The Song of Homana

by Jennifer Roberson

  I spoke the vows that bound us, reciting the Homanan words with their tinge of Cheysuli nuance. It seemed apropos. Homana and the Cheysuli were inseparable, and now I knew why.

  Electra repeated them after me, watching me as she said the words. Her Solindish mouth framed the syllables strangely, making a parody of the vows. I wondered if she did it deliberately. No. She was Solindish…and undoubtedly knew what she said even as she said it.

  The priest put a hand on her head and the other rested on mine. There was a moment of heavy silence as we knelt before the man And then he smiled and said the words of benediction for the new-made Mujhar and his lady wife.

  I had taken the woman, I would keep her. Electra was mine at last.

  When the wedding feast was done, we adjourned to a second audience hall, this one somewhat smaller but no less magnificent than the Great Hall with its Lion Throne. A gallery ran along the side walls. Lutes, pipes, tambours, harps and a boy’s chorus provided an underscore to the celebration. It was not long before men warmed by wine neglected to speak of politics and waited to lead their ladies onto the red stone floor.

  But the dancing could not begin until the Mujhar and his queen began it. And so I took Electra into the center of the shining floor and signaled the dance begun.

  She fell easily into the intricate pattern of moving feet and swirling skirts. Our hands touched, fell away. The dance was more of a courtship than anything else, filled with the subtle overtures of man to woman and woman to man. I was aware of the eyes on us and the smiling mouths, though few of them belonged to the Solindish guests. There was little happiness there.

  “Tell me,” I said, as we essayed a pass that brought us close in the center of the floor, “where is Tynstar?”

  She stiffened and nearly missed a step. I caught her arm and steadied her, offering a bland smile as she stared at me in shock.

  “Did you think I would not ask?” I moved away in the pattern of the dance, but in a moment we were together again.

  She drew in a breath that set the sapphires to glowing against the pale flesh of her throat. The girdle chimed in the folds of her skirts. “My lord—you have taken me unaware.”

  “I do not think you are ever taken unaware, Electra.” I smiled. “Where is he?”

  The pattern swept us apart yet again. I waited, watching the expressions on her face. She moved effortlessly because she claimed a natural grace, but her mind was not on the dance.

  “Carillon—”

  “Where is Tynstar?”

  Long lids shuttered her eyes a moment, but when she raised them again I saw the hostility plainly. Her mouth was a taut, thin line. “Gone. I cannot say where.”

  I caught her hand within the pattern of the dance. Her fingers were cool, as ever; I recalled them from before. “You had best content yourself with me, Electra. You are my wife.”

  “And Queen?” she countered swiftly.

  I smiled. “You want a crown, do you?”

  The high pride of royalty burst forth at once. “I am worthy of it! Even you cannot deny me that.”

  We closed again within the figure. I held her hand and led her the length of the hall. We turned, came back again, acknowledging the clapping from the guests. The courtship had been settled; the lady had won.

  “Perhaps I cannot deny it to you,” I agreed. “You will be the mother of my heir.”

  Her teeth showed briefly. “That is your price? A child?”

  “A son. Give me a son, Electra.”

  For only a moment there was careful consideration in her eyes. And then she smiled. “I am, perhaps, too old to bear your children. Did you never think of that?”

  I crushed the flesh and bones of her hand with my own. “Speak not of such nonsense, lady! And I doubt not Tynstar, when he gave you permanent youth, left your childbearing years intact.”

  Dull color stained her cheeks. The dance was done; no longer did she have to follow my lead. And yet we were watched, and dared not divulge our conversation.

  Electra smiled tightly. “As you wish, my lord husband. I will give you the child you want.”

  I thought, then, the celebration went on too long. And yet I could not take her to bed quite yet. Propriety demanded we wait a little while.

  But even a little can be too long.

  Electra looked at me sidelong. I saw the tilt of her head and the speculation in her eyes. She judged me even as I judged her. And then I caught her fingers in mine and raised them to my mouth. “Lady—I salute you,” I murmured against her hand.

