Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05

by A Pride of Princes (v1. 0)

  " 'Simply stop,' " he echoed, and grinned to himself.

  "If you pride yourself on the discipline of the Cheysuli—"

  "I pride myself on nothing." Abruptly he rose to tower over her. "Lady, we speak of private things. Let us dance instead."

  Lisa rose also, but disdained to take his outstretched hand. "No," she said coolly. "I think I would rather not." She turned to go, took four steps, turned back so abruptly rich skirts swung against the floor. Golden girdle chimed. "Dar has the right of it," she warned with infinite distinctness. "In the end, regardless of how I feel, I will do what is best for the realm,"

  Hart watched her rigid back as she slipped into the crowd and was lost. He was more than a little stunned by her sudden retreat—no, it was not a retreat. She had simply left him; he was not a man much accustomed to women leaving him.

  Not accustomed to it at all. Morosely, he searched for her in the throng. Had she gone to Dar? Possibly. He thought it entirely possible—until Dar himself approached.

  He carried two silver cups in his hands and offered one to Hart. "I swear, there is no poison. It would cheat me of my wager."

  Hart, still stinging from Lisa's rebuke, slanted her foremost suitor a black scowl. "No doubt the bet is against me."

  Dar grinned. "Not entirely, though it does involve you." He tipped his head in the direction of the departed Lisa. "Shall we drink to the lady, my lord, and to her unerring tongue?"

  Reluctantly, Hart smiled. And then he laughed ruefully. "Aye, she has that. And uses it on us both."

  They clanged cups and drank; the wine was dry, hearty, powerful. Hart liked it very much.

  "The lady has used it on me for many years," Dar remarked. "It is time she had a new target, though not a permanent one." His smile offered a challenge. "Are you interested in my wager?"

  "And if I said I was not?"

  "You would be a liar, and I think you are not that." Dar smoothed a lock of sandy hair away from his eyes.

  "For all we are Cheysuli and Solindish—and rivals to one another—I think we are much alike," he said lightly.

  "Once, had a man suggested that, I would have slain him outright; Cheysuli and Solindish? But I am a man for realities if nothing else; you are here, you intend to stay here, and—short of having you slain—there is little to do about it."

  Hart grunted. "You might still try."

  "To slay you?" Dar shook his head. "I think not. I think it would result in too much trouble, for me and for Solinde. No. No killing. Perhaps a wager will do as well."

  Hart sighed. "What wager?"

  "One worth our time, my lord. One worthy of both of us." Dar paused. "I propose we place a wager on the lady . . . and on ourselves."

  "Dar—"

  The Solindishman gestured expansively. "Deny it all you wish, but I have seen that expression before when a man looks at Lisa. It has been on my own face often enough." He shrugged and smiled ruefully. "You want her, I want her, every man in Solinde wants her. But only half a dozen stand a chance, and only one will get her.”

  "You," Hart said dryly.

  Dar grinned. "I am willing to wager on that."

  Hart smothered a laugh as he lifted the cup to his mouth. He drank, thinking it over, and watched the anticipation light Dar's eyes. He is as bad as I. . . . After a moment, he sighed. "What is the wager, then?"

  Dar's face was very intent. "For all she says she will marry who and when she pleases, Lisa knows full well it cannot wait much longer. Perhaps a month at the most; the lords already request a decision from her." His eyes shrewdly assessed Hart's carefully arranged noncommittal expression. "She need only wed a Solindishman—myself, or another of equal wealth and station—in order to unite the warring factions of this realm. We cannot hope to win Solinde from Homana until we are as one, and there is only one way of uniting us: under a single man."

  "You," Hart said, tasting ashes in his mouth.

  "Or my son." Dar's tone was steady. "Under our laws, the man who weds Lisa does not become King of Solinde, he becomes Lisa's Consort—a position lacking the magnificence of a proper royal title, perhaps, but none of the power accorded his place beside Lisa. Nor will she be Queen; Solindish law requires a male sovereign. But a son born of the lady and her Consort does become king upon his majority." He smiled. "Until he reaches that majority, his father acts as regent."

  "And if she weds me?"

