Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05

by A Pride of Princes (v1. 0)

  He was a man who ruled through beguilement, and Brennan felt its touch.

  Strahan looked at him. Looked at him and smiled.

  "You should see yourself.”

  Brennan did not need to. He knew what Strahan saw; what he had ordered shaped to precise specifications.

  The Ihlini's skin was fairer than Brennan's. Slender white hands were ablaze with brilliant gemstones: ruby, sapphire, emerald. A diamond and a bloodstone. His nails were clean and buffed. Idly, he leaned his chin into one hand and tapped at his upper lip.

  Brennan did not know at which eye to look, and so he looked at neither.

  Strahan sighed a little. His leathers, soft and gray, were far cleaner than Brennan's soiled brown ones. He smelled of scented unguents more fragrant than Brennan's stink.

  "It is unfortunate," Strahan said quietly, "that you have come to this state. A prince should never be brought so low, nor a Cheysuli warrior."

  Brennan locked himself up in silence.

  Strahan gazed at curiously. "Was it the Womb of the Earth that did it? I have been there, you know. I have seen the marble tomb, the bottomless oubliette, the rune-carved walls of the narrow passageway.” He nodded. "I myself have never been afraid of small places, but it must be a difficult thing to bear. Particularly for a Cheysuli." He paused. "Particularly for you."

  Brennan was no longer in the room. He was back in the Womb, seeing the marble lir. Seeing the oubliette.

  Learning the meaning of fear.

  "It must be terrifying to know yourself locked in, unable to leave ... to know yourself trapped and helpless, alone in a tiny place. Knowing no one can hear your screams. No one can soothe your fear. No one can bear it for you."

  Brennan's breathing quickened. Rigid fingers made knots of his bands.

  "And so filthy, too," Strahan said sympathetically. "Such humilation, on top of all the fear. Having to relieve yourself in a corner like an animal instead of like a man . . . contending with dungeon vermin . . . smelling the stink of one's own body." He shifted in his chair; gemstones glittered on his fingers. Glittered to mirror his eyes. "Hearing things . . . seeing things . . . and too afraid to sleep."

  Brennan shut his eyes.

  "And knowing all the time such a simple thing will free you."

  Brennan opened his eyes.

  Strahan leaned forward and took up a cup of wine.

  "Will you serve me, Brennan?"

  Brennan's scalp itched. Lice infested him. All he could do was stare.

  Strahan drank wine.

  Brennan drew an unsteady breath. The room was warm, dry, brightly lighted, filled with the beguiling aromas of food and drink. His body cried out for kindness again.

  His battered spirit demanded it.

  Strahan put down the wine. "I have a smaller cell."

  Brennan flinched, and hated himself.

  "More suitable to your condition."

  Brennan wet cracked lips. "No," he croaked, prepared to argue it.

  Strahan rose. "You will excuse me, I am sure; there are things I must attend to. My servants will escort you back."

  He turned away. A casual flick of one finger caused the door to swing open. Men waited there.

  "The prince prefers his cell." Strahan's tone was one of complete indifference.

  Men surrounded him. They lifted him out of the chair and put him on his feet. Before he could speak a word, before he could begin to struggle, they had taken him from the chamber. Back down the winding stairways into the depths of Valgaard's bowels.

  At the cell door, he rebelled. But they were too strong for him. The door was opened. They flung him through.

  They locked it on his outcry.

  Brennan stared blindly into the darkness and knew Strahan was not finished. And then he began to shake.

  A second door was unlocked. A second man brought out. Him also, they took to Strahan.

  The sorcerer turned from the casement as Brennan's brother was ushered in. He looked at Hart's gaunt face, looked at the leather-wrapped stump, looked back at the haunted eyes. "I apologize," he said kindly. "Dar was overly enthusiastic."

  Hart was plunged back instantly into the room at Lisa's dwelling. To when they had pinned his hand to the table.

  To when the blade had fallen. To the moment he realized be no longer had a left hand. And the memory of the pain.

  Rage boiled up inside. But he said nothing at all; he would not give Strahan the satisfaction.

  "It makes you angry,” Strahan said. "Do you think I cannot see it?"

