Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (41 page)

 
          
Ashra
was very calm. "Siglyn speaks dreams."

 
          
"He
speaks
—?" But Aidan shook his
head. "No insult intended, but I do not need a road magician's tricks—"

 
          
"And
I'll give you none," snapped Siglyn. "I speak truths, not
falsehoods."

 
          
Truths
and falsehoods. Much as Teel had mentioned. Aidan looked across the fire at the
old man. Shadows and firelight warred in his face, making planes and hollows
and creases. The rheumy eyes were bright. The challenge in them implicit.

 
          
Aidan
nodded once. "Speak my dreams," he said. "Divide the falsehoods
from the truths."

 
          
The
old man smiled. "First there is Tye, and Ashra. Then I will speak your
dreams."

 
          
«
^
»

 
          
Tye
brought his lute from the wagon and seated himself on his blanket across the
fire from Aidan. The instrument was delicate, of a pale blond wood with ivory
pegs and inlay. In firelight, fragile sinew strings glowed gold.

 
          
Slender
hands caressed the wood and strings though no sound was emitted. The lute
waited. "Will you hear me, Homanan?"

 
          
Not
Cheysuli. Frowning, Aidan nodded.

 
          
"Will
you
listen
, Homanan?"

 
          
He
wanted to protest; did not. He nodded yet again.

 
          
Notes
ran from the lute like water, clear and cool and sweet. It sang of tenderness
and joy, love and dark hatred, astonishment and acceptance. The sounds pinned
Aidan to his skins, then flayed him until his spirit vibrated with the richness
of its song. And then the lute-song, dying away, became nothing more than
accompaniment to the human instrument.

 
          
Tye
sang in a true baritone almost at odds with his beauty, for Aidan had expected
a tenor. But the baritone was clear and effortlessly eloquent, swinging down to
caress the top range of a skilled bass, then soaring upward to drift across the
sweet register of the finest tenor. Tye's magic was manifest.

 
          
Aidan
stared into the fire until it burned away his sight. He saw colors inside his
head. And then a shadow crossed his vision, blotting out the fire, and he saw
Ashra begin to dance.

 
          
She
wore bright layered skirts of green and red and gold, and a snug black leather
jerkin that displayed full breasts and narrow, curving waist. She knotted
slender hands in tangled ringlets and lifted them until they cascaded down her
shoulders and back. She tipped back her head, baring an exquisite throat, and
Tye's song abruptly turned from the grace of illusion to the driving notes of
seduction. When Ashra danced, the Wheel of Life stopped turning.

 
          
Aidan
found he could not breathe. A brief, warning tickle touched the back of his
consciousness, reminding him Ashra was Tye's woman, but he was vividly aware of
a new and perverse side of his nature promising him he could brush Tye aside
like a gnat. He had been intrigued by Ashra from the first, from the
very
first; he had respected the bond
between singer and dancer, but that respect was coming undone as he watched her
now. He could not help himself: he wanted Ashra badly.

 
          
She
came to him. Hair hung to her waist, tumbling as she moved, clinging to breasts
and hips. She bent, touched him, took his hands into hers. Her touch set him
afire.

 
          
Black
eyes promised him all he wanted and more. Ashra's smile was for him, for him
alone; Tye no longer mattered. And when she drew him up, first to his knees,
then to his feet, he allowed it; he wanted it;
needed
it.

 
          
"Come,"
Ashra whispered.

 
          
She
led him from his pallet of skins to the bare earth before the old magician.
Dully, Aidan stared down at him; he wanted, at this moment, nothing to do with
Siglyn or his dream speaking. He wanted only Ashra.

 
          
"Come,"
she said again, and took him to the ground. He knelt there willingly, because
she requested it.

 
          
The
old man's eyes were very bright. "Sit you there," he said. "Do
nothing, save what I tell you."

 
          
Aidan,
still lost in lute-song and lust, merely nodded.

 
          
Ashra
withdrew. The old man put his hands on Aidan's head, cradling his jaw as one
might a child's, or a woman's. The palms were rough-textured from age, but the
wiry fingers were strong. Aidan stared into rheumy blue eyes, because he had no
other choice.

 
          
"Son
of the forests, son of the cities, son of the sunlight and darkness,"
Siglyn said softly. "Warrior and prince, skeptic and adept. You are more
than many, and less than what you must be. And you dream…"

 
          
Aidan
sucked in a sudden breath, because he had forgotten. He was aware the music had
died, and Ashra no longer danced. She stood behind him, while Tye sat silent as
stone upon his blanket, holding the moon-bleached lute.

 
          
"You
dream of chains," Siglyn said. "Chains that bind a man; chains that
set him free. Bound, the life continues; broken, it is freed. Which do you
seek?"

 
          
"It
breaks," Aidan blurted. "Always. I have only to touch it—"

 
          
"Do
you wish it to break?"

