Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05

by A Pride of Princes (v1. 0)

  She lifted one tawny brow in an eloquent arch. "Is that how he values a woman, then—by the children she can bear?"

  " Tis her only value, lass . . . what else can she do?"

  Boyne gulped wine, then set his cup down so hard the remaining contents slopped over the rim. "Mind ye, I can hardly be speaking for my lord, but I can say he's no wilted flower. He'll be wedding her, bedding her, getting a son upon her . . . within a year, I'm saying." He slopped more wine into his cup, then thrust it upward again. "To all the fine wee bairns'."

  Keely set down her cup and refused to drink. Corin, knowing Boyne meant well and that to refuse was rude as well as unnecessary, sipped his own and tried to ignore the look on his sister's face.

  "We too are sailing for Erinn in the morning," Corin began, intending to ask passage of the flamboyant captain. But Keely interrupted.

  "No," she said coolly, "we are not. Only my brother sails."

  Astonished, he nearly gaped.

  Keely's smile was excessively insincere. "I am needed at home."

  "Have you gone mad?" It did not bother him that Boyne was an interested onlooker. "You said you were coming with me!"

  Keely sipped her wine thoughtfully. "I have changed my mind," she said after a moment. "Is it not what a woman does? Certainly the sort of woman Boyne's beloved prince might prefer."

  He scowled at her. "You might have changed it before I sold the roan."

  Keely shrugged. "I will buy him back."

  "And if he is sold already?"

  "Then I will steal him back." Keely grinned at Boyne to remove the sting from her words; the big man's answering smile was fatuous.

  For all she protests womanly behavior, she knows how to use it when it suits her, Corin reflected irritably.

  "Keely—"

  "We will speak of it later," she said calmly. "As for now, I want some food,"

  Boyne nearly overset the table as he rose to shout for service.

  Later, when they were alone in the small room Corin had rented, Keely faced him squarely. Never did she avoid a confrontation or deserved punishment; nor did she now.

  "Why?" he asked.

  She watched in silence as he sat down on the edge of his cot and drew off his boots, one by one. The belt with its long-knife was next; the remaining leathers he would sleep in.

  "You heard him," she said finally, working at the lacing that bound her braid. "You heard that big-mouthed fool of a man, bellowing about how his lusty prince was hot for his Cheysuli bride." She stopped fussing with the knots and crossed her arms instead, all her unexpected vulnerability suddenly evident. "You heard how he will wed her, bed her, and get a son upon her—all in the space of a year!"

  "Aye, well, I think Boyne exaggerates out of habit." Corin scooted back on the cot and leaned against the wall as Kiri jumped up and settled herself next to him, "He enjoys the sound of his own voice, Keely, little more. There is no malice in him. Only goodwill."

  She sat down on the edge of the other cot, no more than four feet from his own. "I cannot go, Corin. I cannot."

  "You are afraid."

  She did not demur. "Aye."

  "Of what? From what Boyne said, Sean is a good man. . . kind to dogs, horses, children—" He grinned. "In all likelihood he will be as kind to his woman."

  But he had erred in thinking humor might soothe her.

  All it did was drive her farther from him, knees drawn up to shield most of her face as she hunched against the wall. "I want none of it," she said. "No wedding, no bedding, no children ... I want none of it, Corin! All I want is to be myself, and if I go with you to Erinn, I will lose myself that much sooner. At least this way I may wait until Liam of Erinn and jehan decide it is time."

  "Sean himself may have a say in it. And if he does—"

  "If he does, let him do it the way it is always done," she said bitterly. "He will have to tell his jehan, who will in turn send to ours ... it will buy me a little time. If I go with you, that time is halved." She sat up straight and stared at him. "I cannot afford to lose it, rujho . . . not even a single day."

  "But there will come a day—"

  "I know." She cut him off. "I know. But that day is not tomorrow." Keely bent forward and Jerked her boots off, dropping them to the floor. "I am sorry, Corin—but in the morning I go back.'"

  He nodded as she blew out the single candle. In the darkness he heard the crack of the leather webbing that bound her mattress to the frame. In the darkness he heard the sound of her uneven breathing, and knew she was more frightened than he,

  And he swore to himself that when he arrived in Erinn with his words of Aileen's betrothal, he would also speak of his sister's.

