Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05

by A Pride of Princes (v1. 0)

  "Do you want her?" Jarek demanded bluntly, forgoing anything approaching diplomacy or respect for a title; now they were merely men. "Do you intend to take her?"

  Brennan sighed. "She named you a good man, Jarek. She named you a fair man. I am not disposed to argue it—she sounded quite convinced—but I am disposed to say you are a fool." He took the jug from Jarek's rigid hands and poured his mug full. "I am not in the habit of taking women from other men. Particularly if they are content where they are."

  Jarek did not look away as Brennan drank. "You could offer her much more. And she is deserving of it."

  Brennan drained half the mug, then set it down. "Every man and woman has a tahlmorra, Cheysuli and Homanan alike. If the gods intend better for her, she will have it. Otherwise, it will be none of my doing."

  "She is—-special." Jarek's tone was desperate. "My lord, I have no wish to lose her, not to any man . . . but I want what is best for her."

  "It does you credit," Brennan told him after a moment, "But have you never thought that what is best for her may be the man she has?"

  "It is your ring she wears around her neck."

  "And your bed she warms." Brennan sat forward on the bench, resting forearms on the table. "If she wanted me in place of you, there are ways she could make it known. Ways she could make it happen." He shrugged. "She need only come to the palace and ask to see me on some pretext; I would receive her. Women have done it before. They do it every day." He held Jarek's eyes with his own. "When a man has wealth, power, rank, title—any or all—there are women who want to share it, even if for only a week, a night, an hour. They barter with their bodies in Hopes of gaining favors. In hopes of gaining wealth. And some even dream of permanency."

  He poured more wine. "I am not celibate. I enjoy the courtship dance as much as any man. But neither am I a stud who likes the mares to force themselves upon him."

  "Rhiannon—has not." Jarek's tone was harsh, strained.

  "No. Do you think she ever would?"

  Jarek looked away. "No. No. She is not a woman for that." He sighed heavily. "But—"

  "Tend your custom, Jarek," Brennan said deliberately.

  "Rhiannon has need of you.”

  "And you?" Jarek asked.

  He smiled. “I only have need of my lir."

  Four

  The food was excellent, the wine even better. Now, sated, content, drowsy, Brennan watched Rhiannon move smoothly around the common room tending Jarek's custom, and reflected that except for poor quality clothing and a certain naive innocence in her manner, the young woman could easily pass for one of Deirdre's ladies. She was well-spoken for an uneducated commoner and her courtesy was boundless, even with those men who chose to make sport of her or those who attempted to arrange a tryst. Certainly she is lovely enough to grace Homana-Mujhar— Abruptly he caught himself. He had pointedly told Jarek the Prince of Homana had no intentions of elevating Rhiannon out of her present circumstances, and here he was considering what it would be tike. But he could not deny that he was attracted to her; for all Rhiannon's quiet, demure demeanor, he sensed she was also a passionate woman.

  Who are you to contemplate bedding the girl when your Erinnish bride will soon be on her way? Sleeta asked, casually deliberate.

  He sighed. Who am I, indeed? Hypocrite, I think. Or merely befuddled by too much wine. Brennan scrubbed his brow. We should go home, Sleeta—there are questions I have for Maeve.

  He pushed himself up from the bench, recalled Jarek's solution to compensation for Rhiannon's tardiness, dug into his belt-purse and set a gold royal on the hardwood, knowing it worth considerably more than a week's lodging and full meals.

  Generous, Sleeta commented, rising to stretch all her elegant lean length in the glow of candlelight.

  Worth it— He smiled as Rhiannon came to halt before him. "Jarek serves excellent wine and victuals, meijhana. And you provide most attractive table service."

  "Oh, my lord—are you going so soon?" Color sprang up in her face, as if she felt her question too personal, or too revealing.

  "I must," he told her, "but I will come again." If my jehan allows me to, he reflected wryly. Slim fingers grasped the sapphire ring on the thong around her throat as her eyes locked on his, and understood what she saw there. "I—I am Jarek's woman, my lord—" She broke off, then went on, as if determined to make things very clear. "You—do understand. . . ."

