The Song of Homana

by Jennifer Roberson

  “How could I not? I was sick for days, until my foster parents feared I would die. The longing, the need, the emptiness within me.” A terrible grimace twisted his face. “The pain in the denial—”

  “You had only to answer that need,” Finn said harshly. “The gods fashioned a lir for you, and you gave it over into death. Ku’reshtin! You should have died for what you did.”

  “Enough!” I shouted at him. “Finn—by the gods!—I want support from you! Not condemnation for a man I need.”

  Finn’s hand stabbed out to point at Rowan’s lowered head. “He lived, while the lir died. Can you not see what it makes him? A murderer, Carillon—and what he slew was a gift of the gods themselves—”

  “Enough,” I repeated. “No more.”

  “Look at Storr,” Finn snapped. “Think how your life would have been had I ignored my chance to link with him. He would have died, for a lir who does not link when the need is upon him gives himself over to death. It is the price they pay, as a warrior does when his lir is slain.” His teeth showed briefly in a feral baring, like a wolf prepared to leap.

  A wolf—Finn.

  “Leave Rowan be,” I said at last. “You have said more than was required.”

  “I would say it all again, and more, did I think it would make him see what he has done.”

  “I know what I have done!” Rowan was on his feet at last, his arms coming up as if to ward off the words Finn said. “By the gods, do you think I have not suffered? Do you think I have not cursed myself? I live with it each day, shapechanger! The knowledge will never go away.”

  I saw then that each suffered. Rowan, for what he never had; Finn, for what he could not comprehend: that a Cheysuli could give up his birthright and continue to survive. It was not Rowan who was left out, but myself. Carillon. The Homanan, who could not possibly know what it was to have a lir, or what it was to give one up.

  “I need you both,” I told them finally as they faced one another across the firelight. “I will have no disharmony among my men. Neither Cheysuli-Homanan conflict, nor that between men of a single race, blessed or not.” I sighed, suddenly disgusted. “By the gods, do I know anything at all of the Cheysuli? I begin to think I cannot.”

  “This much I know,” Rowan said, still looking at Finn. “No man, unblessed, can ever know the grace of the gods or understand the prophecy.”

  Finn laughed, though it had a harsh sound. “Not so soulless after all, are you? You have enough blood in you for that much.”

  The tension lessened at once. They still faced one another like predatory beasts: one a wise wolf, the other a man who lacked the gifts of the lir-bond, and yet claimed all the eerie charisma of the race.

  “Unblessed,” I growled. “By the gods, now there are two of you prating this nonsense.…” I turned away to my horse, my Ihlini horse, who was as much a stranger as I to the world of the Cheysuli.

  I mustered my forces in the valley the following day, Cheysuli and Homanan alike. I watched them come, silent upon my horse, and waited until they filled the bowl-shaped valley. It was a small place and made my army look smaller still, I had so few men beneath my standard. And yet more came each day, trickling in with the thaw.

  I thought of haranguing them with all the arguments and commands until all went away with the taste of Carillon in their mouths. I was angry enough that my Homanans could disregard the Cheysuli when we needed every man; did they wish to lose this war? And yet I understood, for I too had been raised to hate and fear the race. I had learned my lesson, and well, but only in adversity. Many of the Homanans I faced had lacked the teacher I had.

  Instead of haranguing, I talked. Shouted, rather, since I could not reach them all by merely speaking, but I left my anger behind. I told them what we faced; told them how badly we were outnumbered. I would have none of them saying later I had led them unknowing into war. Did a man go to his death, I wanted him to know the risks.

  I broke them into individual units, explaining my strategy to them. We could not afford the pitched battles we had ever known before, there being too few of us, and none I could spare in such futile attacks. Instead we would go in bit by bit, piece by piece, harrying Bellam’s patrols. They would be fewer now, with harvest, and we would stand a better chance of catching them unawares.

