The Mujhar turned away a moment, then swung back to face them all. He looked at Hart and Brennan, ignoring Corin as if he had nothing more to say to him. Or as if he could not bear to look at him and see the son who so closely resembled the young Niall in coloring as well as insecurity.
"What I have said to Corin applies equally to you," he told his twin-born sons. "I have raised none of you to behave as common soldiers on leave, fighting over petty slights and imagined insults, nor as crofters spending their few coins on liquor and wine-girls . . . nor on foolish wagers." His eye flicked to Hart, then returned to Brennan. "I expected such behavior out of you least of all."
Brennan stood very straight, but his shoulders lost their set.
Quickly Hart spoke up. "Blame him no more than me, jehan."
"No," Niall agreed. "But less than you, aye. It was your idea to go there, was it not?"
Hart opened his mouth, then shut it. After a moment, he nodded. "We meant only to drink a little, jehan. Not to fight. You know I would rather throw the dice and rune-sticks than fight."
"Reynald deserved it, jehan," Corin said flatly. "And if the rest of the Caledonese royal house is like him, you do not wish to make an alliance with them anyway."
"Do I not?" Niall looked calmly at his youngest son."I see—I am to base the future of Homanan economy solely on the personalities of Caledon's rulers. At least, so you say."
"Jehan—"
"Corin, I think you have very much to learn about dealing with other kingdoms," the Mujhar said gently. "And I suggest you begin now, because in two or three years you will be going to Atvia to take your rightful place as heir to Alaric's throne."
"Atvia," Corin said in disgust. "And if I would prefer to remain here?"
"Well, there is a choice," Niall said. "You may remain here as a dispossessed, disinherited son, or accept your tahlmarra and go to Atvia."
Corin's eyes narrowed. "I might also stay here with the clans, jehan. You cannot dispossess me of my heritage, nor disinherit me from my lir."
"I would not need to dispossess you of your Cheysuli heritage," Niall told him quietly, "A warrior turning his back on his tahlmorra is solely to blame for his disinheritance, which also includes loss of the afterworld." He paused a moment. "Corin, this serves nothing and is not necessary. What is necessary, however, is for all of you to acknowledge that you have been immature and irresponsible, and to accept your punishment."
"That depends on what it is," Corin muttered beneath his breath, as Hart glared at him openly.
"It is that I forbid you to attend the banquet this evening."
"That is all?" Hart blurted, and winced as Brennan kicked him covertly.
"In not attending the banquet, you will keep yourselves to your respective chambers," Niall explained, "and you will remain in them until I give you leave to go out of them. No banquets, no taverns, no Clankeep." He fixed his eye on each of his sons individually. "No horses," he said to Brennan, "No wagering," he ordered Hart. And lastly, to Corin, "No visits from any of Deirdre's ladies."
"For how long?" Brennan demanded indignantly, forgoing all the diplomacy he had so carefully cultivated. "If I leave Bane for even a day, all my progress will be undone and I will have to begin again."
Hart frowned. "And how am I expected to pass the time, jehan, while I wait for your leave to go?”
But Corin laughed. "Enforced celibacy, jehan! Well, it will only leave the ladies all the more eager for me when I can share their company again."
Deirdre smiled serenely. " Tis hard for my ladies to be eager when their positions are in jeopardy."
Corin stared at her in astonishment. "You would do that?"
"To support the Mujhar, I will do anything," she said calmly. "Just as all of his children should, sons and daughters alike."
That enforced silence among them as nothing else had.
Niall nodded. "You may go," he said quietly. "Meals will be sent up from the kitchens."
In silence, his three still proud but decidedly chastened sons filed slowly out of the chamber.
Four
Corin shut the door to his chambers with a resounding thud, knowing it childish, but satisfied with the action nonetheless. And then he regretted it almost instantly, because he had employed his right wrist in the motion and the wrist was less than pleased.
He cursed, examined it briefly, decided it was very sore and bruised, but not broken. Still, it would keep him from arms-practice for a week or more, and that he did not appreciate.
Have I only myself to blame?
