"Foolishness," she muttered, and was the last one out of the room.
Brennan smiled a little as the door thudded closed to punctuate Keely's temper. "Do you regret it, jehan? Siring such unruly children?"
Niall grinned. "There are times. . . ." He let it trail off and stretched out his legs, slumping back in the chair.
Candlelight glinted off the cup still held in his hand. "If the gods are willing, you will know the same trials I do. But in the end it is worth it... too long was the House of Homana poor in children, poor in healthy sons." He shook his head. "Because of my unruly children, I am able to make just distribution of our holdings, and improve for our House the trusts held by other kings. Within one generation I am able to secure threefold the path of the prophecy. Believe me, that is something."
Brennan nodded. Idly he looked into his cup; his wine was untouched. He drank down half of it in two gulping swallows, then dropped into the nearest chair. His ear hurt, and his head, and the rest of him as well. "There is more," he said at last. "I saw Teir at Clankeep. He was his usual self."
Niall shook his head in disgust. "I thought Ceinn knew better than to raise his son on resentment and bitterness. It does no good—the a'saii are disbanded."
"Teirnan says they are not."
The Mujhar went very still. "Not," he echoed. "And do you say they again espouse a change in the succession?"
"With an additional change. Ceinn and the others may have wanted Ian to take your place, once, but this time Teir wants the Lion for himself."
"The fool. The young, arrogant fool'" Niall thrust himself out of the chair and paced to one of the casements. It was full night outside, but the glow from bailey torches banished total darkness. What he saw Brennan would not venture to guess, but then he was not certain his father looked at anything other than memories.
"He says they will appeal to Clan Council, charging that Teir's blood has precedence over ours, jehan.” Brennan shook his head. "He seems not to care that a division within the clans could well divide Homana."
"Teirnan never could see farther than his own immediate desires," Niall said in disgust. "Ceinn was shrewder ... he said they wanted Ian on the Lion, or—when it was obvious Ian would never claim it—the first son 'Solde bore." He sighed and rubbed at ruined flesh, obviously troubled by old memories and grief. "Never did he claim it for himself. So—now he gives that son leave to win it—or steal it—however he can."
"Jehan-"
The Mujhar's tone was weary more than angry. "If he knew what it was to sit in the Lion Throne ..." But he did not finish, turning instead to face his oldest son.
"Well then, I think it is time to have him come to Homana-Mujhar.”
"Here?" Brennan frowned. "Why?"
"I discounted the a'saii before, because I was foolish enough to believe my place secured," Niall said. "I was, after all, Cheysuli and Homanan, a part of the prophecy." He smiled in wry self-deprecation. "It nearly got me slain. I will not do it again . . . not when my son is at risk."
Brennan stared at his father thoughtfully for a long moment. Then he slowly shook his head as he understood the ramifications. "You are taking Teirnan hostage against the a'saii."
"Am I?" Niall's bland tone divulged nothing of his thoughts.
Brennan could not look away from the man. He had seen the Mujhar on many occasions dealing with all manner of circumstances, political and personal, but never had seen him so intently purposeful while seeming so unconcerned.
"He might not come, jehan.”
"I think he will. If I know anything of Teirnan at all, he will come to prove himself. To prove what he is to us"
"I can tell you what he is," Brennan murmured darkly.
Niall smiled and walked slowly over to Deirdre's tapestry frame. He studied the pattern intently for a moment, then turned back to Brennan. "I cannot expect you to be boon companions any more than Ceinn and I were. But perhaps you can—influence him."
Brennan scowled. "I can think of better company."
"Doubtless so can he."
The scowl evaporated, replaced by a wry smile. "And if Ceinn objects? He is Teir's jehan.'"
Niall raised his tawny brows. "And I am Mujhar of Homana. On occasions such as this, there is some value in rank."
Brennan laughed aloud. "I think you want Ceinn to object."
"There is no pleasure in discord." Smiling, Niall lifted his cup and drank.
