The Song of Homana

by Jennifer Roberson

  “I prefer being a captain,” he said, “so long as it is you I serve.”

  I smiled and used a soft cloth to rub the oil of my fingers from the glory of the steel. “I am not a god, Rowan. I am as human as you.”

  “I know that,” Some of his awe had faded, that was obvious. “But given the choice, I would continue to serve the Mujhar. Human or not.” I glanced up and saw his smile.

  A thin veil of dust hung in the air to layer the men who caused it. I heard the sound of arms-practice, wrestling, argument and laughter. But I also heard the harp, and Lachlan’s eloquent voice.

  Come, lady, and hear of my harp;

  I will sing for you, play for you,

  wait for you, pray for you

  to say you love me, too…

  as much as I love you.

  I lifted my swordbelt from the ground and set the tip of the blade against the lip of the sheath. Slowly I slid it home, liking the violent song. Steel against leather, boiled and wrapped; the hissing of blade against sheath. Better, I thought, than the chopping of blade hacking flesh or the grate of steel against bone.

  “Hallooo the camp!” called a distant voice. “A message from Bellam!”

  The dust cloud rolled across the encampment. Four men rode in: three were guards, the third a Homanan I had seen only once before, when I had set him to his task.

  The guards brought him up, taking away his horse as he jumped from the mount and dropped to one knee in a quick, impatient gesture of homage. His eyes sparkled with excitement as I motioned him up. “My lord, I have word from Mujhara.”

  “Say on.”

  “It is Bellam, my lord. He desires a proper battle, two armies in the field, with no more time and blood spent in pointless skirmishes.” He grinned; he knew what I would say.

  I smiled. “Pointless, are they? So pointless now he begs me hold back my men, because we have undermined his grip upon Homana. So pointless he wishes to settle the thing at last.” I felt the leap of anticipation within my chest. At last. At last. “Is there more?”

  He was winded, trying to catch his breath. I had taken up the practice of posting men in relays along the major roads, ostensibly itinerants or crofters or traders; anything but soldiers. Some had even been sent to Mujhara to learn what they could firsthand, and to expand on the insight Lachlan had given us as to Bellam’s mind.

  “My lord,” the man said, “it seems Bellam is angry and impatient. He is determined to bring you down. He challenges you, my lord, to a battle near Mujhara. A final battle, he claims, to end the thing at last.”

  “Does he?” I grinned at Rowan. “No doubt there were assorted insults to spice these words of his.”

  The messenger laughed. “But of course, my lord! What else does a beaten man do? He blusters and shouts and threatens, because he knows his strength is failing.” Color stood high in his face. “My lord Carillon, he claims you fight such skirmishes because you are incapable of commanding an entire army within a proper battle. That you rely on the Cheysuli to ensorcel his patrols, having no skill yourself. My lord—do we fight?”

  His eagerness was manifest. I saw others gathering near; not so close as to intrude, but close enough to hear my answer. I did not mind. No doubt all my men felt some of the impatience that nipped at Bellam’s heels.

  “We will fight,” I agreed, rising from my stool. The cheer went up at once. “Seek you food and rest, and whatever wine you prefer. Tonight we will feast to Bellam’s defeat, and tomorrow we shall plan.”

  He bowed himself away and went off to do my bidding. Others hastened away as well to spread the word; I knew the army grapevine would do what I could not, which was speak to every man. There were too many now.

  Rowan sighed. “My Lord—it is well. Even I would relish a battle.”

  “Though you may die in it?”

  “There is that chance each time I lead a raid,” he answered. “What difference to me whether I die with twenty men or two hundred? Or even twenty thousand?”

  The hilt of my sword was warm against my palm and the royal ruby glowed. “What difference, indeed?” I stared across the encampment with its knots of clustered men. “Is a Mujhar’s strength measured by the number of men whose blood is spilled—or merely that it spills?” Then I frowned and shook the musing away. “Find me Duncan. Last I saw, he was with Finn, now that his brother is back. There are things we must discuss.”

