Cheysuli 7 - Flight of the Raven Read online

  Aidan dared to close his fingers. The chain remained solid.

  He laughed softly into the darkness. "Such a sweet, subtle seduction… if I but pick you up—" He suited action to words.

  Links rang softly, chiming one against another.

  Aidan knelt before the Lion. One hand steadied himself. The other held up the chain. It dangled in the dimness, one perfect link clutched in rigid, trembling fingers.

  Jubilation crept closer, hand in hand with apprehension. Aidan stared, waiting. The hair stood up on his arms, tickled the back of his neck. He drew in a tenuous breath, taking care to make no sound. "What now?" he whispered.

  In answer, the link parted. Half of the chain fell, spilling across crimson velvet.

  Oh, gods—oh, no—not AGAIN—

  A blurt of sound escaped him: forlorn, futile protest. Sweat ran down his temples, tracing the line of his jaw. "So," he rasped hoarsely, "you tease me a little more—"

  Intrusion. He heard the scrape of silver on marble; the step of booted feet. Humiliation bathed him. If his father found him like this, or even the Mujhar—

  Aidan set his teeth and turned, still kneeling, still clutching the remaining links against his bare chest. That much he had gotten, he had won… if he showed his father—if he displayed it to the Mujhar, or to anyone who asked—

  Halfway breathed, breath stopped. The man was no one he knew.

  And yet, somehow, he did. He knew that face; had seen that face. The same tawny hair, now silvered. The same blue eyes, but no patch; both eyes were whole. Even the same remarkable physical presence, though this man, Aidan thought, was a trifle taller than the Mujhar. The breadth of shoulder was startling; that, and his expression.

  No, Aidan mouthed. And then, almost laughing: Aye. First Shaine, now—this. Now HIM—

  Transfixed, he stared at the man. At the slow transformation in the features. First a quiet acceptance of his presence in a place not quite expected. Then the realization of what that place, and his presence, meant. Lastly the quiet joy, the subtle recognition of a man returned to his home after too many years—and deaths—away.

  It was not an old face, not as old as the Mujhar's, though the lines were similar. But there was an odd awareness of age, an eerie aura of knowledge far greater than Aidan's own, so well-tutored in heritage. This man was not Cheysuli, but clearly he knew the Great Hall. Clearly he knew the Lion.

  Unlike Shaine in his velvets, he wore plain soldiers' garb: ringmail over leather. Ringmail stained with blood; leather scuffed from usage. On his hand glinted the ring Aidan's grandsire wore.

  Ringmail in place of velvets.

  Aidan stared blankly, recalling Shaine, whose arrogance dominated. This man was as proud, but less of himself than of things that had occurred in a realm once his own.

  Aidan's lips were dry. A different kind of Mujhar—

  The length of the hall, he came. Then stopped before the dais, before the throne, before the prince still kneeling in rigid silence, pale Erinnish flesh stretched nearly to cracking over unmistakable Cheysuli bones.

  "So long," the man whispered. "I thought never to see it again."

  Numbly, Aidan murmured, "This is Homana-Mujhar."

  The other man's jubilant smile was brilliant. "I know where I am. I know who you are. Do you know who I am?"

  Aidan wet dry lips. "I can make a guess."

  The stranger laughed aloud, in eerie exultation. "Then let me save you the trouble: my name is Carillon. That throne once belonged to me." He paused delicately. "And are you kneeling to me, or to your own tahlmorra?"

  Aidan did not move. "Carillon was Homanan. He knew nothing of Tahlmorras."

  Tawny eyebrows rose. "Nothing? Nothing at all? When it was my doing that the Lion Throne of Homana was given back into Cheysuli hands?" Blue eyes were assessive. "Ah, Aidan, have they neglected your history? Or are you merely being perverse?"

  "Homanans have no tahlmorras."

  "Oh, I think they do. I think they simply lack the imagination to accept them." Carillon's voice was kind, pitched to a tone of quiet compassion. "It hurts to kneel on marble. If I were you, I would not."

  Aidan put out a groping hand and caught at the Lion, dragging himself from the dais. He stared at his kinsman. His great-great-grandsire, with no Cheysuli in him.

