Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (59 page)

 
          
The
Hunter—the god—laughed. "Men believe we move in mysterious ways merely to
confuse the issue. No. We have reason for what we do. If we wrote it in stone,
most men would forget to read. If we showed ourselves to everyone the way we
have to you, we would therefore become commonplace, and consequently of no
importance. Gods must maintain some portion of mystery here and there, or the
awe and honor recedes, and nothing is ever done."

 
          
Aidan
had never thought about it that way.

 
          
The
Hunter picked a daub of mud from his leathers. "There are men and women in
the world who consider the gods little more than figments of imagination—for we
gave you that, as well—and little more than a mechanism by which some—those
quicker of wit and large of ambition—control others. It is a simple
explanation, and effective. There are also people in the world who lay
everything at the feet of a natural progression, denying our power, our
presence, our
existence
." He
shrugged. "They are welcome to disbelief."

 
          
"But
that is heresy," Aidan protested.

 
          
"Ignorance,"
the god corrected. "They are afraid. Puffed up with self-importance
because they believe strength lies in
not
requiring gods. They believe they have discovered Truth, and that it lies
elsewhere. Not in the palm of the gods." Smiling, the Hunter made the
Cheysuli gesture denoting
tahlmorra
.
"But it was we ourselves—gods, Aidan—who
gave
man self-rule and the ability to think for himself; therefore
we also allow him his petty heresies. It is an individual's personal decision
which afterworld he prefers—or none at all."

 
          
Aidan
felt battered. "But I have always believed."

 
          
"We
know that. And now you will benefit from it." The Hunter glanced away from
Aidan a moment, then smiled. A woman came through the low doorway: a small
gray-haired woman with magical eyes and a weaver's callused hands.

 
          
"Aidan,"
she said kindly, "you have been patient far beyond most men's
capabilities."

 
          
Shame
flared. "I have not. I have doubted, and feared, and railed. I have
questioned."

 
          
The
Weaver was unruffled by his admission. "Naturally," she agreed
calmly. "Men must always question. We gave them curiosity, and impatience,
and anger, and the need to know. You are a man; you are no different. But you
still have been very patient."

 
          
Aidan
felt on the verge of a great discovery. And he felt afraid. "So—now you
will tell me everything?"

 
          
"We
will give you the means with which to make your decision."

 
          
The
response was swift. "There is no need. I will do whatever you ask."

 
          
She
smiled, hands folded in a multicolored skirt woven of colorless yarn. "We
do not require blind obedience, though often it seems that way… and some would
go so far as to argue we do." She shook her head. "No. We require
sacrifice and hardship, but given and undertaken freely, because learning is
not accomplished without either."

 
          
"Have
I learned anything? Or nothing?"

 
          
There
was a sound at the tumbled entryway. "Surely you have learned
something
," remarked the Cripple as
he crutched into the chapel. "You have learned how easily a man can be
steered from the proper path by a woman."

 
          
Aidan
stared fixedly at the old man, marking again the creviced face, the shiny pate,
but mostly the missing right leg. It was as if the god had chosen to show
himself in the guise Aidan had seen first.

 
          
He
swallowed heavily, pulling himself back with effort. "Do you mean
Shona?" Dread rose up like a wave. "Are you saying I should
not
marry her?"

 
          
The
Cripple's dark eyes glinted. "We are saying no such thing. She has the
blood your House requires."

 
          
"Then
who do you—?" Heat bathed him. "Lillith."

 
          
The
old man leaned on his crutch. "Ashra warned you," he chided gently.
"She gave you good warning, and you chose not to heed it."

 
          
The
response was swift. "I was
lirless
."

 
          
"An
excuse."

 
          
"But
the
truth
. She used sorcery."

 
          
"No.
You
believed
she did, because you
stopped believing in yourself." The Cripple shook his head. "Lillith,
though indeed powerful, used nothing more than herself. With you, it was
sufficient."

 
          
Shame
suffused him. He was hot and cold at once, unable to look any of them in the
eye.

 
          
The
Cripple's tone softened. "But I will warrant you learned something from
it."

 
          
"
Aye
." The single word was
heartfelt. "You answered me. When I called. When I asked your
intercession. The chain." He filled his hands with heavy gold. "You
answered my petition."

 
          
The
Cripple was silent. The Weaver also said nothing. Aidan looked sharply at the
Hunter, trying to suppress apprehension so violent it knotted muscles and
belly.

 
          
The
brown man's tone was infinitely quiet. "Think what it means," he
suggested, "when a man can say he summons the gods at will."