  The units I kept separate, knowing better than to mix Cheysuli with Homanan. Many of our Homanans were veteran enough to recall the days before the qu’mahlin, and they readily accepted the Cheysuli as expert fighting men; these men I put in charge of raiding parties. I counted on them to quash the rumbles of discontent. All men knew the ferocity and incredible abilities of the Cheysuli; I thought, in the end, they would prefer to have them with us than against us.

  Few questions were asked. I wondered how many men came out of a true conviction of my goal, or merely desiring a change from daily life. Some, I did not doubt, were like Zared in their desire to free Homana from Bellam’s rule. But others likely sought a release from what they had known, wanting merely a different life. I could promise them that much. They would go home vastly different, did they go home at all.

  I named my captains. Rowan was one of them. Him I placed with the men he had gathered in the tavern, knowing he could not lead other Homanans until he had proved himself. The Cheysuli would not accept him either, I thought, judging by Finn’s reaction.

  I dismissed the men into their units, tasking the captains with the goal I wanted: superior raiding parties. Men willing to sweep down quickly on Solindish patrols, slaying as they could, and sweeping away again as quickly as they had come. No time wasted; fewer lives lost. Cheysuli warfare, more effective than most. I knew it could work, if they were willing to act as I desired.

  “You have mastered them.” This from Finn, sitting behind me on his horse.

  I smiled, watching the army depart. “Have I? Then you are deaf to all the mumbled complaints.”

  “Men will ever complain. It is the nature of the beast.” He kneed his mount forward and came up next to me. “I think you have won their hearts.”

  “I need that and their willingness to fight.”

  “And I think you will have it.” He pulled something from his belt and held it out. A knife. A Cheysuli long-knife hiked in silver, with a gleaming wolf’s-head pommel. It was my own, given to me by Finn so many years before. “I took it from your things,” he said quietly. “A Mujhar ever carries one.”

  I thought of the one I had left behind. The piece of bone. I thought of the one I had replaced it with: a Homanan knife of army issue, when there was my own. But I had hidden it so long—Abruptly I put out my hand and accepted the Cheysuli knife. And then I told Finn how it was I had lost the other. I told him of the sorcerer, and of the lion-beast.

  His brows drew down as he listened. Gone was the calm expression of the loyal liege man, although even then there was the hint of mockery. Now he listened, thinking even as I spoke, and when I was done with words he nodded a little, as if I had told him nothing new.

  “Ihlini,” he said on a sigh, as if there were need for nothing more.

  “That was obvious.”

  For a moment his eyes were on me, but he saw something more than myself. Then his gaze cleared and he looked at me, smiling in a grim parody of the Finn I knew. “So obvious? —no. That he was Ihlini, no doubt—but not that he had used so much of his sorcery.”

  “So much?” It puzzled me. “There are degrees in it?”

  He nodded, shifting in the saddle. “There is much of the Ihlini I do not know. They hide themselves in mystery. But it is known they have gifts similar to our own.”

  I stared at him, struck by the revelation. “Do you mean to say they shift their shapes?”

  “No. That is a Cheysuli thing.” His thoughtful frown was becoming a scowl. “But they can alter the shapes of other things, such as weapons.” He looked at the Cheysuli knife I held in my hand. “Had you borne that, he could have conjured no beast. Do you see? He touched that which was not
alive—nor made of Cheysuli skill—and fashioned it into an enemy for you.” He shook his head. “I had heard…but I have never seen it.”

  I felt my gorge rise. I had faced the lion, knowing it was a sorcerous thing, and yet I had fought it as if it had been real, a thing Homanan-born, to be slain before it slew me. I had known it had grown out of the Caledonese bone hilt—how else would it have appeared?—but somehow I had ignored the implications of it. If the Ihlini had such power over objects, I faced a more dangerous foe than I had thought.

  “What else can they do?” I demanded. “What magic should I expect?”

  A stray breeze lifted a lock of black hair from Finn’s left shoulder. The earring glittered. Seated on his dark horse in his dark leathers, he reminded me of the stories I had heard of man-horses, half of each, and inseparable. Well, so was Finn inseparable. From his lir, if not from his horse.

  “With the Ihlini,” he said, “expect anything.”

