Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 (27 page)

           
"Hurry," Corwth suggested.
He turned away in an elaborate swirl of heavy cloak.

           
"Ku'reshtin," Kellin
muttered.

           
Silence answered him.

           
Corwyth's companions escorted Kellin
to his horse when it was time to ride on. Corwyth met him there. "You may
ride upright, if you like.

           
Surely it will prove more
comfortable than being tied onto a saddle."

           
Kellin gritted teeth. "What
will it cost me?"

           
"Nothing at all, I think—save
perhaps respect for my magic." Corwyth caught Kellin's wrists before he
could protest. The Ihlini gripped tightly, crossed one wrist over the other,
and pressed until the bones ached in protest. "Flesh into flesh, Kellin,
Nothing so common as rope, nor so heavy as iron, but equally binding." He
took his hands away, and Kellin saw the flesh of his wrists had been seamlessly
fused together.

           
Gods— Immediately he tried to wrench
his wrists apart but could no more do that than rip an arm from his body. His
wrists had grown together at the bidding of the Ihlini.

           
He could not help himself: he gaped.
Like a child betrayed, he stared at his wrists in disbelief so utterly
overwhelming he could think of nothing else.

           
My own flesh— It sent a shudder of
repulsion through his body. My heart, now this . .. what will Lochiel do?

           
"A simple thing," Corwyth
said easily. Then he signaled to his companions. "Help him to mount his
horse. I doubt he will resist." Corwyth moved away, then hesitated as if
in sudden thought, and swung back. "If he does, I shall seal his eyelids
together."

           
They rode north, toward the
Bluetooth
River
, where they would cross into the Northern Wastes and then climb over
the
Molon
Pass
down into Solinde, the birthplace of the Ihlini, and on to Valgaard
itself. Kellin had heard tales of the Ihlini fortress and knew it housed the
Gate of Asar-Suti.

           
It was, Brennan had said, the Ihlini
version of the Womb of the Earth deep in the foundations of Homana-Mujhar.

           
Kellin rode upright with precise,
careful posture, trying to keep his torso very still. His legs conformed to the
shape of saddle and horse, but his hands did not control the horse. The reins
had been split so that each of Corwyth's companions—minions?—led the prisoner's
mount. Corwyth rode ahead.

           
They kept to the forest tracks,
avoiding main roads that would bring them into contact with those who might
know the Prince of Homana. Kellin doubted anyone would recognize him. His face was
welted and bruised, his lower lip split and swollen. He stank of dried sweat
mixed with a film of grit and soil, and leaves littered his hair. Little about
him now recommended his rank.

           
Snow crackled in deep shadows,
breaking up beneath shod hooves. As afternoon altered to evening, the
temperature dropped. Kellin shrugged more deeply into his cloak as his breath
fogged the air.

           
When at last they halted, it was
nearly full dark.

           
Kellin was so sore and weary he
thought he might topple off the horse if he so much as turned his head. Let
them see none of it. Slowly he kicked free of stirrups, slung a leg across the
saddle, and slid from his mount before the Ihlini could signal him down; a
small rebellion, but successful.

           
He made no attempt to escape because
to try was sheerest folly. Better to bide his time until his strength returned,
then wait for the best moment.

           
Just now all he could do was stand.

           
Kellin leaned against the horse a
moment to steady himself, flesh cold beneath a film of newborn perspiration. He
shivered. Disorientation broke up the edge of consciousness. Weariness,
perhaps—

           
Or—? He stilled. Sorcery? Corwyth's
attempt to tease me?

           
One of the minions put his hand on
Kellin's shoulder; he shrugged it off at once. The rebuke came easily in view
of who received it. "No one is permitted to touch the Prince of Homana
without his leave."

           
Corwyth, dropping off his own mount,
laughed in high good humor. "Feeling better, are we?"

           
Kellin felt soiled by the minion's
touch. An urge to bare his teeth in a feral snarl was suppressed with effort.
He swung from the black-eyed man, displaying a taut line of shoulder.

