Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05

by A Pride of Princes (v1. 0)

  Sidra nodded, staring down at the hands she twined in her lap. "Anything is welcome."

  Corin rose. "I should go back. I left somewhat abruptly."

  He was still stiff, still sore, but the rest had done him good. "I will see what I can find out, and bring you word as soon as I can."

  "Oh, my lord, thank you!"

  Corin shrugged as he turned toward the tower door.

  "It is the least I can do after what you did for me." Kiri trotted past him out into the afternoon. It grew late, and dark; the sun slipped low in the sky and was hidden behind a wall of heavy clouds. The wind had an icy bite.

  Sidra, framed in the doorway, watched Corin go. "Be wary of the witch."

  "Here, I am wary of everything." He lifted his hand in a farewell wave and turned away from her. And then, abruptly, he stopped. "Why not come with me, Sidra? Ask Alaric yourself."

  "With you!" She gaped inelegantly. "I told you how I was turned out of the castle!"

  "This time you come at my invitation. If Lillith desires to turn you out again, she will have to contend with me."

  He put out a beckoning hand. "Come with me, Sidra. We will approach Alaric together."

  She did not hesitate. She slammed the door shut behind her and ran down the path to join him.

  Lillith's black eyes glittered. "You are a fool," she said coldly.

  They faced her in one of the private receiving chambers. Corin had meant to take Sidra immediately to Alaric and had very nearly succeeded, but Lillith ruled the castle. Guardsmen had halted them at the Lord of Atvia's door. In short order, at Lillith's command, they had been forcibly escorted to the chamber.

  Corin did not flinch beneath her stare. He was too angry, "What I am, Lillith, is Alaric's grandson and heir to Atvia's throne. If you think to keep me from him, you had better reacquaint yourself with the succession."

  "He is dying," she said plainly. "He has the night to live, or perhaps tomorrow. I can think of better ways for you to spend your time than bringing bastards here."

  "I will bring whomever I choose," he retorted. "She has more right here than you."

  "She was sent from this castle at her father's behest—“

  "Your behest," Sidra said sharply. "Why not let me see my father? Let him say if he wants me here or not."

  Lillith looked at Corin, ignoring Sidra altogether. "She has no place here. There is no provision for bastards in this castle."

  "I will make provision."

  "How?" Lillith asked. "Who are you to do so? A stranger. A foreigner. A shapechanger sent from the Mujhar, who sucks Atvia dry of wealth. Do you expect a welcome? Do you expect to be loved? Do you expect to rule?"

  "By the gods, Ihlini—"

  "By my god!" Her voice rang out to fill the chamber. "You are a long way from Homana, Corin. You are a long way from your gods." Before he could speak, Lillith crossed the room to him. She put her hand on his wrist and the silver blazed to life. "You have no power here. But do you feel mine?"

  The pain was intolerable. He felt it run through his body like fire, eating at every joint. Yet somehow, dredging up what remained of his waning strength, he managed to pull away. And in doing so, he retaliated. Before Lillith could avoid it he struck her full across the face.

  She staggered and nearly fell. He saw the mark of his hand upon her; saw the fury in her eyes. Never had he witnessed such hatred. Never had he seen such control.

  "What can you do?" he taunted. "I am a Cheysuli, witch."

  Lillith threw fallen hair back from her face. Corin's handprint was vivid red against the pallor of her skin.

  "What can I do?" she asked. And then, oddly, she laughed. "I can watch, Cheysuli. That will be more than enough."

  It chilled his bones. "Watch what?"

  But she was gone, leaving them alone in the chamber.

  "Gods," Sidra said weakly, "I thought she meant to kill you."

  "Come," he told her grimly, "it is time we saw your father."

  He took her to see Alaric. But her father was already dead.

  "No," Sidra said, as they stood outside the chamber door.

  "Aye," the guardsman told them. "Only a moment ago."

  "Was Lillith here?" Corin asked curtly.

  "My lord, she was. She was with him when he died."

  "Convenient," he said flatly, and moved to go inside.

  The guardsman dropped his halberd across the door.

  "No, my lord, I beg you—let them prepare him first."