Why? came the familiar liquid tone of his lir within the pattern of their link. What have you done now?
He looked for Kiri and found her lumped in the center of his draperied bed. She was little more than a knot of red fur, with sharp jet nose tucked firmly beneath a black-tipped tail.
Corin sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, staring disconsolately at his wrist as she worked the fingers. I have involved myself in a tavern brawl, which is beneath me—or so I am told by my jehan—and have drawn Caledonese blood, which may result in damaged trade ties between Homana and Caledon. He paused. I have also been incredibly rude and disrespectful to my jehan.
Have you?
"Aye," he said aloud, with conviction. "Kiri, why is it I always say things I regret? Especially to my jehan?”
Because your mouth works independently of your.brain.
The vixen rose, shook her glossy red pelt into order, came over to sit beside her lir. Her expression was made quizzical by black mask and slanted amber eyes. Lir, one day you will learn,
"Will I?" He sighed and flopped backward, stretching out on the huge bed. "He threatens to send me to Atvia in two or three years, lir ... and the gods know I have no wish to go."
Atvia is your place, the fox said. You will be its king. Is that not a fine thing, and worth much pride?
"A fine thing, aye," Corin said on a deeper sigh, "and undoubtedly worth much pride. The trouble is, I have little enough of that. I look at Hart and Brennan and see real warriors and princes, while I am left to feel inferior,"
All nonsense. Kiri settled her chin on his muscular thigh, slanted eyes closing. You have a lir . . . you have me—how could you possibly feel inferior?
"A habit that often happens when a warrior receives his lir late," Corin retorted. "I was sixteen, Kiri, as you should well recall—both my rujholli were thirteen. I had three years in which to fear I would never receive one, while Brennan flaunted Sleeta and Hart learned to fly with Rael."
And the Mujhar had nineteen years. Kiri's tone plainly said Conn's complaint had no foundation.
A fist banged on the door. Corin knew the sound extremely well. "Keely," he called, "now is not the time to gloat."
There came a muffled shout from the other side. "I am not here to gloat—" His sister's voice broke off a moment, then renewed itself. "What have you done now, Corin, that would cause me to gloat?" Without waiting for his leave to enter, she pushed open the heavy wooden door and slipped through, shutting it decisively. She stopped dead; elbows jutted out as she locked hands on hips. "Oh, rujho . . . not another fight."
"No." Corin struggled up. "I am in this state of disrepair because Deirdre's ladies could not keep themselves from me." He looked down at his torn, soiled russet doublet- He smelled of wine, smoke and lantern oil.
"Did you win?" Keely asked.
"All three of us won."
"Three . . ." Her blue eyes, so like his own, narrowed.
"Hart, of course . . . and Brennan? Brennan?"
"Brennan." Corin began to work at his right boot, desiring to strip it off. "He came with us to keep us from trouble, he said—and then promptly began the fight with Reynald."
"Reynald? Einar's brother?"
"Cousin." A twinge of pain shot through his injured wrist, and he swore. "The ku'reshtin tried to force himself on a wine-girl, and then when she refused his attentions he slapped her. She broke a jug and cut her hand."
"And Brennan came to her rescue." Keely's tone was dry; her expression indicated she, as much as Corin, was less than enamored of Brennan's status as eldest—and favorite—son. "How like him."
Corin swore again as he wrestled with the recalcitrant boot. "Keely—come and help me with this."
She swept across the room, shaking her head, and bent to catch the heel and toe of the brown boot in both hands. Only then did he realize she wore a rich copper-colored gown of silk and velvet instead of customary leathers; her tawny hair was braided Cheysuli fashion, pinned against her head and all achime with golden bells, A topaz and garnet torque clasped a slender, elegant neck.
Keely grunted, tugging on the boot, then caught his eye. Instantly color flared in her face. "Must you stare, too?" She was clearly annoyed as well as flustered. "Deirdre insisted—she said I could not attend the banquet in leggings and jerkin."
"Well, no," he agreed. "Keely—" He grinned, shrugged, laughed aloud. "So much for the independent rujholla I know so well."