  The last of the Homanans disappeared into the trees to gather with their captains. To plan. To do as I wished, which was to strip Bellam of men and power until I could steal it all back from him.

  I felt a roll of trepidation in my belly. “I am afraid,” I said flatly, expecting ridicule—or worse—from him.

  “No man, facing what you face, denies his fear,” Finn said calmly. “Unless he lies. And you are not a liar.”

  I laughed, albeit oddly. “No, not a liar. A fool, perhaps, but not a liar.” I shook my head, tasting the sharp tang of apprehension in my mouth. “What we face—”

  “—we face,” he finished. “As the gods desire.” He made the familiar gesture. “Tahlmorra, my lord. It will go on.” He closed his hand abruptly, the gesture banished. His hand was a fist, a hard brown fist of flesh and bone, and the promise of death to come.

  TWELVE

  Our first strikes against Bellam were successful. My raiding parties caught the Solindish patrols by complete surprise, as I had intended, slaying everyone rapidly and then departing more quickly than they had come. But Bellam was no fool, soon enough he put up a defense. In two months the Solindish patrols had cut down many of my men. But still more flocked to join me, won over by the knowledge I had come home at last to take back my throne. In those first days I had had thirteen hundred men, Cheysuli and Homanan alike. Now the number was four times that many, and still more came.

  Carefully I split my raiding parties and sent them out to harry Bellam from all directions. I took several of my best captains, experienced veterans all, and dispatched them with their men to distant parts of Homana. Slowly, from all four directions, they would work their way toward Mujhara and Bellam’s principal forces. Little by little they would gnaw their way inward, chewing holes in Bellam’s martial fabric, until the cloth was weakened. Even a large army can be defeated by small insects.

  Much of my time was taken up with army matters, allowing me small chance to do any fighting myself, but I was not unready to take the field and I did whenever I could. Finn fought with me, and Storr, along with Rowan and his men. And when I could not fight, too busy with other matters, I practiced when I could against sword and bow and knife.

  Zared was often my partner, for the red-haired soldier had proved an invaluable fighter. He had come to me not long after the first few strikes, offering apology for his words concerning Rowan. I had listened in silence, allowing him what he would say, and then ordered Rowan fetched so Zared could say it again to the one who deserved the words. Rowan had come, listened in a silence similar to mine, and accepted the apology. I thought he felt better for it.

  Since then Zared and I had been on friendly terms, and I had come to know him better. He knew much of war, having fought for years under my father, and for that alone I was grateful. There were not many left who could recall the man who sired me, for with him had perished thousands. The memory still hurt, for I had been spared where my father had not. And all because I was heir to Shaine the Mujhar. Unexpendable, while my father was not.

  Zared and I, between strikes against Bellam’s patrols, sparred within a clearing in the forest. We did not maintain the camp in the same place for longer than a few days at the most, knowing more permanency would make us easier to track down. We moved constantly but with little grumbling. The army understood that our safety remained in secrecy.

  I had stripped to breeches and boots, bare-chested in the late spring warmth and extra activity. Zared wore little enough as well, concentrating on footwork; I outweighed him considerably and towered over him, so though to most we seemed unevenly matched, it merely afforded us a chance to fight against different styles. He was a superb swordsman, and I still had need of such tutors. Finn had taught me nothing of the sword, for the Cheysuli do not believe in using a sword where a knife will do. What I had learned I had learned from arms-masters within Homana-Mujhar, and from exile in foreign lands.

  The bout had gone on for a considerable length of time. My thighs burned and my arms ached. And yet I dared not call halt, or Zared would claim himself the victor. More often than not I won, being younger and stronger, but when he took a bout it was with great finesse and much shouting to let the others know he had beaten his Mujhar. My pride stood it well enough, after the first time, but my battered body did not like it so much. I fought to win.

  Zared, on the point of thrusting at me with his sword, suddenly fell back. I followed with a counterthrust, nearly drove the blade through when he did not move to deflect, and stopped short. Zared remained in one spot, staring past me. His sword drooped in his hand. I saw the expression—shock and awe and utter desire—and turned to see what had caused it.