  As was becoming habitual. Hart cradled the stump in bis remaining hand, pressing it gently against his chest in an unconsciously vulnerable gesture of retreat and self-protection.

  Strahan indicated food and wine. "Will you eat? Will you drink? I should hate to see it go to waste." And then he paused, as if arrested in mid-motion. "But of course, I had forgotten . .. someone will have to cut it for you.

  Humiliation tied Hart's belly into knots and briefly, too briefly, colored his face a deeper bronze. It took all his strength to keep the anguish from his tone. "What do you want me for?"

  "Sit down, my lord of Solinde ... I see an alarming pallor in your face."

  Hart fully intended to ignore the suggestion. But the pallor was unfeigned; shock coupled with fever had served to sap his strength. Slowly he seated himself, preferring the chair to falling down. He found the motion uncomfortable; he was accustomed to using two hands.

  "Does it hurt?" Strahan asked. "Is the loss of a hand anything like the loss of an ear?"

  Hart looked at him in shock. He had forgotten that Strahan had only one ear. The other had been cut off in a fight with one of Hart's own kinsmen long ago on the Crystal Isle.

  Strahan hooked long hair back and bared the side of his head. "We all suffer losses, some of us more dramatically than others." He moved the hair back into place.

  "It was my misfortune the ear was lost entirely. Had I found it, the Seker might have made me whole . . . but I was somewhat pressed for time."

  Hart stirred. "If he is as powerful as you claim, why did he not simply make you a new one?"

  "Flesh born of flesh," Strahan said. "The original was required."

  Hart looked down at the stump of his wrist. He felt the hand there, and yet when he looked he saw nothing at all. When he moved it, nothing grasped. But the reflexive pain was undiminished.

  "I know, of course, the loss of a hand precludes you from returning to your clan." Strahan's mouth shaped the words with a deep and abiding compassion. "We Ihlini are not so harsh. A man's mind may be useful even if the body is not."

  Hart gazed blindly at the hand that no longer existed.

  "But it would be so difficult for a maimed warrior to contribute to his clan," Strahan remarked. "How can you use a bow? How can you mount a defense? How can you ward your woman and children against the enemy?"

  Hart did his best to ignore him, but the gentle probing found its mark.

  "And, of course, as part of the prophecy . . . well . . . what is left to you?" Strahan poured wine. "What is there for you to do? How can a warrior serve when he is no longer recognized as a warrior?"

  Hart stirred at last. "My jehan lost an eye."

  Strahan made a dismissive gesture. "Oh, aye, he did . . . but then he had another."

  "I have another hand."

  "A hand is not an eye." Strahan paused. "What will they do?" he asked. "Will they strip you of your gold? Blot out your rune in the birthlines? From the path of the prophecy?"

  Breath caught in Hart's tight throat. He felt the slow churning of his belly.

  "Will they tear down your pavilion? Take cheysula or meijha from you?" Strahan paused. "Or will no Cheysuli woman be allowed to speak your name?"

  "Stop," Hart whispered.

  "Will they strip you of your lir? Or will the lir go regardless?"

  "Stop. "Hart said.

  "There is no place for you. Hart. You are now a clanless warrior, unable to serve you
r race."

  Hart stood up so fast he overset the chair. "Ku'reshtin!"

  But before he could move to strike him, Strahan caught hold of his wrist.

  "No," the sorcerer said, and closed his lingers on the leather that warded the healing stump.

  The pain was excruciating. Hart wavered on his feet.

  "No," Strahan said, "I can offer you better."

  Sweat ran down Hart's face to mix with tears of pain.

  "You offer me loss of honor ... the loss of who I am—"

  "Service to me will replace it."

  Hart tore his wrist free, then hugged it against his chest. Pain robbed him of the words. All he could do was shake his head.

  Strahan sighed. "You Cheysuli are so stubborn. Nearly as stubborn as I." And before Hart could answer, he summoned men to take him away.

  The hand was cool on Corin's brow. It took the heat away. For so long there had been heat. Heat and unbearable pain. And now Strahan took it away.

  "You are a fortunate man," the sorcerer told him gently. "You very nearly died."

