Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05

by A Pride of Princes (v1. 0)

Nearly senseless, he crawled slowly toward his brother.

  Hart jerked the box from Strahan's grasp. Twisting, he turned back toward the Gate. "—my choice—" he gasped, and hurled it into the flames.

  The loss was new again. He felt the sword blade come down, divide flesh, muscles, vessels, shear easily through bone. He saw the blood. Saw the severed hand. Saw Dar laughing at him.

  Pain.

  Hart screamed.

  One Ihlini servitor caught Brennan. A second dragged Hart off Strahan and pushed him back around the Gate.

  Strahan sat at the rim and laughed, one foot wreathed in icy Ihlini godfire. And then it crept up slowly, so slowly, to touch his knee, his thigh, his hip; caressed his genitals.

  And exploded in ecstacy as it swallowed the rest of him, The fire died quickly before their astonished eyes. In its place was a delicate webwork of lavender lace, a lattice of living light that cloaked exposed flesh. Hands. Throat. Face. It even pooled in his mouth; licked out of nostrils as he breathed. Through it all, Strahan laughed.

  He rose. He went directly to Corin; inclined his glowing head. And then knelt to catch the wrist that still bore the silver shackle.

  "No more need for this." It caught fire, flowed off Corin's hand, pooled in Strahan's webworked palm. And then shaped itself into a silver goblet. "There." Strahan rose, turned, knelt again at the rim of the Gate. Dipped the cup. Came up with dripping godfire. His smile was for Corin alone. "I give you the baptismal cup . . . and good welcome to the world."

  Corin's face was awash in the glow of he cup. His eyes were blue, all blue, with only a speck of pupil,

  "Corin!" Brennan shouted.

  Corin's gaze was transfixed by Strahan's altered appearance. The Ihlini offered the cup. Fingernails glowed.

  "Drink of Asar-Suti."

  Hart struggled impotently against the man who held him, "Corin, no—I threw it away—I threw it away—no need for this sacrifice—"

  "Drink," Strahan said, and helped Corin hold the cup.

  "Ku'reshtin!” Brennan shouted. "Did you do this for Aileen?"

  "No." Corin said, "I do this for myself."

  And drank of Asar-Suti.

  Four

  In Strahan's luxurious tower chamber, they faced the sorcerer. They did not sit, though he did, preferring instead to stand. Hart cradled his arm; Brennan waited rigidly.

  The Ihlini stretched out elegantly booted legs. The unearthly living lace had died from his flesh, but there remained an aura of power. Subtle, but intoxicating; both Cheysuli felt it. Neither succumbed to it.

  In his chair, Strahan smiled. "The game is somewhat altered."

  "Is that what this is?" Brennan asked harshly. "An afternoon's entertainment?"

  "It is entertaining." Strahan, chin in hand, slouched casually against the chair arm and braced his elbow on it.

  "Entertaining as well as enlightening ... but no, not a game. For none of us, now; certainly not for Conn."

  Hart took a single step forward. "What have you done to him?"

  "I?" One winged black brow rose. "I have done nothing at all."

  "That bile you made him drink—"

  "The blood of Asar-Suti," Strahan corrected calmly.

  "And I made him drink nothing; did you see him turn away? Did you see him choke? Did you see him spit it out?" The Ihlini shook his head with its fall of raven hair. "No. He did none of those things. He drank it willingly, and was filled with the spirit of the Seker. You saw his eyes."

  Brennan's temper flared. "He had no choice—"

  "He had every choice." Strahan leaned forward in the chair. "He accepted my offer of his own free will. He drank of his own free will. I used nothing at all on him save persuasion, and that, my Cheysuli kinsman, is power no different from your own." He sat back again. The elaborate courtesy and negligent humor were gone, replaced by a sharp intensity. "Now. I have Corin; that is finished. What do I do with you?"

  "Finished," Hart echoed. "Finished? If you think we will let it rest—"

  Strahan's eyes blazed. "I think you will do exactly as I tell you.”

  It stopped both of them cold.

  The Ihlini uncoiled and pressed himself out of the chair. He stepped very close to Hart, though he did not touch him, and held him in place with an unwavering stare. "It is your misfortune," he said clearly, "that you chose to destroy your own flesh. Now you are truly cut off from your people, and through your own doing. Blame yourself for that; I will have none of it!"