  A woman. Women are not unheard of in an army camp—even I had taken my ease in camp followers—but this one was different This one was no light woman or crofter’s daughter seeking a soldier in her bed.

  I forgot I held a sword. I forgot I was half-naked and sweaty, wet-haired and smelling of exertion. I forgot who I was entirely, knowing only I was a man, and a man who wanted that woman.

  I felt the fist knot up deep in my belly, making me aware of what I needed. Wanted, aye, but needed as well. With the sudden recognition of such things, I knew I wanted to bed the woman before the day was done.

  She had not come of her own volition. That much was clear. Finn held her arm roughly, and he brought her to me with infinite satisfaction in his demeanor. I had never seen him so pleased before, and yet his pleasure was not something others—certainly not the woman—could see. It showed only in the deep feral light in his eyes and the set of his mouth, too calm for Finn. He did not smile, but I saw the laughter in his soul.

  He brought her to me. I remembered all at once what it was she saw, and for once I was displeased with my liege man. No doubt the woman was a prisoner, but surely he could have done me the courtesy of allowing me time to put on fresh clothing and wipe the sweat from my face. It dripped from my hair and beard to trickle down my bare chest.

  She was stiff and clumsy with rage. White-blond hair spilled free of its sheer silken covering, tumbling past slender shoulders clad in slate-gray velvet. Her gown was torn and stained; flesh showed through the rents, but her pride was undiminished. Even as she stood before me in obvious disarray, in the open for all to see, the sight of her pride struck the smile from my face.

  Her eyes fixed themselves upon me. Wide-spaced eyes, gray and cool as water, long-lidded and filled with virulent scorn. An apt emotion for the man who stood before her, rank from exertion, a bared blade in his callused hand.

  I saw again the wild light in Finn’s eyes. “We took a procession out of Mujhara, bound for Solinde.”

  I looked at the woman again. Her skin was pale as death, but that changed as color crept into her face. Anger, I knew, and defiance.

  And then she spoke. “Do you mean to tell me, shapechanger, this man is the pretender-prince?”

  “Carillon of Homana,” I informed her, and a suspicion formed in my mind. I looked at Finn for confirmation and saw his satisfied sm
ile. At that I had to add my own. “Pretender-prince, am I? When I was born to that throne? I think not, lady. I think it is your father who pretends. A usurper king, and you his daughter.” I laughed then, into her angry face. “Electra!” I said. “Oh, aye, you are well come to this camp. And I thank the gods for their gift.”

  Her teeth showed briefly in a faint, feral baring, much as I had seen in Finn from time to time. But there was nothing of the Cheysuli in her. She was pale, so pale, like winter snow. White on white, with those ice-gray eyes. Gods, what a woman was this!

  “Electra,” I said again, still smiling. Then I gestured toward Finn. “Take her to my tent. Guard her well—we dare not lose this woman.”

  “No, my lord.” I saw the appraisal in his eyes. No doubt it was obvious what I wanted. To her as well as him.

  I watched her move away with him, one slim arm still caught in his sun-bronzed hand. The torn gown hid little of her body. It was with great effort that I dispatched Zared for cloth and fresh wine. When he came back I dried myself as best I could, drank down two cups of harsh red wine and put on my shirt and leather jerkin. Little in my apparel made me a prince, but I thought it would not matter. There was more on my mind than rank.

  I went into my tent at last. Electra stood precisely in the center, resolutely turned away from Finn, and now myself. The tent boasted little of fine things, being a field pavilion. There was a rude bed, a table and stool, tripod and brazier. There was little room for more.

  Except, perhaps, Electra.

  Finn turned. He was unsmiling now, but I saw something in the set of his mouth and the tautness of his face. I wondered what she had said or done to set him so on edge. I had seen him like this rarely, especially with a woman.

  We measured each other in that moment. But it was Electra who broke the silence by turning to face us both. “This is ill-done, Homanan. You take me from my women and leave him to the shapechangers.”

  “See to your men,” I told Finn briefly. “You may leave her with me.”