  "I understand." He smoothed a strand of loosened hair away from her cheek, slipping it gently behind an ear naked of adornment. "Let us be friends, then, meijhana ... if you will allow it."

  "Allow it!” Rhiannon's laugh was half-swallowed. "Oh, my lord—whoever would deny you friendship?"

  Brennan's smile was mocking. "My cousin," he told her wryly. "And I am assured there are others, as well."

  He looked past her to Jarek, watching them from beside the curtain divider. His face was a mask, but Brennan saw something in the eyes that spoke of many things a desperate man might know. "Tell Jarek I am not without honor," Brennan said. "Tell him I respect what others hold dear."

  "Aye." Rhiannon nodded. "The gods go with you, my lord."

  "Cheysuli i'halla shansu," he returned, smiling at her confusion. "A wish for Cheysuli peace."

  Rhiannon nodded again, then abruptly turned away.

  Brennan walked out of The Rampant lion.

  He was but a street away from the gates of the palace when Sleeta growled a warning. Within the fir-link it was incoherent, more cat- than lir-like, as if the threat were something she might know in the world, and not a thing of men and women.

  Brennan spun in place, hand to knife, and saw the cat crouch and hackle, ears flattened against her head. The growl issuing from her throat was a sound he had never heard from her, and it set the back of his neck to prickling.

  Sleeta—

  Lir— That much was coherent. Lir—lir-

  All he could think of were Ihlini.

  "Sleeta—?" He backed up, pressed his spine against the nearest wall, tried to slow his racing heart. He thought of shouting—the watch could be just around the comer, and the Mujharan Guard was one twisting street over—but did not. It would have been lost in Sleeta's unnerving scream.

  Dogs! It overwhelmed the link and flooded his senses with Sleeta's rage and fear. Dogs—dogs—men—

  "Sleeta!" Her consuming emotions—visceral, primitive, little more than instinctive responses and reactions—nearly destroyed his own precarious balance. And he was in human form; if he assumed lir-shape he was almost certain to be overcome by Sleeta herself as well as the threat she sensed. Lir, lir— within the link, in hopes of reaching her—lir, what is it? Where?

  The hounds—the hounds—

  —and suddenly the hounds were on her. Jaws agape ... he could not count them all ... grayish shapes in the darkness, legs and teeth and claws . . . baying, baying . . . biting . . . trying to take her down, trying to tear her throat—

  "Now," commanded a voice. "Now, while he is distracted."

  —and Brennan knew then they wanted him, not Sleeta, not Sleeta at all, except as a means to distract him, to turn his attention from them, who meant to catch him, hold him, rob him—

  Or do they mean to slay me?

  And all the while the hounds barked and growled and Sleeta screamed her anger and fear and hatred.

  He tried to turn. He tried to defend himself. But his reflexes were curiously slowed. Only limply did his fingers clasp the knife hilt, offering no defense. Vision blurred. He cursed and thought to summon fir-shape regardless of Sleeta's straits, but hands fell on his arms, his wrists, his throat—fingers threaded themselves in his hair and knotted there—so much weight, so much power, all thrust against him, pressing him back against the wall.

  "Sleeta—!" But hands closed his mouth, mashing lips against teeth.

  —Sleeta—But he knew he could not touch her, could not reach her, not with all the hounds—

  —failing: Sleeta—

  "S
trike him down," someone ordered. "One cat is threat enough; do you wish to contend with two?"

  And he thought: I know that voice—

  But the voice said nothing more. And if it had, he could not have heard it. With a club, they struck him down.

  He did not know where he was. For one horrible moment, he did not know who he was; and then he knew, and recalled the attack, and realized he had not been robbed at all, or beaten, or slain. Instead, he had been taken.

  Sleeta—?

  He tried to move. Iron rattled. Darkness pressed down against his eyelids, blinding him entirely. There was no sound save his ragged breathing, and the scrape of his bootheels against the floor as his leg muscles bunched in panic.

  Sleeta—?

  But there was nothing within the link; no answer, no stirring within the pattern he knew as Sleeta.

  Oh, gods—lir—

  Nothing.

  He lay flat on his back. The stone beneath him was cold, hard, unyielding. The stone around him was equally so; he was inside, then, not out. He could tell by the closeness that weighed him down, the faint echo of the iron as it chimed. Cuffed at wrists and ankles, all he could do was stare blindly at what he might name a roof, had he the light to see it.

