links. "No."

 
          
"Why
do you wear them,
harani
? Not for
ornamentation—"

 
          
Aidan
waved a hand. "I wear them because I want to. Here, if you are so hungry
for a wager…" He pushed out the few remaining coins he had. "There.
That will do. Small, perhaps, but a wager."

 
          
Hart
sighed and rattled the Bezat bowl. The game was run through; the result, this
time, was different.

 
          
"Hah!"
Tevis cried. "You see? The face of fortune turns at last to one more
deserving."

 
          
Glowering
at the young man, Hart pushed the proper amount of coin back across the table.
The sapphire ring on his finger glittered with icy fire; beside it rested the
fiery ruby signet of the kings of Solinde. Save for the gold on his arms and in
his left ear, the rings were the only jewelry Hart affected. The sapphire's
setting matched that of
Aldan
's
topaz, worked with tiny runes, and he recalled with a start that Hart was still
considered a prince in Homana.

 
          
Aidan
glanced at Tevis as he reached out to gather the coin. Like Hart, he wore a
sapphire ring; were they fashionable this year? But his was not so massive, and
the setting very new. The jet ring looked far older, set firmly in ancient
gold.

 
          
Hart
looked at Aidan intently. "You will have to play again."

 
          
"But
I lost,
su'fali
… and that was the
last of my coin."

 
          
Hart
grunted. "Brennan gives you a light purse."

 
          
Aidan
laughed and poured more wine. "He gives me all I need. I am not a
profligate spender."

 
          
"Well?"
Tevis asked. "How many in this game?"

 
          
"All
three," Hart declared. "I will stake Aidan to more gold."

 
          
"Just
so I can play?
Su'fali
, I swear, it
is not that important to me—"

 
          
"You
are my guest, and you will play." Hart's smile was charming. "I
refuse to be the sole loser on my son's naming day."

 
          
Aidan
dutifully lifted his cup. "To Prince Owain, may the gods grant him a good
tahlmorra
."

 
          
Hastily,
Tevis raised his as well. "Prince Owain," he echoed absently, looking
into the Bezat bowl. "Shall you stir?" He passed the bowl to Aidan.

 
          
Thus
invited, he stuck two long fingers into the bowl and stirred the contents,
rattling etched ivory against the rim. The game had mostly lost its appeal,
since he now risked another man's coin, but it was good manners to continue
when his uncle had been so generous. He only hoped he could win back enough to
cover the loaned coin, since he hated being in debt.

 
          
"Here."
Hart waited for Aidan to set down the bowl, then dipped in to draw out a piece.

 
          
They
played mostly in silence, commenting briefly on the draws, or muttering
dissatisfaction. Tevis' gaze was fixed on the bowl, but Aidan thought he did
not really see it; his eyes had the dazed look of a man lost in thought
elsewhere, no longer aware of his actions or surroundings. The skin of his face
seemed tauter than ever, as if he was ill or under strain, but there was no
other indication of his inattention.

 
          
"Tevis?"
Hart said.

 
          
Tevis
twitched on his stool. "My lord?"

 
          
"Yours
is the next draw. For Aidan."

 
          
"Ah."
He reached in, dug out the stone, turned it from one side to the other.
"Bezat," he said blankly. "The deathstone."

 
          
Hart
laughed at Aidan's resigned expression. "You lose! Now Tevis and I must
play this out—"

 
          
The
door was flung open. Dulcie's nursemaid stripped loose hair from her eyes.
"My lord—you must come at once—"

 
          
Frowning,
Hart pushed his stool away and rose. "Helda, what is it?"

 
          
"Oh,
my lord—the
baby—"

 
          
Hart
threw down his winecup. It rang against the table even as it spilled a
blood-red puddle onto polished wood. Aidan stood up so abruptly he overset his
stool, and went after Hart; Tevis, white-faced, dropped the death-stone into
the spreading wine and followed.

 
          
Aidan
arrived in the nursery but a moment after Hart pushed his way through the
crowding women. Ilsa was on her knees next to the cradle, clasping the
linen-swathed infant to her breast. Her eyes were empty of everything save a
harsh, horrible grief.

 
          
"Not
again," Hart murmured, and then swung frenziedly on them all.
"Out!" he shouted to the women. "All of you,
out
. At once."

 
          
Aidan
and Tevis moved aside as the women departed raggedly. Night-clad Blythe arrived
even as they left. "What is it?" she cried. Then, looking past to her
mother, "Oh, gods—not
Owain
—"

 
          
Ilsa
murmured down into the still bundle, seemingly unaware of Hart's presence. It
was not until he knelt down and touched her that she raised her eyes.