  Rowan nodded and went off at once. I buckled on my swordbelt and turned to go inside my pavilion, intending to study my maps, but I paused instead and lingered.

  Come, lady, and taste of my wine,

  eat of my fruit

  and hear of my heart,

  for I long for you, cry for you,

  ache for you, hate for you

  to say you will not come.

  I grimaced and scrubbed fingers through my beard to scratch my tight-set jaw. It was not Torry who was saying she would not come, but her brother commanding it. And in the eight weeks since I had sent her to the Keep, Lachlan had kept himself to his thoughts and his Lady, forgoing the confidences we once had shared.

  “A fool,” I muttered. “A fool to look so high…and surely a harper knows it.”

  Perhaps he had, once. He had spent his time with kings. But a man cannot always choose where he will love, no more than a princess may choose what man she will wed.

  The harpsong died down into silence. I stood outside my pavilion and heard the hissing of the wind across the sandy, beaten ground. And then I cursed and went inside.

  “Carillon.”

  It was Finn at the doorflap, but when I called to him to enter, he merely pulled the flap aside. He stood mostly in shadow with the darkness of full night behind him.

  I sat up, awake at once—for I had hardly slept in the knowledge I would face Bellam at last—and lighted my single candle. I looked at Finn and frowned. Of a sudden he was alien to me, eerie in his intensity.

  “Bring your sword and come.”

  I glanced at the sword where it lay cradled in its sheath. It waited for me now as much as it waited for the morning; the morning And, knowing Finn did nothing without sound reason. I put on my boots and stood up, fully clothed as was common in army camps. “Where?” I pulled the sword from its sheath.

  “This way.” He said nothing more, merely waited for me to follow. And so I went with him, following Storr, to the hollow of a hill. We left the encampment behind, a dim, smoky glow across the crest of the hill, and I waited for Finn to explain.

  He said nothing at first. I saw him look down at the ground, searching for some mark or other indication, and then I saw it even as he did.

  Five smooth stones, set in a careful circle. He smiled and knelt, touching each stone with a fingertip as if he counted, or made himself known to all five. He said something under his breath, some unknown sentence; the Old Tongue, and more obscure than usual. This was not the Finn I knew.

  Kneeling, he glanced up. Up and up, until he tipped back his head. It was the sky he stared at, the black night sky with its carpet of shining stars, and the wind blew his hair from his face. I saw again the livid scar as it snaked across cheek and jaw, but I also saw something more. I saw a man gone out of himself to some place far beyond.

  “Ja’hai,” he said. “Ja’hai, cheysu, Mujhar.”

  The wolf walked once around the circle. I saw the amber glint of his eyes. Finn glanced at him briefly with the unfocused detachment of lir-speech, and I wondered what was said.

  The night was cool. The wind blew grit against my face, catching in my beard. I put one hand to my mouth, intending to wipe my lips clean, but Finn made a gesture I had never seen and I stopped moving altogether. I looked up, as he did, and saw the garland of stars.

  Five of them. In a circle. Like a torque around a woman’s neck. A moment before they had been five among many, lost in the brilliance of thousands, and now they stood apart.

  Finn touched each stone again with a gentle fingertip. Then he placed one palm
flat against the earth as if he gave—or sought—a blessing, and touched the other hand to his heart.

  “Trust me.” I realized this time he spoke to me.

  It took me a moment to answer. The very stillness made me hesitate. “When have I not trusted you?”

  “Trust me.” I saw the blackness of his eyes, swollen in the darkness.

  I swallowed down my foreboding. “Freely. My life is yours.”

  He did not smile. “Your life has ever been mine. For now, the gods have set me a further task…” For a moment he closed his eyes. In the moonlight his face was all hollows and planes, leached free of its humanity. He was a shadow-wraith before me, hunched against the ground. “You know what we face tomorrow.” His eyes were on my face. “You know the odds are great. You know also, of course, that should we fail—and Bellam keeps Homana—it is the end of the Cheysuli race.”

  “The Homanans—”

  “I do not speak of Homanans.” Finn’s tone was very distant. “We speak now of the Cheysuli, and the gods who made this place. There is no time for Homanans.”

