The Song of Homana

by Jennifer Roberson

  I leaned forward a moment and scrubbed at my gritty, burning eyes. And then I heard the scream.

  Finn tensed to rise and then fell back; no doubt he feared it was Alix. But at once I knew it was not. The sound belonged to my sister.

  I do not recall how I got from Finn’s tent to my own, nor do I recall Lachlan at my side holding his gleaming harp. He was simply there, clasping his Lady, and the curses poured from his mouth. I hardly heard them. Instead I heard the echo of Torry’s scream and the pounding of my blood.

  Men stood around my pavilion. Someone had pulled the doorflap aside and tied it. I saw shadows within, and silhouettes; I tore the throng apart and thrust myself inside, not caring whom I hurt.

  Tourmaline stood in one corner, clutching a loose green robe of my own around her body. A single candle filled the tent with muted, smoke light; it painted her face rigid and pale and glowed off the gold in her hair.

  She saw me and put up a hand at once, as if to stay me. As if to tell me she had suffered no harm. It passed through my mind then that my sister was a stronger woman than I had supposed, but I had no more time for that. It was Rowan I looked at, and the body he bent over.

  “Dead?” I demanded.

  Rowan shook his head as he reached down to pull a knife from the man’s slack hand. “No, my lord. I struck him down with the hilt of my sword, knowing you would have questions for him.”

  I moved forward then, reaching to grasp the leather-and-mail of the man’s hauberk. The links bit into my hands as I jerked him over and up, so I could see him clearly. I nearly released him then, for the light fell on Zared’s face.

  He was half-conscious. His eyes blinked and rolled in his head, which lolled as I held him up. “Well?” I asked of Rowan. “You were set to guard her.”

  “Against Zared?” His tone was incredulous. “Better to guard against me.”

  I felt the burn of anger in my belly. “Does even that need doing, I will do it! Answer the question I asked!”

  The color fell out of his face. I heard Tourmaline’s sound of protest, but my attention was taken up with Rowan. For a moment there was a flare of answering anger in his yellow Cheysuli eyes, and then he nodded. He did not seem ashamed, merely understanding, and accepting. It was well; I did not want a man who put his tail between his legs.

  “I heard her cry out,” he said. “I came in at once and saw a man standing over the cot, in the darkness. He held a knife.” Rowan lifted a hand and I saw it. “And so I struck him down. But it was not until he fell that I saw it was Zared.”

  “Tourmaline?” I asked, more gently than I had of Rowan.

  “I had put the candle out, so I could sleep,” she told me quietly. “I heard nothing; he was very quiet. And then suddenly there was a presence, and a shape, and I screamed. But I think, before that last moment, he knew it was not you.”

  Zared roused in my hands and I tightened my grip. The ring-mail was harsh against my fingers but I did not care. I dragged him up, thrust him out of the pavilion and saw him tumble through the throng. He was left alone to fall; they closed him within a circle of glittering, ringmailed leather but did not touch. They waited for me to act.

  Zared was fully conscious. He shifted as if to rise, then fell back to kneel upon the ground as the throng took a single step forward. He knew the mettle of the men. He knew me.

  He touched fingers to the back of his neck where Rowan had struck him. Briefly he looked at Torry, standing in the open doorflap, and then he looked at me. “I did not mean to harm the lady,” he told me calmly. “I admit freely: it was you I wanted.”

  “For that, my thanks,” I said grimly. “If I thought it was my sister you meant to slay, your entrails would be burning.”

  “Get it done,” he returned instantly. “Give me over to the gods.”

  I looked at him, kneeling there. At the compact, powerful veteran of my uncle’s Solindish wars. My father’s man, once, and now he sought to slay his son. “After an explanation,” I agreed.

  He turned his head and spat. “That for your explanation.” He sucked in a breath as the gathered men muttered among themselves. “I owe you nothing. I give you nothing. There will be no explanation.”

  I took a step forward, angry enough to strike him as he knelt, but Lachlan’s hand was on my arm. “No,” he said, “let me—”

  He said nothing more. He did not need to. His fingers had gone into the strings of his Lady, plucking them, and the sound silenced us all.

