Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05

by A Pride of Princes (v1. 0)

  And suddenly, with ice-cold clarity, Brennan recalled his cousin. "You are Cheysuli—?" It was question, statement and accusation all at once.

  Jarek's brows jerked upward; something flickered briefly in pate eyes, then disappeared. He laughed. "Do I look Cheysuli, my lord?"

  In the distorted shadows, his face was alien, full of planes and hollows. He was black-haired but brown-eyed, a pale ale brown; in poor light, around the rims, almost a yellow-gold. And though his skintones lacked the sun-bronzing characteristic of most Cheysuli, so did Corin and Keely.

  "Cheysuli," Brennan said, shivering once in shock, "and in league with Teirnan, with the a'saii—" He looked at the man waiting just outside the low door. "You use the Homanan zealots to mislead any who might work against you, who might suspect what you are doing. . . ."

  Iron chimed. "Everyone knows the story of Elek's murder—how he supposedly died by the hand of the Prince of Homana . . . and you use it. You use it and other lies to twist the trust, to twist the prophecy—you use the Homanan zealots to throw down the rightful House and replace it with your own."

  "Do we?" Jarek shrugged. "No, my lord. I am in league only with those who believe Carillon bequeathed us a better living legacy than the one who now holds the Lion."

  "Living legacy—" Brennan went very still. "Then if you are not Cheysuli, and you are not a'saii—" He stopped. "You mean Carillon's bastard son!"

  "Carollan," Jarek affirmed. "Son of the last Homanan Mujhar, and dispossessed king."

  "Dispossessed! He was never acknowledged—and even if he had been, he could not rule. He is deaf and dumb, Jarek!"

  "That does not alter the fact he bears the proper blood. It does not alter the fact that he can sire sons who are not deaf and dumb."

  Brennan rolled his head against the hard stone beneath his head. "This is madness, madness . . . this was settled twenty years ago, when my father and Caro met. There is no ambition in him. There is no desire for anything more than a peaceful life. And he has it, with Taliesin ... do you mean to tear him away from it? To force the Lion on him, even if he does not desire it?"

  Jarek's face and manner were not those of a madman, nor a zealot. He was quietly, wholeheartedly dedicated to his cause, lacking the fanaticism that might tip him into madness. He was utterly committed. Brennan saw in him the same quiet fire that burned in Teirnan, and wondered again if he was being purposely misled.

  Jarek glanced over his shoulder at the Homanan guard, then turned back and wet his lips. "Twenty years ago my father was murdered by yours, my lord. Within the halls of Homana-Mujhar, before Cheysuli Council, Niall struck down my father to keep him from overturning the Cheysuli claim to kingship. For that cause, my father died. I swore an oath to carry out his commitment, and I mean to do it. No matter what the cost."

  "Elek was sacrificed by his own people," Brennan said wearily. "My jehan held the knife, it is true, but only because in the crush of fighting someone put one into his hand and then forced him to stab Elek, It was carefully planned that way to implicate my jehan."

  "I would expect Niatl's son to say nothing else." Jarek smiled faintly. "It is old history, my lord, but history is a living thing, bequeathing life and knowledge to others, and the fuel to carry out ambitions and commitments. Time grows short—Carollan ages, and with each passing day Homanans forget the Lion belongs to them, not to the Cheysuli . . . not to Niall, nor to you, nor to the children you might sire upon your Erinnish queen." The light flickered, nearly died. "It is our tahlmorra to wash the Lion clean of Cheysuli claim, and give it to Homanans once again."

  "Tahlmorra—" Brennan could not summon the means to spit. "If you do this—if you do this to me or to anyone else—the gods will turn their eyes from you!"

  "Then all the better we appease them with blood sacrifice." Jarek picked up the dish of oil and told the other man to go.

  Brennan tensed in his shackles. "You cannot simply slay me out of hand ... in war, aye, but like this? In the name of Carollan?"

  "But we can." The light was stark on Jarek's face. "You questioned if I could be Cheysuli, working with—a'saii?" He nodded, went on. "Perhaps this will convince you otherwise. For a six-month, now, we have been catching and slaying Cheysuli—not warriors, unless we are forced, because too many lir deaths would be remarked by other lir—but women and children. It is necessary." He bent closer, lowering his voice. "Now we reach higher, touching the royal family itself, to show no one is invulnerable. That even the highest can be overtaken." He paused. "Left to me, alone, I would devise another means. Death is death, but there should be dignity involved. Sacrifice is barbaric . . . but also useful. For those who thrive on such things, it serves to keep the fire burning. And we do need a fire, my lord—bright and hot and clean—if we are to bum the Cheysuli infection from the wound you have made in Homana."

  "Jarek—"

  But Jarek was gone, and he took the lamp with him.

  Five

  Eventually, Rhiannon came. She set the place alight with a single candle and knelt by him in shadows. Her palm was cool on his brow. Gently she parted sweat-stiff hair, pushed it back to bare the wound.

  He jerked away from her.

  She drew in a startled breath, twitching in shock.

  Abruptly she twisted to look over her shoulder toward the low entrance, as if she feared discovery.