Son looked at father in detached appreciation. He did not much resemble Niall, being wholly Cheysuli in bones and color while the Mujhar was wholly Homanan, but they often thought alike, spoke alike, experienced similar feelings. There were times Brennan thought his father knew what he was thinking.
He scrubbed at his brow; weariness threatened to make him incoherent. He rose and set the cup down on the nearest table. "Jehan, if you wilt give me leave, I am for bed."
"Brennan."
At the door, Brennan glanced back. "Aye?"
"You have bedded the girl."
Brennan took his hand off the latch and turned to face his father more fully. "Aye." He felt a brief spasm of guilt as he recalled the initial circumstances, but it faded instantly. In the end, what he and Rhiannon had shared had not been a thing of force or mere gratification at all, but of entirely different dimensions.
The Mujhar's single eye was oddly opaque, but unwavering. "Perhaps I would do well to remind you that although meijhas are accepted in the clans, Aileen is not Cheysuli."
He thought he was too tired to be truly angry, but a trace of resentment flared. And was gone almost at once.
He knew very well that if it were not in deference to Aileen's Erinnish sensibilities, his father would never interfere in his son's personal life.
"I have no intention of offering insult to Aileen," Brennan said quietly, "any more than I intend to make Rhiannon my meijha."
The Mujhar relaxed almost imperceptibly. He smiled.
"Go and eat. And sleep. I intend-to send men tomorrow to leam what they can of this Homanan idiocy concerning Caro—it may be nothing more than something created by Strahan for effect—but I will excuse you from it and from Council in the morning."
"Leijhana tu'sai," Brennan said fervently, and pulled open the heavy door.
He slept heavily for part of the night and then awoke, sweating, as he felt himself slide toward the abyss. Sleep was banished. He sat up in bed and stared blankly at the draperies dripping from the framework of his bed and knew if he did not resolve his fear once and for all, he would never sleep well again.
Sleeta was a lump of warmth and blackness at the foot of his bed. Even in deepest winter he required no heating pans; Sleeta was more than enough. Through the link he felt her drowsy inquiry, and told her to go back to sleep.
What he intended to do required solitude, or the accomplishment—should there be any—would be tainted.
Brennan pulled on leggings, jerkin, soft houseboots.
Moonlight slanted through casement slits, providing more than enough illumination for a man with Cheysuli vision.
He went out of his room into the torchlit corridor and took the first down-winding staircase he came to.
In the Great Hall, the Lion crouched on the dais.
Brennan hardly glanced at it; nocturnal visits in childhood had inured him to the eerie, lifelike stare of wooden eyes. And it was not the Lion that drew him now, but something else entirely.
Brennan kicked charred wood and ash from one end of the firepit, sweeping clean of debris the circular iron lid set flush against stained brick. He thought briefly of using a torch for a lever; dismissed it and bent to grasp the twisted handle. He muttered a plea for help, then braced himself and jerked upward.
The hinged lid yawned open and folded against the rim of the pit with a muffled clang. Ash rose; Brennan coughed. The exertion emphasized his need for rest and recovery. Raw wrists stung as other muscles clamored to protest abuse.
Brennan stood on the edge of the stairway leading deep
into the earth. It had been sixteen years since he had descended the one hundred and two steps to the underground vault called the Womb of the Earth.
Aloud, he quoted a tenet of the clans: "If one is afraid, one can only become unafraid by facing that which causes the fear."
The words fell away into silence.
He sucked in a deep breath through a throat that threatened to close. "Prince of Homana? No. More like prince of cowards."
There was no disagreement.
Brennan swore. He caught up a torch from the rack and thrust it rigidly before him. It roared in the mouth of the stairway.
"Down," he said aloud, and made himself follow the order.
He counted. Each step took him nearer the Womb, farther from the Lion. Deeper. Until there was no light at all from the Great Hall, only the flames from the torch, and he knew it was not enough.
Brennan stopped. Sweat stung his armpits and dampened the hair against his face. The torch shook from the rigidity of his grip, distorting illumination. All he could see was blackness ahead and the promise of close confinement.
Down.