  Electra merely smiled.

  I thought, later, the world had changed, even if only a little. Perhaps more than just a little. What had begun in lust and gratification had ended in something more. Not love; hardly love, but a better understanding. The recriminations were gone, replaced with comprehension, yet even as we moved toward that comprehension I knew it would not be easy. We had been enemies too long.

  Electra’s legs were tangled with mine, and much of her hair was caught beneath my shoulder. Her head was upon my arm, using it for a pillow, and we both watched the first pink light of dawn creep through the hangings on the bed.

  We had spent the remainder of the night in consummation of our marriage, having escaped the dancing at last, and neither of us had been surprised to find we were so well-matched. That had been between us from the beginning. But now, awake and aware again of what had happened, we lay in silent contemplation of the life that lay before us.

  “Do you forget?” she asked. “I was Tynstar’s woman.”

  I smiled grimly at the hangings that kept the chill from our flesh. “You share a bed with me now, not Tynstar. It does not matter.”

  “Does it not?” Like me, she smiled, but, I thought, for a different reason.

  I sighed. “Aye, it matters. You know it does, Electra. But it is me you have wed, not him; let us leave him out of our marriage.”

  “I did not think you would admit it.” She shifted closer to me. “I thought you would blame me for everything.”

  I twisted my arm so I could put my fingers in her hair. “Should I?”

  “No,” she said, “lay no blame on me. I had no choice in the matter.” She twisted, pulling free of my arm and sitting up to kneel before me in the dawn. “You cannot know what it is to be a woman; to know yourself a prize meant for the winning side. First Tynstar demanded me—his price for aiding my father. And then you, even you, saying you would wed me when we had lost the war. Do you see? Ever the prize given to the man.”

  “Tynstar’s price?” I frowned as she nodded again. “The cost of Ihlini aid…” I shook my head. “I had not thought of that—”

  “You thought I wanted him?”

  I laughed shortly. “You were quite convincing about it. You ever threw it in my face—”

  “You are the enemy!” She sounded perplexed that I could not understand. “Am I to go so willingly into surrender? Am I to let you think I am yours for the easy taking? Ah Carillon, you are a man, like other men. You think all a woman wants is to be wanted by a man.” She laughed. “There are other things than that—things such as power—”

  I pulled her down again. “Then the war between us is done?”

  The light on her face was gentle. “I want no war in our bed. But do you seek to harm any realm, I will do what I can to gainsay you.”

  I traced the line of her jaw and settled my fingers at her throat. “Such as seeking to slay me again?”

  She stiffened and jerked her head away. “Will you throw that in my face?”

  I caught a handful of hair so she could not turn away. “Zared might have succeeded. Worse yet, he might have slain my sister. Do you expect me to forgive—or forget—that?”

  “Aye, I wanted you slain!” she cried. “You were the enemy! What else could I do? Were I a man, my lord Mujhar, you would not question my intention. Are you not a soldier? Do you not slay? Why should I be different?” Color stood high in her face. “Tell me I was wrong to try to slay t
he man who threatened my father. Tell me you would not have done the same thing had you been in my place. Tell me I should not have used what weapon I had at hand, be it magic or knife or words.” She did not smile, staring intently into my face. “I am not a man and cannot go to war. But I am my father’s daughter. And given the chance, I would do it again…but he is no longer alive. What good would it do? Solinde is yours and you have made me Queen of Homana. Were you to die, Solinde would be no better off. A woman cannot rule there.” A muscle ticked in her jaw. “So I have wed you, my lord, and share your bed, my lord, which is all a woman can do.”

  After a moment I took a deep breath. “There is one more,” I said gently. “You can also bear a son.”

  “A son!” she said bitterly. “A son for Homana, to rule when you are dead. What good does that do Solinde?”

  “Two sons,” I said. “Bear me two, Electra…and the second shall have Solinde.”

  Her long-lidded eyes sought out the lie, except I offered none. “Do you mean it?”

  “Your son shall have Solinde.”