  To his credit, Dar's expression did not alter. "If Lisa weds you, it would alter the traditional lines of succession. No doubt you would claim yourself King . . . since Solinde is a vassal to Homana, it seems likely that title would not be contested." He shrugged. "We have been soundly beaten repeatedly by your ancestors. I doubt there would be any rebellion."

  Hart shook his head. "There is no wager, Dar. Lisa would never allow Solinde to be ruled by a Homanan."

  "Would she not?" Dar stared grimly into his wine.

  "Do not discount yourself, shapechanger. There are those in Solinde who do not want another war, preferring peace even to self-rule. They are very persuasive. And Lisa—" He broke off, scowling blackly, then continued. "Lisa is guarded by those who desire peace."

  Hart recalled the man who had accompanied her the day they had met. A Solindishman whose task it was to guard her, and who allowed her so little freedom in order to protect her welfare.

  He looked hard at Dar, assessing the man's intentions.

  He knew Dar wanted Lisa, wanted Solinde, wanted self-rule. He knew also that Dar enjoyed the challenge of a wager as much as he did, which was substantially indeed; he could not live without it. But he did not know how far Dar was prepared to go.

  Idly, Hart drank wine. "What are the stakes?" he asked.

  "The highest," Dar answered. "I wager with my life."

  Hart looked at him sharply. "Your life," he echoed, disbelieving the man.

  "Aye," Dar agreed curtly. "Let it stand so: if Lisa chooses you, I will give up my life and give back the Third Seal of Solinde."

  "I do not want your life."

  Dar's eyes did not waver. "If you do not take it, my lord, be assured I will do what I can to throw you down from the throne of Solinde."

  Hart knew the Solindishman meant it. "I do not want you for an enemy."

  "If you win, you will have one."

  Hart sighed. "Aye, aye, well enough—if I win the lady, you forfeit the Seal and your life. But what of me? What if you win the wager?"

  Dar smiled. "You go home to Homana.''

  Hart stared. "Go home—"

  "Alive. Unharmed. Quite well . . . very much as you came." Dar, still smiling, shrugged. "But you will forfeit your claim on Solinde."

  "And if she chooses neither?"

  "Then we will find another game."

  Hart chewed at his bottom lip, hearing the siren song of the challenge. I’ll lose Solinde, my jehan will forfeit me—

  But he found himself clasping Dar's forearm; the wager was made and accepted.

  Six

  Hart awoke with the haunted feeling of something gone wrong. He snapped out of sleep and into daylight so abruptly it left him disoriented, and then he realized the disorientation had less to do with the sudden awakening than from late hours and excess drink; he and Dar and three other Solindish lordlings had wasted most of the night closeted in a private chamber, gambling and drinking, while the rest of the guests disported themselves in the Great Hall.

  A pang of guilt pinched his belly; such behavior in Homana-Mujhar would be considered unconscionably rude, particularly as the celebration had been in his honor, and he sincerely doubted he would have been allowed to slip away. But here no one dared attempt to dissuade him or otherwise remark on his behavior.

  Hart sighed grimly. Save for Tarron.

  But Tarron had said nothing, because Hart had taken care to slip away unnoticed, too hungry for a game to consider the consequences.

  Consequences. The haunted feeling came back. Hart, tangled in tumbled bedclothes, frowned up at the dra
peried canopy of the tester bed and tried to name what caused his discontent.

  Abruptly, he remembered.

  His eyes popped open. The wager . . . the wager with Dar, on Lisa. Swearing, he rolled over onto his belly and buried his face in feather-stuffed bolsters, half hoping he could smother himself and forget all about Dar and his infamous wager. Oh, gods, lir . . . I have wagered away my freedom.

  Rael stirred on his perch. Have you?

  Hart groaned aloud and clenched ringers in the silk of his bedclothes. The wager with Dar, on Lisa—on who will win her hand— He groaned again, feelingly. How could I have been so foolish?

  The last is easy to answer. Rael's tone lacked sympathy. When the craving is on you, you are no man, no warrior, no prince—you are nothing more than a hound smelling a bitch in season . . . save the bitch is no dog at all, but the wager itself.

  After a moment Hart lifted his face out of the bolsters and turned his head to stare at the hawk through the gauzy draperies. "How eloquent," he said grimly; there was no humor in his tone.

