He paced because he could not help himself; he could not be still. A singing was in his blood, echoing clamorously. He paced and paced and paced, trying to suppress the singing, the overriding urge to squeeze himself through the narrow casement and fling himself into the air.
"—fall—" he muttered. "Fall and break all my bones—"
Hands fisted repeatedly: a cat flexing its claws, testing the power in his body, the urge to slash into flesh.
He sweated. Panted. Swore at capricious gods.
He wanted to open the door, to tear it from its hinges, to shatter the wood completely and throw aside iron studs.
Kellin sat down on the stool and hugged bare arms against wrapped chest, ignoring the pain. He rocked and rocked and rocked: a child in need of succor; a spirit in need of release.
Tears ran down his face. "Too many—" he said.
"Too many ... I will not risk losing a lir—" Only to lose himself to an arcane Cheysuli ritual that robbed the world of another warrior despite his perfect health.
Liriess warriors went mad, he had been taught, as all Cheysuli were taught. Mad with the pain and the grief, the desperate emptiness.
"—mad now—" he panted. "Is this different?"
Perhaps not. Perhaps what he did now was invite the very madness he did not desire to risk in bonding with a lir.
Brickwork oppressed him. The walls and roof crushed his spirit.
"Out—" he blurted. But to go out was to surrender.
He rocked and rocked and rocked until he could rock no more; until he could not countenance sitting on the stool another moment and rose to pace again, to move from wall to wall, to stand briefly at the casement so as to test his will, to dare the desperate need that drove him to pace again, until he reached the door.
Unlocked. Merely latched. He need only lift the latch—
"No." A tremor wracked Kellin's body. He suppressed it. He turned away, jubilant in his victory, in the belief he had overcome it—and then felt his will crumble beneath the simplicity of sheer physical need-It took but a moment: boots, doublet, russet wool cloak, long-knife. Emeralds winked in candlelight.
Kellin stared at the knife. Vision blurred: tears.
Tears for the warrior who had once sworn by the blade, by his blood, by the lir whose death had killed him.
He thought of the words Blair had offered him a decade before.
It hurt. It squeezed, until no room was left for his heart; no room remained for his spirit.
"Y'ja'hai," Kellin breathed, then unlatched and jerked open the door.
He did not awaken the horse-boy sleeping in straw.
He simply took a bridle, a horse—without benefit of blankets or saddle—and swung up bareback.
Pain thundered in Kellin's chest. He sat rigidly straight, daring himself to give in as sweat trickled down his temples. Scrapes stung from the taste of salt, but he ignored them. A smaller pain, intrusive but less pronounced, reminded him of his offended netherparts, but that pain, too, he relegated to nothing in the face of his compulsion.
Winter hair afforded him a better purchase bareback than the summer season, when mounts were slick-haired and the subsequent ride occasionally precarious. It was precarious now, but not because of horsehair; a rider was required to adapt to his mount's movements by adjustments in body both large and small, maintaining flexibility above all else, but the skill was stripped from Kellin. With ribs bruised and tightly strapped, he was forced to sit bolt upright without bending his spine, or risk significant pain.
He knew the way so well: a side-gate in the shadows, tucked away in the wall; he had used it before. He used it now, leaving behind the outer bailey, then Mujhara herself as he rode straight through the city to the meadowlands beyond. The narrow track was hard footing in the cold, glinting with frost rime in the pallor of the moon.
No more walls— Kellin gritted his teeth. No more stone and brick, no more streets and buildings—
Indeed, no more. He had traded city for country, replacing cobbles with dirt and turf, and captivity for freedom.
But the emptiness remained.
If I give myself over to the lir-bond, I will be no different from any warrior whose promise to cheysula and children to care for them always is threatened by that very bond.
It seemed an odd logic to Kellin. How could one promise supersede the other, yet still maintain its worth? How could any warrior swear himself so profoundly to lir and family knowing very well one of the oaths might be as nothing?
For that matter, how could cheysula or child believe anything the warrior promised when it was made very clear in the sight of gods and clan that a lir came first always?