  I am so tired—so confused—

  He sighed gustily, trying to summon respect for a man dead so many years even though the pragmatic part of him suggested he might be so tired and sore he was merely dreaming the whole thing. "I suppose you have come with a message, much like Shaine. I suppose you are here to talk about this chain, much like Shaine." He held it up; it dangled. "The rest of it is in the throne… I am only worth half of it." He grimaced, shoving away the acknowledgment of pain. "But more than I was before."

  Carillon said nothing.

  Aidan looked down at his kinsman, taller than Carillon only because of the dais. He lacked the height of his father or the Mujhar, certainly that of the man—or fetch—he faced now. "Shaine mouthed nonsense. Have you come to do the same?"

  Now Carillon smiled. "I did not come: I was brought. By you, whether or not you know it. There is a certain need…" But he did not finish. "As for Shaine, he often mouthed nonsense. My uncle—my su'fali, as you might say—was a hard man to know, and a harder man to like. Respect, honor, even admire, aye—"

  "Admire!" Aidan's astonishment echoed. "The ku'reshtin began the qu'mahlin! He nearly extinguished my race!"

  Some of the fire dimmed in old/ageless blue eyes. "Aye, he did that. But I was speaking of the man before the madness. The man who was Mujhar, was Homana, before the fool who began a purge." Carillon sighed. Wan light glinted on ringmail. "He was a man of great loves and stronger hatreds. I will excuse him for neither; I did not understand him, save to serve him as an heir. And, as you know, even that was never intended; I was not raised to be Mujhar."

  "No," Aidan agreed, giving up the last vestige of disbelief. It seemed he was meant to have discourse with all manner of men and gods.

  "I was raised to be a soldier, and to inherit my father's title. Never my uncle's—that only became my place when Lindir ran away with Hale, and Shaine got no other heirs." Carillon glanced down at a lifted hand: blood-red ruby glowed. "So, I was made heir to Homana… and heir to travesty—" Abruptly he broke it off, smiling ruefully. "But you know all of this… I will bore you with old stories." Now the smile was twisted. "Finn would say it is my habit, to prate about history."

  "Finn," Aidan echoed. "Could he come here? Could I summon him, if what you say is true?" He paused. "Finn—and Hale?"

  After a momentary stillness, Carillon shook his head. "They were never Mujhars."

  "Mujhars," Aidan murmured. He looked at the chain in his hand. Realization was swift. "Mujhars—and links. Is that what this is about? Is that what the dreams are for?" He held out the portion to Carillon. His voice shook, even as his hand. "Is that it, my lord? Each of those links—"

  "—is a man." Carillon's voice was steady. "A man caught up in the game of the gods. But you should know that, Aidan. You should know very well."

  I know nothing at all… Aidan strung out the chain, touching individual links. "You. Donal. Niall. Here: my jehan." The chain ended abruptly.

  Suspicion blossomed painfully. So did fear.

  White-faced, Aidan swallowed. Looked at the Lion. Reached down and picked up the two halves of the broken link. They chimed in his hand. "And Aidan?" he asked softly, looking back at Carillon.

  His kinsman's gaze did not waver. "You know what you know. Now you must deal with other things: acknowledgment and acceptance. Knowing is not enough."

  Bitterness rose; engulfed. "I have been very well-tutored. Do you truly think I would not acknowledge nor accept? Do you think I could not?"

  Now Carillon's eyes were bleak. "We have each of us, in your birthline, done things we did not desire. Become what we did not want. We each of us chose our road, always cognizant of the choice…
but none of it was easy. The gods gave us free will. Regardless of tutoring, refusal is always an alternative. The gods do not strike us dead, unless our time is done."

  The response was automatic: "If we say no to our tahlmorras, the afterworld is denied us."

  Carillion's tone was steady. "That is a choice, too. Teirnan made it; will you?"

  Aidan met the eyes of a dead Mujhar, only dimly surprised he could. Such miracles, now, were expected; they had, each of them, beaten belief into him. "I have to be what I am."

  Slowly, Carillon smiled. "Then the gods will be satisfied."

  In Aidan's hand, gold melted. At last he opened fingers. The chain flowed out of his hands and into nothingness.

  He looked up to ask Carillon why. He found himself alone.

  Chapter Seven

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  Aileen slammed down her goblet. Cider splashed over the rim. "Not so soon!" she cried, astonishing them all. "I'll not be letting you do it!"