  Did she think he did not know?

  He wanted to say: leave me alone, but he could not find the words. Thinking: if I cannot be free of the place I am imprisoned, let someone share it with me.

  "Oh, my lord . . ." Her black eyes were blacker still in the shadows of his prison. "My lord—“

  He cut her off. "Where is my lir? What have they done with my lir?"

  "They have put her elsewhere. My lord—"

  "Is she alive?"

  "Aye. Of course." A smudge of dirt marred her face.

  "They want you whole. For the sacrifice. They will not slay her before the proper time."

  He bared his teeth. "I cannot touch her. There is no Sleeta in the link!"

  The flame danced, guttered, nearly went out; Rhiannon's hand was trembling. "I swear, she is alive. I swear it, my lord. Confined, as you are, but well enough."

  "I cannot touch her!"

  "Perhaps it is the drug." Plaited hair hung over her shoulders, braided ropes of glossy hair, threaded with crimson ribbon. "The wine—Jarek's wine, the second jug—it was drugged, my lord. To dull your Cheysuli magic."

  The candlelight was kind to her face. Black hair, fair skin, long-lashed eloquent eyes— Inwardly, the fear and fury rose. "By the gods, woman, you tricked me! You sucked me into this madness of Jarek's making."

  "No! Oh, no, I swear . . ." Tears welled up into her eyes. "I knew noth—"

  Brennan's mocking laughter cut her off. "Oh, aye, give me tears! No, no, woman, not again ... I will not succumb to your posturing of innocence yet again."

  "My lord—"

  "I heard you," he accused. "You and Jarek, discussing my health and welfare, and the plans for my demise. Do you think I am a twice-born fool?" Iron chimed as he fisted grimy hands. "Go, woman. Hie yourself back to the man who is so kind, so generous, so—"

  "Listen to me!" Her desperate hiss set the candleflame aguttering and cast distorted shapes upon the curving wall behind her. "Listen to me, my lord, when I deny knowledge of Jarek's plans . . . when I deny willing participation—"

  "Oh, aye, you knew nothing," He writhed in his chains and knew again the helpless fear of a man entombed. "Oh, Rhiannon, I commend you; you played your part so well. I fell into the trap like a green boy sick for love of his first woman—"

  "What do you want me to say?" she demanded. "Shall I swear by your gods? By the Mujhar? By this?" Light caught the sapphire ring dangling from its thong and set the gemstone aglow. "Then I will swear by you, my lord prince—by Brennan of Homana, firstborn of the Mujhar's sons, and destined one day to sit upon the Lion Throne."

  "So glib," he retorted.
"You spew out titles and destinies like a shar tahl, woman, but I will not be suborned by you again."

  Rhiannon briefly bared small white teeth in a feral display of frustration. "You fool—I came here to give you what aid I can, and you spend your strength on insults!"

  Brennan's laugh was a short bark of sound. "Fool, am I? No more 'my lord' this, 'my lord' that, now that the truth is out."

  "At the moment, my lord, there is little in your state to recommend your heritage or your divinity!"

  "Divinity . . ." This time the laugh was genuine. "Aye, not much of a man in this malodorous shell, is there?"

  "I came to help," she said curtly. "Tell me what you would have me do."

  He rattled his chains. "Set me free, Rhiannon. Prove you are innocent of my accusations." Thinking: What lie will you tell me now?

  "Jarek has the key."

  He wanted to strike the innocence from her face. "Are you not his whore, then? Have you no bed skill, that you cannot tease the key from him? Better yet, steal it!"

  Color flamed in her face to rival the candlelight.

  "Jarek—is my first man," she said stiffly, with an odd integrity. "It has only been but a month . . . teasing is—not something I do very well." Her knuckles were white on the smoking candle.

  He wanted to shout at her, to shake her, to force the truth from her. And yet, against all odds he believed her.

  "And if you do not try to tease, cajole, steal, Jarek will have me slain." He saw how her chin trembled convulsively. More quietly, he said: "Do you want that knowledge to compete with the memory of the ring I gave you?"

  One hand closed over the ring and clenched it so hard the sinews stood up beneath the flesh. "If I am caught—" She stopped. "If I am caught, three will be sacrificed."

  Brennan closed his eyes and felt the sweat sting the wound on his forehead. He would not deny the truth, even if he thought she might believe him when he told her Jarek would never consider such a thing. Jarek might.

  Once again he tested his bonds and found them firm as ever, biting into weals and making them bleed again. He turned his head from her and ground his teeth, trying to keep himself from begging. If asking were not enough, begging would merely diminish what little pride he had left.

  "My lord—" This time when she touched him, he did not pull away. "My lord, Jarek said you were afraid of places like this."

  All the breath spilled out of his mouth. "I am." It was easier than he had believed; the fear did it for him. "This place—this weight—" He stopped short, shut his eyes, smelled the fear-stench again. "When—when I was but a boy, very small, I was trapped in a place not so different than this—all stone, cold stone, so much darkness and all the weight—“ He swallowed, nearly gagged. “I had forgotten, thank the gods, forgotten . . . until now. . . ."