  “I am Homanan—”

  “You are a part of our prophecy.” For a moment he smiled the old, ironic smile. “Doubtless you would prefer it otherwise, given a choice—no more than I, Carillon—but there is none. If you die tomorrow; if you die within a week in Bellam’s battles, Homana and the Cheysuli die with you.”

  I felt the slow churning in my belly. “Finn—you set a great weight upon my shoulders. Do you wish to bow me down?”

  “You are Mujhar,” he said softly. “That is the nature of the task.”

  I shifted uneasily. “What is it you would have me do? Strike a bargain with the gods? Only tell me the way.”

  There was no answering smile. “No bargain,” he said. “They do not bargain with men. They offer; men take, or men refuse. Men all too often refuse.” He set one hand against the ground and thrust himself to his feet. The earring winked in the moonlight. “What I tell you this night is not what men prefer to hear, particularly kings. But I tell you because of what we have shared together…and because it will make a difference.”

  I took a deep, slow breath. Finn was—not Finn. And yet I knew no other name. “Say on, then.”

  “That sword.” He indicated it briefly. “The sword you hold is Cheysuli-made, by Hale, my jehan. For the Mujhar it was said he made it, and yet in the Keep we knew differently.” His face was very solemn. “Not for Shaine, though Shaine was the one who bore it. Not for you, to whom Shaine gave it on your acclamation. For a Mujhar, it is true…but a Cheysuli Mujhar, not Homanan.”

  “I have heard something of the sort before,” I said grimly. “It seems these words—or similar ones—have been often in Duncan’s mouth.”

  “You fight to save Homana,” Finn said. “We fight to save Homana as well, and the Cheysuli way of life. There is the prophecy, Carillon. I know—” he lifted a hand as I sought to speak— “I know, it is not something to which you pay mind. But I do; so do we all who have linked with the lir.” His eyes were on Storr, standing so still and silent in the night. “It is the truth, Carillon. One day a man of all blood shall unite, in peace, four warring realms and two magic races.” He smiled. “Your bane, it appears, judging by your expression.”

  “What are you leading to?” I was grown impatient with his manner. “What has the prophecy to do with this sword?”

  “That sword was made for another. Hale knew it when he fashioned the blade from the star-stone. And the promise was put in there.” His fingers indicated the runes running down the blade. “A Cheysuli sword, once made, waits for the hand it was made for. That hand is not yours, and yet you will carry the sword into battle.”

  I could not suppress the hostility in my tone. “Cheysuli sufferance?” I demanded. “Does it come to this again?”

  “Not sufferance,” he said. “You serve it well, and it has kept you alive, but the time draws near when it will live in another man’s hands.”

  “My son’s,” I said firmly. “What I have will be my son’s. That is the nature of inheritance.”

  “Perhaps so,” he agreed, “do the gods intend it.”

  “Finn—”

  “Lay down the sword, Carillon.”

  I faced him squarely in the darkness. “Do you ask me to give it up?” I weighted my words with care. “Do you mean to take it from me?”

  “That is not for me to do. When the sword is given over to the man for whom it was made, it will be given freely.” For a moment he said nothing, as if listening to his words, and then he smiled. Briefly he touched my arm with a gesture of comradeship I had seen only rarely before. “Lay down the sword, Carillon. This night it belongs to the gods.”

  I bent. I set the sword upon the ground, and then I rose again. It lay gleaming in the moonlight: gold and silver and crimson.

  “Your knife,” Finn said.

  And so he disarmed me. I stood naked and alone, for all I had a warrior and wolf before me, and waited for the answers. I thought there might be none; Finn only rarely divulged what was in his mind, and this night I thought it unlikely I would get anything from him. I waited.

  He held the knife in his hand, the hand which had fashioned the weapon. A Cheysuli long-knife with its wolf’s-head hilt; no Homanan weapon, this. And then I understood.