  "Or let them hide the signs of Lillith's touch." Corin put a hand on the halberd. "Guardsman, move aside."

  "My lord—" But the door was opened, and Gisella came out of Alaric's chamber.

  Corin fell back a step. "Jehana—" And cursed himself instantly.

  She stared at him blankly. There was nothing in her eyes save grief, and an odd opacity. Corin recalled what Lillith had said about Gisella's borrowed wits. Now that Alaric was dead, his mother would revert to madness, to the woman who had so willingly agreed to give up her children.

  "Dead," Gisella said. "Dead—dead—dead—" But she broke off the refrain. She looked at Corin expectantly.

  And then she began to smile. "Have you come to take me home? Has he sent you to take me home?"

  Corin suppressed a shudder. "Jehana—no. Not to Homana. Your place is here—"

  She stopped him. She put out a hand and touched the tawny hair that reached his shoulders. "My beautiful boy," she said. "My strong, beautiful boy . . ."

  He wanted to move away, to avoid her entirely, disliking the look of her eyes, but she had backed him against the wall. And even as he tried to pull away her hand, she locked fingers in his hair.

  "Jehana--"

  "Stay here," she said, "stay with me. No Homana. Atvia. Atvia is my home. Stay. Stay. Niall has all the others . . . you will stay with me—"

  He nearly gagged as he jerked her fingers from his hair. "Jehana—let me be—"

  "Corin will stay with me—"

  He caught her wrists and thrust her away, sacrificing some hair. But he was free of her at last. And before she could reach out again, before she could trap him again, he turned and lurched away. He could not bear to face her.

  "My lord." Sidra caught him halfway down the corridor. "Corin, wait—"

  He pulled free of her hand as well, wanting no one at all to touch him. "Gods," he said. "Gods—" And he fell against the wall, turning his face from her.

  "I know," she said, and he saw the tearstains on her face. "I know. Come with me, Corin."

  She took him away. She took him out of the castle.

  She took him to the tower, and gave him bitter ale. She herself took two sips, then pushed her cup away. There was grief in her eyes, and weariness; a stark, bleak look.

  But after a time it faded, and it was his turn to deal with it.

  He sat on the floor and gathered Kiri into his arms.

  "He was nothing to me," he said blankly. "Less to me than to you."

  "I know," she said gently. "To me he was always kind, but I know what he has done."

  He cradled the vixen against his chest, needing Kin's strength. "I never wanted Atvia. I have known for as long as I can remember that one day it would be mine, but I never wanted it. I wanted Homana instead."

  "It is your home," Sidra said.

  "More." He stroked Kiri gently, lost in reverie. "More. It was not just that I longed to stay in a familiar place ... it was that I wanted it for mine. To hold. To rule. To love. I wanted to be Prince of Homana instead of Prince of Atvia." He tilted his head and rubbed his cheek against Kiri's fur. "I wanted Brennan's title. I wanted Brennan's birthright. And now I want his woman."

  Sidra sat very still.

  "I went to Erinn to tell her it was time she wed my rujholli, and fell in love with her myself. Knowing she was Brennan's. Wishing she might be mine." He stared blindly into the gloom of Sidra's tower. "But she must wed the Prince of Homana."

  "Oh, my lord ... I am so sorry for you
."

  Corin sighed and shut his eyes. "He will have Aileen. He will have the Lion. He will have Homana."

  Night had come down fully. It had begun to rain. Sidra rose and lit a second candle, shielding it with her hand.

  She turned and looked at him over the flame. "We needed to know," she said. "We needed to have the key." And then she opened the door to Lillith.

  The storm was in the room. "Strahan wants you,” she told him. Behind her were Atvian soldiers.

  Corin looked at Sidra.

  "Strahan's child," she said.

  He did not waste time thinking. Almost at once he was up and running, with Kiri darting ahead. Together they scrambled up the stairs to the second story, then higher still, heading for the roof. He unlocked and threw back the trap-door at the top of the ladder, boosted Kiri through, lurched through himself. Slammed the door down, knowing they would break through.

  Slashing wind and rain stripped his eyes of vision. He was soaked through in an instant. Cursing, Corin made his way to the low wall and peered out into the storm.

