"Aye," he agreed morosely, staring toward the city that now hid the offending mare. From here he could not see the walls, for Mujhara had grown so much that the city proper—that portion that lay within the walls—had been swallowed by other dwellings huddling about the fringes, cluster upon cluster, until the new had nearly overtaken the old.
Well, what did you expect? She is horse, not lir. She has no understanding of such things as dignity and protocol.
Brennan slanted the mountain cat a glance of disgust mingled with amusement. Trust Sleeta to put things in perspective, though hers was often quite different from the views of others.
"Aye, well, she will have learned such understanding. When I am done with her."
If she goes back to Homana Mujhar.
That brought a frown. "Aye. She would be worth stealing."
But only if she can be caught first, Sleeta pointed out. How many have your patience, your skill, your gentleness.
Enough, he sent through the link, unable to suppress his laughter. Enough, Sleeta—I know what you do. But I assure you, the only damage I have suffered is to my pride, and that will recover soon enough.
Not if the Prince of Homana is discovered wallowing in the dust with a dirty, bloodied face.
That brought him to his feet faster than anything else, if a trifle painfully. He dusted leggings, straightened jerkin, attempted to clean his face, dabbled blood from his split lip, tried to ignore the sore shoulder, and sighed.
"Prince or no, I deserved this. I know better than to trust the gray; still, Teir gave me cause to be distracted. That ku'reshtin . . ." Anger renewed itself. "If he ever harms Maeve—“
Sleeta sought to placate. I think he would not be so foolish. Aside from you, there are other rujholli involved.
"Aye. But one is gone to Solinde, the other to Atvia." A wave of loneliness suddenly swamped him. "Oh, gods, lir—without Hart I am half a man, and so alone—"
You have me.
He looked at her. She sat primly in the dirt, eyes half slitted against the setting sun. Outwardly she seemed unperturbed, but within the link he sensed her readiness.
Sleeta waited for something.
Brennan smiled. "Aye. I have you. More than any man might ask for, even of the gods."
The tail flicked once; he had said what she wanted to hear. Of course. I am Sleeta.
Laughing, he thrust a hand into the firm plushness of her pelt and stroked her large, wedge-shaped head, losing himself in the silken velvet of her coat. He was a man for women above all things, but even a wondrously pleasing bedpartner could not fill him with such infinite satisfaction as his magnificent lir.
He sighed and tugged an upright ear. "Ah, Sleeta, what would I do without you. . . ?"
The mountain cat merely purred, as if the answer were implicit.
Brennan slapped one raven shoulder. "Onward, lir. Sitting out here will get us no closer to the palace. And I am hungry—it has been hours since I ate, and it is nearly time for dinner."
Sleeta licked one paw clean of dust, rose, stretched, padded toward the outskirts. Brennan matched his pace to hers.
The boots he wore were eminently unsuitable for walking any great distance, Brennan discovered quickly, particularly when one was already stiff and sore from an awkward enforced dismount. Hungry, footsore and decidedly out of temper, Brennan paused in one of the winding streets—now ablaze from new-lit torches—and bent to tug the offending folds out of his left boot. They were his favorite footgear for working horses, but only when he was in the saddle, not out of it. Already he had blisters.
You might have gone in lir-shape, Sleeta commented.
Brennan, braced against the wall of the nearest building, nodded briefly at the greeting of a passer-by. Not within the city. You know Homanans never can tell the difference between lir and animals of the wild—likely they would slay us both before thinking to ask if we were human or animal.
Sleeta was a blotch of darkness in the shadows, though the torchlight set the gloss of her coat agleam. She blinked, implacable as ever; though the link offered each of them an uncanny, unfettered means of communication, even to sensing emotions quite clearly, there were times Sleeta was shuttered against him. For all she was utterly de-voted to him, she was also a very private animal Brennan pressed a hand against his belly. "If I do not eat soon . . ."
Then eat, Sleeta suggested practically. I am not one to deny my lir a meal when he is clearly so close to wasting away.