  Her chin thrust upward. “My son,” she whispered, and smiled a smile of triumph.

  I was falling. Another oubliette. But this time a woman caught me and took the fear away.

  “Ja’hai,” I murmured. “Ja’hai, cheysu, Mujhar.”

  Accept this man; this Mujhar…

  But it was not to the gods I said it.

  PART II

  ONE

  I stared at Finn in anguish. “Why will it not be born?”

  He did not smile, but I saw faint amusement in his eyes. “Children come in their own time. You cannot rush them, or they hang back—as this one does.”

  “Two days.” It seemed a lifetime. “How does Electra bear it? I could not—I could not bear a moment of it.”

  “Perhaps that is why the gods gave women instead of men the task of bearing children.” Finn’s tone lacked the dry humor I expected, being more understanding than I had ever heard him. “In the clans, it is no easier. But there we leave it to the gods.”

  “Gods,” I muttered, staring at the heavy wooden door studded with iron nails. “It is not the gods who got this child on her…that took me.”

  “And your manhood proven.” Finn did smile now. “Carillon—Electra will be well enough. She is a strong woman—”

  “Two days,” I repeated. “She might be dying of it.”

  “No,” Finn said, “not Electra. She is far stronger than you think—”

  I cut him off with a motion of my hand. I could not bear to listen. I had found myself remarkably inattentive of late, being somewhat taken up with the birth of my first child. All I could think of was Electra on the other side of the door; Electra in the bed with her women around her and the midwife in attendance, while I waited in the corridor like a lackey.

  “Carillon,” Finn said patiently, “she will bear the child when the child is ready to come.”

  “Alix lost one.” I recalled the anger I had felt when I had learned it from Duncan. The Ihlini attack on the Keep had caused her to lose the child, and Duncan had said it was unlikely she would ever bear another. And I thought again of Electra, realizing how fragile even a strong woman could be. “She is—not as young as she appears. She could die of this.”

  Finn shut his mouth and I saw the lowering of his brows. Like most, Finn forgot Electra was twenty years older than she appeared. My reminding him of it served as vivid notice that she was more than merely woman and wife; she was ensorcelled as well, with a definite link to Tynstar. No more his meijha, perhaps, but she bore the taint—or blessing—of his magic.

  I leaned against the door and let my head thump back upon the wood. “Gods—I would almost rather be in a war than live through this—”

  Finn grimaced. “It is not the same at all—”

  “You cannot say,” I accused. “I sired this child, not you. You cannot even lay claim to a bastard.”

  “No,” he agreed, “I cannot.” For a moment he looked down at Storr sitting so quietly by his side. The wolf’s eyes were slitted and sleepy, as if bored by his surroundings. I wished I could be as calm.

  I shut my eyes. “Why will they not come and tell me it is born?”

  “Because it is not.” Finn put a hand on my arm and pulled me away from the door. “Do you wish it so much, I will speak to her. I will use the third gift on her, and tell her to have the child.”

  I stared at him. “You can do that?”

  “It is no different from any other time I used it.” Finn shrugged. “Compulsion need not always be used for harm—it can exact an obedience that is not so harsh, such as urging a woman to give birth.” He smiled faintly. “I am no midwife, but I think it likely she is afraid. As you say, she is not so young as she looks—she may fear also she will not bear a son.”

  I swore beneath my breath. “Gods grant it is, but I prefer simply to have her safe. Can you do that? Make her bear the child in safety?”

  “I can tell her to do whatever it is women do while giving birth,” he said, with excess gravity, “and I think it likely the child will be born.”

  I frowned. “It sounds barbaric.”

  “Perhaps it is. But babies are born, and women go on bearing them. I think it will not harm her.”

  “Then come. Do not waste time out here.” I hammered on the door. When the woman opened it I ignored her protests and pushed the door open wider. “Come,” I directed Finn, and he came in behind me after a moment’s frowning hesitation.

  A circle of shocked women formed a barricade around the bed in the birthing chamber. Doubtless my presence was bad enough, but Finn was a shapechanger. To their minds we were both anathema.