           
Corwyth pointed. "There."

           
Kellin lingered a moment beside his
horse. His head felt oddly packed and tight, so that the Ihlini's order seemed
muted. A second shiver wracked his body, jostling aching bones. Not just
cold-more—

           
"Sit him down," Corwyth
said, but before the minion could force the issue, Kellin sat down by himself.
"Better." Corwyth tended his own mount as his companions tended
Kellin's.

           
Kellin itched. It had nothing to do
with bruises and scrapes, because the itching wasn't in his skin but in his
blood. Flesh-bound hands flexed, curling fingers into palms, then snapping out
straight again.

           
He could not eat, though they gave
him bread, nor could he drink, because his throat refused to swallow. Once
again he leaned against a tree, but this time he needed its support even more
than before. He felt as if all his bones were soft, stripped of rigidity. His
spirit was as flaccid.

           
He shifted against wood, grimaced in
discomfort, then shifted again. He could not be still.

           
Just like in Homana-Mujhar. He fixed
his eyes on Corwyth, who sat quietly by a small fire. "Was it you who
drove me from the palace?"

           
"Drove you?"

           
"With sorcery. Was it
you?"

           
Corwyth shrugged. "That
required neither magic nor skill. I know your habits. You gamble, you drink,
you whore. All it required was the proper time."

           
Kellin shifted again, hiding
flesh-bound wrists beneath a fold of his cloak because to look on them was too
unsettling. "You set the trap. I put myself into it."

           
The Ihlini smiled. "A happy
accident. It did save time."

           
"Accident? Or my
tahlmorra?"

           
That provoked a response. "You
believe the gods might have planned this? This?" Corwyth's surprise was
unfeigned. "Would the Cheysuh gods risk the final link in the prophecy so
willingly?"

           
Kellin scowled. "Who can say
what the gods would do? I despise them ... they have done me little good."

           
Corwyth laughed and fed a stick to
the flames.

           
"Then perhaps this is their
doing, if you and the gods are on such bad terms."

           
Kellin shivered again. "If
Lochiel knows so much about me, surely he knows I have already sired children.
Why kill me now? Before, certainly—to prevent the precious seed from being
sown—but now it is too late. The seed is well sowed."

           
"Three children," Corwyth
agreed. "But all bastards, and none with the proper blood. Halfling brats
gotten on Homanan whores." He shrugged elegantly. "Lochiel only fears
the Firstborn child."

           
Kellin stilled. Was it a weapon?
"Lochiel is afraid?"

           
Corwyth's expression was solemn.
"Only a fool would deny he fears this outcome. I fear it. Lochiel fears
it. Even the Seker fears fulfillment." Flames illuminated his face. It was
starkly white in harsh light, black in hollowed contours. "Have you never
thought what fulfillment will bring?"

           
Kellin laughed. "A beginning
for the Cheysuli. An ending for the Ihlini."

           
Flames consumed wood. A pine knot
cracked, shedding sparks. Corwyth now was solemn. "In your ignorance, you
are certain."

           
"Of course I am certain. It has
been promised us for centuries."

           
"By the very gods you
despise." Corwyth did not smile, nor couch his words in contempt. "If
that is true, how then can you honor their prophecy?"

           
Kellin licked a numb lip. His body
rang with tension, as if he were a harp string wound much too taut on its pegs.
"I am Cheysuli."

           
"That is your answer?"
Corwyth shook his head.

           
"Perhaps you are more Cheysuli
than you believe, even lirless as you are. Only fools such as your people
dedicate themselves to the fulfillment of a mandate that will destroy
everything they know."

           
Kellin's mouth twisted. "I have
heard that old tale before. When the Ihlini cannot win through murder or
sorcery, they turn to words. You mean to undermine our customs."

