Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05

by A Pride of Princes (v1. 0)

  "I am well enough," he protested, as she pressed him down into the cushions.

  "Are you, then?" she asked lightly. "I'm thinking not. I’m thinking you have, from the look of you, stared death in the eye, and lost." She made certain he was comfortable in the chair. "You'll be sitting here until I say you may rise."

  Loose-limbed, he sat in the chair and stared blankly at the tapestry frame. "What is that?"

  "Something I started a month ago. Something to go in the Great Hall, one day, when I am done." She knew very well his real interest did not lie in the tapestry; she knew also that Niall came around to things in his own way, in his own time. Prying would serve neither of them. "You see? Lions. Homanan lions, as you have told me; fierce, proud, loyal beasts, challenging all who dare to threaten their realm." Her voice wavered a moment as she looked at his ravaged face. "Niall—"

  "Why so many?" he asked, staring at the tapestry. He bent forward to examine it more closely. "So many lions, Deirdre—and is this the Lion Throne?"

  "Aye." She touched the design not yet fully stitched.

  "It seems to me some of the stories should be put down in yarn, and then hung up where all can see them. The recounting of the legends. Shaine, Carillon, Donal . . . you and your sons. . . ." her voice trailed off. "All the Lions of Homana."

  "My sons." And Niall sat back again, pressing one hand against his face. "Ah, gods, Deirdre—what am I to do? How am I to bear it? How will I last the year?"

  She stood very still before him. "You have sent them away, then. Hart and Corin."

  “I had no choice." The words were little more than pain, mumbled against his hand. "They gave me no choice, meijha. So many lives lost. So many innocent lives; not everyone in the Midden is thief or murderer. Some were little children." Abruptly he stripped off the patch that warded the empty socket and bent forward rigidly. "Ah, gods—it hurts—"

  "Your head?" She moved forward, knelt, threaded fingers in his hair. She pressed his face against her breast. "Oh, Niall, I would be giving anything to take it from you, this pain. After all these years . . ."

  His breath was loud in the chamber. "No—no—not just my head . . . when the old pain comes on me, it is generally bearable. But this—" He sighed. "This is more. This is what it is to be a jehan, regardless of rank or race."

  "Aye," she said, "aye. There is pain with all the pleasure."

  "A year," he said hollowly. "Gods, I said a year. Hart and Corin banished . . . and Brennan made to wed."

  She stiffened a little. "You'll be sending for Aileen."

  "Aye. Corin is to stop at Erinn on his way to Atvia."

  Suddenly, he pulled away from her. "And perhaps I should have considered that you might want to go."

  After a moment, she shook her head. "I'll not be denying that I want to see my homeland. But this is Corin's punishment; there is no place for me on board. Liam will understand."

  He sat back again, asprawl, rubbing the ruined flesh near his empty socket. "They gave me no choice," he said wearily. "What was I to do?"

  "What you did, I think," she answered, settling down at his feet in a puddle of pale green silk. " 'Tis not for me to say yea or nay on this—they are not my sons—but I will agree with you nonetheless. Boys must stop being boys. Even when they are men."

  "If you had seen Brennan's face . . ."

  "Aye, well, if 'twas anything like the other times, he was there for the others, not himself."

  "No, not that... no, I mean when I banished Hart. I think that was a worse punishment for Brennan than telling him he must wed and take on more responsibilities."

  Deirdre sighed a little, stroking his rigid hand. "Aye, aye, perhaps it was. They are so close. Hart and Brennan ... the time apart will be hard on them."

  "Hard on me," he said unevenly. "For all they have done a monstrous thing, I know I will hate myself every day I look at Brennan and Keely, and see their accusing eyes."

  "Brennan and Keely must tend to Brennan and Keely,"

  Deirdre told him firmly. "You must look to yourself."

  "And you?" he asked, reaching out to clasp her fingers. "Gods, Deirdre . . . what would I do without you?"

  She smiled and kissed the back of his hand. "I’ll not be telling you. For if I did, you might find reason to be rid of an aging Erinnish spinster."

  He smiled. "Aging, indeed. Not what I would say; I who share your bed."

  But she saw the anguish in his eye, and knew it would last forever.