  I thrust myself through them and knelt down beside her bed. Dark circles underlay her eyes and her hair was damp and tangled. Gone was the magnificent beauty I so admired, but in its place was an ever greater sort. The woman was bearing my child.

  “Electra?”

  Her eyes flew open and another contraction stabbed through the huge belly covered by a silken bedcloth. “Carillon! Oh gods, will you not leave me be? I cannot—”

  I put my hand on her mouth. “Hush, Electra. I am here to ease your travail. Finn will make the baby come.”

  Her eyes, half-crazed by pain, looked past me and saw Finn waiting just inside the doorway. For a moment she only stared, as if not understanding, and then suddenly she opened her mouth and cried out in her Solindish tongue.

  I gestured him close, knowing it was the only way to ease her. And yet she cried out again and tried to push herself away. She was nearly incoherent, but I could see the fear alive in her face.

  “Send him away!” she gasped. A brief grunt escaped her bitten lips. “Carillon—send him away—” Her face twitched. “Oh gods—do as I say—”

  The women were muttering among themselves, closing ranks. I had allowed Electra Solindish women to help her through her lying-in because I knew she had been lonely, surrounded by Homanans, but now I wished they were gone. They oppressed me.

  “Finn,” I appealed, “is there nothing you can do?”

  He came forward slowly, not noticing how the women pulled their skirts away from his passage. I saw hand gestures and muttered invocations; did they think him a demon? Aye, likely. And they Solindish, with their Ihlini sorcerers.

  I saw a strangeness in Finn’s face as he looked on Electra. It was a stricken expression, as if he had suddenly realized the import of the child, or of the woman who bore it, and what it was to sire a child. There was a sudden crackling awareness in him, an awareness of Electra as he had never seen her. I could feel it in him. In nine months I had seen him watching her as she watched him, both with grave, explicit wariness and all defenses raised. But now, as he squatted down beside the bed, I saw an awakening of wonder in his eyes.

  Electra’s pride was gone. He saw the woman instead; not the Ihlini’s meijha, not the haughty Solindish princess, not the Queen of Homana who had wed his liege lord. And I knew,
looking at him, I had made a deadly mistake.

  I thought of sending him away. But he had taken her hand into both of his even as she sought to withdraw, and it was too late to speak a word.

  He was endlessly patient with her, and so gentle I hardly knew him. The Finn of old was gone. And yet, as he looked at her, I had the feeling it was not Electra he saw. Someone else, I thought; the change had been too abrupt.

  “Ja’hai,” he said clearly, and then—as if knowing she could not understand the Old Tongue—he translated each word he spoke. “Ja’hai—accept. Cheysuli i’halla shansu.” He paused. “Shansu, meijhana—peace. May there be Cheysuli peace upon you—”

  “I spit on your peace!” Electra caught her breath as another contraction wracked her.

  Finn had her then. I saw the opaque, detached expression come into his eyes and make them empty, and I knew he sought the magic. I thought again of the vault in the earth and the oubliette that waited, recalling the sensations I had experienced. I nearly shivered with the chill that ran down my spine, raising the hairs on my flesh, for I was more in awe of the magic than ever before. For all the Cheysuli claimed themselves human, I knew now they were not. More; so much, much more.

  Finn twitched. His eyes shut, then opened. I saw his head dip forward as if he slept, then he jerked awake. The blankness deepened in his eyes, and then suddenly I knew something had gone wrong. He was—different. His flesh turned hard as stone and the scar stood up from his flesh. All the color ran out of his face.

  Electra cried out, and so did Finn.

  I heard growling. Storr leaped into the room, threading his way through the women. I heard screaming; I heard crying; I heard Electra’s hissing Solindish invectives. I heard the low growl rising; oh gods, Storr was in the room—

  Finn was white as death with an ashen tinge to his mouth. I put a hand on his arm and felt the rigid, upstanding muscles. He twitched again and began to tremble as if with a seizure; his mouth was slack and open. His tongue was turning dark as it curled back into his throat.