  Hart wanted to fall back, but forced himself to stand still. This close to the Ihlini he could feel Strahan's power as if it leaked out of the pores of his skin.

  "Your determination is commendable." Strahan continued, "and its seeming boundlessness is a trait I do admire. I want steadfast, loyal men, willing to sacrifice that which they prize most. But I think you misjudge my willingness to mold such men into the shapes that serve me best."

  "Willingness." Brennan was elaborately distinct. "A familiar refrain, Ihlini . . . but why is it so important? If you have so much power, why not force Hart and me to do your bidding? Why not mold us into the shapes that serve you best?" He spread his hands. "Here we stand, sorcerer—why not shape the clay?"

  Something flickered in Strahan's mismatched eyes.

  Briefly, so briefly, but Hart had seen it, and so had Brennan.

  Hart's eyes narrowed. "You have us," he said intently.

  "What can we do to gainsay you? Make us the minions you want."

  Strahan flicked a finger and the door slammed open.

  "You are dismissed."

  Hart held his ground. Brennan moved to stand beside him.

  Strahan's fair skin burned darker in slanted cheekbones, "You are dismissed."

  "All those threats," Hart said quietly. "All those promises . . . empty, all of them?"

  "Is it that we must be willing?" Brennan asked. "Why else do you waste so much time on trying to break us physically, hoping to persuade us? Is it that an unwilling minion lacks something you need in us? Something peculiar to us?"

  "So peculiar that without it, your efforts would be in vain?" Hart smiled. "I think we have beaten you, Strahan. I think we have won at last."

  Strahan said nothing at all.

  Brennan began to smile. "And what are we? Princes. More than Cheysuli, but princes, meant to inherit realms. Homana. Solinde." He nodded. "You cannot rule on your own, so you hope to rule through us. But there is no puppet-king if the king is too much a puppet—"

  "You need us sane," Hart said intently. "You need us complete in wits. And if you force us to your service, we will lack the thing you require—"

  "—and the people will throw us down." Slowly, Brennan spread his hands. "Kill our bodies, kill our wits . . . and you are left with nothing."

  "So," Hart said, "where is the leverage now? If you kill Sleeta, Brennan will go mad. No minion in Homana; the people will not have it. Rael you do not have, so what is there for me?" He lifted his left arm. "I threw it away, Strahan—you cannot use my hand."

  "Leverage?" Strahan nodded, turned away, swung back. "Aye, there is a need. And I do have it."

  "What is there left?" Brennan asked.

  "Corin," Strahan said, and their triumph poured away.

  The youngest of Niall's sons stared at the man who faced him. For a long moment he did not know him, barely knowing himself, and then a name came into his head. Strahan. Strahan, called the Ihhni.

  Strahan's outline was blurred. His face was a blaze of white, marred only by the holes for eyes, nose, mouth.

  And then the blaze became more distinct, and the holes dissolved themselves into things identifiable, and Corin knew whom he faced.

  He shuddered once, like a man awakening from a deep, dreamless sleep. He was, he realized, ensconced within a massive chair, supported by tall back, tall sides, cushioned seat. It cradled his lax body like a woman a sleeping child.

  Sleeping. Aye, he had been. Or something close to it.

  Strahan stood
before him, holding a cup in his hands.

  A black glass goblet, unlike the silver one that had held the blood of the god. This one smelled of wine.

  "Drink." Strahan held it out. "It will help restore you."

  Slowly Corin took it. The world was dulled to him, wrapped in swaddling clothes. He felt heavy, ponderous, movements slowed accordingly. His ringers closed on the cup, felt the warmth of the glass, carried it to his mouth.

  He drank deeply, sighed, felt his head thump against the chair.

  Strahan took the cup away. "It takes time," he said, "to accustom yourself to it. You will know discomfort, but it will pass. I promise."

  Corin looked at the sorcerer. He saw the fine planes of jaw, cheekbones, brow; the oblique angles of mismatched eyes. Such fine, delicate features, yet there was no mistaking his sex.

  Strahan smiled and sat down in a chair opposite. "I thought it might be Hart," he said calmly. "I underestimated him, believing his need for his race would outweigh his dedication. But you will do well enough."