Kellin shook his head. A selfish oath demanded from selfish gods—
The horse stumbled. Jarred, sore ribs protested; fresh sweat broke on Kellin's brow and ran down his face. Cold air against dampness made him shiver convulsively, which set up fresh complaint.
He cast a glance at the star-freighted sky. Revenge for my slight? That I dare to question such overweening dedication to you?
The horse did not stumble again. If the gods heard, they chose not to answer.
Kellin, for his part, laughed—until the despair and emptiness shattered into pieces the dark humor of his doubts, reminding him once again that he was, if nothing else, subject to such whims as the gods saw fit to send him.
Merely because I am Cheysuli— He gripped the horse with both knees, clutching at reins. He recalled all too well what his grandsire had said regarding madness. He recalled even more clearly the wild grief in Blais' eyes as the warrior acknowledged a far greater thing than that he must give up his life; Tanni's death and the severing of the lir-bond had been, in that moment, the only thing upon which Blais could focus himself, though it promised his death as well.
Irony blossomed. Certainly he focused nothing upon me, who had from him a blood-oath of service.
One sworn to the gods, at that.
Kellin and his mount exchanged meadowlands for the outermost fringes of the forest. His passage stirred the woods into renewed life, startling birds from branches and field warren from burrows. Here the moon shone more fitfully, fragmented by branches. Kellin heard the sound of his horse and his own breath expelled in pale smoke.
He pulled the russet cloak more closely around his shoulders.
The horse stopped. It stood completely still, ears erect. Its nostrils expanded hugely, fluttered, then whuffed closed as he expelled a noisy snort of alarm.
"Shansu—" Even as Kellin gathered rein to forestall him, the horse quivered from head to toe.
From the shadows just ahead came the heavy, throaty coughing of a lion.
"Wait—" But even as Kellin clamped his legs, the horse lunged sideways and bolted.
Seven
In the first awkward lunge, Kellin felt the slide of horsehair against breeches and the odd, unbalanced weightlessness of a runaway. With it came a twofold panic: first, the chance of injury; the second because of the lion.
He had ridden runaways before. He had fallen off of or been thrown from runaways before. It was a straightforward hazard of horsemanship regardless how skilled the rider, regardless how docile the horse. A horseman learned to halt a runaway mount with various techniques when footing afforded it; here, footing was treacherous, and vision nonexistent. This particular runaway—at night, in the dark, with customary reflexes obliterated by pain and disorientation—was far more dangerous than most.
Kellin's balance was off. He could not sit properly. He was forced to ride mostly upright, perching precariously, breaking the fluid melding of horse and rider. Vibrations of the flight, instead of dissipating in his body, reverberated painfully as the horse broke through tangled undergrowth and leapt fallen logs.
Branches snagged hair, slapped face, cut into Kellin's mouth. A clawing vine hooked the bridge of his nose and tore flesh. He felt something dig at one eye and jerked his head aside, cursing helplessly. One misstep-—
He tried to let reflexes assume control, rather than trusting to himself. But reflexes were banished. His spine was jarred as the horse essayed a depression in the ground, which in turn jarred his ribs. Kellin sucked in a noisy breath and tried to ease his seat, to let the response of muscles to his mount's motion dictate the posture of his body, but failed to do so.
The horse stumbled, then dodged and lurched sideways as it shied from an unseen terror. Kellin blurted discomfort, biting into his cheek; he thought of snubbing the horse's nose back to his left knee in the classic technique, but the trees were too close, the foliage too dense. He had no leeway, no leverage.
The horse hesitated, then leapt again, clearing an unseen impediment. It seemed then to realize it bore an unwanted rider. Kellin felt the body shifting beneath his buttocks, away from clamping legs; then it bunched and twisted, elevating buttocks, and flung its rider forward.
Awkwardly Kellin slid toward the horse's head, dangling briefly athwart one big shoulder. Hands caught frenziedly at mane as he tried to drag himself upright, clutching at reins, digging in with left heel, but the horse ducked out from under him.