           
"Of course I do!" Corwyth
snapped. "And if you had any wit to see it, you would understand why.
Indeed, the prophecy will destroy Ihlini such as myself ... but it will also
destroy the Cheysuli." He extended an empty hand. "The prophecy of
the Firstborn will close its fist around the heart of the Cheysuli, just as I
did yours, and stop it." He shut his hand. "Just like this."

           
It was immediate. "No."
Kellin twitched, then rolled his head against bark. "You play with words,
Ihlini."

           
"This is not play. This is
truth. You see me as I am: a man, not an Ihlini, but simply a man who fears the
ending of his race in the ascendancy of another."

           
"Mine," Kellin agreed.

           
"No." Corwyth placed
another stick on the fire.

           
His gloved hand shook. "The
ascendancy is that of the Firstborn." In firelight his eyes were hidden by
deep pockets of shadow. "Your child. Your son. When he accepts the Lion,
the new order replaces the old."

           
"Your order."

           
Corwyth smiled faintly. "Tell
me," he said, "is your prophecy complete? No—I do not speak of the
words all of you mouth." His tone was ironic.

           
" 'One day a man of all blood
shall unite, in peace, four warring realms and two magical races.' What I speak
of is the prophecy itself in its entirety. It was passed down century after
century, was it not?"

           
"The shar tahls make certain of
that."

           
"But do they know the whole of
it? Do they have record of it?"

           
"Written down?" Kellin
frowned. "Such things can be lost if not entrusted to shar tahls in an
oral tradition."

           
Corwyth nodded. "Such things
were lost, Kellin. I know very well what the shar tahls teach are mere
fragments .. . pieces of yarn woven together into a single skein. Because that
is all they know. In the schism that split the Firstborn into Cheysuli and
Ihlini, very little was left of the dogma on which your future hangs." He
shook his head. "You know nothing of what may come, yet you serve it
blindly. We are not such fools."

           
Kellin said nothing.

           
The Ihlini pulled his dark cloak
more closely around his shoulders. "This profits nothing. I will leave it
to my lord to prove what I say is true." Corwyth glanced at his
companions. "I will leave it to Lochiel, and to Asar-Suti."

           
Kellin shivered. Lochiel will kill
me. Not for myself, For the child. For the seed in my loins.

           
In the scheme of the gods he
detested, it seemed he counted for very little.

           
Kellin watched the three Ihlini
prepare to sleep.

           
Though his wrists remained sealed,
he was certain something more would be done to insure he could not escape.
Perhaps Corwyth would seal his eyelids, or stop his heart again.

           
But Corwyth did not even look at his
captive.

           
The sorcerer quietly went about his
business, pacing out distances. Each time he halted, he sketched something in
the air. The rune glowed briefly purple, then died away.

           
Wards, Kellin knew. To keep him in,
and others out.

           
He watched them lie down in their
cloaks. Three dark-shrouded men, sorcerers all, who served a powerful god no
sane man could possibly honor.

           
Unless there is something to what
Corwyth says.

           
But Kellin shut off the thought.
Corwyth's declarations of a separate Ihlini prophecy—or of the Cheysuli one
entire—was nothing but arrant nonsense designed to shake Kellin's confidence.

           
But one telling question had been
posed. How do I Justify serving the prophecy for gods I cannot honor?

           
Kellin shivered. He did not attempt
to sleep. He sat against the tree, wrists still bound by flesh, and tried to
think himself warm, tried to ease his mind so it did not trouble itself with
questionings of Cheysuli customs.

           
But why not? It was a Cheysuli
custom that killed Blais, not an Ihlini.

           
Heresy.

           
Is it?

           
Kellin inhaled carefully, held his
breath a moment as he expanded cramped lungs, then blew the air out again in a
steady, hissing stream. He stared across the dying fire to the three cloaked
shapes beyond. To Corwyth in particular. Kellin knew very well the Ihlini
worked merely to undermine his own convictions, which would" in turn
undermine a spirit that might yet protest its captivity; he was not stupid
enough to believe there was no motive in Corwyth "s contentions. But his
mind was overactive, his thoughts too restless; even when he tried to think of
nothing at all, an overabundance of somethings filled his head.