  Corin swallowed heavily. His voice seemed very distant, as if another man spoke. "Hart is often misjudged. People see only his fecklessness, his desire for amusement. They look no farther than that."

  Strahan considered it. "What will sway him, then? I cannot replace his hand."

  "The loss of his place in the clan." Corin frowned a little. "You have cut away his anchor ... he will founder on the rocks one day, no matter what he says. Offer him succor. In time he will repay it."

  The Ihlini stroked one eyebrow. "And Brennan?"

  "Him you may never win." Corin shifted in the chair.

  His bones tingled. He itched. "I know of no way to convince him. Brennan's particular strength lies in his unequaled loyalty to kin, clan and prophecy." He shrugged. "It will make him a predictable Mujhar, but also a very good one."

  "Then perhaps he should not be Mujhar." Strahan nodded thoughtfully. "I made you promises, and I intend to keep them. Brennan will undoubtedly become expendable . . . Homana will need a new king. You I can put in his place.""

  Corin rubbed at his tingling scalp. "Aileen . . ." He shivered. "What of Aileen?"

  Strahan waved a hand. "With Homana and Solinde under my control, it no longer matters whom she marries. The prophecy will not be completed no matter what child is born." He shrugged. "I no longer need her. Alaric failed to spirit her to Atvia, and there was no time for a second try. Now there is no need. You may have her, Corin. It was a part of our bargain."

  Corin bunked repeatedly. The chamber was bright, too bright; he squinted against the light.

  "It will be difficult," Strahan said softly. "I will not discount the steadfast determination of your race . . . the arrogance of your convictions. But I need your brothers, Corin. May I count on you?"

  Corin frowned. "There may be a way," he said. "Will you trust me to do it?"

  Strahan showed even teeth in a silent laugh. "Trust? There is no need for trust. If I tell you to do a thing, you will do it without question. That is the way of the service."

  Something flickered deep inside Corin. Mute denial.

  But it was snuffed out so quickly by apathy he hardly recognized it.

  "There may be a way," he said again. "What they want most is freedom. Their need of it may overshadow their caution and distrust."

  "Aye." Strahan nodded. "We shall devise a scenario, and then give them what they want."

  Corin shut his eyes. The world was too bright to bear, his flesh too heavy to carry. "I can deliver them."

  "Good," Strahan said. He poured himself more wine.

  The cell was new to Brennan, though not so to Hart; larger, brighter, more comfortable than the tiny one Brennan had known for months. Two fat candles burned in corners opposite one another. A narrow cot lined one wall, which was, like the others, cool but dry, lacking fetid slime. The occupant, unlike his brother, had also been provided with a bucket in which to relieve himself.

  Hart sat down on the cot and hunched against the wall, cradling his left arm. He stared into invisible distances.

  Brennan saw the withdrawal at once. "Hart—"

  "Gone," he said. "Gone." He looked at the emptiness where once his hand had been. "And I did it to myself."

  Slowly Brennan sat down on the edge of the cot. He felt a vague sense of relief that he still had both hands, and guilt because he did. "If you had accepted Strahan's bargain—"

  "I know!" Hart cried. "I know, Brennan—I do not require reminding!"

  Inwardly Brennan recoiled, though his body did not move.

  "I know," Hart repeated. "I know what I did was right. I know it was for the best—to remove the possibility I might succumb to the temptation—but knowing it makes it no better. Corin did succumb . . . what I did was for naught."

  Brennan drew in a steadying breath. "Not for naught," he said quietly. "That bargain was offered me as well, before you were brought into the cavern. And once I saw your face, how the knowledge ravaged your spirit, I knew there was a very good chance Strahan had judged me too weak."

  "He promised you my hand?"

  "To make you whole again, just as he promised you."

  Brennan scratched viciously as a louse ran against his scalp.

  "What else?"

  Brennan sighed. "The lives of all my kin." He looked at Hart. "And release from the fear."

  Hart massaged his forearm above the cuff. He frowned a little, clearly reluctant to speak. "You never told me," he said finally, obviously hurt. "You never told me about your fear. You told me everything—"

  "Everything but that." Brennan stared at the floor. "I was ashamed."

  "To tell me?"

