He drew in a deep breath, longing to spit in her face, but knowing better. Ihlini held his lir. "A complex and clever plan."
"It took a great deal of time to lay this plan—more to execute." She shrugged. "But then time is nothing to us." Black eyes narrowed. "And now we go, my lord. Strahan grows impatient."
His struggles were futile, and he knew it; Rhiannon's power over Sleeta was too pronounced. But he ignored the pressure against bis breastbone and caught her wrist, thinking to snap it in two, to shatter all the bones. Or to crack her fragile skull with a blow from his other hand.
And yet he could do none of those things. Even as he tried to move, he found ha body would not answer. His hand fell away form her wrist; he slumped against the tree, pinned by slender fingers. In her eyes was triumph and the knowledge of burgeoning power.
Angrily he bared his teeth in a feral, mocking smile.
"Valgaard is a long ride from here. If you think it will be easy—"
"Who said anything of riding?" Rhiannon pulled something from beneath her gown; he saw a glint of familiar silver. It was the ring he had given her, but the sapphire glowed an eerie purple instead of clear blue. "We Ihlini have better ways."
He manged to laugh, albeit was little more than an impotent bark of sound. "You forget; I am Cheysuli. Your sorcery will not work."
"You forget, my lord—I am Cheysuli also." She smiled.
"Ask why Sleeta did not know me. Ask why I hold you so easily. Look into your mind and find the link I have forged through careful and subtle means, all done in the throes of passion, when you would not notice my intrusion."
He rolled his head against the tree in desperate denial.
"You cannot. . . ."
"Can I not?" She was magnificent in her pride. "But I can, cousin ... the merging of our blood gives me a new dimension of power altogether, when that blood is also joined with Asar-Suti."
Her serenity alarmed him. "But you are not a Firstborn—"
"No. Not yet. But closer. Closer even than you. Because in the end, it will be the blood of our child—of Ihlini-Cheysuli children—who will hold dominance in Homana. Dominance in the world."
Rhiannon unhooked the silver chain that had replaced the ring's original leather thong. And though he tried to twist his head away, she clasped it around his neck. The chain was ice against his throat.
One last time—
"Brennan." Calmly she interrupted his futile attempt at fir-shape. "I do not love you, but neither do I hate you. What I do, I do to serve my race, as much as you serve yours. We are kin, close kin, and I have no wish to spill your blood; I share more than a measure of it. Ian is in us both." She caught his hands and linked her fingers with his, even against his will. "But we cannot control the Firstborn unless we make our own."
"Ihlini—" He writhed against the tree.
Rhiannon kissed him. And then the world was gone.
Interlude
Where she walked, smoke followed. Disturbed by the motion of heavy skirts, it tore apart like a webwork of lilac lace, then repaired itself in her wake to renew its delicate dance.
God fire hissed in the whorls of glasswork columns.
Down and down, around and around; light glistened in the twisted strings of the Seker's magnificent harp. She thought once to touch the closest column to see if it twould sing, but she did not. It was not for her to do.
She walked, and the smoke followed. All the way to the rent in the flesh of the earth, where flame instead of blood issued forth in a blinding glare. Beyond it, poised on the rim of the Gate, stood her mother and her uncle.
On the near side, Rhiannon halted. She folded her hands in her skirts.
Lillith smiled. In her daughter she saw herself, and took pride in the girl's loyalty as well as her loveliness.
"How soon will the child be born?"
"Seven months. Brennan was—most accommodating."
"And you?"
"I?"
"You are young," Lillith said kindly. "Cheysuli and Ihlini are bloodkin, born of the same gods, and meant to be together. It is understandable if this was—difficult, There is no shame in wishing it could be another way."
Rhiannon lifted her delicate chin. "Was it difficult for you, when you seduced my father? Was it hard to break that immense Cheysuli pride?"
"Ian's pride was never broken," Liltith answered. "He may have thought so, but it was lirlessness he felt, nothing more." She paused. "When you speak of breaking pride, remember that what is theirs is also ours."