 
          
Aidan
had no answer.

 
          
The
Hunter's eyes were steady. "Does it make
him
a god?"

 
          
"No!"

 
          
"Think,
Aidan. Surely it means something."

 
          
"It
means—" Sweat dampened his temples. Aidan wet dry lips. "It means
they have chosen him for something."

 
          
"And
does that make him better than anyone else?"

 
          
"No."

 
          
"Perhaps—different."

 
          
Resentment
shaped his tone. "You
want
me to
claim myself different, so you can shame me. So you can enforce humility."

 
          
The
Hunter laughed. "We are not
that
cruel, Aidan. Answer truthfully."

 
          
"Do
I think myself different?" Aidan looked from one to the other, to the
other. "Aye. Because I
am
."

 
          
The
Hunter idly inspected a cracked thumbnail. "And what will you do with your
difference?"

 
          
Suddenly
infinitely weary, Aidan sat down on a fallen stone. He could think of nothing
to say that would please them, or satisfy their convoluted examination, and so
he said nothing at all.

 
          
The
Weaver's blue eyes were bright. "At least you do not speak before you know
how," she observed dryly. "That is something."

 
          
"Something,"
the Crippled echoed. "I think he has become weary of us. I think he is
exercising his impatience."

 
          
"What
do you expect?" Aidan snapped. "You batter me with words and
innuendos, hinting at tasks and undertakings… do you think I will sit meekly by
waiting
forever
while you decide if I
am worthy for whatever new game you have developed since the last time we
spoke?" He glared at them. "What is the sense in bestowing self-rule
upon us, and curiosity, if we are not to use either?"

 
          
"Some
people do sit meekly by forever." The Cripple said mildly. "Everyone—and
everything—has its place in the Wheel of Life."

 
          
Aidan,
who had had this conversation with the Weaver, glanced at her. She did not
smile.

 
          
"Chained
warrior," the Hunter murmured.

 
          
"Chained
prince," added the Weaver.

 
          
"Chained
raven," ended the Cripple.

 
          
The
Hunter took it up. "Chains that bind a man; chains that free a man."

 
          
The
Weaver nodded once. "Bound, the life goes on. Broken, it is free."

 
          
The
Cripple smiled. "Which do
you
seek?"

 
          
Aidan
touched the chain. "I made it whole."

 
          
Dark
eyes were fathomless. "The choice was made freely?"

 
          
"Aye.
I chose it."

 
          
"Who
are you?" asked the Weaver intently.

 
          
"Aidan
of Homana." He looked at each of them. "Prince of Homana, after my
jehan
, who will be Mujhar. A warrior of
the clan. Cheysuli." He paused. "And very, very confused."

 
          
The
Hunter laughed. "The last is obvious. As for the others… well, your road
yet lies before you. You have not come as far down it as we had hoped."

 
          
Fear
flickered to life. "Not—?"

 
          
The
Weaver's voice was gentle. "There is still the task to be done."

 
          
Aidan
was on his feet. "
What task
?"
he shouted.

 
          
"And
the sacrifice to be made," agreed the Cripple, ignoring the outburst.
"But I think, when the time comes, he will make it freely."

 
          
Aidan,
angry and afraid, opened his mouth to ask another question. But he was all
alone in the chapel.

 
          
And
no wiser at all.

 
          
«
^
»

 
          
In
Hondarth they had purchased horses for themselves, and made arrangements for
Shona's baggage train to follow at a more sedate pace. Now, having covered the
distance between the port city and the crossroads near Mujhara, Blais looked at
Aidan.

 
          
"Which
way?"

 
          
"East.
That way." Aidan gestured. "Mujhara is west, but a few leagues up the
road. Clankeep, from here, will take you half a day."

 
          
Blais
shrugged. "I've waited twenty-two years to see it. Half a day won't tax
me."

 
          
Shona
shook her head. Around her mount, wolfhounds milled. "You should come with
us to Homana-Mujhar. There are kinfolk, and the Lion… can't you wait a day or
two before haring off to look for Teirnan?"

 
          
"
'Tis n't just that," Blais said quietly. "There's the Ceremony of
Honors, first, to celebrate my
lir
and warriorhood Cheysuli fashion, and to receive the gold I'm due." He
slanted a smile at Aidan. "
Then
I'll be 'haring off' to look for my father."

 
          
Aidan
frowned. "Forgive me if I offend, but who will be your
shu'maii
? You know no one in the clans…
unless you mean to name me."