“Ku'reshtin" she muttered, tugging on the boot again. "They will have you bathed and oiled and perfumed before you know it, and where will you be then?"
His mouth twisted in a grimace of disgust. "No," he said. "I am banished to my chamber."
The boot came off. Keely straightened stiffly, gaping at him as she clutched the leather in both hands. "What? You—banished? Who has banished you?"
"The only one who can," he answered wryly.
"He did not." The bells chimed as she shook her head in disbelief. "Why?"
"I am in disgrace."
"Because of the tavern brawl?"
"Aye. He was—less than pleased." Corin sighed. "He has every right to be, I think. We did bruise Reynald's pride a little." He smiled. "We bruised it a lot."
"Reynald deserves it," she said flatly, bending to remove his other boot. "Einar as well—do you know I have to be his partner at the banquet?” In disgust she jerked on the boot, which elicited a curse from Corin because it jarred his wrist. "Let him have Maeve, if he requires a princess to prop up his foreign pride."
"I think his pride will be propped up enough when he sees three empty chairs," Corin muttered. "He will know why, and doubtless he will gloat."
"Then I will see to it he cannot," Keely said firmly. A final twist freed his foot. She dropped the boot to the floor and sat down at his right side, leaving his other to Kiri. "Let me see your wrist."
He held out his arm. Keely carefully peeled the sleeve of the velvet doublet and the silken undersleeve back, baring the swollen wrist. Her fingers were gentle but matter-of-fact; like a warrior, she had little patience with injuries.
"Not broken," she said, after a moment, and pushed the arm away.
Corin scowled. "And will you be so solicitous with Sean, when you are wed?"
"Sean will take me as he finds me; he is not marrying a nursemaid," she said darkly. Then she made fists of her hands and banged the air with them. "Oh, gods, Corin, I have no wish to go to Erinn! I have no wish to be cheysula to some Erinnish island princeling!"
"Aye, well, our jehan pays little enough mind to what we do and do not want," her brother said grimly. "I said I had no desire to go to Atvia, and he said it was my choice if I went, or remained here and became a dispossessed, disinherited son."
Keely's mouth twisted in disgust. "But if Brennan were to ask. . . ."
"He has no need to ask; Homana will be his. He goes nowhere." Corin sighed and rose to undo the fastenings of his ruined doublet. After a moment of struggling with his left hand, he appealed to Keely once again. As she clucked her tongue over his helplessness and undid the fastenings, Corin craned his head out of her way. "But at least Brennan was banished to his chambers, too."
Keely's fingers paused, "Brennan was?"
"All three of us."
"He was displeased, then."
"As he will be if I keep you here longer." Corin pushed her hands away. "I will call a body-servant—Keely, you must go. Give Einar a taste of your wit."
"With sweet Maeve on his other side?" Keely shook her head. "He will think me a waspish shrew.”
Corin merely raised eloquent tawny eyebrows.
"Ku'reshtin," she muttered, and took herself out of the room.
Hart soaked in a hot bath, drank half a decanter of wine, then suffered his ribs to be strapped by his body-servant. Once the man was done and dismissed. Hart went over to the polished silver plate hung on one of his bedchamber walls, and stared somberly at the bandages that made it so difficult to breathe. But the linen strapping did not draw his attention so much as the black eye.
He fingered the bruising gingerly.
"You," he said somberly, "are a poor son. A poor son and a poorer prince. You know better."
Almost at once he felt restored. There. He had admitted his shortcomings; now he could get on with his life without excess guilt. He tried a smile at the battered face in the plate, found it did not hurt as much as he thought it might, and turned away.
You know better, but it does not stop you, chimed the voice that served as his conscience. All Cheysuli had them. They were known as lir.
"No," Hart agreed lightly. "Why should it?"
The hawk shifted on his perch in the corner nearest the big tester bed. Rael was white save for the jet black edging on each individual feather, and his eyes, which were the color of palest ale.
It should if it is wrong, the hawk pointed out.