  PART II

  BRENNEN

  One

  On a night with no moon, men gathered. Light was conjured from torches, from lanterns; distorting faces that, by day, by good light, were simply faces', Homanan faces, some young, some old, some neither, being not yet fully formed, leaving youth behind while lingering yet on the doorstep, not quite ducking beneath the lintel to enter the common room of manhood,

  But now, by torchlight, by lanternlight, the faces were leeched of humanity, of sanity, of the expressions that, everchanging, reflected happiness, sorrow, pride, regret, and all those subtleties lying between. Faces that were no longer faces, but aspects of dedication, fanaticism, and the desire to right a wrong.

  Within the ring of looming trees stood stave torches, thrust into the ground to form a second circle, a ward against the darkness. Within the ring of torches, men clustered. And within the ring of men, a boy was made to lie down on cold, hard stone. No. Not a boy; no longer, A warrior, now; he had received his lir.

  Against the stone, he shivered. They had stripped him, the Homanans. They had taken jerkin, leggings, boots, as well as his knife. They had taken it all, leaving him with nothing, save the knowledge that they could get no gold, because he had only just received his lir. There had been no Ceremony of Honors in Clankeep, to honor his name, his lir, his newfound warrior status.

  And would be none, ever, now.

  It was full dark, long past the time he should have been back at Clankeep. But no one would come looking.

  He had left his father's pavilion four days earlier in search of his lir, knowing only he had to go, to assuage the craving that set his blood afire. No one would come looking, no matter how late it was, because it was a part of the ritual, to stay from home until the link was made.

  Rings within rings: trees, torches, men. And in the center, himself. On an altar once serving as a part of sacred rituals, Cheysuli rituals. Firstborn rituals; now the altar, in its nook of towering trees, was forgotten by his people. Remembered only by Homanans, who meant to pervert its use.

  Upon the stone he trembled, and shut his eyes against the darkness, the torchlight, the looming faces, with their aspects of fanaticism. He shut his eyes against the fear for himself, because another fear outweighed it. They would slay his lir, he knew. First. So they could see what it was for a Cheysuli warrior to lose his other self. And then, as he was consumed by grief for the loss of his lir, his newfound other self they would slay the new warrior as well.

  Beneath his naked back his flesh knew the touch of stone, and of blood. The altar reeked of it, stained black and red and brown, sticky with old and new.

  Hands held wrists and ankles. Even his hair, so he could not thrash head against stone in a futile attempt at breaking free. Hands held him: Homanan hands. Deigning to touch his Cheysuli flesh, because soon enough his blood would wash them clean of taint.

  "Bring the wolf," someone said. A man. Young, from the sound of it; the voice was cool, not deep, not high.

  Smooth as clover honey.

  The boy on the stone jerked against human manacles.

  All held firm.

  "Into the light," said the voice.

  "No," the boy whispered; it was the first sound he had made.

  The wolf was brought to the altar, into the ring of torchlight. A young male wolf, hardly more than a cub; like the boy on the stone, he had not quite crossed the threshold between youth and adulthood. And, like the boy, now never would.

  The jaws had been wired sh
ut. A chain was wound about the ruddy throat, snugged taut. He struggled, whimpered, dug the air with hind claws even as the front ones reached for flesh. But the man who held the wolf was large and strong, and used to big dogs; the cub was no match for him.

  "No," said the boy again. Begging now, forgoing all the pride of his people. Forgoing all save the need to see the cub made safe, unharmed, set free.

  A hand touched the boy's brow, smoothing back damp hair. The palm was cool, almost soothing, like the voice.

  "We must," the voice said; the same one, the same voice, that had beckoned the wolf cub brought. That had beckoned the boy held down against the stone.

  "There is a reason for what we do," the voice said. "A need. This is not idle whimsy, nor ignorant reprisal for the loss of the Homanan throne to a Cheysuli king. No. This is part and parcel of what must be done, in order to restore the balance of justice. To restore rightness."

  The voice paused. "Can you understand that? Can you understand that I do not hate you, boy, nor even hate your race? No. Hate is not what fuels me, other than using it when I must; in its place, hate has its uses. No. I do this because there is a need. Homana's need."