Brennan grunted. It would take more than missing two meals to strip flesh from his frame. He lacked some of his father's sheer bulk, perhaps, but none of the height the Cheysuli habitually claimed, or the musculature. He was clearly a warrior: fit, firm, physically well-suited to the lifestyle of his fellow Cheysuli. But Brennan thought some of it came from frequent arms-practice and daily sessions with his horses in addition to simple bone and blood inheritance; Hart, so very much like him, generally appeared a trifle softer, though not precisely soft. And Corin—shorter, slighter than either of them—was built much more compactly.
A warbow, Brennan thought. Hart and I are Homanan swords, long and lethal, while Corin's power is hidden in subtlety.
A vision of his brothers rose before him and hung in the air as if to taunt him, to strip bare the thin skin hiding his loneliness. Hart, his other self, was now in SoHnde; only the gods knew how he would hold his own in the land of the enemy. He would probably wager his life on it. And Corin, quick-tempered, quick-tongued Corin, would undoubtedly embroil himself in difficulties of his own unique design, in Erinn and Atvia.
"Erinn." Brennan spoke aloud. "Gods, Sleeta—Aileen will soon be on her way!"
"What did you say?"
For a moment Brennan thought he had gone mad; he could swear the cat had spoken aloud. And then he realized the question was from the young woman pausing by his side. She was wrapped in a thin dark cloak, but the hood slid from her head to display plaited black hair, glossy as Sleeta's pelt, and he saw a face he could not place at once, though he knew he had seen it before.
"No," he said, "I spoke to my lir" He gestured to Sleeta, and saw the young woman's eyes widen as she looked at him more closely.
"You!" she said in surprise. "Oh—my lord—" And she dropped into an awkward curtsy that puddled skirts and cloak in the dust of the cobbled street.
Startled by the unexpected homage, all Brennan could do was stare. And then as her upturned face was made clear by the torchlight, he recognized her.
"The girl from The Rampant Lion!" He reached down, caught a hand, pulled her up. "There is no need for that. . . ." He paused, though he did not release her hand. "Forgive me, meijhana, I have forgotten your name."
Her hand was cold in his. "Rhiannon," she answered softly. "Oh, my lord, I have dreamed—" Abruptly she broke off, snatching her hand out of his and yanking the hood up to hide most of her face. "I am sorry—I must go."
"Rhiannon—wait!" He caught a fold of her cloak to gainsay her, felt the thin cloth tear and cursed himself for being such a heavy-handed fool. He could well afford to buy her a hundred cloaks—and better ones than this—to replace the one he had torn, but he understood something of pride. The look in her eyes told him she had a fair share of what he himself claimed.
"I must go, my lord." She said nothing of the cloak that now gaped at her shoulder, where the hood had parted from the rest. "If I am late . . ."
"Then I will come with you, and if you are late because of me, I think the tavern-keeper will hold his tongue." He smiled at her and tried to pull the torn pieces of cloth together. "Have you food at The Rampant Lion?"
"Of course, my lord—though none so fine as you are accustomed to." She stood very still as he resettled the cloak. She did not look at him, keeping black eyes demurely averted; two gently insistent brown fingers beneath her chin drew her face up into the light where he could see it more clearly.
Something glittered against the fabric of her tunic.
Brennan caught it, he
ld it up: his ring. The sapphire set in silver he had given her in gratitude for bringing the Mujharan Guard during the altercation with Reynald of Caledon, who had gone home weeks before.
"You want it back." She reached up to strip the thong over her head; he stopped her.
"No. No, it was freely given to you. It is yours, Rhiannon. For as long as you wish to keep it."
"As long—?" She laughed a little. "Forever, my lord. Of course."
"Of course." He grinned. "Come then, meijhana—or the tavern-keeper will rail at us both." And he tucked her arm into his elbow and escorted her to The Rampant Lion as if she were the finest lady of all the Mujhar's court, while Sleeta padded beside them.
It was the first time since he could remember that Brennan had crossed under the lintel branch of The Rampant Lion without one or both of his brothers.
Rhiannon was lovely and sweet and struck almost speechless by the Prince of Homana's royal presence—but she was not Hart. She was not Corin. And he missed them both acutely.