"Was I wrong?" Hart, still nude from his bath, plucked the clean leather leggings from his bed and very carefully pulled them on. He grunted, swore, cast aspersions upon the parentage of the Caledonese who had so squashed him. And then he recalled that Corin had had as much to do with it as the foreign guardsman, and promptly included his brother in his deprecations. "How could I be wrong, Rael; I was only defending myself."
It would be redundant to say you should not have been in the position to have to defend yourself, Rael commented, having said it regardless of redundancy; it was often necessary with Hart.
"Enough," Hart said succinctly. He rubbed his hands through heavy black hair still damp from washing. In the candlelight the lir-gold on his arms, now bared, gleamed.
The light lingered on incised lines of intricate feathering; on the exultation of a hawk in flight, wings spread to curve around the wide, rune-bordered armband. In honor of the lir, Hart now attempted to silence.
"Do you reprove your own lir'!" asked Ian from the doorway. "A distinct admission of guilt, harani. . . you are slipping. And if you tell me you deserve this exile from the banquet, I shall know you have gone mad."
Hart grimaced. Before his uncle, all his new-found contentment fled. "No, no—I will save you from insanity, su'fali. What I did was necessary, and certainly not deserving of punishment."
"Ah, I am set at ease.” Ian grinned. He was five years older than his brother, the Mujhar, but like most Cheysuli he did not show his age. His hair was still black, save for a single silver forelock that fell to hide his left eyebrow, and his flesh still taut over pronounced musculature, with only the faintest of creases fanning out from yellow eyes.
In blue-dyed leggings, boots and jerkin, as well as lir-gold at left ear and on his bare arms, Ian was all Cheysuli physically, though he claimed a splash or two of Homanan blood.
"You have seen my jehan, then." Hart sighed. "He told you it was my idea to go to the tavern, I am sure."
"No." Ian shut the door and leaned against it, folding his arms. "He did not need to tell me—when I heard a tavern was involved, I knew it was your idea." He smiled in response to Hart's grimace. "Corin may be the impulsive one, rebelling against this or that, but he follows more than he leads. Brennan, of course, knows better than to leave Homana-Mujhar when his jehan has asked him expressly not to, unless given a very good reason for disobedience. And Keely was here; had it been her idea, she would have gone." He shrugged. "Whom does it leave. Hart? Maeve?"
Hart's response was a snort of derisive amusement. Then h
e sighed and scratched absently at his bandages.
"I am so obvious, then."
"To me, aye," Ian agreed. "To others, no. You have the odd ability to hide yourself even as you stand before numerous people. I think it is something you enjoy."
"No, no, not always." Hart shook his head. "I do not hide myself from you, su'fali."
"Only because I have watched you do it, and know how you do it." Ian smiled. "Even Niall does not see it."
"Because he sees little of any of us."
"You discredit him, harani. He sees Brennan, because Brennan is his heir, and he must. He sees Corin because Corin is frequently contentious, often purposely. And Keely, of course, because Keely stubbornly refuses to acknowledge that others perceive her as a woman, when she would rather be perceived as a Cheysuli."
"And in Maeve he sees Deirdre." Hart sighed. "Favorite son, favorite daughter."
"I did not think it bothered you."
Hart looked at him in surprise, "It does not, su'fali. I am content enough with my lot—more than content with it. I only meant he makes no secret of his prejudice."
"When you are a jehan—and a king—you will see why it is difficult for him to reconcile affection with authority," Ian told him. "It was so with your grandsire, and now your jehan."
"I do not see you reconciling such things with children, su'fali," Hart shot back. "Where is your cheysula. Where is your meyjhia? Are you so inspired by your rujholli that you neglect your own responsibilities?"
Ian, unoffended, merely smiled. "I am not dead yet, harani. There may well come a time I bestow a lir-torque on one particular woman. But until then—"
“—until then, you leave half the women in Clankeep yearning for you." Hart grinned, "Not to mention a few of Deirdre's ladies."
"That, I think, is Corin's province rather than mine."
"Not all of them, su'fali. I am not blind."
Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 Page 5