  The pavilion cracked behind me. I heard the breath of the wind as it whipped at nearby fires. Torry said a word, a single sound, and then not another one was made.

  The harp music took us all. I felt it more than heard it as it dug within my soul, and there it stayed. So did I. The wind blew dust into my eyes, but I not blink. I felt the beating of grit against my face, but did not move to wipe it away. I stood quite still as the others did, and listened to Lachlan’s soft promise.

  “You misjudge, Zared,” he said. “But how you misjudge my Lady. She can conjure visions from a blind man…words from a dumb man. And put madness in its place.…”

  Zared cried out, cringing, and clapped his hands to his ears. The song went on, weaving us all in its spell. His fingers dug rigidly into his flesh, as if he could block the sound. But it sang on, burrowing into his mind even as it blanked ours out.

  “Lachlan,” I said, but no sound came out of my mouth.

  Zared’s hands fell away from his head. He knelt and stared, transfixed as any child upon an endless wonder: jaw sagging, drool falling, eyes bulging open in a terrible joy.

  The harp sang on, a descant to the wind. So subtle, seductive and sly. Lachlan himself, with his dyed hair blowing and his blue eyes fixed, smiled with incredible power. I saw his face transfigured by the presence of his god; he was no more the harper but an instrument of Lodhi, perhaps the harp herself, and a locus for the magic. Pluck him and she sounded, sharp and sweet. Pluck her and he quivered, resonating in the wind.

  I shivered. It ran over me like a grue, from scalp to toes, and I shivered again. I felt the hair stand up from my flesh and the coldness in my soul. “Lachlan,” I begged, “no—”

  The harpsong reached out and wrapped Zared in a shroud. And there he sat, soundless, as it dug into his mind and stripped it bare, to make his memories visible.

  A pavilion. The interior. Ocher and amber and gray. One candle glowed in the dimness. It glinted off the ringmail hauberk and tarnished sword hilt. The man stood in silence with his ruddy head bowed. He dared not look upon the lady.

  She moved into the light. She wore a brown gown and a yellow belt. She glowed at throat and wrists from the copper-dyed silk. But it was the hair that set her apart, that and her unearthly beauty.

  She put up a hand. She did not touch him. He did not look at her. But as she moved her fingers they took on a dim glow. Lilac, I thought. No—purple. The deep purple of Ihlini magic.

  She drew a rune in the air. It hissed and glowed, clinging to the shadows, spitting sparks and tails of flame. Fearfully Zared raised his head.

  His eyes fastened upon it. For a moment he tried to look away, to look at her, but I could see he had not the power. He could stare only at the rune. The delicate tracery of purest purple glowed against the air, and as Electra bid him he put up his hand.

  “Touch it,” she said. “Take it. Hold it. It will give you the courage you need.”

  Zared touched a trembling fingertip to the rune. Instantly it spilled down across his flesh, consuming his hand in livid flame, until he cried out and shook his arm as if to free it. But by then it was done. I saw the rune, so lively and avid, run up his arm to his face, his nose, and then it slid into his nostrils.

  He cried out, but it was a noiseless sound. His body was beset by tremors. His eyes bulged out and blood ran from his nose, two thin trails of blackened blood. And then, as he reached for his knife, the trembling was gone and Electra touched his hand.

  “It is done,” she said c
almly. “You have watched me so long, desiring me so, that I could not help but give you your wish. I will be yours, but only after this thing is done. Will you serve me in this?”

  Zared merely nodded, eyes transfixed on her face. And Electra gave him his service.

  “Slay him,” she said. “Slay the pretender-prince.”

  The harp music died. Lachlan’s Lady fell silent I heard the wind strike up the song and the echo in my soul. So easily she had done it.

  Zared sat slumped against the earth. His head sagged upon his chest as if he could not bear to meet my eyes. Perhaps he could not. He had meant to slay his lord.

  I felt old. Nothing worked properly. I thought to cross to the man and speak to him quietly, but the muscles did not answer my intentions. And then I heard the harp again, and the change in the song, and saw the change in Lachlan’s eyes.

  “Lachlan!” I cried, but the thing was already done.