"They will never accept it," Rhiannon said. "Never will they accept us as anything more than enemies."
"Good," Strahan said coolly. "If the day ever comes that an Ihlini and a completed Cheysuli lie down together willingly, the Seker is defeated. The gate will be sealed forever, and the Firstborn shall rule the world. We will no longer exist."
Rhiannon frowned. "What is a 'completed' Cheysuli?"
"One with all the necessary blood, save our own," The glare increased, leeching shadows from Strahan's face, then faded away to a dull glow, as if the god listened.
"The prophecy is a true one, Rhiannon, The Cheysuli weave it like a tapestry, and the pattern is nearly completed. But we can still alter it. We can tear away the brightest yams, as we have torn away Brennan, and use them to fashion another."
Lillith nodded. "Link by link, we must shatter the chain."
Godfire hissed; the flame rose, swelled, died away again.
"What will you do to him?" Rhiannon asked.
"Break him," Strahan answered. "Then mend him most carefully."
"How?" she asked intently.
Strahan's eyes narrowed. "Have you a suggestion?"
Rhiannon's laughter echoed amidst the columns and set the glassy strings to thrumming. "Lock him away," she said. "Lock him away in a small stone place . . . with no light, no lir, and no hope at all for escape."
PART III
HART
One
Solinde was an inhospitable, barren land. Hart thought, until he left behind the borderlands and entered wooded hills. The wide track leading out of Homana into Solinde traded plains for huddled hills, winding like a tunnel through heavy vegetation. Thick and deep, the shadows held dominance over sunlight.
He was thankful he had exchanged sleeveless jerkin for something a bit more substantial. The doublet, dyed a rich emerald green and belted with bronze-plated leather, was of stiffer leather than a Cheysuli jerkin and, though still immensely comfortable, its long sleeves provided warmth against the breath of a fall day. In the wood, in the shadows, the chill seemed to seep through flesh into his bones.
Hart shivered as the trees closed in, branches reaching for his face. The tunnel shrank and the shadows deepened, until he felt singularly oppressed. All around him were trunks and limbs and vines. The wood smelted of decay.
Lir, he said uneasily; Rael was out of sight.
Here. The hawk answered instantly. Above you, lir, above the trees, where it is bright and warm in the sunlight.
Hart tilted his head back and searched, but all he could see was the screen of limbs, a latticework thrown up by trees and vine and shadow. Perhaps I should leave the horse behind and go on as a hawk.
And then you would arrive without all your finery.
Hart laughed aloud, casually patting the saddlepacks that clothed most of his stallion's rump. "Little enough of that, I fear. Aye, I could have brought every trunk, but what is the sense in that? I have leathers, food and a fortune-game - - what else do I require?"
Good sense, Rael retorted. Or am I expected to supply the wisdom while you supply the gold?
"I intend to win the gold, not supply it," Hart explained. "Sweet Solindish gold ... I hear it is red as copper, but with twice the weight and thrice the value of Homanan."
Then you will need thrice the amount of your allowance to make the games worthwhile, Rael countered. Sooner wagered, sooner lost.
"I win, lir. I win."
Tell it to t
he Mujhar.
Hart scowled blackly at the branches overhead, trying to see the hawk, but gave up after a fruitless search.
Feeling oppressed yet again by the wood, he pulled up and held the stallion in place.
All was silence initially, as if the wood paused as he did, waiting to see what he would do. And then the impression passed and the wood was a wood again, full of familiar song. And even one Hart welcomed: the splash and gurgle of a stream.
"Water," he said aloud, then leaned forward to pat the stallion's chestnut shoulder. "Not as good as wine or ale, I'll wager, for me, but it will do for us both until we reach Lestra."
He guided the horse off the track into the thicker wood, tearing vines and bracken as they went, beating their way through brush. It gave way at last to spongy ground and the rocky bank of a wide, shallow stream.