  The eyes transfixed him utterly.

  "But you are better now. The bones begin to heal. I think you will walk again, though possibly with a limp."

  Strahan paused. "Do you recall what happened to you?"

  Vividly, Corin did. "I fell." The voice echoed the weakness in his body. "I fell off the dragon's skull." He gazed clear-eyed up at Strahan. "She said it was your child."

  Strahan's winged brows lifted to touch his circlet. And then he smiled. "May the Seker grant it perfect health."

  Corin itched. He ached. He wanted badly to get up, but knew he could not. "Kiri?" he said plainly.

  "Mine. She is well, I promise you." Strahan made a sign and a stool was instantly brought. He sat down close to Corin's bedside. "You understand, I am sure, why I wanted you."

  "You want Atvia."

  "But only for my lord. I am not a greedy man." Strahan smoothed the covers. "Is there much pain, Corin? I can drain it from you."

  Corin recalled how Lillith had drained Alaric of wits and life. He said no distinctly.

  Strahan smiled, and then he laughed. "Why do you think the worst of me? If I wanted you dead, I would have left you at the bottom of the cliff, to wash out into the sea. Perhaps to wash up on Erinn's shores, where Aileen could grieve over you."

  Corin shut his eyes. "I will not give you Atvia."

  "Atvia, for the moment, is quite within my grasp." Strahan's palm touched his brow again. "I was thinking of Homana."

  Corin's eyes snapped open.

  "Aye, I thought that might get your attention." The fingers dripped with ice; the fever began to fade. "Sidra tells me you want your brother's bride. That you want your brother's title. That you want your brother's throne."

  Corin bit his lip. "Take your hand from me."

  After a moment, Strahan did. The pain renewed itself.

  "The Seker is a generous god. What a man wants, he often bestows.”

  "Then why does he not simply give you the realms you want?" The level of pain was rising. He was transfixed by Strahan's stare. "Why does he not simply take them?"

  "Through men like me, he will." Strahan tore back the covers to bare splints and linen wrappings. "Both legs, Corin. And ribs I cannot count. You are fortunate the bones of your head were left intact, else I could offer you nothing."

  "You offer me nothing I will accept." Corin threaded bruised fingers through his hair and stripped it back from his face, pulling hard purposely to deflect the pain from his mending bones. "I will heal. The pain will die. You offer me nothing at all."

  "You will heal. The pain will die. But I can offer you much more. I can offer you what you want."

  Corin grunted his irony. "Homana is not mine to give."

  "And if it were?" Strahan asked softly. "If I offered to share it with you?"

  "Share what?" Corin demanded. "You will make me a minion regardless, and then I will need no throne."

  Strahan carefully covered him up again. "A minion has its uses, but so does a living man. I would prefer to use the latter."

  Corin turned his head away.

  "I can turn your legs to jelly," Strahan said softly. "You have the power to heal, but I can undo it all. With only the touch of my hand." Jewels glittered on his fingers.

  "You have my lir," Corin said hoarsely. "How can I hope to refuse you? What pleasure is there in it for a man like you?"

  “You should hope instead to aid me." Strahan touched Corin's head. "I will be here if you need me. Dream awhile, my lord. Dream of your red-headed princess . . . dream of your brother's throne."

  Corin slipped into darkness. He dreamed of his brother's bride.

  Two

  Light spilled into the cell. Strahan stood in the doorway. "A gift for my stubborn kinsman."

  Brennan turned his back.

  "Surcease from your fear."

  The voice was endlessly tender. Brennan shut his eyes.

  "Behold," Strahan said. "I show you the life of a warrior."

  Brennan stood facing the wall. Spread fingers touched fetid slime; nails dug into slick stone in an effort to beat off beguilement. He hated the cell. Hated what it did to him. Hated himself because of it. He had grown used to the stench, but not inured to the distaste. It made him want to vomit.

  And then the wall moved. Stone melted away. Brennan opened his eyes.

  The world unfolded before him.

  Homana. The grassy plains outside of Mujhara, stretching east toward dankeep. He was free of Valgaard at last—free of the tiny cell—free of consuming fear. All around him lay the world, a bright and shining world, made of earth and sky and sun and moon and the warmth of a summer day.