  This night he was all Cheysuli, more so than ever before. He put off his borrowed Homanan manners like a soldier slipping his cloak. No more the Finn I knew but another, quieter soul. He was full of his gods and magic, and did I not acknowledge what he was I would doubtless regret it at once. As it was, I had not seen him so often in such a way as to lose my awe of him.

  Suddenly I stood alone on the plains of Homana with a shapechanger waiting before me, and I knew myself afraid.

  He caught my left wrist in one hand. Before I could speak he bared the underside to the gods and cut deeply into the flesh.

  I hissed between my teeth and tried to pull back the arm. He held me tightly, clamping down on the arm so that my hand twitched and shook with the shock of the cutting.

  I had forgotten his strength, his bestial determination that puts all my size to shame. He held me as easily as a father holds a child, ignoring my muttered protest. He forced my arm down and held it still, and then he loosened his fingers to let the blood well free and fast.

  It ran down my wrist to pool in my palm, then dropped off the rigid fingers. Finn held the arm over the patch of smooth earth with its circle of five smooth stones.

  “Kneel.” A pressure on the captive wrist led me downward, and I knelt as he had ordered.

  Finn released my wrist. It ached dully and I felt the blood still coursing freely. I lifted my right hand to clamp the cut closed, but the look on Finn’s face kept me from it. There was more he wanted of me.

  He took up my sword from the ground and stood before me. “We must make this yours, for a time,” he said gently. “We will borrow it from the gods. For tomorrow, for Homana…you must have a little magic.” He pointed at the bloodied soil. “The blood of the man; the flesh of the earth. United in one purpose—” He thrust the sword downward until the blade bit into the earth, sliding in as if he sheathed it; until the hilt stood level with my face as I knelt. The clean, shining hilt with its ruby eye set so firmly in the pommel. “Put your hand upon it.”

  Instinctively I knew which hand. My left, with its bloody glove.

  I touched the hilt. I touched the rampant lion. I touched the red eye with the red of my blood, and closed my hand upon it.

  The blood flowed down the hilt to the crosspiece and then down upon the blade. The runes filled up, red-black in the silver moonlight, until they spilled over. I saw the scarlet ribbon run down and down to touch the earth where it merged with the blood-dampened soil, and the ruby began to glow.

  It filled my eyes with crimson fire, blinding me to the world. No more Finn, no more me…only incarnadine fire.

  “Ja’hai,” Finn whispered unevenly. “Ja’hai, ch
eysu, Mujhar…”

  Five stars. Five stones. One sword. And one battle to be won.

  The stars moved. They broke free of their settings and moved against the sky, growing brighter, trailing tails of fire behind them. They shot across the sky, arcing, like arrows loosed from bows, heading toward the earth. Shooting stars I had seen, but this was different. This was—

  “Gods,” I whispered raggedly. “Must a man ever see to believe?”

  I wavered on my knees. It was Finn who pulled me up and made me stand, though I feared I would fall down and shame myself. One hand closed over the cut and shut off the bleeding. He smiled a moment, and then the eyes were gone blank and detached, so that I knew he sought the earth magic.

  When he took his hand away my wrist was healed, bearing no scar save the shackle wound from Atvian iron. I flexed my hand, wiggling my fingers, and saw the familiar twist to Finn’s smile. “I told you to trust me.”

  “Trusting you may give me nightmares.” Uneasily I glanced at the sky. “Did you see the stars?”

  “Stars?” He did not smile. “Rocks,” he said. “Only rocks.”

  He scooped them up and showed me. Rocks they were, in his hand; I put out my own and held them, wondering what magic had been forged.

  I looked at Finn. He seemed weary, used up, and something was in his eyes. I could not decipher the expression. “You will sleep.” He frowned in abstraction. “The gods will see to that.”

  “And you?” I asked sharply.

  “What the gods give me is my own affair.” His eyes were back on the sky.

  I thought there was more he wished to say. But he shut his mouth on it, offering nothing, and it was not my place to ask. So I put my free hand on the upstanding hilt and closed my fingers around the bloodied gold. But I knew, as I pulled it from the earth, I would not ask Rowan to clean it.