Hart swung off his sorrel and turned him free to pick his way through rocks into the water; he himself balanced precariously on a flattened boulder and bent to scoop up handfuls as he braced himself with one splay-fingered hand.
The water was cold and sweet. Hart lingered even as the stallion did, ignoring the chill of his fingers. He was weighted with bow and quiver in addition to his long-knife, but at least he wore no sword. Even though he had learned it in deference to his Homanan rank, he much preferred fighting with Cheysuli weapons.
Hart felt the vibration first even as the stallion did, transmitting itself through the water. And then the sound, close upon its heels; the splash of hooves in water, running, and the clop and clack of rocks torn free of their customary bed. He pressed himself up as the stallion stumbled through the rock-choked stream to the bank on the far side, to shy away into the shadows. Hart stood his ground silently, knowing a Cheysuli's very stillness was protection in itself.
Lir. He appealed to Rael for information.
A rider, the hawk answered. In flight from yet another.
And then. A woman, lir. In crimson, mounted on white.
He saw her, then, come running out of the shadows.
She was a palette of white and scarlet; hair white-blond, gown bright red, the mare unsullied white. She hunched in the saddle, bent low over the mare's neck, and the vivid mantle billowed behind as she urged the mare onward.
The mare would fail soon. Hart knew, or trip and fall, snapping slender forelegs, perhaps even her neck. The streambed was treacherous with rocks and deeps and shallows; it was only a matter of time.
She was by him. And then he stepped out into the center of the stream, water lapping just above booted ankles, and unstrapped his Cheysuli warbow.
Lir.
A single man, Rael answered. Not far, not far, coming on.
Coming on. Hart nocked an arrow, drew the black string back to his ear, and waited.
The rider came on, splashing through deeps and shallows. It was clear he did not see Hart, so intent was he on his prey. Hart waited, waited; watched the horse come closer, coming on, coming on, churning water into spray.
And when the man was close enough. Hart ordered him to hold.
The rider drew up in shock, brown-haired, brown-eyed, staring with mouth agape as he tried to control his mount. And then he shut his mouth, reaching for his sword, but did not unsheathe it, did not spur on as he saw the arrow was intended for his throat.
"Hold," Hart repeated.
The man spat out a spate of Solindish Hart could not decipher. But the emotions were clear: anger, astonishment, outrage.
"You tempt me," Hart said quietly.
It was plain the Solindishman understood Homanan, Color rose in his face. Impotently he raised a clenched fist, but it was conspicuously empty of knife or sword. In accented Homanan, he said, "It is my duty, my task—"
"And now your duty is failure," Hart answered. "I have no knowledge of the place you are from—Lestra, perhaps?—but I suggest you go back to it."
"Homanan!" the man cried. "It is my responsibility—"
"Go back," Hart said calmly. "Gods, but you do tempt me."
The Solindishman glared angrily past Hart toward the prey he had lost. Then he muttered an imprecation in throaty Solindish and jerked his horse into a rearing pivot and an awkward departure that splashed Hart liberally with water.
He returned the unused arrow to his quiver, hooked the bow over a shoulder and turned to face the woman. She had not gone far past him, or else she had come back. The white mare stood in the center of the stream, sucking water gratefully; the woman sat erect in the saddle with crimson skirts and mantle all tangled on equipage, while her hair came free of its braid. Her expression was serious, yet it did not hide the flawlessness of the delicate bones of her face.
Fragility personified. But Hart thought he might be wrong. He had seen her ride.
"My thanks," she said gravely, gathering up her reins.
For all her fingers were slender, they handled the mare competently. And tightened, wary, as he splashed through the water toward her.
The mare eyed him in alarm and shied two steps, until the young woman checked her with a rein. Hart halted at once. From closer range, the incandescence of her beauty was incredible. It unfolded like a lily in the sun, then dominated its surroundings. Ice-white hair, ice-blue eyes, with glorious, flawless skin.
"You have done me a service." Her accented Homanan only attracted him the more.
Hart grinned. "Saving your life, or your virtue? Aye, you might say so."