  The hand was gentle against the boy's sweat-sheened brow. He tried not to listen, but he heard in spite of himself.

  "There was a mistake made more than sixty-five years ago, when Carillon named Donal his heir," the voice continued. "Having no son of his queen, Solindish Electra, he turned to the closest male relative: a Cheysuli halfling got on his cousin, Alix, as much a halfling as her son.

  But there was a son, you see. There was a son ... a wholly Homanan son, with no trace of Cheysuli blood."

  The hand stopped moving; fell away. Fearfully, the boy waited, sensing a new tension in the air even though the voice remained calm, cool, quiet.

  "Twenty years ago my father found Carillon's bastard. With the Homanan woman who bore the boy, my father went to face the Mujhar, Donal himself, to ask that the tine of succession be restored to its proper path. And there within the walls of Homana-Mujhar, before Council, the woman was murdered by a man loyal to the Mujhar; my father was slain as well, by Niall, then Prince of Homana." The voice broke off. The boy heard only silence, but felt the thrumming of growing impatience that radiated from the others. And then the voice went on. "That man now rules, boy, the royal murderer, when it should be Carollan's place. And so there are those of us who will see to it Niall is deposed in favor of Carollan; the grandson replaced by the son." The voice paused again, then renewed itself. "That is how it should be, boy ... that is how it should be. How my father, Elek, wanted it, before Niall murdered him."

  The boy on the stone summoned all his courage. "Keep me," he said, "keep me. But let my lir go free."

  "The lir is an aspect of your power," Elek's son said. "A manifestation of the wrongness that plagues this land. You are bound in life, boy—that much I know of Cheysuli . . . now you will be bound in death."

  "He is so young—" and the boy abruptly shut his mouth, bit his lip to seal it; no more would he beg Homanans.

  "He is young, and so are you," said the clover honey voice. "But if we let you grow to manhood, and him to adulthood, you will be more difficult to overcome. I do not devalue the strength of the Cheysuli, nor the dedication of your warriors. Indeed, I salute your people, boy, well and truly. How could I not? Look what they have done . . . look how cleverly they have stolen the throne in the guise of recovering what once was theirs."

  "Then I will take lir-shape," the boy threatened, "and you will see what I can do—"

  "Now," said Elek's son, and the man with the cub in his arms drew his knife and swiftly cut open the ruddy throat.

  As warm red blood rained down, the young Cheysuli cried out. And cried.

  "Now." And another knife flashed in the torchlight.

  The man who called himself Elek's son watched as the altar drank its fill. Blood spilled over the edge of the stone and was poured against the ground. The splatter was loud in the darkness.

  After a moment, he nodded. "It is time,” he said calmly, "we turned to larger prey."

  "Shansu, shansu," Brennan whispered tenderly, soothing her silk-soft shoulder with a gentle, beguiling hand.

  "Be easy, meijhana ... be easy. . . ."

  Her flesh quivered beneath his seductive hand, as if in answer to his tone.

  "Shansu," he whispered softly, stroking slowly, so slowly, "no need to be afraid. I swear it. I swear it. Any oath you choose . . ." Her flesh responded again. Brennan smiled slowly, warmly, in a manner of immensely patient desire and unconscious invitation. He was, in that moment, consumed utterly by the sole purpose of seduction. "Be easy . . . be easy—'

  But the mare was not seduced. Without warning, she exploded in a flurry of activity that indicated her sole purpose was to rid her back of the man who sat astride it.

  Brennan clamped legs against mare in an instinctive bid to maintain his seat. He had buckled on a Cheysuli saddle, lighter and less confining than Homanan gear, but also offering less latitude for error. With the mare in open revolt, the Cheysuli saddle—little more than a shallow pad of leather and sheepskin with wooden stirrups attached by strips of leather—was next to useless as a means of staying aboard.

  The mare, gray as smoke, ducked delicate head between equally delicate forelegs and squealed in a decidedly unladylike fashion. Dark eyes rolled. Tipped ears flattened. Deceptively powerful rear legs elevated silken hindquarters like a ballista hurling a stone.