The tavern, as always, enjoyed good custom, though Brennan had seen it busier. A few men huddled together at a comer table over some sort of dice game—where is my rufho? he wondered sadly—while others of a more solitary bent drank quietly at separate tables. Sleeta's presence among them garnered sharp looks and startled expressions, but it was no longer unheard of for a warrior and his lir to walk freely in Mujhara, and soon enough the men turned back to their business.
As they entered, a young man—black-haired, browneyed, of pleasant expression—came out from behind a curtain divider and fixed Rhiannon with a playfully displeased scowl. "Lady, lady," he chided, though without heat. "What am I to do when there are men who call for your efficient table service, and you are not here to please them?"
Color suffused her face instantly. "I—I am sorry, Jarek. I will stay late, to make up the time."
He laughed- "Aye, you will, if only to keep me company while I count the ale barrels." Jarek's good humor remained, but his smile did not quite extend to his eyes as he looked at Brennan, "Should I lay blame for your tardiness on this man?"
"You may," Brennan agreed, knowing full well—and understanding even better—why the tavern-keeper's manner bordered on unacknowledged hostility. "And rather than have Rhiannon remain later than she should, I will compensate you for her time." Fingers dipped into the plump belt-purse on his hip. "Name your price."
Jarek glanced at Sleeta, then back at Brennan. Red-faced, he smiled ruefully, shrugged, spread his hands.
"What would I ask of a Cheysuli warrior save gold? But only in coin, of course; I would not presume to covet that you wear upon your arms." Still, he could not keep his eyes from the bands, "Be welcome in my tavern, warrior, and leave what you wish as a gift for Rhiannon when it comes time for your departure. That will be compensation enough."
"Your tavern?" Brennan took his hand away from his belt-purse. "I do not recall having seen your face before. And I am a frequent patron."
Jarek frowned a little. "Forgive me, warrior, but I do not recall your face. And this tavern has been mine these past six weeks."
Rhiannon's voice was quiet. "He bought it, my lord, not long after—the fight."
"Ah." Brennan shrugged. It did not please him to recall the battle with the Caledonese, since one thing had led to another, and now he was brotherless, even if only temporarily. "Well, blame me for her tardiness. I delayed her. And now—lest I perish—may I request a meal? And wine. Red wine. Fine Ellasian wine." Smiling, he moved to the closest empty table and sat down.
Sleeta settled herself behind his bench and stretched out, a gleaming, breathing rug.
"At once," Jarek smiled, bowed, gestured. "Rhiannon will do the honors."
"Aye, aye, of course." Again she curtsied to Brennan, with more grace this time, and hastened off to fetch the wine.
Jarek did not leave at once, though he watched Rhiannon depart even as Brennan did. Then be turned back, pale brown eyes assessive. He smiled; his tone was easy, carefully noncomittal, which was a story in itself.
"She gives you great honor, warrior. I thought the Cheysuli did not put much weight in things such as curtsies and titles."
Brennan sensed Jarek's unspoken challenge clearly, though it lacked true hostility. Even if they were more than employer and employee, which seemed likely, Jarek no doubt knew Rhiannon would inspire much interest on the part of wealthier, high-ranking suitors. He believed his position within her regard precarious.
But Rhiannon did not strike Brennan as the sort of girl who would throw over one good man merely to stalk another with greater fortune.
"The Cheysuli do not," Brennan agreed easily. "The Homanans do. Rhiannon is Homanan, and therefore honors the title rather than the man." He smiled as Rhiannon came back with a jug of wine and a hastily-polished silver mug; he could see where she had spat upon it and rubbed it with a cloth.
"My lord," she said, filling the mug, "here is your wine—the best I could find." She glanced sidelong at Jarek. "Your private cask, Jarek, from the back of the cellar."
"My cask—“
"He is the Prince of Homana!" she hissed, and smiled self-consciously at Brennan. "My lord, what victuals can I bring you?"
Sipping wine, Brennan shook his head. "No matter," he answered when he had swallowed. "Fresh meat, new bread, some cheese . . . have you any fruit?"
"Raisins from Caledon," she said brightly, and then abruptly they shared the same vision: Reynald, cousin to Prince Einar, with his ruined escort around him. As one they laughed, and Jarek quickly took his leave, too quickly; his spine was stiff as iron.
Jealous, Sleeta remarked lazily from behind.
