"It could be you," Kellin blurted. "Couldn't it?"
Blais did not look up from his handiwork.
"What could, lad?"
"You," Kellin repeated. "The man in the prophecy. The man whose blood can do the things everyone wants it to do."
Now Blais raised his head. "My blood?"
"Aye. You are Cheysuli, Erinnish, and Homanan. You are halfway there."
"Ah, but you are all the way there, my lad. I've no Solindish or Atvian blood bubbling in my veins." Blais' face creased in a smile. "You've no fear of me usurping your place."
"But you're older. You are a warrior." Kellin looked at Tanni. "You have a lir."
"And so will you, in but a handful of years."
Strong fingers moved skillfully as Blais rewrapped the leather.
"But I heard you," Kellin said quietly, grappling with new ideas. "You talked to grandsire about the a'saii."
The hands stilled abruptly. This time Blais' gaze was sharp. "I said something of it, aye. You see, lad—I have more cause to concern myself with a'saii than any warrior alive."
"They were traitors," Kellin declared. "Rogan told me—" He cut it off abruptly. "Grandsire said they wanted to overthrow the proper succession and replace it with another."
"So they did." Blais' tone was noncommittal. "They were Cheysuli who feared the completion of the prophecy would end their way of life."
"Will it?"
Blais shrugged. "Things will change, aye .. . but perhaps not so much as the a'saii fear."
"Do you?" Kellin needed to know. "Do you fear it, Blais?"
An odd expression crossed Blais' smooth, dark face. For only a moment, black brows pulled together. Then he smiled crookedly. "I fear losing what I have only just found," he admitted evenly. "I was born here, Kellin. Keep-born, but reared in Erinn a very long way away. Customs are different in Erinn. I was a part of them, but also longed for others. My jehana taught me what she could of the language and customs of Cheysuli, but she was half Erinnish herself, and now wed to an Erinnish-man. It was Keely who taught me more, who showed me what earth magic was, and what it could bring me." His smile was warmly reminiscent. "She suggested I come here, to find out who I was."
Kellin was fascinated. "Did you?"
"Oh, aye. Enough to know I belong here." Blais grinned, caressing Tanni's head. "I may not sound all Cheysuli, but in spirit I am."
"Why," Kellin began, "do you have more cause to concern yourself with a'saii than any warrior alive?"
Blais' brows arched. "You've a good ear to recall that so perfectly."
Kellin shrugged, dismissing it. "The a'saii are disbanded. Grandsire said so."
"Formally, aye. But convictions are hard to kill. There are those who still keep themselves apart from other clans."
"But you stay here."
"Clankeep is my home. I serve the prophecy as much as any warrior. As much as you will, once you are grown."
Kellin nodded absently. "But why do you have cause?"
Blais sighed, hands tightening on the bow. "Because it was my grandsire who began the a'saii, Kellin. Ceinn wanted to replace Niall's son—your grandsire, Brennan—with his own son, Teiman. There was justification, Ceinn claimed, because Teiman was the son of the Mujhar's sister."
"Isolde," Kellin put in; he recalled the names from lessons.
"Aye. Isolde. Niall's rujholla."
"And Ian's."
Blais grinned. "And Ian's."
"But why you'?"
Blais' grin faded. "Teiman was my father. When I came here from Erinn, those who were a'saii thought I should be named Prince of Homana when your father renounced his title."
Kellin was astonished. "In my place?"
Blais nodded.
"In my place." It was incomprehensible to Kellin, who could not imagine anyone else in his own place. He had been Prince of Homana all his life.
"But—I was named."
"Aye. As the Mujhar desired."
Something occurred. "What about you?" Kellin asked. "Did you want the title?"
Blais laughed aloud. "I was reared by a man who is the Lord of Erinn's bastard brother. I spent many years at Kilore—I know enough of royalty and the responsibilities of rank to want no part of it." He leaned forward slightly, placing the tip of his forefinger on Kellin's brow. "You, my young lad, will be the one to hold the Lion."
"Oh, no," Kellin blurted. "I have to kill it, first."
Blais stilled. "Kill it?"
Kellin was matter-of-fact. "Before it kills all of us."