  "Sleeeetaaa—" The word was a sibilant hiss in a tone akin to panic.

  There was nothing in return. No sound. No stirring in the lir-link.

  Panic took his wits. He surged upward against the iron, trying to break cuffs and chain; fell back again when he thought his head might burst. Pain threatened to blind him, except he was blind already. His belly cramped, tried to spew out all the food and wine he had consumed at The Rampant Lion; would have, had he not clamped throat and teeth against it.

  "Lion . . ." The gasp whispered in the darkness, running along the stone.

  Jarek. His voice had given the order. Had he been so insanely jealous as to order his rival imprisoned?

  Brennan bit back a groan. The blow had split open the flesh of his forehead and nearly cracked his skull. Even thinking of movement made his belly squirm.

  Sleeta?

  Again, the appeal went unanswered.

  Oh, gods—not my lir . . . oh, gods, I beg you, let her be alive. . . . And he realized, to his surprise, the petition was born not of fear for his own death, but because he could not comprehend what the world would be like without Sleeta. She deserved to survive, even if he could not.

  No light. Only darkness, and stone, and the weight of an unknown future.

  Blood rolled into one eye, the right; his spasmodic lunge against iron had opened the wound again.

  Spare my lir, he begged—

  —and slipped again into nothingness.

  He awakened shouting. The words he did not know, being little more than gibberish; he shouted, he shouted, and the sounds bounced back from the stone and beat against his ears.

  He stank of his own sweat. And he knew the smell.

  The stench filled up his nose and he knew it, he knew it, recalling how once before he had been trapped, trapped and completely terrified, so utterly terrified he had screamed and cried and soiled himself, beating boy's hands against naked walls—

  —the lir. All the lir, with beaks agape and claws unsheathed, all of them, beating wings against the air, against his head, his face, his eyes—all of them trying to throw him into the oubliette, the Womb of the Earth—to throw him down and down and down, until he died of fear alone, because everyone knew there was no bottom—

  Gods, he was afraid.

  —lir and lir and lir, shrouded in shadow, cloaked in secrecy—he heard them . . . he knew they were there, each and every one of them, speaking to one another, telling one another he was not fit to be the Mujhar's son because he was afraid, and Cheysuli feared nothing-Bat this Cheysuli did.

  —so afraid, as the walls closed in. So AFRAID—

  The memory washed up from the blackest depths of Brennan's inner self, battering at his awareness until it broke through to crash upon the cliffs of consciousness, and he remembered it all. Once, and once only, he had been enclosed as he was now, against his will, made helpless. There had been no iron, no purposeful imprisonment, but the result had been the same. The fear had been the same.

  Then, there had been no lir; he was just a boy. Now, there was no lir; Sleeta could not be found.

  He caught his breath on something very much like a sob. With no light, no world, no freedom, no lir, he would surely go mad.

  —so much weight-

  Sleeta stood up in ridges, twisting beneath his flesh.

  Again and again he jerked limbs against the iron, until his wrists ran wet with blood.

  —out—out—OUT—

  "Sleeta—!" he shouted, and the sound came back to engulf him. To swallow him whole again.

  Later, when he came back to himself: "—afraid." The voice was smooth as clover honey, but honestly surprised. "Look at him, Rhiannon!"

  Brennan did not move, did not speak, did not open his eyes to look. He lay in absolute stillness, tensed and rigid, in iron manacles and blood, and thought himself gone quite mad,

  It could not possibly be Rhiannon—

  "You struck him too hard," she said.

  Let it not be Rhiannon— And yet he knew it was.

  "It needed doing," Jarek answered. "But that has nothing to do with this. He is terrified."

  "Too hard," Rhiannon repeated. "You have knocked him out of his head."

  —oh, gods, no—

  Jarek's tone was thoughtful. “I have heard of it before, once or twice ... a fear of being enclosed. But—in a Cheysuli warrior?"

  "They are as human as the next man," she said sharply. "Do you think him a sorcerer? He is just a man."

  "Shapechanger, Rhiannon. And—as the zealots would have it—pretender to the throne."