 
          
"Wishing
makes no difference. It simply
breaks
—"

 
          
Siglyn's
hands tightened. "Chained warrior; chained prince; chained raven. That is
what I see."

 
          
Aidan
swallowed painfully. "If I broke it… if I broke the chain, would I be
free?"

 
          
"That
is not for me to say."

 
          
"But
you said the life is freed if the chain is broken."

 
          
Siglyn
removed his hands. "Did I say such a thing? Or did you perceive it?"

 
          
Aidan's
blurted laugh was hollow. "I could not even begin to tell you."

 
          
"But
I can begin to show you. And if you wish it, I will."

 
          
Aidan's
head came up. "What is the cost?" he demanded. "There always
must be a price."

 
          
"Of
course there is," Siglyn agreed. "Nothing is gained without risk;
nothing is learned without cost; nothing is given without a price. The gods
exact a heavy toll."

 
          
"And
you, old man? What do you expect?"

 
          
The
old man laughed. "Paying the price without knowing the cost is a part of
learning. The choice—and the risk—is yours."

 
          
Aidan
knelt in dirt with the fire—and Ashra—at his back, conscious of an almost
overpowering sense of futility. He could not deal with this; could not
comprehend the riddles he was expected to anticipate and answer. He could only
sit helplessly before an old Ihlini magician and shake his head.

 
          
"Tell
me," he rasped. "Show me. I will accept the cost."

 
          
Blue
eyes narrowed. "Willingly?"

 
          
He
drew in a deep breath and blew it out as quickly. "It is a part of my
tahlmorra
. I am required to do it
willingly."

 
          
"Tye,"
Siglyn said, but his eyes never left Aidan's face.

 
          
Tye
rose, set down his lute, and crossed the fire's shadow. He knelt at Aidan's
side. Briefly he worked at his belt, a snake of hammered links lying flat
against his hips, gilded by firelight. He gave it into Siglyn's hands.

 
          
The
belt was of poor workmanship. Aidan, looking at it, saw where the hammer had
crushed a link too flat, beveled another too crooked, crimped the gilt entirely.
Even its gilding was false, shedding itself in Siglyn's hands.

 
          
But
the old man smiled. He lifted the belt and threw it into the fire. "Fetch
it out," he said.

 
          
Aidan
blinked. "Out of
there
?"

 
          
"You
agreed to do as I said, no matter what the cost."

 
          
"And
this is the price? I am to burn the flesh from my bones?"

 
          
"Do
as I say."

 
          
The
vestiges of distrust rekindled. "How do I know this is not an Ihlini
trick?"

 
          
Siglyn's
teeth showed. "You do not."

 
          
Aidan
glanced at Tye, who knelt next to him. The smooth dark face was expressionless,
the green eyes averted. Tye merely waited.

 
          
Ashra
moved from behind Aidan and walked to Siglyn's side. Like Tye's, her face was
curiously blank, but her eyes were not averted. They bored into Aidan's. They
did not beseech, but he knew himself seduced.

 
          
Briefly,
he considered
lir
-shape. A raven
might slip into the flames quickly and retrieve an object without risking much
of himself, but Aidan knew the belt was too heavy. The only way he could fetch
it out, as Siglyn required, was to reach into the flames and lift it.

 
          
He
turned, and knelt on one knee by the fire. It was not so large a fire that it
might threaten his life, but nonetheless it would hurt. If he were quick
enough, he might singe only the hair on his hand and arm, but the hot metal
would surely sear his hand. And he had only recently gotten back the use of
both.

 
          
I was told there was a task. Perhaps this is
it.

 
          
Aidan
set his jaw so hard his teeth ached. Then he reached into the fire.

 
          
He
plunged his left hand down through the flames into coals, grabbing for the
belt. His fingers found the heated links and caught them up, dragging the belt
from the fire. He spun around and dropped it in the dirt in front of Siglyn,
nursing his hand against his chest.

 
          
"Are
you burned?" the old man asked.

 
          
Aidan
opened his mouth to shout of course he was burned—and then realized there was
no pain. He held out his hand and saw unblemished flesh. He had not singed a
single hair.

 
          
Siglyn
nodded. "You put your hand into the flames, fully expecting it to be
burned. It matters little the flames were not real… only that you
believed
them real—and still performed
the task." He nodded again. "There is some hope for you yet."

 
          
Aidan
stared at Tye's belt in the dirt. The cheap gilt paint had burned away, leaving
base metal bared. It was, he thought bitterly, analagous to himself.

 
          
Siglyn
reached down and lifted the belt. He took an end into either hand, stretching
it, then snapped the links flat. Metal cracked, then flaked away. In silence,
the old man tied knots in the cheap metal belt. Four of them. And as he snapped
the knotted belt a second time, the knots became joined links of purest,
flawless gold.