When Kellin—with grandfather, cousin, and numerous liveried and armored guardsmen—entered the inner bailey of Homana-Mujhar, he discovered it clogged to bursting with strange horses and servants. Horse-boys ran this way and that, grasping at baggage-train horses even as they gathered in the mounts of dismounting riders; servants shouted at one another regarding the unloading; while the bailey garrison, clad in Mujharan scarlet, did its best to sort things out.
The Mujhar himself, trapped in the center of the bailey as his horse restively rang shod hoofs off cobbles, finally ran out of patience. "By the blood of the Lion—" Brennan began, and then broke off abruptly as a tall man came out of the palace doorway to stand at the top of the steps.
"Have I made a mess of all your Mujharish majesty?" the man called over the din. "Well, doubtless you are in dire need of humbling anyway."
"Hart!" Brennan cried. "By the gods—Hart!”
Kellin watched in surprise as his grandsire hastily threw himself down from his mount and joined the throng, pushing through toward the steps.
Brennan mounted them three at a time, then enfolded the other man in a huge, hard hug.
"Su'fali," Kellin murmured, then grinned at Blais. "Su'fali to both of us. Hart, come from Solinde!"
"So I see," Blais squinted over the crowd. "They are two blooms from the same bush."
"But Hart has blue eyes. And only one hand; an enemy had the other one cut off." Kellin followed Brennan's lead, climbing down with less skill than his longer-legged grandfather, and then he, too, was swallowed up by the crowd. Kellin could see nothing, neither grandfather, great-uncle, nor steps.
He considered ducking under the bellies of all the horses, but reconsidered when he thought about the kicks he risked. Like Brennan before him, if with less success, Kellin shoved his way through the milling throng of baggage train and household attendants. Solindish, all of them; he recognized the accent.
His path was more difficult, but at last Kellin reached the steps and climbed to the top- His grandsire and great-uncle had left off hugging, but the warm glints in their eyes—one pair blue, the other yellow—were identical.
So is everything else, except for Hart's missing hand. Kellin looked at the leather-cuffed stump, wondering what it was like to be restricted to a single hand. And Hart had lost more than a hand; the old Cheysuli custom of kin-wrecking still held.
He was, because of his maiming, no longer considered in the clans to be a warrior despite his blood and his Ur, the great hawk known as Rael.
Kellin glanced up. Spiraling in a lazy circle over the palace rooftops was the massive raptor, black edging on each feather delineating wings against the blue of the sky. I may have a hawk when I am a warrior—
"Kellin!" Brennan's hand closed over a shoulder. "Kellin, here is your kinsman. You have never seen him, I know, but to know who Hart is a man need only look at me."
"But you are different," Kellin said after a brief inspection. "You seem older, grandsire."
It brought a shout of delighted laughter from Hart, who struck his twin-born rujholli a sharp blow with his only hand. "There. You see? I have said it myself—"
"Nonsense." Brennan arched a single brow.
"You surely count more gray in your hair than I."
"No," Kellin said doubtfully, which moved Hart to laughter again.
"Well, we are very like," the Mujhar's twin said.
"If there are differences, it is because the Lion i
s a far more difficult taskmaster than my own Solinde."
"Has Solinde thrown you out?" Kellin asked. "Is that why you have come?"
Hart grinned. "And lose the best lord she ever had? No, I am not banished, nor am I toppled as Bellam was toppled by Carillon. The Solindish love me, now—or, if not love, they tolerate me well enough." He tapped the cuffed stump on top of Kellin's head. "Erinnish eyes, Kellin. Where is the Cheysuli in you?"
"You have Homanan eyes," Kellin retorted, "And now your hair is gray; mine is all over black."
"Sharp eyes, and a sharper wit," Brennan said dryly. "The Erinnish side, I think."
Hart nodded, smiling, as he assessed his young kinsman, "You are small for twelve, but your growth may come late. Corin's did."
"I am ten," Kellin corrected. "Tall enough for ten; grandsire says so."
"Ten." Hart shot a glance at Brennan. "I miscounted, then."
"Aging, are you?" Brennan's eyes were alight. "Forgetting things already?"
Hart demurred at once. "I merely lost track, no more. But I did think him older."
"Does it matter?" Brennan asked, laughing. "I am hardly infirm, rujho, The Lion will yet be mine a while. Kellin should be well-grown before he inherits."