  "To tell anyone." He flickered a glance at Hart. "You most of all; you are afraid of nothing."

  Hart's face tightened; his mouth hooked down briefly in mute argument. "So you locked it away inside of you, until Strahan discovered the secret." He sighed heavily.

  "Oh, rujho, I am sorry ... I might have helped you with it."

  "For me to do." Brennan shrugged. "But now—" He stopped. "Oh, gods. Hart—what are we to do? How do we deal with Corin?"

  "As we have dealt with Strahan."

  "He is our rujholli!"

  "And he has turned his back on his race to serve Asar-Suti."

  "Has he?" Brennan asked. "Has he?"

  "You saw his eyes. You saw how his legs were healed.”

  Hart leaned his head against the wall. "You saw how he rose and walked; how he knelt down at the rim of the Gate."

  "To make his obeisance to the Seker." Twitching in distaste, Brennan shut his eyes. "What will Strahan do with him?"

  "Use him," Hart said flatly. "What else is leverage for?"

  Brennan turned his head and looked at his brother.

  Before, overwhelmed by what the loss of Hart's hand represented, he had looked at nothing else, seeing nothing else. But now he looked, now he saw, and was shocked by the tension in the body so like his own; equally stunned by the pronounced lack of conditioning.

  Hart had lost weight, muscle tone, the hard fitness characteristic of a Cheysuli.

  Worse, and indicative of something far graver than physical discomforts, Brennan saw Hart had also lost the high-spirited good humor that marked him different from any of Niall's other children.

  It frightened him for some obscure reason. He did not expect Hart to be amused by the circumstances, nor particularly cheerful, but Brennan was accustomed to his brother's uncanny ability to find the good in the bad. He realized, in that moment, that for all he had longed for Hart to shed some immaturity, he treasured his brother's relentless search for diverting entertainment. And now that propensity was lacking.

  Brennan forced a smile. "If we had us a fortune-game—"

  Something flared in Hart's eyes. First shock, then recollection, then a deep and abiding anger that stunned Brennan with its virulence.

  "No game!" Hart said viciously.

  "Hart—"

  "No game—" And
he was up, thrusting himself one-armed from the cot, to pace the cell like an animal.

  Brennan stared in shock. "Hart—what happened in Solinde?"

  "This!" Hart thrust out his left arm. "This—and my stupidity ... my incredible gullibility."

  "Hart—everyone is gullible at one time or another."

  "Not like this." Hart stopped pacing and fell back against the wall, pressing shoulders into stone. "Oh, Brennan, I was such a fool. They laid a trap most carefully, baiting it so well, and I gobbled it whole, not even bothering to sniff." He sighed. "But I thought she was a pawn as much as I."

  "Ah." Brennan sighed. "She."

  "Never have I been such a blind, witless fool."

  "You are not the first."

  "But I should have known ... I should have seen it."

  Hart closed his eyes. "All a wager, the ultimate wager, and I primed to be the loser, regardless if I won."

  It was too obscure for Brennan, who was more concerned with Hart's well-being than his reference. "Aye, well, take consolation in the fact you did not give Strahan the child he wanted." He pushed himself back until he leaned against the wall. "The girl from The Rampant Lion—do you recall?"

  Hart frowned. "The Lion? No. What girl? And what child?"

  "The girl I rescued from Reynald of Caledon, Einar's illustrious cousin."

  "Oh, aye, I recall." Hart frowned. "What has she to do with this?"

  "She set a trap for me, A most intricate trap indeed."

  He hooked one arm across his face. "I made her my meijha. Hart. I sired a child on her."

  "It does happen. But why—"

  "She is Ihlini. Daughter to Lillith and Ian." He removed the arm. "The child who will lie with Strahan's child to give him the power he needs."

  Stunned, Hart stared. "Oh, Brennan—"

  "But I did not lose a hand." Brennan rose and went to Hart, hooking an arm around his neck to pull him close.

  "Gods, rujho—I am so very sorry—"

  The door swung open. Corin came into the cell.

  He was whole, lacking splints or bandages. He had shaved, bathed, was clean again, smelling of scented oil instead of the stink of Valgaard's bowels. His hair was washed, cut, shining, indisputably free of lice. His clothing was immaculate, and of a decided Ihlini cut.