Kellin was very calm as he hung momentarily in the air. He was aware of weighty darkness, encroaching vines and branches, the utter physical incomprehensibility that he was unconnected to his mount—and the unhappy acknowledgment that when he landed momentarily it would hurt very much.
He tucked up as best he could, cursing strapped ribs. One shoulder struck the ground first- He rolled through the motion, smashing hip against broken branches shrouded in tangled fern, then flopped down onto his back as the protest of his ribs robbed him of control. He landed flat and very hard, human prey for the hidden treacheries of unseen ground.
For a moment there was no pain. It terrified him. He recalled all too clearly the old Homanan soldier who had taken a tumble from his horse in the bailey of the castle. The fall had not been bad; but as fellow soldiers—and Kellin with them—gathered to trade jests, it became clear that though old Tammis lived, his neck was broken. He would not walk again.
The panic engendered by that image served as catalyst for the bruised strength in legs and arms. Kellin managed one huge jerking contortion against broken boughs and fern. It renewed all the pain, but he welcomed it. Pain was proof he could yet move.
I will walk again. But just now, he was not certain he wanted to. Now that he could move he did not, but lay slack and very still against a painful cradle. He forced himself not to gasp but to draw shallow breaths through the wreckage of his chest.
When he at last had wind again, Kellin gasped out a lengthy string of the vilest oaths he knew in Homanan, Old Tongue, and Erinnish. It used up the breath he had labored so carefully to recover, but he felt it worth it. Dead men did not swear.
The horse was gone. Kellin did not at that moment care; he could not bear the thought of trying to mount. He wished the animal good riddance, suppressing the flicker of dismayed apprehension—a long and painful walk all the way to Mujhara—then set about making certain he was whole.
Everything seemed to be, but he supposed he could not tell for certain until he got up from the ground.
Sound startled him into stillness. But a stride or two away came the coughing grunt of beast, and the stink of its breath.
It filled Kellin's nostrils and set him to flight. It might be bear, mountain cat— He flailed, then stilled himself.
Lion?
It bore Corwyth's hallmark.
With effort Kellin pulled his elbows in to his sides and levered his torso upright, lifting a battered chest until he no longer lay squashed and helpless. "Begone," he said aloud, using the scorn of royalty. "You have no power over me."
The odor faded at once, replaced with the damp cold smells of winter. A man laughed softly from the shadows shielding the beast. "The lion may not," he said, "but be certain that I do."
Kellin's breath hissed between set teeth as Corwyth exited the shadows for the star-lighted hollow in which the prince lay. The Ihini wore dark leathers and a gray wool cloak. Pinned by a heavy knot of silver at one shoulder, the cloak glowed purple in the livid shadows of its folds.
Knowledge diminished pain; made it no longer important. "Corwyth the Lion. But the guise is now ineffective; I have learned what you are."
Corwyth affected a negligent shrug. "I am whatever it serves me—and my master—to be. For you, it was a lion." The Ihlini walked quietly toward Kellin, crackling no branches, snagging no vegetation. His hands were gloved in black. "Indeed, we heard of the small prince's fear of lions. It permitted us certain liberties, even though we were powerless within the palace itself. Fear alone can prove effective, as it did in your case. You believed. That belief has shaped you, Kellin; it has made you what you are in heart and spirit, and placed you here within my grasp."
Kellin longed to repudiate it, but he could not speak. What Corwyth said was true. His own weakness had provided the Ihlini with a weapon.
The gloved hands spread, displaying tiny white flames that transformed themselves to pillars. They danced against Corwyth's palms. "Ian's death in particular was most advantageous. Your certainty that the Lion had killed him was unfounded—it was but a child's imagination gone awry, interpreting a passing comment into something of substance—but that substance, given life, nearly consumed you." The flames within his palms bathed Corwyth's smiling face with lurid illumination. His eyes were black pockets in a white-limned mask. "That, too, served, though it was none of ours. A fortuitious death, was Ian's. We could not have hoped for better."
Kellin stirred in protest, then suppressed a grunt of pain. He wanted very badly to rise and face the Ihlini as he would face a man, but pain ate at his bones. "Lochiel," he said.