  Rhiannon did not answer.

  Lir—? he asked; he begged.

  "He will be fit enough for the sacrifice," Jarek said. "Whether he is in his head or no, the gods will not care. Give them blood: they are content."

  Brennan struggled to understand. Pretender to the throne?

  "And you?" she asked. "Will you be content to know you have slain the Prince of Homana?"

  "If it serves," Jarek answered, "and it will. Oh, it will."

  "There are two other sons. The Mujhar is rich in sons."

  Thinking: I have been a fool—the woman has made me a fool—

  Jarek: "And poor when all are slain." Movement. The clink of iron links as Jarek tested the bonds. "Not so soft a bed, is it? Cold, hard stone . . . iron for the bedclothes . . ." He laughed. "What was it he called you?—meijhana? Perhaps a bedding name ... a sweet Cheysuli love-name."

  "It means 'lovely one,’ " Rhiannon said; then, laughing: "Do you know none of their Old Tongue? You, Jarek, who claim to know them so well? Even I know a little."

  And I know less than nothing— Within the link, Brennan sent again to Sleeta. Lir—lir—where are you?

  But nothing answered him.

  "Go, Rhiannon. There are things to be said that do not require your presence."

  "No?" Her tone was bitter. "Are you done with me, then, now that I have served your cause?"

  "We may find use for you again," he said smoothly. "Now go."

  "He is in pain, Jarek. You struck him too hard."

  "By this time tomorrow, he will never know pain again. Now, go." Movement. The susurration of cloth; bodies moving. And then Jarek spoke again. "Well, my lord prince, do you intend to pretend senselessness forever? Have you no questions to ask?"

  Brennan opened his eyes. A dish of oil with a twist of wick filled his prison with smoky light. He saw squat stone walls, very low, and a half-doorway barely large enough to admit a man hunched over, with runes carved around the opening. He had seen a similar place once before, much younger, when the shar tahl had carefully tutored the Mujhar's sons in clan history. He frowned, then banished it at once as the expression pulled at the wound in his hairline.

>   And then he knew. A cell. The sort of cell a priest inhabited, not prisoner. But the runes around the low door were Old Tongue, not Humanan; this place, then, was of the Firstborn, and very old. Now freely profaned by Homanan zealots.

  Questions, Jarek had said. Oh, aye, he had one: "Why?"

  Jarek nodded. "A good beginning, my lord." He shifted his position, moving from a squat into a kneeling posture, and Brennan saw past him to the doorway. Seated just outside was a Homanan, clearly on guard even with Jarek present. They took no chances. "There are many answers. One is that Cheysuli are demons and must be returned through death to the netherworld of Asar-Suti, from whence they issued." He smiled as his overdramatized voice echoed faintly. "Another is that the old gods of Homana have turned their eyes from us, requiring blood sacrifice to restore their favor." Jarek's grunt of laughter mocked the statement. "And yet a third requires the—reduction-—of those now close to the throne, to make way for the rightful ruler." He glanced briefly toward the guard.

  Brennan's head pounded. But for the moment astonishment kept the fear of enclosure at bay. "Have you gone mad? I can refute each of those ridiculous reasons!"

  "Can you? The first two, perhaps—I no more believe you are a demon than I am myself, and the old gods perished long ago—but I do subscribe to the final reason for your assassination, my lord." The guttering flames from the oil lamp scribed shadows in Jarek's face. "I personally have nothing against your race. Cheysuli have as much right to live in this land as Homanans do, but—"

  "Then why—'

  "Why?" Jarek's tone was intent. "Because through a miscarriage of a twisted prophecy and the blind acquiescence of Homanans overcome by Carillon's legend, Cheysuli now hold the Lion Throne. And that, my lord Prince of Homana, is why you—and others of your kin—must die."

  Brennan stared at him. "You have gone mad!"

  "No," Jarek's demeanor remained unruffled. "There is a man in the world much better suited to rule Homana than your father."

  "I have gone mad," Brennan muttered in disbelief. "This is nothing but a nightmare—"

  Jarek merely smiled. His expression was oddly bland, as if he enjoyed giving nothing away except what he chose, and for specific reasons.