  How do you know you have lost your freedom? Rael asked. In order to lose it you must win the woman, and there is nothing that leads me to believe you will.

  Unexpectedly, the dry summation hurt. Hart frowned.

  "Nothing?"

  Nothing. Rael's pattern within the lir-link was infinitely assured; for once he did not offer the crutch of meaningless reassurance to his irresponsible lir, though the habit was hard to break.

  Hart sat up and tried to drag the hangings aside, swearing as fabric tangled and obscured his vision of Rael entirely. Finally he ripped them apart and climbed out of the huge bed, naked save for lir-gold.

  "Nothing?" he repeated, elaborately distinct.

  Rael heard the subtle challenge in Hart's tone. He stirred on his perch and fixed his lir with a bright eye.

  Tell me what you offer the woman, then.

  "A title. Improved status. Greater respect in the realm." Hart shrugged, spreading his hands. "Power as well, though not as much as I hold."

  What power do you hold?

  He smiled, victorious. "I am the Prince of Solinde."

  Who spends his time wagering on improbable outcomes such as who the last of Bellam's line will wed. Rael couched his words in brutal candor. Say again what you offer the woman, lir—and then realize that she can have precisely the same if you are sent home to Homana ... or if you are dead.

  It banished the smile entirely. Hart felt as if one of Brennan's horses had kicked him in the belly—no, not a horse, and not the belly. It was one of Rael's talons, and he stabbed lower than the belly, aiming for something very different, something personal, something eminently more vital.

  "Rael—"

  Think, lir. For once. See yourself as others see you. Rael paused. No. See yourself as the lady herself must. And tell me again you have wagered away your freedom.

  It curdled the wine in his belly. Hart turned from the hawk and went back to the bed, clutching one of the testers for support. It was never pleasant listening to others decry his habits, but he had always had the enviable capacity to cheerfully dismiss the comments, the fraternal and paternal lectures, knowing no one stayed angry at him for very long. He was not a man for moods and high temper, as Corin was; neither was he willing to shoulder all the burdens of his rank and future, as Brennan had always been. What he offered was friendly camaraderie, cheerful companionship, generosity of spirit.

  He was not a bad man. He was not a bad brother, bad son, bad friend, or bad warrior.

  "But I am a bad prince."

  Rael did not answer. Hart shut his eyes and set his forehead against the wooden tester, regretting the wine he had drunk. More than that, he regretted his willingness to overlook so many things in pursuit of personal pleasure.

  After a retrospective moment Hart turned back to the hawk. "She will not have me."

  No.

  "And if she takes Dar in my stead, as is likely, the wager is lost . . , and I will be sent out of Solinde in disgrace."

  Much as you were sent out of Homana.

  Again the talons stabbed into him.

  "If I go home, having lost Solinde—" Abruptly Hart sat down on the bed, realizing the enormity of his situation. "Gods, Rael, if I lose Solinde because of something so infinitely trivial as a wager—'

  If you lose Solinde for any reason, lir, you alter the prophecy.

  It snapped Hart's head up. "No," he said firmly. “No. I will not allow you to give that guilt to me."

  And if it is the truth?

  "How?" Hart challenged. "I am a second son, the middle son, obligated to no betrothal. It does not matter who I wed, how many children I sire—or who they wed. Let Brennan know that burden, lir ... I need not."

  The wine has replaced your wits. Rael’s tone lacked the bite of earlier comments, sliding instead toward customary patience and wry acknowledgment of Hart's shortcomings. But it did not make his words less telling.

  Whether you wed a Solindish woman does not matter—it does not matter if you wed at all—but it does matter if you hold Solinde. The prophecy involves four realms, not three. If you lose Solinde now, it will be lost forever . . . and the Ihlini victorious.

  Hart swore feelingly, knowing guilt as well as consternation. "If only there were no wager . . . then there would be no risk."

  Is that not the point of the wager?

  He raked tousled hair with rigid fingers, trying to make sense of the circumstances; knowing it unlikely.