           
It is a long Journey to Valgaard.
The trick is to lure them into a false sense that I will attempt nothing.

           
A mountain cat screamed. The
nearness of the sound was intensely unnerving. Kellin sat bolt upright and
immediately regretted it. He reached for his knife and realized belatedly he
had none, nor the freedom of hands to use it.

           
The scream came again from closer
yet, shearing through darkness and foliage. Corwyth and the others, too, were
up, shaking cloaks back from shoulders and arms. Corwyth said something in a
low voice to the others—Kellin heard Lochiel's name mentioned—then scribed a
shape in the air.

           
Runes flared briefly, then went
down. Corwyth's men were free to hunt.

           
Kellin could not remain seated. He
climbed awkwardly to his feet and waited beside the tree.

           
The cat's voice lacked the
deep-chested timbre of the lion's, but its determination and alien sound echoed
the beast that had haunted so much of Kellin's life.

           
Corwyth spared him a glance, as if
to forestall any attempt on Kellin's part to escape. But Kellin was no more
inclined to risk meeting the cat than he was to prompt Corwyth to use more
sorcery on him.

           
The Ihlini bent and put new kindling
on the fire, then waved a negligent hand; flames came to life.

           
"The noise is somewhat discomfiting,"
he commented, "but even a mountain cat is not immune to sorcery. I will
have a fine pelt to present my master."

           
It seemed an odd goal to Kellin, in
view of his own value and Lochiel's desire for his immediate company. "You
would take the time to kill and skin a cat?"

           
"Lochiel has an affinity for
mountain cats. He says they are the loveliest and most dangerous of all the
predators. Fleet where a bear is slow; more devious than the wolf; more
determined than a boar. And armed far more effectively than any man
alive." Corywth smiled. "He keeps them in Valgaard, in cages beneath
the ground."

           
A fourth scream sounded closer yet.
Even Corwyth got to his feet.

           
A shudder wracked Kellin. "What
is—" he grittened his teeth against another assault. "—ku'reshtin—"
he managed. "What threat do I offer?"

           
Corwyth cast him a glance.
"What inanities do you mouth?"

           
A third shudder shook him. Kellin
gasped. His bones were on fire. "What are you—"

           
Lir, said a voice, the wards are
down. I have done what I could to lead the others astray. Now it is up to you.

           
He understood then. "No!"
Kellin cried. "I want none of you!"

           
I am your only escape.

           
Corwyth laughed. "You may want
none of me, but I have you nevertheless."

           
Kellin was not talking for the
Ihlini's benefit.

           
What consumed him now was the
knowledge his lir was near. If he gave in, it would win. And he would be no
freer than any other Cheysuli bound by oaths and service.

           
He wavered on his feet. /I renounced
you. I want no part of you.

           
Would you rather go to Valgaard and
let Lochiel destroy you? The tone was crisp. His methods are not subtle.

           
His spirit screamed with need. The
lir was close, so close—he had only to give in, to permit the channel to be
opened that would form a permanent link.

           
He repudiated it. I will not permit
it.

           
Then die. Allow the Ihlini to win.
Remove from the line of succession the prince known as Kellin, and destroy the
prophecy.

           
He gritted his teeth. I will not pay
your price.

           
There is no other escape.

           
It infuriated him. Kellin brought
his flesh-bound hands into the moonlight. A test, then, he challenged.

           
The lir sighed. You believe too
easily what the Ihlini tells you to. His art is in illusion. Banish this one as
you banished the lion.

           
Kellin stared hard at his wrists.
The skin altered, flowing away, and his wrists were free of themselves.

           
Corwyth marked the movement. He
turned sharply, saw the truth, and jerked the knife from his belt.

           
"The wards are down,"
Kellin said, "and your minions bide elsewhere. Now it is you and I."