Corwyth nodded. "The hand at last is outstretched. It beckons, Kellin. You are cordially invited to join your kinsman in the halls of Valgaard."
"Kinsman!"
Corwyth laughed. "You recoil as if wounded, my lord. But what else are you? Shall I recount your heritage?"
Kellin's silence was loud.
The Ihlini continued regardless. "Lochiel was Strahan's son. Strahan was Tynstar's son, who got him on Electra of Solinde. She was, at the time, married to Carillon and was therefore Queen of Homana; but her tastes lay with her true lord rather than the Mujhar who professed to be."
White teeth shone briefly. "Strahan was her son. He was brother—rujholli?—to Aislinn, who bore Niall, who sired Brennan—and a multitude of others—who in turn sired Aidan. Your very own jehan." Corwyth nodded. "The line is direct, Kellin. You and Lochiel are indeed kinsmen, no matter what you might prefer."
Something slow and warm trickled into Kellin's eyes. He was bleeding—the cut Aileen had stanched?
Or another, newer one?
Corwyth laughed. "Poor prince. So battered, so bruised .. . and so entirely helpless."
Kellin pressed himself up from the ground in a single painful lunge, jerking from its sheath the lethal Cheysuli long-knife. It fit his grasp so well, as if intended for him. Blais could not have known—
He flipped it instantly in his hand and threw, arcing it cleanly across the darkness toward the Ihlini sorcerer. My own brand of Tooth!
But Corwyth put up a gloved hand now free of flames. The knife stopped in midair. Emerald eyes turned black.
"No!" Kellin's blurted denial was less of fear than of the knowledge of profanation. Not Blais' long-knife!
Corwyth plucked the weapon from the air. He studied it a moment, then tucked it away into his belt. His eyes were bright. "I have coveted one of these for a century. I thank you for your gift." The young-looking Ihlini smiled. "Without you, I might never have acquired one; Cheysuli warriors are, after all, well-protected by their lir." Corwyth paused to consider. "But you lack a lir and therefore lack the protection. Leijhana tu'sai, my lord."
Kellin wavered. His fragile strength, born of panic and fury, was spent. Nothing was left to him, not even anger, nor fear. An outthrust hand earned him nothing bu
t empty air, certainly little balance. Fingers closed, then the hand fell limply as Kellin bit into his lip to forestall collapse. He would not, would not, show such weakness to the Ihlini.
"Give in to it," Corwyth suggested gently. "I am not here to be cruel, Kellin ... you paint us so, I know, and it is a personal grief; but there is no sense in maintaining such rigid and painful control merely out of pride."
The darkness thickened. Sorcery? Or exhaustion compounded by pain? "I am Cheysuli. I do not in any way, in words or deed or posture, even by implication, suggest that I am inferior to an Ihlini."
Corwyth laughed. "Inferior, no. Never. We are equal, my lord, in every sense of the word. Sired by the gods, we are now little more than petty children quarreling over a toy." His hand closed over the wolf-headed knife tucked into his belt.
"Once, we might have been brothers. Rujheldi, as we say—is it not close to rujholll?" Corwyth did not smile. "Uncomfortably close, I see, judging by your expression. But it is too late now for anything more than enmity. The Cheysuli are too near fulfillment. The time is now to stop the prophecy before it can be completed. Before you, my Cheysuli rujheldi, can be permitted to sire a child upon an Ihlini woman."
Kellin wanted very much to spit. He did not because he thought it was time he showed self-restraint. He, who had so little. With careful disdain, he asked, "Do you believe I would so soil my manhood as to permit it entry into the womb of the netherworld?"
Corwyth laughed. It was a genuine sound kiting into darkness. It stirred birds from a nearby tree and reawakened Kellin's apprehension. "A man is a fool to trust to taste and preference in a matter so important. I recite to you your own history, Kellin: Rhiannon, Lillith's. daughter, sired by Ian himself—"
"Ian was tricked. He was bespelled. He was lirless, and therefore helpless."
"—and Brennan, your grandsire, who lay with Rhiannon and sired the halfling Ihlini woman at whose breast you suckled."
Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 Page 18