"I was not thinking of thrones, rujho, but of weddings."
"Weddings! Kellin's? By the gods, Hart—"
"Wait you." Hart put up his hand to silence his brother. "Before you begin shouting at me, as you have always done—" he grinned, eyes alight, "—it is for you to say, of course. And now that I see he is so young, perhaps it is too soon."
"Too soon for what?" Kellin asked. "A wedding? Whose? Mine?"
Hart laughed. "So full of questions, harani."
"Mine?" Kellin repeated.
Hart sighed, scratching idly at his beardless chin. "I have a daughter—"
Brennan interrupted in mock asperity. "You have four of them. Which one do you mean?"
Hart's shrug was lopsided. "Dulcie is thirteen, which is closer to Kellin than the twins. And—"
He shrugged again, letting go what he had begun.
"There is reason for this, rujho ... we will speak of it later."
"Too young," Brennan said.
Hart's eyes were speculative. "Too young to marry, perhaps, but not for a betrothal."
"This can wait," Brennan said. "Let us be rujholli again before we must be rulers."
Hart sighed heavily. "That may be difficult. I have all of them with me."
"Who?"
"They wanted to come," Hart continued. "All but Biythe. She carries her first child after all this time, so we thought it best she remain behind. It will be my first grandchild, after all."
Diverted, Brennan stared at him. "Is she wed? When? I thought Biythe intended never to marry."
"She did not, after Tevis—" Hart paused to correct himself, gritting the name through his teeth.
"—after Lochiel." He forced himself to relax, blue eyes bright in remembered anger. "But she met a Solindishman of respectable family with whom she fell in love after much too long alone; she is past thirty." Hart grinned. "And she would be quite put out if she heard me say that. But she and her lordling married eight months ago, and now there will be a child."
"But the rest .. ." Brennan glanced around.
"They are here?"
"All of them."
"Lisa?"
"All of them. They insisted. My girls are—" he paused delicately, "—somewhat firm in their convictions."
Brennan eyed him. "You never were one for self-discipline, Hart. Why should I expect you to be capable of ruling your daughters when you never could rule yourself?"
"I understand discipline quite well, leijhana, tu'sai," Hart retorted. "But there are times when my girls make such things difficult."
Brennan studied Hart a moment. "You have not changed at all, have you?"
Hart grinned unrepentantly. "No,"
"Good." Brennan clapped him on the back.
"Now, come inside."
It was abrupt, if unintended, but dismissal nonetheless; they turned as one and strode into the palace without a word or a glance to the boy they knew as the Prince of Homana.
"Wait!" But they were gone, and a hand was on Kellin's shoulder, pulling him back.
"Begrudge them nothing, lad." It was Blais, smiling faintly as he moved to stand beside Kellin.
"But what about me?" Kellin was aggrieved.
"Grandsire dismissed the Lion, and now they dismiss me"
"They were twin-born, my lad, linked by far more than a simple brother-bond. And they've not seen one another, I am told, for nearly twenty years."
"Twenty years!" Kellin gaped. "I could have been born twice over!"
Blais nodded. "When you are a king, 'tis not so easy to find the time—or the freedom—to go where you will. Hart and Brennan are halves of a whole, parted by title and realm for much too long a time." He briefly touched Kellin's shoulder. "Let them be whole again, lad. They'll be having time for you later."
Kellin scowled. "And weddings, too?"
"Weddings! What has this to do with weddings?" But as Blais stared after his vanished uncles, his expression changed. "Aye, it could be that. 'Tis a topic of much import in royal Houses." He grinned. "Thank the gods I am not in line for a throne, or surely they'd be disposing of me, too!"
"And me?" Kellin demanded. "Am I to be married off with no say in the matter?"
Blais did not appear unduly concerned. " 'Tis likely," he confirmed. "You're to be Mujhar of Homana. one day. I'll not doubt there've been letters about your future bride since you were formally invested."
"Ckeysula," Kellin said darkly, proving to his cousin he knew the Old Tongue, too, "and I'll choose my own."
"Will you. now?" Blais ran a hand through thick black hair, mouth quirking in wry amusement.
