He blew out a frosted breath, then drew another into a sore chest. He wanted to lie down, or bend over, or lean against the wall, but he would do none of those things or risk divulging discomfort.
Instead, he asked a question. "Was the die improperly weighted?"
Teague grinned. "As to that, I could not swear. But when Luce spread his hand down across the pile and challenged you to the final throw, I saw one die replaced with another. It seemed logical to assume it was weighted to favor Luce."
Kellin grunted agreement. "But it was not replaced before."
"No, my lord."
"You are certain?"
"My lord—" With effort, Teague suppressed a smile and did not look at his companions. "I am moved to say your luck was bad tonight."
"And, no doubt, my tavern selection." Kellin sighed and pressed a hand against sore ribs. "I am going home. You may come, or go, as you wish. It is nothing to me."
Teague considered it. "I think I will come, my lord." The faintest glint brightened his eyes. "I would like to hear what the Mujhar has to say when you arrive on his front step."
It was momentarily diverting. "To me, or to you?"
"To you, my lord. I have done my duty."
Kellin scowled. "It is not the Mujhar who concerns me."
"Who, then?"
It was an impertinence, but Kellin was too tired and sore to remind Teague of that. "The queen," he muttered. "She is Erinnish, remember? And possessed of a facile tongue." He sighed. "My ears will be burning tonight, as she can no longer redden my rump."
Teague surrendered his dignity to a shout of laughter. Then he recalled whom it was he served—the royal temper, Kellin knew, was notorious—and quietly gathered up the reins of his own mount and Kellin's. "I will walk with you, my lord."
The assumption stung. "And if I mean to ride?"
"Then I will ride also." Teague lowered his eyes and stared inoffensively at the ground. "But I daresay my journey will be more comfortable than yours."
Kelin's face burned. "I daresay."
The Prince of Homana walked all the way home as his faithful watchdogs followed.
Five
The Queen of Homana pressed a wine-soaked cloth against the wound in her grandson's scalp. "Sit still, Kellin! Tis a deep cut."
He could not help himself; he lapsed into an Erinnish lilt in echo of her own. "You'll be making it deeper, with this! D'ye mean to go into my brain?"
" 'Twould keep you from further idiocy, now, wouldn't it?" The pressure was firm as she worked to stanch the dribbling blood.
"That I doubt," Brennan said. "Kellin courts idiocy."
" 'Twould seem so," Aileen agreed equably. Then, when Kellin meant to protest, "Sit still."
Between them, they will slice me into little pieces.
Kellin sat bolt upright in a stool in his chambers, bare to the waist. He was not in the slightest disposed to remain still as she pressed liquor into his scalp, because he could not. It stung fiercely. The right side of his chest was beginning to purple from Luce's affectionate hug, but Kellin was not certain Aileen's ministrations—or her words—would be gentler.
"You could bind his ribs," she suggested crisply to Brennan, "instead of standing there glowering like an old wolf."
"No," Kellin answered, knowing the Mujhar's hands would be far less gentle than hers. "You do it, granddame."
"Then stop twitching."
"It hurts."
Aileen sighed as she peeled back the cloth and inspected the oozing cut beneath. "For a Cheysuli warrior, my braw boyo, you're not so very good at hiding your pain."
"The Erinnish in me," he muttered pointedly.
"Besides, how many Cheysuli warriors must suffer a woman to pour liquid fire into their skulls?"
Aileen pressed closed the cut. "How many require it?"
Kellin hissed. He slanted a sidelong glance at his grandfather. "I am not the first to rebel against the constraints of his rank."
The gibe did not disturb the Mujhar in the least.
He stood quietly before his battered grandson with gold-weighted arms folded, observing his queen's ministrations. "Nor will you be the last," Brennan remarked. "But as that comment was aimed specifically at me, let me answer you in like fashion: dying before you inherit somewhat diminishes the opportunity to break free of my authority." He arched a brow. "Does it not?"
Kellin gritted his teeth. "I'm not looking to die, grandsire—"
"You give every indication of it."