  "Aye, aye, always before it was the risk, the chance I might lose, and the pleasure in knowing I had won—or would win, next time. But now—" Hart shook his head. "This is different. The game is different. The stakes are too high—" Trapped, desperate, despairing, he swore again. "Gods, Rael, it is the ultimate wager . . . and now I cannot enjoy it."

  Which do you mourn? Rael asked gently. The loss of that enjoyment, the loss of your freedom. . . or the loss of a realm?

  Hart did not answer at once. He stared blankly into the room, lost inside his head, knowing only that his need of the game had accounted for more than his current predicament. For the first time he fully acknowledged that he alone was responsible for the fire, for the loss of life in the Midden. Regardless of the kind of people they were, they had not deserved to die because of his selfish irresponsibility.

  "Thirty-two people," he said hollowly, and his mind fashioned a vision: Brennan, standing before the stained-glass casements in the Great Hall of Homana-Mujhar, visibly stunned by the loss of life; Brennan, shouting at Corin that it did not matter if he felt inconvenienced about having to go to Atvia when people were dead; Brennan, feeling more keenly the deaths of the people in the Midden because he was a responsible man.

  Oh, rujho, I wish you were here to tell me what to do.

  But Brennan was not. And so Hart did his own responsible decision-making for the first time in his life.

  He put on his clothing and went to see the subject of the wager.

  Hart was admitted at once into the city home in which Lisa dwelled and was shown to a small walled garden. At first he did not see her, wondering if he was meant to wait for hours while his impatience grew; then he did see her, and his fine intentions went out of his head. He could think of no way to speak plainly with her, to tell her of the wager that reduced her to chattel instead of independent woman, knowing how she would feel. And knowing what she would say.

  And so, lamely, he smiled, and drew for strength upon the abundant charm he had used unthinkingly so often in the past.

  Only the night before he had seen her clad in brilliant crimson, ablaze with gold and rubies. She had been elegant, incandescent, incredibly beautiful. He found her no less so now, though the fine gown, gold and gems were gone, replaced by nubby wool skirts of a cream and russet weave and an amber-colored tunic belted with supple leather. She wore scuffed boots in place of soft slippers, and there was mud on one cheek. The glorious white-blond hair was bound back in a single tight-plaite
d braid, tied off with brown leather. Around her face the shorter hairs came loose, straggling, curling, tangling, serving only to make him want to smooth them back.

  Looped over one arm was a basket full of flowers. A profusion of delicate, black-eyed moss roses, ruffled like crumpled parchment, all of bright golds, rich yellows, pastel apricots. In her right hand she carried small silver scissors connected to her belt by a fine-linked silver chain.

  She rose, intently tucking flowers into the basket, and then turned toward him only to stop short.

  "Come out with me," he said. "Come ride with me, Lisa."

  Winged brows rose. "Ride with you? On what, my lord? You wagered your horse away."

  He crossed the garden walk and put out his hand to take the basket from her, bending to set it down beside the path. Her wrist was slender in his larger hand, almost to the point of fragility. She seemed delicate as a lily, and yet her spirit and pride burned brightly as his own.

  "Aye," he agreed, "I did. Foolishly, selfishly, I sought to goad Dar into a wager that would win back the Third Seal, knowing he could not turn his back on the knowledge you had given the horse to me. And the gambit was successful."

  "Except you lost the horse."

  "Losing is always a risk, Lisa. Even now." He did not release her wrist. "The palace is rich in horses, though none so fine as the one you gifted me. I have another." He smiled. "Come with me, lady. Come out of the city and know a little freedom once again."

  "We have nothing to say to one another."

  "Oh, lady, we do." His thumb rubbed the top of her forearm, glorying in the delicate texture of her skin. "Come with me, Lisa. Please."

  Coolly she pulled free of his hand and its intimacy, bending to scoop up the basket. She hooked both arms through calmly, as if to put up a barrier between them.

  "I will order a horse saddled for me. You may wait, my lord."

  And he did, somewhat impatiently, wondering why women took so long to ready themselves for a ride when the wind would only muss them almost instantly. But Lisa did not, and when she appeared he discovered she had not changed at all, save to clean the mud from her face and to put on a fitted leather doublet with silver-rimmed horn buttons. Engaged in working hands into snug gloves, she hardly looked at him as she walked past him toward the front entrance.