  Two

  Boyne stood next to him at the taffrail as sea-spray broke over the prow of the ship and splattered them both liberally. "There, lad—d'ye see it? Tis called the Dragon's Tail. 'Tis what divides Erinn from Atvia—a league or two of ocean, and centuries of war."

  Conn clutched the rail. The Dragon's Tail was a narrow channel winding its way between two islands. Winds lashed the water into heavy chop, turning much of the shoreline of both islands into jagged teeth instead of smooth beaches. But lest the fisherfolk lament such harsh-ness, there were also two natural harbors, sheltered and less treacherous.

  "I did not know Kilore and Rondule were so close," Corin remarked in surprise. Next to him, Kiri pressed against his leg.

  "Aye." Boyne, beside him, leaned on the rail, wind whipping graying hair into dark eyes. "Legends are saying once the islands were joined into a single kingdom ruled by a fair man. But that fair man's younger brother was desiring a kingdom of his own, and so they fought."

  Boyne grinned and spat over the taffrail into the slate-gray ocean. "They battled day in and day out, day in day and day out, till each realized if they kept it up, there would be no men left to lead. And so they agreed to fight no more."

  When Boyne did not continue, Corin glanced at him.

  "But that does not explain how two islands were made out of one."

  The big man tapped his badly bent nose. "I'm but warming to the tale, lad ... ye never rush a good story, now, or ye'll be ruining the ending."

  "Forgive me." Corin smiled in amusement. "I will leave the telling to you."

  Boyne nodded. Thoughtfully, he stared toward the Dragon's Tail. "Twas the younger brother's doing. Not satisfied with the truce, because it gave him nothing he didn't have already, he sought the power to overcome his brother, the king. He begged the aid of a powerful sorcerer, bargaining with his soul. And when he had slain his brother and won the war, he was king by conquest."

  Boyne grinned. "The only thing was, now the sorcerer wanted his soul. Since no man, newly crowned, is wanting to give up his soul, he said no."

  Corin nodded. "And so the sorcerer took his due."

  "Oh, aye, He split the kingdom in twain and took the soul of the king."

  "Leaving two kingdoms in place of one, and no men to rule either of them."

  Boyne grinned. "Each brother had a son. Each cousin took a throne. And to this day their descendants are fighting over a single title."

  "Lord of the Idrian Isles." Corin nodded. "That much I do know." He wiped spray out of his eyes and tasted salt. "What happened to the sorcerer?"

  Boyne frowned dramatically, black brows knitted. "Well, 'tis said he got the soul he was promised. But 'tis also said he soon grew tired of such pettiness and turned his back on it all. Some say he died; others are saying he went belowdecks and became king of the world down there." An eloquent gesture accompanied the final sentence.

  Corin looked at him sharply. "Do you mean Asar-Suti?"

  Boyne shrugged and turned to call out an order to one of his sailors. When he turned back, he was frowning.

  "I'm not knowing the name, lad. All I know is the story. Whether there's truth in it, I'll not be saying one way or another."

  "Asar-Suti, the Seker, who made and dwells in darkness," Corin mused thoughtfully. He glanced a
t Boyne, knowing what he said would sound like a tale to rival the captain's. "The Solindish Ihlini worship him as the god of the netherworld. In his name, they try to take Homana to make it part of his earthly kingdom."

  Boyne shrugged. "I'm not knowing so much of Ihlini, either, being Erinnish-born. But they could be one and the same: sorcerer and god."

  It was a new concept to Corin, who was accustomed to viewing sorcerers as men—or women—with magical power, but no godhood. If indeed the sorcerer had become Asar-Suti, then what was to prevent other sorcerers from doing much the same?

  Strahan made a god? Corin felt a chill at the base of his spine. He looked at Kiri. What becomes of our gods if the Ihlini make their own?

  The vixen's thick, bright pelt ruffled in the wind. It is a question I cannot answer.

  He looked at her more sharply. Cannot, or will not?

  Bright eyes glinted as she turned away. One and the same, lir. I have no answer for you.