  Brennan, flopped forward against his will, tried to scramble backward as she threw her head up, flinging it rearward. Pale mane whipped yellow eyes, bringing royal tears; by an inch only, Brennan missed having his nose smashed against his face, forever altering aristocratic good looks. As it was, a series of bone-jarring bucks served to twist his spine alarmingly, threatening to cripple him.

  Dimly, he heard the clatter of hooves on stone, the grunts of equine rage, the shouts of running men as he tried to weather the storm. The squat buildings of the stableyard, built of the same rose-red stone that gave Homana-Mujhar its pastel patina, performed a dance of their own. He saw only bits and pieces of the curtain wall, the sentry-walk, the beamwork of stable roofs. Straw cushioned the yard, and dirt, but cobbles lay beneath both. Hard stone cobbles, promising a painful landing.

  He had seen it happen to others.

  The mare sucked in another great breath and leaped sideways, lurched backward, lunged forward yet again.

  She wanted to run, but the snaffle in her mouth—for all its relative gentleness—prevented her; that, and Brennan's skilled grip upon the reins. It was a deadly dance: infuriated horse against determined warrior.

  We each of us have too much to lose, Brennan thought briefly, as he lasted another of the mare's spine-twisting bucks. Pride, too much pride. . . hers will be tarnished if I win, mine if she does—

  And abruptly, Brennan won. The mare stopped fighting the bit, the reins, the hands. She sidled uneasily a moment, first to the right, then to the left, scraping hooves against cobbles, and then quieted, snorting, long-lashed eyes half-shut as if to acknowledge defeat.

  But Brennan, not daring to move as the mare slowly settled, knew better. It was too soon to trust the gray.

  She shook her head. Swished her flax-pale tail. Snorted. Eyed the men gathered in the stableyard. Brennan could feel the mare's debate: Do I throw the man now, or later?

  Later. As Brennan urged her gently into a walk, she circled the yard quietly.

  Round and round. The buildings blurred together as the circling continued. With each revolution the mare grew calmer, more relaxed, and so did Brennan. He was aware of the eyes watching him and the gray, waiting for something to happen. Curious, expectant eyes, brown and blue and black, all of them, save for the single pair of green ones.

  Maeve. She stood in the stableyard amid the grooms and sweepers and lads, clad in blue woolen skirts, close-fitting leather tabard belted snug, and soft house boots.

&nb
sp; Carefully, he eased the mare in his sister's direction.

  With gentle persuasion, the gray tapped delicately across the cobbles and halted. Brennan looked down on Maeve, whose brass-bright hair, loosely braided, shone brilliantly in the sunlight. "Aye?"

  She smiled, thumbs hooked into her belt in a distinctive imitation of Brennan's habitual stance. "I was sent to give you your freedom.”

  "Freedom?" He brightened. "Jehan sent you?"

  "Aye." Maeve did not use the Old Tongue except on rare occasions. "He said I was to tell you he has rescinded his orders against you working your horses." She grinned. "Probably because he looked out a casement and saw you doing it anyway."

  Brennan scowled. "This is not precisely working—at least, not when one trains a racing string. This was little more than making certain I would not be killed when jehan finally said I could start working them again." He sighed. "Thank the gods he has come to his senses ... it has been four weeks since I touched any of them, let alone ridden them, and you just saw the result yourself. Now perhaps I can set my racing string back into order and begin winning again."

  Blond brows rose. "I thought races were Hart's purvue."

  "Wagering on races is," Brennan agreed. "Racing for purses is different. I do not bet. I ride." His face was grim; Hart had been gone a month, and the separation made Brennan irritable. "Gods, if only I could go to Clankeep—" He broke off and looked down at Maeve sharply. "I will go. I should have gone before. Even jehan cannot deny me a part of my heritage."

  "No," Maeve agreed calmly. "Keely wondered how long it would take you to realize that."

  Heat rose in his face. Leave it to Keely— "Aye, well, now I have. And so I go. The mare needs work." As if in answer the mare stirred; Brennan leaned forward to stroke the glossy smoke-pale neck. "Shansu, shansu . . ." He straightened as she settled once more. "Come with me, Maeve. How long has it been? A month? Two? Too long, whatever the length of time; you used to go all the time."