  He conjured Electra before us. The perfect, fine-boned face with its fragile planes and flawless flesh. The winged brows and ice-gray eyes, and the mouth that made men weak. Lachlan gave us all the beauty, and then he took it from her.

  He stripped away the flesh. He peeled it from the bone until it fell away in crumpled piles of ash. I saw the gaping orbits of vanished eyes, the ivory ramparts of grinning teeth. The hinge of the jaws and the arch of her cheeks, bared for us all to see. And the skull, so smooth and pearly, stared upon us all.

  No man moved. No man could. Lachlan had bound us all.

  The music stopped, and with it Zared’s heart.

  I wavered, caught myself, and blinked against the dust. I put a hand to my face to wipe it free of grit, and then I stopped, for I saw the tears on Lachlan’s face.

  His hands were quite still upon the strings. The green stone in the smooth dark wood was dim and opaque. And his eyes looked past me to Torry.

  “Could I undo it, I would,” he said in toneless despair. “Lodhi has made me a healer, and now I have taken a life. But for you, lady, for what he nearly did to you…there seemed no other way.”

  Torry’s hand crept up to crush a fold of the green woolen robe against her throat. Her face was white. But I saw the comprehension in her eyes.

  “Lachlan.” My voice was oddly cramped. I swallowed, clearing my throat, then tried again to speak. “Lachlan, no man will reprove you for what you have done. Perhaps the method was—unexpected, but the reasons are clear enough.”

  “I have no dispute with that,” he said. “It is only that I thought myself above such petty vengeance.” He sighed and stroked two fingers along his Lady, touching the green stone gently. “Such power as Lodhi bestows can be used for harm as well as good. And now you have seen them both.”

  I cast an assessive glance around at the staring throng. There was still a thing to be said. “Is there yet a man who would slay me? Another man willing to serve the woman’s power?” I gestured toward Zared’s body on the ground. “I charge you to consider it carefully when you think to strike me down.”

  I thought there was need for nothing more, though something within me longed to cry out at them all, to claim myself inviolate. It was not true. Kings and princes are subject to assassination more often than death from old age. And yet I thought it unlikely more would strike now, after what had just occurred.

  I looked at the body. It resembled that of a child within the womb, for I had seen a stillbirth once; the arms were wrapped around the double-up knees, fingers clawed. The feet were rigid in their boots. Zared’s head was twisted on his neck and his eyes were open. Staring. I thought I might get myself the reputation of a man surrounding himself with shapechangers and Ellasian sorcerers, and I thought it just as well. Let any man who thought to slay his king think twice upon the subject.

  “Go,” I said, more quietly. “There are yet battles to be fought, and wine jugs to be emptied.”

  I saw the smiles. I heard the low-voiced comments. What they had seen would not be forgotten, used instead to strengthen existing stories. They would drink themselves to sleep discussing the subject of death, but at least they would sleep. I thought it unlikely I would.

  I touched Lachlan on the shoulder. “It was best.”

  But he did not look at me. He looked only at my sister while she stared at Zared’s corpse.

  “Does it please you,” asked Finn, “to know how much the woman desires your death?”

  I spun around. He was pale and sweating, white around the mouth, and his lips were pressed tightly closed. I saw immense tension in the line of his shoulders. The stitches stood out like a brand upon his face. He stood with such rigidity I dared not touch him, even to help, for fear he might fall down.

  “It does not please me,” I answered simply. “But it does not surprise me, either. Did you really think it would?” I shook my head. “Still…I had not known she held such power.”

  “She is Tynstar’s meijha,” Finn said clearly. “A whore, to keep from dirtying the Old Tongue with her name. Do you think she will let you live? Be not so blind, Carillon—you have now seen what she can do. She will fill your cup with bitter poison when you think to drink it sweet.”

  “Why?” Torry asked sharply. “What is it you say to my brother?”

  I lifted a hand to wave him into silence, then let it drop back to my side. Finn would never let silence rule his tongue when there was something he wished to say.

  “Has he not told you? He means to wed the woman.”

  The robe enveloped her in a cloud of bright green wool as she came from the tent to me. Her hair spilled down past her waist to ripple at her knees, and she raised a doubled fist. “You will do no such thing! Electra? Carillon—have sense! You have seen what she means to do—Electra desires your death!”