 
          
"
Meijhana
—"

 
          
"Dead,"
she said only.

 
          
With
trembling fingers, Hart peeled back the wrappings. He touched the face.
"Cold," he murmured blankly. "Cold and white as death—"

 
          
Blythe's
face was as white. "But he was well… earlier, at the ceremony… he was
well
—"

 
          
Hart's
hand shook as he cupped Ilsa's head. "Oh,
meijhana
, there is nothing I can say to make the pain softer for
you…"

 
          
What of you
? Aidan wondered numbly.
What of
your
pain, su'fali… a son and heir, born and unborn in the space of three
days
…

 
          
Tevis
murmured something. Then, more loudly, "He was my son. Mine, too… I was
second-father."

 
          
Blythe
reached for his arm, but he withdrew it. Slowly he moved toward the huddled,
grieving queen and the Cheysuli who knelt with bowed head, one large hand
grasping the tiny fingers of the son who would never rule in his father's
palace.

 
          
"Oh,
no," Blythe said brokenly. "He should not… he is not Cheysuli, and
does not understand about private grief—"

 
          
Aidan
did. He moved at once to intercept the Solindishman. "Tevis, no. Let it
wait. Come away, for now—" He put his hand on Tevis' arm. "Let the
first grief pass—"

 
          
Fingers
closed, then spasmed. It ran through Aidan like fire, setting bones ablaze even
as his blood turned to ice, still and dark and cold, so
cold
—

 
          
"You,"
he croaked. "
You—
"

 
          
Tevis'
eyes were black. "Put no hand on me."

 
          
"You—"
Aidan choked.

 
          
Even
Hart was drawn from his grief by the sound of Aidan's horror. He turned,
rising, clearly distracted.

 
          
The
kivarna
was blazing within him like a
pyre. In that moment Tevis' intentions were clear. "
You
killed the child!"

 
          
Blythe's
voice was shrill. "Are you mad? Why would
Tevis—
?"

 
          
Hart
grabbed Aidan's arm and jerked him around. "What are you saying?"

 
          
"It
was Tevis," Aidan declared. The truth was so clear to him—could none of
them see it? Feel it, as he did? "It was
Tevis—
"

 
          
The
Solindishman's face was white. "I am his second-father. I am sworn to him,
to protect him—and you say I
killed
him?"

 
          
Hart's
voice was harsh. "Aidan, this is nonsense… Tevis has been with us for
hours."

 
          
Aidan
was shaking. "I know it. I know it.
I
feel
it—" The final shred of disbelief dissolved the remaining vestige
of Tevis' shield. "By the gods—
Mini—"

 
          
"Are
you
mad
?" Blythe cried.

 
          
The
barriers were gone. Aidan sensed the seething ambition and raw power in the
man, the tremendous upsurge of
so much
power, barely bridled; and hatred, so much hatred;
too much
hatred and power and absolute dedication to the service of
a god no one else dared worship.

 
          
Tevis
lifted a hand. Around his fingers danced the faintest glow of flame, cold
purple flame;
godfire
at his
fingertips, revealing all too clearly what he was. As, now, he intended.

 
          
"Wait,"
he said softly.

 
          
Perversely,
Aidan wanted to laugh. "Ihlini," he said again, wondering at his
blindness. How could he not have known? How could the Cheysuli blood in him not
know, or the Erinnish
kivarna
? He of
all people—

 
          
"Aye,"
Tevis spat between his teeth. "Child of the gods; child of prophecy—
like you
!"

 
          
"He
was a baby!" Hart shouted. "A helpless infant! What purpose does it
serve to end
his
life?"

 
          
"Because
I must end
all
the lives," Tevis
snapped. "Each and every life I can find—each and every seed—"

 
          
"Tevis,"
Blythe whispered.

 
          
"—until
there are no seeds left, save ours." Tevis cast a malignant glance at
Hart. "Had you left his son unborn, you would not now know this grief. It
is your fault, my lord of Solinde… to save the lady this pain, you had only to
do one thing."

 
          
Aidan
heard the sluggish distraction in Hart's voice. Shock was starting to distance
him from a reality he could not face. "One thing—?"

 
          
Tevis
smiled. "Name me your heir, my lord. Put me on the throne after you—"

 
          
"No!"
Blythe cried. "Oh, gods—
no—NO—"

 
          
"Ah,"
Tevis remarked. "She has only just realized the man she slept with is
Ihlini. A Cheysuli and Ihlini, in carnal congress… just as the prophecy
warned."

 
          
Ilsa,
forgotten, rose slowly. Her face was ravaged by grief, but it diminished none
of her intensity. "Your war has been with adults, Ihlini—always. Why now
do you turn to a child? What harm could he do you?"