  Brennan's breath hissed out of his mouth. Filth sloughed off of him. Fresh leathers adorned his body. He was young and strong and full of life, bursting to run free.

  Then come. Sleeta said. What keeps you from it, lir?

  And he ran, he ran, trading human flesh for feline, knowing the endless freedom of lir-shape. Running on, through meadowtands, woodlands, forests, shedding the weight of fear. All he knew was freedom and the promise of the day.

  Gods, he exulted, this is the best of all— And then all was snatched away. All was torn apart. All was swallowed whole by the darkness of the cell.

  Beneath his hands was slime. Banished was his freedom, traded for degradation.

  "Sleeta," he said only.

  "Come out with me," Strahan said. "There is something you should see."

  Brennan was too dazed to mark his way. He knew only that Strahan's servants took him up stairs, then down them, then through narrow passageways. Eerie godfire glowed, negating the need for candles. Beneath his booted feet fell away stair after stair, shallow, hollowed, smooth, worn down after decades of use. Or was it centuries?

  Down, down, down. Briefly, he thought of the Womb of the Earth. But this was far deeper. Blacker. It stank of the netherworld.

  One man before him, one behind. Fleetingly, he considered an attempt at escape. But it fled the moment he thought it; he was in no condition to try such folly.

  Captivity had worn him to the bone just as time had worn the steps. Even a child could knock him down; Strahan's men were not children.

  Down, down, down.

  Something gibbered in the wall.

  Brennan's breath was an audible rasp. He tried to silence himself, but the months had stripped him of control. He was frightened, and it showed. Strahan knew his man; knew how to diminish his pride.

  Down.

  And then the servants stepped aside.

  On the threshhold, Brennan halted. He thought to turn and run, but a door closed quietly behind him.

  Through the columns, an echo ran.

  "Behold," Strahan said, "the Presence Chamber of the god."

  Brennan looked down the columned corridor, stunned by the vastness of the cavern. It unfolded before him into a multitude of vaulted glasswork ceilings, arch upon arch, ea
ch reaching higher then the last. Much like the rune-carved hammer-beamed timbers in the roof of Homana-Mujhar, the cavern displayed a filigree of fretwork. A lattice of delicate glass, set aglow from the glare of the Gate,

  Something hummed through whorled columns. Godfire rose, then died.

  "Come forth," Strahan said, "and behold the Gate of the god."

  Steadily, Brennan walked. Behind him, humming followed.

  Beyond the Gate, Strahan waited. He wore black leathers and a velvet doublet of deepest, blood-red purple.

  Godfire glowed in the creases. On his brow, the circlet blazed. Raven hair cloaked shoulders.

  Brennan walked steadily on, transfixed by the maw in the earth. Around its lips flames danced, licked, beckoned; the spittle of the god was foul.

  "There," Strahan said. In his hands was a rectangular black-lacquered box alive with writhing crimson runes.

  Brennan halted. He was but two steps from the rim of the Gate, but he did not look. Strahan faced him across it. Between them lay the glowing sphincter of the Seker's netherworld. The realm of Asar-Suti.

  He was afraid. But in that moment, anger swallowed fear. "One might think." Brennan said, "the Seker would smell better."

  Strahan's smile vanished.

  "One might realize," Brennan said, "that a Cheysuu cannot be broken." He paused. "Not by his brother race."

  The runes ran in frenzied circles around the edge of the box until there were no runes at all, only a blur of lurid light red as blood. Strahan's expression was unreadable.

  "Lock me up," Brennan said. "Lock me up forever. But I will never serve you. Not in madness or sanity."

  Strahan's winged brows rose slightly, touched the curve of the gleaming circlet. It was of gnarled, twisted shapes, wracked in blood-born silver. "I am suitably impressed by your confidence." One eloquent finger tapped the lid of the wooden box; the runes fell back into place. "I admire your strength of will. But I make no idle boast: I can break a Cheysuli. And I intend to do it."

  "How?" Brennan asked. "You hold my lir; so be it. I can do nothing to free her. You may slay her if you choose; doing so frees me forever, and you will lose me entirely."