With cause, Brennan told her. The girl is worth the jealousy. And abruptly, thinking of Maeve trapped in Tiernan's web, he reached out and caught Rhiannon's hand before she could leave again. "Meijhana—“ he lowered his voice to spare her embarrassment. "—is he good to you? Does he pay a fair wage? Does he have-expectations?"
She knew what the last meant clearly enough. Vivid color washed into her face, then fell away, leaving it pale and lily-fragile.
"Jarek is a good man," she said evenly. "As for expectations—aye, and why not? It is a good wage, and I am grateful for his generosity."
"How grateful?" he persisted. "And for how long?"
She jerked her hand away. "Why, my lord? Will you pay more? Will you keep me longer? Will you fulfill my expectations?"
He was aghast at her interpretation of his interest in her welfare. "Rhiannon—no. No, I swear, I do not ask because I want you for myself." And abruptly cursed himself; he told her the truth, but too bluntly. What woman wanted to hear a man did not desire her in his bed? "Wait you," he said clearly, aware of color rising in his own dark face. "I meant only to ask if he forced you. No more."
"Why?" Her heart-shaped face was stiffly set, but delicately proud.
He thought at first to lie for Maeve's sake, but did not.
He felt Rhiannon worth the truth. "Because there are men in the world who will stoop to force a woman's will, and I would not want to see Jarek do it to you."
It took her by surprise. No doubt she had heard all manner of invitations in her employment, as well as crude suggestions; she did not expect a man to concern himself with her welfare outside of what she could do for him in bed.
"No," she said. "No, he does not force me. "It-it was wanted. . . ." She looked away from him, though her fingers crept up to touch the sapphire ring. He thought it unconsciously done. "He is a good man, Jarek, better than any other I have known."
Brennan nodded, releasing her hand. "Then I am pleased for you, meijhana."
"He is kind, and fair, and generous," she went on. "I am not made to work all night and day, like the girls in other taverns. I am given one day out of seven for myself. And all the meals I could wish for. He even gave me this—" She lifted a fold of the cloak, then blushed bright red as they both recalled how easily the cheap fabric had torn under Brennan's hand.
"He is a good man," she declared desperately, clenching her hands in the cloak.
Brennan smiled a little. "I am convinced, meijhana. You are eloquent in your assertions."
"I must go," Rhiannon said in a muffled tone. "There is work to be done." Abruptly she swung to take her leave, and in doing so she knocked the winejug over. It spilled wine across the table to splatter on the floor, red as blood.
Brennan stood at once, avoiding the pungent torrent.
He righted the jug even as Rhiannon tore off her ripped cloak to sop up what she could of the spillage. "Oh—my lord-“
"Stop fretting," he ordered firmly, seeing tears gathering in her eyes. "I am not wet, and there is more wine in the cellars. Shansu, meijhana—the world will turn again."
"Clumsy," she said, half angrily, gathering jug and soaked cloth into her slender arms. And she was gone before he could speak again, dripping wine to mark an unintended path.
Flighty sort, commented Sleeta.
No, no, only overwhelmed by my title, Brennan explained, a trifle sadly, as he sat down again after checking his bench for wine puddles. It happens so often, lir—too often for my taste, ft seems I am never able to see the true person underneath all the awe and awkwardness.
"My lord." It was Jarek, with a new winejug in his hands. "My lord, Rhiannon has explained her clumsiness. I beg you, spare her your anger. She is a good girl, and meant no harm."
The obsequious manner was new, ill-fitting, and unwanted. Brennan's mouth twisted in displeasure. "And do you think I want her beaten? Do you think I expect her to lose her place? It was an accident, tavern-keeper. Even if I were soaked, do you think I would want her punished?"
"How can I say, my lord?" Jarek returned stiffly. "Men who are princes often want things others might not." He jerked his head to indicate other patrons. "For a six-week now I have served the aristocracy and wealthy men of Mujhara. Do you think I have not seen all manner of retribution? Have I reason to expect you might want none taken?"
"Perhaps not," Brennan agreed coolly. "As it happens, you have no reason to expect anything of me. Except, perhaps, my custom, which The Rampant Lion has always enjoyed. Unless, of course, you choose not to serve me now."
Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 Page 11