"—merely looking for entertainment, something to fill my days, something to quench my taste—"
"—for rebellion." Brennan smiled a little. "Nothing you tell me now cannot be countered, Kellin. For that matter, you may as well save your breath, which is likely at this moment difficult to draw through bruised ribs—" the Mujhar cast him an ironic glance, "—because I know very well what you will say. I even know what I will say; it was said to me and to my rujholli several decades ago."
Kellin scowled. "I am not you, or Hart, or Corin—"
"—or even Keely," Aileen finished, "and I've heard this before, myself." Her green eyes were bright. "Now both of you be silent while I wrap up your ribs."
Kellin subsided into glum silence, punctuated only by an occasional hissed inhalation. He did not look again at his grandsire, but stared fixedly beyond him so he would not provoke a comment in the midst of intense discomfort.
He had told them little of the altercation in the tavern, saying merely that a game had gone bad and the fight was the result. No deaths, he pointed out; the Mujhar, oddly, asked about fire, to which Kellin answered in puzzlement that there was no fire, only a little blood. It had satisfied Brennan in some indefinable way; he had said little after that save for a few caustic comments.
Kellin sat very still as Aiieen worked, shutting his teeth against the pain—he would not permit her to believe he was less able than anyone else to hold his tongue—and said nothing. But he was aware of an odd sensation that had little to do with pain.
"—still," she murmured, as a brief tremor claimed his body.
Kellin frowned as she snugged the linen around his ribs. What is—? And then again the tremor, and Aileen's muttered comment, and his own unintended reaction; every inch of flesh burned so intensely he sweated with it.
Brennan frowned. "Perhaps I should call a surgeon."
"No!" Kellin blurted.
"If there is that much pain—"
"—isn't pain," Kellin gritted. "Except—for that—"
He sucked in a hissing breath as Aileen pulled linen taut against sore flesh. "Call no one. Grandsire."
He held himself still with effort. It wasn't pain, but something else entirely, something he could not ignore, that burned through flesh into bone with a will of its own, teasing at self-control. Fingers and toes tingled. It spread to groin and belly, then crept upward to his heart.
"Kellin?" Aileen's hands stilled. "Kellin—"
He heard her only dimly, as if water filled his ears. His entire being was focused on a single sensation. It was very like the slow build toward the physical release of man into woman, he thought, but with a distinct difference he could not voice.
He could not find the words. He knew only there was a vast and abiding thing demanding his attention, demanding his body and soul.
"Ihlini?" he murmured. "Lochiel?"
He need only put out his hand, Corwyth had said, and Kellin would be in it.
His ribs were strapped and tied. He could not breathe.
—could not breathe—
"Kellin!" Aileen's hands closed on his naked shoulders. "Can you hear me?"
He could. Clearly. The stuffy distance was gone.
The burning subsided, as did the tremors. He felt it all go, leaching him of strength. He sat weak and trembling upon the stool, sweat running down his face. Damp hair stuck to his brow.
Gods— But he cut it off. He would not beg aid or explanation from those he could not honor.
Kellin clenched his
teeth within an aching jaw.
For a moment the room wavered around him, running together until all the colors were gone.
Everything was a fleshy gray, lacking depth or substance.
"Kellin?" The Mujhar.
He could make no answer. He blinked, tried to focus, and vision eventually steadied. His hearing now was acute, so incredibly acute he heard the soughing of the folds of Aileen's skirts as she turned to Brennan. He could smell her, smell himself: the bitter tang of his own fear, the acrid bite of rebelling flesh.
"Brighter—" he blurted, and then the desolation swept in, and emptiness, and a despair so powerful he wanted to cry out. He was a shell, not a man; a hollow, empty shell. Shadow, not warrior, a man lacking in heart or substance, and therefore worthless among his clan.
In defiance of pain, Kellin lurched up from the stool. He shuddered. Tremors began again. He felt the protest of his ribs, but they did not matter. He took a step forward, then caught himself. For a moment he lingered, trapped upon the cusp, then somehow found the chamberpot so he could spew his excesses into pottery instead of onto the floor.
Even as Aileen murmured sympathy, Brennan cut her off. "He deserves it. The gods know Hart and Corin did, and Keely, when they followed such foolish whims."