"No." Her long-lidded eyes were gray-blue. "No, he meant me no harm. What he said of his duty, his task, his responsibility—all was true. But not as you believed. He was bodyguard, not ravager. Certainly not assassin."
He stared up at her. Gods, but this woman is enough to charm the teeth out of the Lion, and he would give them willingly— He smiled. "Lady—he was not? Then what service did I do you?"
Her laughter set the world ablaze. "Freedom—you give me freedom ... at least until the others come searching for me." Some of her gaiety was banished. "And they will. They will."
He could well imagine they would. He would. "So, you allowed me to chase away the man who guarded you." He laughed out loud in genuine amusement, appreciating her wit. "The man must now be cursing me for a fool, or himself."
Her eyes were full of laughter. "Aye, cursing us all—or cursing those who set him to his task." Almost abruptly, the humor spilled out of her face. An odd grimness replaced it. "But do they expect me to do nothing, meekly accepting their will?"
He heard a trace of bitterness in her tone and wondered if perhaps she had intended to use him to rid herself of her hound. "You said nothing, lady," he told her quietly. "And if I had slain him, what would you have told those who gave him his duty to ward you against enemies?"
She shook her head decisively. "No. No. I would not have let it go so far." She tightened reins and prepared to go. "My thanks, Homanan. But my business is better left to me."
He caught one of the reins, stepping closer. "And what do you give me for your freedom?"
She frowned. "Give?"
He shrugged, "I have done you a service. Now I ask payment, lady."
"If you think—"
"I do." He pulled the mare closer. "A kiss, lady. Small token of your gratitude, payment for my service." He grinned, arching suggestive brows. "Not so much, I think."
"More than you know, from me." One booted foot kicked out and caught him flush on the jaw.
He staggered back, swearing, and lost his grip on her reins. By the time he could see clearly again, the woman had spurred the mare on and was gone.
Rael, he said. "Rael!"
Not so far, lir. Mount your horse and catch up.
He whistled the stallion out of the trees and splashed through the stream to the bank, swearing all the while.
She had caught him squarely, snapping his head sideways toward his right shoulder; neck muscles protested in unison with the jaw. Had she been man instead of woman, she might have broken his neck.
Were she man instead of woman,
you would never have asked a kiss.
Hart, swinging up into his saddle, laughed aloud as he heard the hawk's tone. No, I would wager not. He urged the chestnut through the water onto the bank on the other side. Where, lir? Which way?
Westward, along the track. Riding toward Lestra.
The mare, he knew, was tired, and had drunk too much water to sustain a comfortable gallop for long. His own mount was rested; he would be on them soon enough.
He was. Rounding a curve in the tunneled track, he saw a flash of white tail ahead. Closer, closer yet; divots of dirt and turf were thrown up into his face. He ducked down and let the stallion shield him even as he ran.
The girl looked back once, then again. Her face was lost in the tangle of unbound hair; like the mare's tail it streamed out behind, a whipping pennon in the wind.
Hart, grinning as the stallion closed, saw the girl reach up swiftly and catch her hair at the nape of her neck, winding it swiftly into a single plume. And then she stuffed it beneath the neck of her gown with both hands, the mare running free, and caught reins again to pull the mare off the track into the shadows of the wood.
Hart nearly rode by the broken opening in the vines.
A decisive hand on the reins checked the stallion into an abrupt slide on his haunches, and then Hart spun him and sent him crashing after the mare,
Lir? he asked.
Hard to see, Rael answered. She twists and turns, but still heads westward.
"Lestra," Hart muttered, and swore as vine leaves slapped mouth and eyes.
No more track, save for what he could break open in her wake. No more headlong run, but leaps and stumbles instead, as the stallion tried to negotiate bracken and fallen trees. The world was a maze of green and brown and black, all shadows in the daylight, with little or no sun to illuminate their passing. The sound of his own mount obliterated hers. It was only when he saw a flash of white and crimson that he knew he drew closer again.
Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 Page 18