           
You will have to kill him, lir. He
will never let you go.

           
"Go away," Kellin said.
"I want nothing to do with you."

           
Corwyth laughed. "Is this your
attempt at escape? To bait me with babbled nonsense?"

           
You must kill him.

           
He wanted to shout at the lir. He is
armed, Kellin said acidly. He is also Ihlini.

           
And has recourse to no arts now that
I am here.

           
We have not bonded. I will not
permit it.

           
The tone was implacable. Then die.

           
"Come out!" Kellin
shouted. "By the gods, I will fight you both!"

           
Corwyth's laughter grated.
"Have you gone mad? Or do you use this to bait me?"

           
Distracted by a battle fought on two
fronts, Kellin glared. "I need no lir for you. I will take you as a
man."

           
"Do try," Corwyth invited.
"Or shall I stop your heart again?"

           
He cannot, the lir declared. While I
am here, such power is blunted.

           
Then why do I hear you? Near an
Ihlini, the link is obscured.

           
You forget who you are. There is
that within you that breaks certain rules.

           
"My blood?" Kellin jeered.
"Aye, always the blood!"

           
Old Blood is powerful. You have it
in abundance.

           
The voice paused. Have you not read
the birthlines lately?

           
"Do you want your blood
spilled?" Corwyth asked. "I can do that for you ... Lochiel will not
punish me for that."

           
Kill him, the lir said. You are
weary and injured. He will defeat you even without sorcery.

           
Kellin laughed. With what? My teeth?

           
Those are your weapons, among
others. The tone was dryly amused. But mostly there is your blood. If a man's
form does not serve, take on another.

           
Yours? But I do not even know what
animal you are!

           
You have heard me. Now hear me
again. The scream of a mountain cat filled the darkness but a handful of paces
away.

           
Corwyth's face blanched. "I am
Ihlini!" he cried.

           
"You have no power here!"

           
Show him, it said. Let him see what
you are.

           
Kellin was desperate.
"How?"

           
Forget you are a man. Become a cat
instead.

           
Kellin looked at Corwyth. The knife
in the Ihlini's hand had belonged to Blais. Kellin wanted it back.

           
Corwyth laughed. "You and I,
then."

           
Kellin was angry, so angry he could
hardly hold himself still. His bones buzzed with newfound energy and flesh
hardened itself over tensing muscle and tendon. He shook with the urge to shred
the Ihlini into a pile of cracked bone and bloodied flesh.

           
A beginning, the lir said.

           
And then he understood—to accomplish
what was required he must shed all knowledge of human form, all human
instincts. Anger could help that. Anger could assist him.

           
I want Corwyth dead. I want the
knife back.

           
There is only one way to gain what
you desire. I have given you the key. Now you must open the door.

           
To what future?

           
To the one you make.

           
"Come, then," Corwyth
said. "I will shatter all your bones, then knit them together again. Lochiel
need never know."

           
Kellin smiled. He forgot about his
ribs and all the other nagging pains. He thought about lir-shape instead. He
thought about mountain cats, and the instincts that served them.

           
"You cannot," Corwyth
declared. "This is a trick."

           
Kellin laughed. "Do you forget
who I am? You know so much about me and the others of my House—surely you
recall that we claim the Old Blood." He paused. "With all of its
special gifts."

           
Corwyth lunged. He was quick, very
quick, and exceedingly supple. Kellin dodged the outthrust knife with no little
effort or pain, then ducked a second thrust.

           
Concentrate, the lir commanded.
Fingers and toes are claws. Flesh is thickly furred. The body is lean and fit.
Jaws are heavy and powerful, filled with tongue and teeth. All you desire is
the taste of his flesh in your mouth—his blood spilling from his throat into
yours—and the hot sweet scent of his death.

           
The knife nearly caught his side.
Kellin twisted, grimacing as ribs protested.

           
Mountain cat, it said. Far superior
to any beast bred by god or demon.