"And what of your whims?" she retorted. "You did not drink overmuch, but you found Rhiannon instead."
Kellin stood over over the chamberpot, one arm cradling his chest. It hurt to bend over, hurt to expell all the usca, hurt worse to draw a breath.
He straightened slowly, irritated by his grandparents' inconsequential conversation, but mostly humilated by the dictates of his body. He felt no better for purging his belly. Sickness yet lurked within, waiting for the moment he least expected its return.
Brennan's tone was uncharacteristically curt, but also defensive as he answered his cheysula. "Rhiannon has nothing to do with this."
"She was your downfall as much as gambling was Hart's and I was Corin's!" Aileen snapped.
"Don't be forgetting it, Brennan. We all of us do things better left undone. Why should Kellin be different?"
He shivered once more, and then his body stilled. In quiescence was relief, carefully Kellin sought and found a cloth to wipe his mouth. It hurt too much to move; he leaned against the wall. Brickwork was cool against overheated flesh.
Distracted by his movement, Aileen turned from her husband. "Are you well?"
"How can he be well?" Brennan asked. "He has drunk himself insensible and now suffers for it, as well as for a fight that nearly stove in his chest."
His mouth hooked down in derision. "But he is young, for all of that; he will begin again tomorrow."
"No," Kellin managed. "Not tomorrow." The room wavered again. He caught at brickwork to keep from falling.
"Kellin-" The derision was banished from Brennan’s tone. "Sit down."
The floor moved beneath Kellin's feet. Or was he moving?
"He's ill!" Aileen cried. "Brennan—catch—"
But the command came too late. Kellin was aware of a brief detached moment of disorientation, then found himself sprawled across the floor with his head in the Mujhar's arms.
He was cold, so cold—and a wail of utter despair rose from the depths of his spirit. "—empty—" he mouthed. "—lost—"
Brennan sat him upright and held him steady, examining his eyes. "Look at me."
Kellin looked. Then vision slid out of focus and the wail came back again. A sob tore loose in his chest. "Grandsire—"
"Be still. Look at me." Brennan cradled Kellin's head in his hands, holding it very still.
"Are you wanting a surgeon?" Aileen asked crisply.
"No."
"Earth magic, then."
"No."
"Then—"
"Shansu," Brennan told her. "This is something else, meijhana. Something far beyond the discontent caused by too much usca."
It was indeed. If not for the Mujhar’s hands holding him in place, Kellin believed he might fall through the floor and beyond. "—too hard—" he whispered. "Too—"
"—empty," Brennan finished, "and cold, and alone, torn apart from the world and everything in it."
'—lost—"
"And angry and terribly frightened, and very small and worthless."
Kellin managed to nod. The anguish and desolation threatened to overwhelm him. "How can—how can you know?"
Brennan's severity softened. "Because I have felt it also- Every Cheysuli does when it is time to bond with his lir."
"Lir!"
"Did you really believe you would never have one?" Brennan's smile was faint. "Did you believe you would not need one?"
"I renounced it!" Kellin cried. "When Blais left—I swore—"
"Some oaths are as nothing."
"I renounced a lir, and the gods." It was incomprehensible that now, after so long without one, he might require a lir; or that he should have to battle the interference of gods he did not honor.
"Clearly the gods did not renounce you," Brennan said dryly. "Now the time is come."
Kellin summoned all his strength; it was a pa-thetic amount. "I refuse."
The Mujhar smiled. "You are welcome to try."
Aileen was shocked. "You are overharsh!"
"No. There is nothing he can do. It is his time, Aileen. He will drive himself mad if he continues this foolishness. He must go. He is Cheysuli."
"And—Erinnish ... and Homanan—and all the other lines—" Kellin shivered. " 'Tis all I count for, is it not? My seed. My blood. Not Kellin at all.” His spirit felt as cold and hard as the floor.
Desperately, he said, "I renounce my lir."
"Renounce as you will," Brennan said, "but for now, get up on the stool."
Kellin gritted his teeth. "You are the Mujhar, blessed by the gods. I charge you to take it away."