  Everything was blackness. No stars, no moon, no torches. He could not see the edge of the cliffs. He could see nothing at all.

  Behind him, the door was thrown open.

  "Kiri—" he said aloud. "Let me go first, lir—let me break your fall."

  He caught the edge of the wall. Climbed over, clinging to the rocks. Boot toes grabbed for footholds. The stone was wet, slick, unforgiving. In a moment he would fall.

  He heard the shouting of the soldiers. And let go.

  He fell, scraping bare arms. And then he landed, toppled, fell—pushed himself up again, wet, muddy, aching.

  He stared up at the wall, fighting the rain, trying to see the vixen. Now she could jump. Now he could catch her.

  Without him, the fall would kill her.

  "The fox is taken." Cutting the darkness he saw a lurid glare of purple light and Lillith's silhouette.

  "Kiri—"

  "Give yourself up," she called. "He has no plans to kill you any more than to kill your brothers. Strahan has need of you."

  He knew better than to surrender. If Strahan wanted him whole, the Ihlini would never harm Kiri. Corin knew it would be difficult, but there was a chance he might free his lir.

  Provided I free myself.

  Accordingly, Corin turned and ran.

  Through the rain and the wind and the darkness—

  —and fell off the edge of the world.

  There was no time for even a scream.

  Interlude

  The glare from the Gate backlighted Strahan, making him little more than a shape before her eyes- She could not see his face. She could not see his expression. But she heard the satisfaction in his tone.

  "One, two, three." He paused. "Though I might have wished the youngest was less damaged."

  "He will heal," Lillith told him. "It was—unexpected. There was no one who could stop him. I think he was as surprised as any of us when he fell from the top of the cliff."

  Strahan considered it. "I think it will have its uses . . . if, for nothing else, to help me sway the others." Light was a nimbus around him. "I think it is time to begin."

  Lillith smiled. "Who will be the first?"

  Flame licked out of the Gate, fell back in a shower of sparks. It illuminated Strahan's face. "First I must test them, one by one, to learn who is the weakest link. None of them will be easy. It will be a task of discovery ... I must be very gentle. Nothing will be done in haste." He knelt. His back was to her. She saw him bend over the rim of the Gate, extend a hand, then he rose to face her again. In his hands was a silver cup. It was filled with viscid liquid and a pungent purple smoke. "I think the first-born shall be the first."

  Lillith drew in a breath. "He will be the hardest of all."

  The cup glowed silver-purple. "What I have to offer Brennan may not be enough ... it is possible he has overcome his fear. But I can use his brothers ... I can use his twin. The bond between them is nearly as strong as that between warrior and lir."

  "And do you think Hart will break?"

  "He may be the easiest. What I offer him is continuity as a Cheysuli. They are an immensely proud race, as we have reason to know, and more intractable than they should be," Strahan smiled and rubbed thoughtfully at his bottom lip. "But now he lacks a hand. Now he is warned. Lacking a hand, he lacks a race ... I think it should be enough."

  "And if Hart does not break?"

  Over the cup he looked at her. Smoke wreathed his face, but the eyes were still paramount. "Then all will be left to Corin. With one, I can break them all." Strahan slowly nodded. "He is an ambitious man, and jealous of the eldest. It is a formidable weapon. It should not be difficult."

  Lillith frowned. "Do not misjudge them, Strahan. None of them is weak."

  "But all of them have weaknesses. And I intend to exploit them."

  It did not erase her frown. She was older than her brother by nearly two hundred years. She knew the Cheysuli better. She knew them very well.

  Lillith looked at her brother. Strahan drank from the cup.

  PART V

  One

  The door was opened. Light spilled into the cell. Brennan, hunched against the wall, shut his eyes at once.

  "Come out," the voice said.

  The syllables were strange. Brennan did not at first know them, hearing only sound. And then he pieced them together, understood them, stared through the crack he made in the shield of his fingers.

  "Come out," the voice repeated.

  He pressed himself against the wall and tried to climb inside it.

  "Bring him out," the voice said, and hands were laid upon him.