  Again Corin thought of Strahan. He had been raised on stories of the man who led the Solindish sorcerers, those who served Asar-Suti. The Mujhar had said more than once that not all Ihlini did, and that only those sworn to the Seker were men to be wary of. But Strahan was different. Strahan was more than merely sorcerer, being blessed with an uncanny charm that beguiled good and bad alike. He was already extremely powerful because of his dedication to the Seker. If his reward for such service and dedication was godhood, then he offered more than idle threat to the Cheysuli and the prophecy.

  "Kilore," Boyne said. "And now, lad, I must tend my ship."

  Distracted by his thoughts, Corin watched the Ennnish giant go. It had been a long time since he had thought much about Strahan or the Ihlini, or even the prophecy.

  That he was a link in it was old news. Except for Maeve, all of Niall’s children were; it was why Strahan had tried to kidnap them as infants with Gisella's participation.

  But Boyne's fanciful tale had reawakened old memories and questions.

  Twenty years ago my jehana tried to give her children to the Ihlini. No doubt he had a use for us then. But what of now? What would he do with us now?

  And then, as abruptly, he forgot about Strahan and his half Atvian mother because the ship was docking.

  Corin clutched the rail and stared. Kilore the city spilled along the waterfront like a tangle of seaweed, streets and wynds interlocking to form a webwork he did not think he could ever decipher. And above the city, thrusting up in a jagged line of palisades, were the white chalk cliffs his father had mentioned so often.

  Kilore was a place of mist and magic, Niall had said, and Corin saw at least half of it was true. Shrouded in dampness, the cliffs formed a bright white curtain wall against the darker world.

  And atop it, almost ominous in its bulk, stood the fortress from which the city took its name: Kilore itself, Aerie of the Eagles.

  "Kilore!" Boyne called, and then added considerably more in Erinnish, which Corin understood well enough, thanks to years spent with Deirdre.

  I wish I were arriving home, like Boyne, instead of here. Corin looked up at the castle and tried to suppress his nerves. I wish I were doing anything but playing messenger for my jehan, and proxy suitor for my rujholli.

  The ship was secured handily, the ramps lowered, the unloading commenced. Corin, having nothing more than a set of shoulderpacks, proceeded down one ramp with Kiri trotting behind.

  Fish, she said fastidiously.

  Corin smiled crookedly. Aye, fish indeed. Deirdre had told him much of Erinn's economy depended on fish, and the stench made it more than evident. He smelled fish, old and new; sea salt and seaweed; the effluvia of ships toiling for months on the Idrian and beyond. There was nothing romantic about voyaging, Corin thought, when one looked at realities.

  He and Kiri picked their way around nets and coils of rope, conscious of the shrieking of the gulls and the chatter of fisherfolk going about their work. It was late afternoon; the tide was in and so were the fishing boats.

  He and Kiri, wandering along the quayside, were distinctly in the way.

  "Hai, Cheysuli!" Boyne called, and Corin turned back as the captain strode across the docks in his rolling sailor's gait. "Will ye be looking for someone in particular, or biding your time for a spell?"

  Corin, who had told the Erinnishman no more than his name and destination, shrugged beneath the shoulderpacks.

  "My business is with the castle."

  Boyne's black brows rose. He was a garrulous man but not a stupid one; he knew better than to ask questions that were none of his concern, and had not during the voyage. But it did not stop his thoughts, and he chewed idly on a tattered thumbnail. "Aye, well, I'll not be keeping ye from it, then. I thought to buy ye a wee dram o' ale or wine in the grogshop before I saw to my own business."

  Corin looked up at the Aerie. No, not yet. He smiled at Boyne. "No, captain, it is my turn to buy for you. Shall we go?"

  Boyne looked down at Kiri. "What of the vixen, then? Will ye leave her on my ship?"

  "Kiri goes with me."

  The Erinnishman shrugged. "Aye, aye, and welcome to her. Come along, then, lad. Let us be wasting no more time flapping our mouths when we could be swilling ale."

  He clapped Corin a buffet on the shoulder that nearly knocked him down and strode off toward a row of buildings not far from the quay.

  Boyne was engaged in another of his lengthy, colorful tales when a woman's angry voice distracted both of them. For a fleeting instant Corin thought she was protesting Boyne's loquaciousness, then realized there was more to it than that. It stopped Boyne dead in his tracks.