"What—the pain? You earned it. The emptiness? I cannot. It can only be filled with a lir."
"Take it away!" Kellin shouted. "I cannot live like this!"
Brennan rose. His eyes, so intensely yellow, did not waver. "You have the right of that," he agreed. "You cannot live like this."
"Grandsire—"
"Get up, Kellin. There is nothing to be done."
He got up. He ached. He swore, even before Aileen. He was profoundly empty, bereft of all save futility and a terrifying apartness. "I renounced it," he said, "just as I renounced the gods. They have no power over me."
Brennan turned to Aileen. "I will have usca sent up. Best he dulls his pain with that which caused it; in the morning he will be better—" he slanted a glance at his grandson, "—or he will be worse."
She was clearly displeased. "Brennan."
The Mujhar of Homana extended a hand to his queen. "There is nothing to be done, Aileen. Whether or not he likes it, Kellin is Cheysuh. The price is always high, but no warrior refuses to pay it."
"I do," Kellin declared. "I refuse. I will not accept a lir."
Brennan nodded sagely. "Then perhaps you should spend the next few hours explaining that to the gods."
Six
"Leijhana tu'sai," Kellin murmured as his grandparents shut the door behind them. He was sick to death of Brennan's dire predictions and Aileen's contentiousness; could they not simply let him alone? They try to shape me to fit their own idea of how a prince should be.
Or perhaps they attempted to shape him into something other than his father who had renounced his rank and title as Kellin renounced his lir.
He drew in a hissing breath and let it out again, trying to banish pain as he banished the previous thought. Kellin had no desire to consider how his behavior might affect his grandparents, or that the cause of his own rebellion was incentive for the very expectations he detested. Such maunderings profited no one, save perhaps the occasional flicker of guilt searching for brighter light. He had no time for such thoughts; his ribs ached, and his manhood as yet reminded him of its abuse- Best he simply took to his bed; perhaps he would fall asleep, and by
morning be much improved in health and spirit.
But restlessness forbade it even as he approached the bed. He was dispirited, disgruntled, highly unsettled. Even his bones itched. His body would not be still, but clamored at him for something—
"What?" Kellin gritted. "What is it I'm to do?"
He could not be still. Frustrated, Kellin began to pace, hoping to burn out the buzz in blood and bones.
But he managed to stop only when he reached the polished plate hanging cockeyed on the wall.
He stared gloomily at his reflection: a tall man, fair of skin—for a Cheysuli, he thought, though dark enough for a Homanan, with green eyes dilated dark and new bruises on his face.
Aileen's applications of wine had stiffened his hair. Kellin impatiently scrubbed a hand through it, taking care to avoid the crusting cut. The raven curls of youth were gone, banished by adulthood, but his hair still maintained a springy vigor. He scratched idly at his chest, disliking the tautness of the wrappings. The linen bandages stood out in stark relief against the nakedness of his torso.
Kellin stared at his reflection, then grinned as he recalled the cause of sore ribs. "And what of the thumbless thief?"
But the brief jolt of pleasure and vindication dissipated instantly. Luce was not important. Luce did not matter. Nothing at all mattered except the despair that welled up so keenly to squash his spirit flat.
Kellin turned from the plate abruptly. Better he not look; better he not see—
Emptiness overwhelmed, and the savage desire to tear down all the walls, brick by brick, so he could be free of them.
He burned with it. Cursing weakly, Kellin lurched to the narrow casement. Beyond lay Homana of the endless skies and meadows, the freedom of the air. He was confined by walls, oppressed by brickwork; every nerve in his body screamed its demand for freedom.
"Get out—" he blurted.
He needed desperately to get out, get free, get loose—
"Shadow," he murmured. "Half-man, hollow-man—" And then he squeezed shut his eyes as he dug fingers into stone. "I will not ... will not be what they expect me to be—"
Cold stone bit into his brow, hurting his bruised face; he had pressed himself against the wall beside the window. Flame washed his flesh and set afire every nick, scratch, and cut. Rising bruises ached as blood throbbed in them, threatening to break through the fragile warding of his skin.
Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 Page 17