  They got him as far as the door. Light fell full upon him. To a man who had lived too long in darkness, the flame was intolerable.

  But no more so than the fear.

  He was poised on the threshold, blinded by the light.

  He turned his head aside, shutting his eyes, trying to avoid it; a torch was held nearer yet.

  "Behold the Prince of Homana."

  The voice was Rhiannon's voice. Brennan opened his eyes.

  Alone in the darkness, he had lost track of time. He knew it had been weeks; he had not expected months.

  But she was big with the weight of his child.

  "Behold the Prince of Homana." Her tone mocked him. Then she gestured to those who held him. "Take him at once to Strahan."

  Slowly it penetrated. He was out of the cell—free of the cell—they had taken him out of the cell. The stink of it clung to him, but the scent of hope replaced it.

  They took him up endless spirals of winding stairs. He was weak from inactivity, cramped from the tiny cell, bound up by the burden of fear. He knew he was not mad; he knew also he was not quite sane.

  More stairs. And then at last a door. They opened it, thrust him through, shut the door behind him.

  Brennan spun, staggering, and tried to claw open the door. They had shut him up again.

  His nails broke on the wood. The latch did not give beneath his desperate fingers. The door was securely locked. It was no less than he should have expected. He closed his eyes and pressed his face against the wood, trying to calm himself, but the fear was ever-present.

  It was all he had known for months.

  Finally he turned. Expecting anything, he set his back against the door. But the room was empty of men or women. No one inhabited it. Brennan drew in an unsteady breath.

  The chamber was small, but large to him, after captivity in his cell. The walls were black—Valgaard's dominant color—but soft rugs carpeted the floors even as tapestries brightened the walls. Fire blazed in the fireplace. There were chairs and tables and candleracks, all ablaze with light. It made him squint; he was yet unaccustomed to light.

  And then he smelled the food.

  His belly cramped instantly. They had not starved him, preferring instead to keep him alive, but the food had been much less than he was accustomed to, and the die
t very plain. His body cried out for better, and now it was offered to him.

  Brennan stared at the silver platters. Hot meat: beef, venison, pork and poultry. Fresh bread: brown, white, hard and soft, redolent of fresh baking. Wheels of cheese: creamy ivory, pale yellow, ocher-gold. Baskets of fruit: apples, grapes, pears, peaches, plums and countless others. Beakers of wine and ale and usca.

  Quickly he crossed to the table, reaching out to scoop up the food. He grabbed a goblet of wine. Tore off a chunk of beef. And then, even as his belly cried out, he ate and drank none of it.

  His hands trembled. Wine slopped over the rim of his goblet, dripping on his boots. The aromas were overwhelming.

  He dropped the beef onto the platter. Set the goblet down. It overturned in the unsteadiness of his hand, ringing against the wood of the tabletop. All the wine spilled out in a river of blood-colored liquid.

  Brennan backed away. And then, still shaking, he sought a chair and fell into it, leaning forward to press his face against his hands.

  The flesh was slack and lifeless. His nails were rimmed in black. He smelled the stink of himself. He was awash in the filth of his cell. The Brennan he knew was gone.

  And his belly cried out for food.

  "You insult me," Strahan said.

  Brennan started. He had heard nothing, nothing at all, and yet the door was open. And then Strahan closed it and came to greet his guest.

  "I offer you food." He indicated the table. "I offer you wine, ale, bread. Yet you touch none of it."

  Brennan had spoken to no man for weeks, for no one had spoken to him. All he could do was stare.

  Strahan's eyes narrowed slightly. And then he smiled, and sat down across fr6m his kinsman.

  Brennan had not, until now, ever seen the Ihlini. He had been raised on stories of the man, on tales of his sorcery, but never had he seen him. And now that he did, now that he sat but four paces from him, he realized the stories paled beside the man. Strahan was power incarnate.

  The eyes, Brennan thought. Gods, what evil eyes.

  One blue, one brown, set slightly oblique in a face built of flawless bones. His beauty did not in any way make him effeminate, but the features were as arresting as those of a beautiful woman. Straight, narrow nose, winged blade brows; the fall of raven hair, held bade by a silver circlet.