More steps. One by one, he descended them, until there were no more. He stood in a closet made of rune-worked stone. Slowly he put out one hand and pressed the keystone.
The wall fell inward, as he knew it would, and the vault revealed itself to him. The torch roared, spat flame, threatened briefly to snuff out. But it did not. And when he could, Brennan stepped into the vault.
The walls ran wet with torchlight. Gold veined the creamy marble and lent life to the lir imprisoned there.
Brennan saw wings and claws and beaks and eyes, all frozen in the stone. Each wall, from floor to ceiling, was alive with marble Ur.
"Ja'hai," he muttered aloud. But the gods made no indication they heard his instinctive plea for acceptance.
Sixteen years . . . and I am no less afraid at twenty-one than I was at five.
Brennan took three steps forward, then two more. He stood at the edge of the oubliette. The torchlight did not begin to touch the darkness of the pit. He could see nothing past the rim.
There were stories about the Womb. Legends that said a man, meant to become Mujhar, was required to be bom of the earth herself, of the Jehana, and this was the birthing place. No one knew if the stories were true, or merely imagery handed down by the shar tahls to make certain everyone would remember. Brennan himself could not say, although he had heard one story more than once; that Homanan Carillon, needing the blessing of the gods, had of his own accord gone into the oubliette. And come out again, whole, but with a greater understanding of what it meant to be Cheysuli, even though he was not.
"Homanan," Brennan said aloud. "But I am Cheysuli; is there really a need for such sacrifice?"
"Is there, my lord?"
He stood very still on the edge of the oubliette, taking great care to maintain his balance. When he could move again without fear of falling, he turned.
Rhiannon stood in the open doorway. She had exchanged gown for linen nightrail and woolen robe.
Wrapped in deepest blue, cloaked in a mantle of raven hair, she blended into the shadows.
In her eyes was the knowledge of what they had shared the night before, and the desire to share it again. She was not a bold jade such as many of the court women, but neither was she a coy woman whose mouth was filled with innuendo. That she believed herself in love with him, he knew; perhaps she was. But he was not in love with her.
She did not move from the doorway, as if she understood quite well that to enter was to intrude upon something sacred, something of ancient and binding power. "I went to your chamber and saw you leave it, so intent you did not see me in the shadows. You looked so troubled—" she shrugged, excusing her boldness easily,"—I followed. I found the stairway in the firepit, and knew what you meant to do."
"Did you?"
"Aye." She raised her chin slightly. "Whatever you may think of yourself in the aftermath of what Jarek did, you remain a brave man. A man of pride and strength and determination, not one to let a thing like fear cripple his tahlmorra." She smiled. "Deirdre is a remarkable woman, my lord. She answered my questions before I asked them, and told me what it was to love a man so bound by a prophecy. She told me how to share a Cheysuli with his tahlmorra."
He would not spare her the truth. "And did she also tell you that within a matter of months there will be a Princess of Homana who will share those things with me?”
"Aye," Rhiannon said.
He had expected tears, disappointment, resentment.
She gave him none of those things. What she gave him was pride to match his own, and integrity, and an honesty he so rarely saw in Homana-Mujhar, except when he spoke with Cheysuli.
He smiled a trifle sadly. "Where is the innocence?"
A tinge of color entered her face. "Do not mistake me, Brennan. I want nothing more than what I had last night. You wanted it—needed it—then . . . and I think you want it now."
He did. For different reasons, perhaps, but he would not lie to himself any more than to her.
"Her name is Aileen." His words were brutal by design; he offered a final chance for withdrawal.
But it was not accepted. "I know," she said evenly. "And name is Rhiannon."
He took her hand. He led her out of the Womb of the Earth. He brought her to his chambers. To his bed.
To something he did not, could not regret.
Eight
Teirnan threw himself down in the Lion Throne. He grinned, caressing the ancient wood, then laughed aloud in joyous exultation. "Do you know how long I have wanted to do this? Can you guess?"
Brennan, who did not particularly care, merely shook his head.