  It stilled the room instantly. Servants with trays of food and pitchers of cider stopped dead in their tracks, staring at their angry princess, then cast furtive glances at one another to see what should or should not be done.

  The outburst came in the midst of the midday meal. It had, heretofore, been an entirely normal gathering uneventful in the extreme. The Mujhar and all his family—excepting the absent Aidan—were halfway through the meal.

  Now it appeared one of them would not finish. Or possibly two of them; it was at Brennan she had shouted.

  The Prince of Homana, frozen in the act of lifting his own goblet to his mouth, also stared at Aileen. His astonishment rivaled that of the servants who, upon a subtle signal from Deirdre, melted out of the room. Food and drink could wait until the storm had blown over.

  Brennan, thawing at last, quietly put down his goblet. He did not spill his cider. "I only meant—"

  "I know what you meant!" Aileen's green eyes blazed. "D'ye think I'll sit here all mealy-mouthed and listen to such drivel?"

  Brennan's face tightened. "What 'drivel' do you mean? I was discussing our son's future."

  "Discussing his marriage, ye skilfin!" Aileen flattened her hands on the table and leaned down on braced arms. "I'll not allow it so soon. The boy deserves some time."

  "The 'boy,' as you call him, is twenty-three years old." Brennan very carefully did not look in Ian's direction.

  "Twenty-three years young," Aileen snapped. "The House of Homana is long-lived—he'll be having time for marriage. Let him have time for himself."

  Now Brennan did cast a sharp glance around the table. He saw three carefully neutral expressions, which did not particularly please him. He had expected support—except from Ian; clearly, they offered none. "Jehan," he appealed.

  Niall lifted both hands in a gesture of abdication. "I married off four of my five children. This is for you to do."

  Inwardly Brennan sighed. He looked again at Aileen. "This can be discussed another time—"

  "You brought it up," she charged. "Oh, Brennan, d'ye not know what you're doing? Can ye not see what might happen? D'ye want him to be like us?"

  Brennan lost his temper. "By all the gods, I love you! I have never kept it a secret!"

  The admission was not precisely what any of them had anticipated, least of all Aileen. She had expected a different issue.

  White-faced, she glanced at the tactfully averted faces of the Mujhar, his meijha, his rujholli. Only Brennan looked at her; no, he glared at her, with an angry, defiant expression. It belied the words he had shouted.

  "Not now," she said weakly, turning toward the door. "Not now; not here—"

  Brennan rounded the table and met her at the door, jerking it open. "Now," he said grimly. "But I will agree with the 'not here.' Shall we retire to our apartments and discuss this issue in private?"

  Color set her afire. What she thought was obvious.

  Brennan grasped her arm and steered her out of the room, lowering his tone. "That is not what I meant. I meant to discuss it; nothing less, nothing more. You know very well I would never shame you that way in front of kin and servants—that is not my way…"

  Aileen was not placated. "You are a fool!" she snapped, gathering heavy skirts as he pushed her up the stairs. "You see only whatever it is you want to see, being blind to people's feelings."

  "I am not being blind to anyone or anything," he retorted, ascending rapidly to keep up with his angry wife. "What I am is being careful."

  "What you are is being a skilfin, as always. You've lost whatever sense—and diplomacy—you might once have had."

  "Oh? I have never believed thinking about the future of one's realm—"

  " 'Tisn't your realm yet—here, will this do?" Aileen shoved open a door and watched it slam against the wall. "Is this sufficiently private?"

  Brennan advanced through the doorway. "It was a topic of discussion. It was not a royal decree. I was merely suggesting it might be time we thought of Aidan's future."

  "Aidan's future is Aidan's future. Let it remain so, Brennan." Aileen swung to face the doorway. "Give the boy—" She stopped. "Oh," she said weakly. "Have you heard everything?"

  Brennan turned abruptly. Their son stood in the corridor.

  "Enough," Aidan said calmly, folding hands behind his back.

  Brennan frowned. "When did you come home?"

  "Last night. Late." Aidan's crooked smile was private. "There was something I had to do… something to be resolved."

  "And was it?" Aileen asked.

  The smile became a scowl. "Not entirely," he muttered, then flicked dismissive fingers as he altered tone and topic. "Am I to be married, then?"