  "Here!" he called, looking toward a narrow wynd that twisted down toward the sea. "Hai, lass, here—"

  The woman's protest was silenced at once, and forcibly. Boyne slapped Corin on the shoulder and took off at a run, filling the wynd with his bulk and voice. After only a moment's hesitation, Corin followed.

  Three men, Corin saw as he turned a corner—and a woman bundled in blankets. Near the end of the wynd, close to the quay. One of the men turned to face Boyne; the other two lifted the women off her feet and effectively controlled her struggles.

  After a brief exchange between Boyne and the spokesman for the others, Corin realized civilities had been abandoned.

  Boyne shouted with mocking laughter. "Oh, aye, and my mother was a queen!" He turned to Corin. "Yon man is saying the woman is drunk, and they're taking her home to her husband. But I know better than that—she shouted for help, and there was no drunkenness about it. And if these men are Erinnish, I'll be giving them my ship! Atvian, more like, trying to spirit away an Erinnish lass for evil purposes." He advanced a step. "Come, lad, 'tis a lass in need of us.”

  Kiri, Corin said within the link, and the vixen darted past Boyne's opponent to the others. Even as Boyne engaged, slapping away the knife that appeared in the Atvian's hand, Kiri was nipping at ankles amidst kicks and curses.

  Corin grinned and waded into the fray himself. As Boyne settled his score, reducing their number to two, Kiri forced the men to neglect their prisoner. It was easy enough for the girl to tear herself away even as Corin and Boyne converged on the remaining opposition.

  Boyne's fight did not last long. Corin's took longer, since he lacked the other's sheer bulk and strength. But as Kiri continued to nip at ankles, Corin smashed the Atvian's nose and sent him reeling off balance. A second blow snapped his head back and took his senses from him. He collapsed on the cobbles.

  "Aye, aye, lad, 'tis the way of it!" Boyne clapped him on the shoulder. "We've saved the lass from the scum!"

  Boyne's "lass" still sat on the ground where she had landed, half wrapped in dark blankets. Slowly she levered herself up on elbows, feet flat, knees drawn up, skirts tangled around her boots. She stared up at them both, then put out a hand to yank heavy skirts decorously into place.

  Corin reached down an open hand. "Lady, will you come up?" He caught her, pulled her, steadied her as she rose, clasping one arm aro
und her, pulled her, steadied her as she rose, clasping one arm around her slender waist.

  She was pale and a trifle shaky, but apparently unharmed; slight, but decidedly not fragile. Another woman might have cried or fainted or both; this one did neither.

  She eyed him closely a moment with incredibly bright green eyes, shrewdly assessing intentions, then pushed tangled hair—very red hair—away from an oval face. She blew out an explosive sigh of relief that also melted the tension out of face and limbs.

  Guardedly, she smiled; the mouth was eloquent in its mobility, wide and willful beneath a straight, bold nose.

  She was not a beauty, not as Corin reckoned women—her coloring was far too flamboyant—but she was a striking girl, the kind of girl whose vibrant liveliness of spirit made beauty unimportant. Almost without thinking, he found himself responding.

  "You're not Erinnish." She glanced at Boyne. "You are, captain, but the lad's not."

  "No, lass, he's Homanan. Cheysuli, more properly."

  The big Erinnishman grinned at her expression of surprise, then replaced it with concern. "D'ye fare all right, lass? Did they have time to harm ye?"

  She withdrew her hand from Corin's and deftly smoothed clothing into place, tightening snug belt, twitching the folds of her skirts, resetting the fit of tunic and under-blouse. She wore the plain garb of a fisher woman, and yet Corin had felt the softness of her hand, which did not at all coincide. No more than her carriage or her manner; he had seen the like in Keely.

  And, by Keely, he knew her. Inwardly, he smiled. Highborn, if not the highest.

  "They were meaning no harm," she said grimly. "They wanted me for Alaric, I'd lay a wager, and not for their own."

  "Atvian scum!" Boyne turned his head and spat. "Come, lass, we'll be taking ye to your husband or your father; one or the other'll be wanting to know of this."

  She tried to untangle the mass of hair and could not; the task required a brush. Distractedly she combed it back with her fingers, grimacing as she found additional tangles. The curling ends shifted against her belt. "I have no husband. My father's not in Kilore, nor is my brother or mother—which made it all the easier for the skilfins."