" 'Tis what Keely claimed of herself, when she chafed at her betrothal—but in the end she wed the man they promised her to."
"Scan." Kellin nodded. "I know all about that." He was not interested in his great-aunt, whom he had never met. He cast a speculative glance up at his kinsman. "Then you are not promised?"
Blais laughed. "Nor likely to be. I'm content to share my time with this woman, or that one, without benefit of betrothals."
Keilin understood. "Meijhas," he said. "How many, Blais?"
"Many." Blais grinned. "Would I be admitting how many? A warrior does not dishonor his meijhas by discussing them casually."
"Many," Kellin murmured. He grinned back at his cousin. "Then I'll have many, too."
Blais sighed and clapped his hand upon a slender shoulder. "No doubt you will. No prince I ever knew lacked for company. Now—shall we go in? I'm for meeting these Solindish kin of ours."
Ten
In short order Blais and Kellin met all of the Solindish kin en masse in Aileen's sunny solar.
The chamber seemed small of a sudden. Kellin duly took note of all his assorted kinfolk: Lisa, the Lady of Solinde, with her profusion of white-blonde hair and gloriously expressive gray eyes; the middle daughters Cluna and Jennet, twins like Hart and Brennan, who reflected their mother's coloring and the beginnings of her beauty augmented by Cheysuli heritage; and Dulcie, the youngest—the girl whom Hart had said might become Kellin's cheysula.
To the latter daughter Kellin paid the most attention. His knowledge of weddings and marriages was slight, but he took it more personally now that his name had been linked with hers.
He was, however, briefly distracted. Blais, whom he had decided was everything a warrior should be—and his rescuer, to boot—was all of a sudden different. It was a subtle difference Kellin could not name; he knew only that Blais' attention to his young cousin was oddly diverted, as if something else far more fascinating had caught his attention. Kellin understood none of it—Cluna and Jennet seemed silly girls to him, and not worth more time than was necessary to be polite—but Blais seemed most disposed to speak with both of them for a very long time.
&
nbsp; Soon enough Blais offered to escort both Cluna and Jennet on a tour of Homana-Mujhar; and the adults suggested that what they had to say to one another was better said without Dulcie's and Kellin's presence. Kellin was instructed to do as Blais did: show his cousin every corner of the palace.
Outside in the corridor, Kellin glared mutinously at the closed door. No one has time for me.
The Lion nearly ate me, but no one thinks about THAT—
Beside him, Dulcie laughed. "They set their traps for him."
Kellin scowled. "What do you mean?" He thought uncomfortably of the bear-trap, conjured by her words.
"Traps," she said succinctly. "They are frivolous women, both of them, only concerned with what is required to catch a handsome man." She grimaced wryly. "I saw it; didn't you?"
Kellin had not. "Of course I did," he said forthrightly, denying his ignorance.
Dulcie eyed him. "He is a handsome man, as Cheysuli go; I see now we are all alike, save for some differences in color." She grinned. "Your eyes are green; mine at least are yellow, like a proper Cheysuli's should be."
And proper she was, black-haired and yellow-eyed with skin the same coppery hue as Blais' and every other Cheysuli Kellin had seen. Dulcie was young—twelve?—but clearly was Cheysuli in all respects.
Kellin felt a twinge of self-consciousness; just now, faced with Dulcie—and having met Blais—he wanted very much to be as Cheysuli as possible. "I will be Mujhar." He thought it a good offense.
Dulcie nodded. "One of the reasons they want us to marry." She twined a strand of black hair into fingers and began twisting it. "Do you want to?"
Kellin stared at her. How could she be so matter-of-fact about it? Importantly, he said, "That is something I will have to consider."
Dulcie burst out laughing. "You consider? They will no more abide by what you wish—or me—than a stud horse minds his rider when a mare in season is near."
Kellin had not thought of it that way. "But if I am to be Mujhar, they must listen to me."
Dulcie shook her head. Her brows were straight, serious bars across a sculpted brow. She wore black hair in dozens of braids tied into a single plait and beaded at the bottom. "They will listen to no one, only to the prophecy." Dulcie grimaced. "I have had it stuffed into my ears often enough. It is all about blood, Kellin, and the need to mix it correctly. Don't you see?"
Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 Page 10