  Brennan swung back jerkily and walked directly across the chamber. It was a small room, no more; a nook for private withdrawal. Not unlike Deirdre's solar, though lacking amenities. It was little more than a cell, or an awkward, forgotten corner.

  A bench was against the wall. Brennan sat down on it. "Your jehana and I were discussing it."

  Aidan arched one eyebrow. "It was a loud—discussion. The servants were talking about it."

  Aileen's face flamed. "Your father is being a fool."

  Brennan sounded tired. "At least I know that word. You have never translated skilfin."

  She had the grace to look abashed. " 'Tis n't a polite term."

  "I had gathered that." Brennan looked at his son. Aidan did not, he thought, appear particularly disturbed by the topic. He was, as usual, keeping himself detached from the emotions he and Aileen battled, as if he feared to share them. "Well? Will you come in and give us your opinion? It is your future, as the Princess of Homana has taken great—and loud—pains to point out."

  Aidan smiled lopsidedly. He came through the doorway, lingered idly a moment near his mother, then drifted farther into the chamber. Brennan thought his expression odd. There was distance in his eyes; and an eerie otherwhereness that Brennan found unsettling.

  "Come back," Brennan snapped impatiently. "You had best attend this."

  Aidan glanced sidelong at his father. "I fell off my horse," he said inconsequentially. Then, smiling wryly, "No—I was swept off. It does somewhat make a difference."

  Aileen made a sound and moved as if to go to him, but a lifted hand kept her back. She contented herself with a question. "Are ye hurt, then? I thought it was dirt; 'tis a bruise, then, there on the side of your face."

  Aidan briefly touched a cheekbone. "A bruise, aye—so it should be." Then, as if shaking himself, he looked more clearly at his father. "Do you want me married, then?"

  There was only the slightest hint of Erinn in the inflection. It made Brennan smile; his son sounded, on occasion, very like his mother. "I want you content, though undoubtedly your jehana will not agree that I would consider your feelings."

  " 'Tisn't sounding like it," she muttered.

  Brennan cleared his throat. "I want you content, Aidan. I want you settled. I want you less disturbed by whatever it is that disturbs you."

  Ai
dan laughed. "And marriage is the answer? With yours as the example?"

  Brennan nearly gaped. The question had been so blatant—and so keenly on the mark. As if he reads my thoughts…

  Aileen's face flamed red. "D'ye not care?" she demanded. "He'd have you wedded and bedded before nightfall, if he could—and all for the Lion, he says."

  "Well, perhaps it is." Aidan went over to the bench occupied by his father and sat down at the other end. He looked tired, worn through, clearly thinking of something else. "I have no objection."

  The negligent tone and manner set Aileen's eyes to blazing again. "No objection, have you? To being pushed this way and that? For being made to take a wife?"

  Aidan scowled briefly, then wiped it away instantly. His tone, usually circumspect and polite, was pitched to cut through them both, as if he knew just where to aim. "I am not you, jehana. I am not and never have been in love with the wrong person. Nor am I my jehan, so badly hurt by an Ihlini witch's meddling." He cast a glance at Brennan, mouth twisted, as if to ask his pardon for speaking of private things. "I am not in love at all, so it really makes no difference."

  His parents, stunned, stared. Aileen roused first. "It should!" she snapped. "The woman you'll be taking will share your bed for the rest of your life. D'ye think that makes no difference?"

  Aidan sighed wearily, murmuring beneath his breath. Then, more clearly, "After the events of four days ago—when I got this bruise—I think debating the merits of marriage is the least of my concerns." He slumped against the wall and yawned, then straightened as if the position hurt. Indifferently, he asked, "Have you a woman in mind?"

  Aileen stared at her son. Dark red hair tumbled into his face, until he flung it out of his eyes like a horse tossing his mane. It was, as usual, badly in need of cutting; he was lazy about such things. Thick lashes screened his eyes, but that did not disturb her. His eyes were like his father's; she could not read his, either. Aidan was a trifle paler than usual, and the bluish bruise was temporarily disfiguring, and he acted as if his ribs hurt; all that aside, he seemed perfectly normal, she thought—except for a sharper, more pronounced detachment that was, even when weighed against Aidan's customary feyness, something out of the ordinary.