  “So does Bellam and Tynstar and every other Solindishman in Homana. Do you think I am blind?” I reached out and caught her wrist. “I mean to wed her when this war is done, because to do so will settle peace between two lands that have warred too long. Such things are often done, as you well know. But now, Tourmaline, now—perhaps we can make it last.”

  “Alliance?” She asked. “Do you think Solinde will agree to any such thing? With Bellam dead—”

  “ —Solinde will be without a king,” I finished. “She will have me instead, and no more Ihlini minions. Think you what Shaine meant to do when he betrothed Lindir to Ellic! He wanted a lasting peace that would end these foolish wars. Now it is within my grasp to bring this peace about, and I have every intention of accomplishing it. I will wed Electra, just as you, one day, will wed a foreign prince.”

  Her arm went slack in my hand. Color drained from her face. “Carillon—wait you—”

  “We will serve our House, Tourmaline, as all our ancestors have done,” I said clearly. “Shall I name them for you? Shaine himself wed Ellinda of Erinn, before he took Homanan Lorsilla. And before that—”

  “I know!” she cried. “By the gods, Carillon, I am older than you! But what gives you the right to say whom I will have in marriage?”

  “The right of a brother,” I said grimly, disliking to hurt her so. “The right of the last surviving male of our House. But most of all…the right of the Mujhar.”

  Her arm was still slack in my hand. And then it tightened and she twisted it free of my grasp. “Surely you will let me have some choice—”

  “Could I do it, I would,” I said gently. “But it is the Mujhar of Homana the envoys will approach, not his spinster sister.” I paused, knowing how much I hurt her, and knowing whom she wanted, even as he heard me. “Did you think yourself free of such responsibility?”

  “No,” she said finally. “No…not entirely. But it seems somewhat precipitate to discuss whom I will wed when you still lack the Lion Throne.”

  “That is a matter of time.” I rubbed at my aching brow and shifted my attention to Finn. “If I give you an order, will you obey it?”

  One black brow rose slightly. “That is the manner of my service…usually.”

/>   “Then go to the Keep as soon as you are able.” He opened his mouth to protest, but this time I won. “I am sending Torry, so she will be safe and free of such things as she has encountered tonight.” I did not say she would also be separated from Lachlan, for his sake as well as hers. “You I want healed;” I went on. “Alix will no doubt wish to return to Donal, so she can give Torry proper escort. Remain until you are fully recovered. And there, my liege man, is the order.”

  He was not pleased with it, but he did not protest. I had taken that freedom from him. And then, before I could put out a hand to aid him as I intended, he turned and limped away.

  The wind rippled Torry’s hair as we watched him go. I heard surprise and awe in her voice, and recalled she knew little of the Cheysuli. Only the legends and lays. “That,” she said, “is strength. And such pride as I have never seen.”

  I smiled. “That,” I said merely, “is Finn.”

  SIXTEEN

  It was bright as glass as I sat outside my pavilion, and the sunlight beat off my head. I sat on a three-legged campstool with my legs spread, Cheysuli sword resting across my thighs. I squinted against the brilliant flashes of the mirrored blade and carefully checked its edges. From elsewhere, close by, drifted the curl of Lachlan’s music.

  Come, lady, and sit down beside me,

  settle your skirts in the hollowed green hills

  and hear of my song

  for I am a harper

  and one who would give of himself

  to you.

  Rowan stood at my right, waiting for my comment. He had spent hours honing and cleaning the blade. At first I had not thought to set him to the task, for in Caledon I had learned to tend my weapons as I tended my life, but this was not Caledon. This was Homana, and I must take on the behaviors of a king. Such things included in that were having men to tend my weapons, mail and horse. Still, it had been only this morning that I had trusted my sword to another.

  The ruby, the Mujhar’s Eye, glowed brilliantly in the pommel. The gold prongs holding it in place curved snuggly around it, like lion’s claws; a propos, I thought, since it was the royal crest. The rampant beast depicted in the hilt gleamed with a thorough cleaning, and I thought overall it would do. I touched fingertips to the runes, feeling the subtle ridges beneath my flesh, and nodded. “Well done, Rowan. You should have been an arms-master.”