"For as long as I can remember." Still Teirnan stroked the clawed armrests, glorying in the texture of age-polished oak. "Since my jehan first told me I was kin to the House of Homana."
Brennan's mouth twisted in irony. "And how carefully did he tend you, Teir? How subtle was he in impressing upon you his belief that you should rule in my place?"
Teirnan luxuriated in the throne, sitting back so that his head was shadowed by the gaping lion's mouth. "There was no subtlety at all, cousin. I am the son of dead Isolde, rujholla to the Mujhar ... my blood cries out for the Lion."
Brennan, arms folded, paced slowly to the dais and climbed it, posting himself directly before the throne.
"There are no a'saii, are there? Only you. And Ceinn, of course—but I think Ceinn's teeth were pulled many years ago, when my jehan named him shu'maii in his Ceremony of Honors."
Teirnan's hands clenched the claws of the Lion. "I have as much right to it as you."
"Do you?"
"My blood hearkens back to the days of the Old Mujhars, the Cheysuli Mujhars, who had no need to marry unblessed foreigners in order to secure Homana. It was ours already, given us by the gods themselves."
"And the Ihlini?" Brennan shrugged as Teirnan broke off to stare at him in shock. "I do not deny that through Ceinn your blood is purer than mine . . . that because of Ceinn, you count some of the oldest and cleanest blood in your heritage." He tipped his head to one side in a brief gesture of idle acknowledgment. "After all, even your jehana—kin to the Mujhar himself—had decidedly mixed blood, while yours is admittedly less so.” Brennan was motionless, holding him with the understated gentleness of his tone. "But if you wish to sit here and prate about it how you are improved by such purity, recall that it was precisely because certain clans refused to marry out that this dynastic manipulation became necessary. This realm to that realm, this warrior to that woman . . ." He shook his head. "Perhaps you should also consider that it becomes more and more likely we are bloodkin to the Ihlini."
"No." Teirnan was deadly serious as he pulled himself out of the throne. "You speak heresy, Brennan."
Brennan shook his head. "I speak of probabilities."
"How can you say that?"
"Look at the lir,” Brennan said. "Will they attack the Ihlini? No�
�even though they will do their best to destroy anyone else who means us harm. Will they tell us why? No—all they ever say is that they follow the law of the gods." He drew in a breath, understanding things more clearly himself even as he spoke. "It does seem entirely possible, cousin, that the reason that law exists is to keep children from slaying children—"
"Children—?"
"The children of the gods." Brennan exhaled slowly, "I find it hard to believe the gods would give their children the weapons with which they might kill one another when what their parents desire is for them to live in accord."
"But Ihlini kill Cheysuli!"
"And Cheysuli kill Ihlini." Brennan drew in a breath of dull acknowledgment, understanding it at last. "But without benefit of the lir. Without benefit of a full complement of powers ... so that the battles are battles of men, and not the get of the gods, who have more power than perhaps they should to live in a world of men."
Teirnan's breath rasped loudly in the hall. "It cannot be," he said.
"How can it not be?" Brennan asked. "You know the prophecy, Teir. Its aim is to merge bloodlines and unite deadly enemies. We know the four realms; Homana, Solinde, Erinn and Atvia. Even now we are closer to fulfilling that portion of the prophecy. I will hold Homana. Hart will have Solinde, Corin Atvia, and Keely will wed into Erinn. As for the two magical races, who else can they be but Cheysuli and Ihlini?"
Teirnan's face was gray. "May the gods strike you down!"
"Why?" Brennan asked. "It was the gods who gave us the prophecy."
Teirnan backed up a step and ran into the throne. He stopped abruptly, rigidly, and stared blindly at his cousin. His face was a death-mask.
"Teir," Brennan said with abiding patience, "I do not advocate we go to Strahan with words of peace in our mouths. But I think perhaps my jehan has the right of it: the time is come for the Cheysuli to begin acknowledging all Ihlini are not dedicated to Asar-Suti. There are those who serve themselves because they believe in peaceful unification as much as our prophecy demands it."
"Unification," Teiman echoed.
Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 Page 16