  "Oh, my lord."

  "Rhiannon—" He stopped, began again, not caring that this desperation was manifest; that the sound of his fear filled up his prison. "I beg you—get me free!"

  Her fingers briefly squeezed the cold flesh of his arm.

  "I will do what I can do."

  And she left him alone in darkness where he could cry in privacy.

  Rhiannon did not come again. There was no freedom, no miracle that conjured a shackle key from the air to unlock his cuffs. There was no escape in sleep or unconsciousness. There was only the consuming knowledge that time passed too quickly, and that at the end of another day he would be dead, sacrificed in the name of Carollan, his great-grandsire's bastard son.

  Curse you. Carillon . . . curse the loins that sired a son on some baseborn Homanan drudge instead of on Solindish Electra—

  And yet he knew an insane amused irony in that curse, for without the loins that had sired Carollan—deaf, dumb Caro—there would have been no Niall. No Brennan. No need for Cheysuli rule at all, for there would have been a Homanan heir.

  And no need for sacrifice. Uneven stone pitted his flesh through Cheysuli leathers. Oh, Sleeta, give me the strength to die as a warrior dies, not hating myself for losing control in this fear of small, harmless places—

  Footsteps. Torchlight, reaching in through the low opening to set his prison aflame. And the shape of a man, ducking down, bending to enter, to kneel at his side with an iron key in his hand.

  "My lord, your time is come upon you. The gods are thirsty tonight."

  "Put no hands on me."

  "What? And leave you here to go mad from close confinement?" Jarek unlocked ankle shackles. "Lest you forget, my lord, we have your lir as well. Try to escape, and she shall surely die." His face was mostly hidden in distorted shadows. "The drug was strong." Calmly, Jarek set iron aside. It rang in the tiny cell. "An herbalist who has knowledge of such things recommended a mixture of ingredients deadly to most men, but merely temporarily-if powerfully—discomfiting to a Cheysuli. One ingredient you may recognize: the root called tetsu."

  Muscles spasmed. "Tetsu is deadly!"

  "Does it matter?" Jarek laughed. "No, no, not when used with certain other herbs—the root is dangerous, but not deadly in proper proportion. Still, it exerts a powerful presence, does it not? Cut off from your lir, you are no different from a Homanan." The wrist cuffs were unlocked. "Come out, my lord. The gods await."

  "And if I stay?" Brennan flexed painful wrists and set his teeth against the cramping of his calves. "If I choose to remain here, what will you do?"

  "Brick up the door and leave you to die a madman."

  Jarek shrugged. "It would discommode the gods briefly, perhaps, to lose so princely a sacrifice, but there are others. And who is to say the sacrifice be limited to the Mujhar's sons? There are daughters, too—"

  "No!" he cried, and heard it briefly echo. "No, not my rujholla. Jarek—"

  "Then come out, my lord. Come out into the air, where you can breathe again, and know yourself alive."

  Alive. For how long? Still, he stood a better chance of escape out of the cell than in.

  Jarek moved aside and gestured Brennan to exit first.

  He went, stooped and cramped, and felt fresh air upon his face. No chains—he was free-frames were in his face. He thrust up a hand to ward his eyes, felt heat and the lick of dripping oil. He staggered, thought to run, felt hands upon his arms; the strength of Jarek's drug still lingered in his system.

  Behind the flames, he saw faces. Strangers all, ten, twenty, thirty or more of them, but he knew them. He knew them by their avid eyes and feral expressions; their commitment to Jarek's cause.

  Nowhere did he see Rhiannon.

  The men closed on him. "Come, my lord," Jarek said, as they forced him to the altar.

  It was old, dark stone, stained black with the blood of murdered Cheysuli. Beyond the flames of the torches his captors carried he saw other torches, ten of them, thrust into the earth to form a ring around the stone. All the earth was beaten into dust beneath the trees around the altar; now his blood would muddy it.

  He stiffened, tried to twist free, was shoved toward the altar.

  "Your lir, my lord," Jarek said quietly. "Do not forget your lir.”

  They lifted him, even as he struggled; thrust him up onto the stone; pinned him on his back.

  "Justice," Jarek said.

  "You are mad—all of you, mad!"

  "The rightful line restored . . ."

  "Carillon himself declared Donal heir in lieu of sons," Brennan appealed. "He wed Aislinn, Carillon's daughter, who bore him a son . , . whose son sired a son."

  "The Lion shall have a Homanan Mujhar again . . ."

  Brennan writhed; they held him down. "I am Homanan!" he shouted. "I am the Lion's get!" And he thought in sudden, ice-cold clarity. But if they succeed—if I am slain—there is still my rujho . . . Hart can be Mujhar. . .

  And the prophecy perpetuated.

  Jarek still spoke, softly, calmly, as if he had practiced it many times, "Elek's death shall be avenged ... his memory replenished in the blood of his royal murderer's son."

  Brennan curse
d them all, but they understood none of it. They did not know the Old Tongue.

  "Carillon's son shall have the Lion—"

  "I am Carillon's great-grandson!"

  "—and the Lion shall know the proper line again, the gods-blessed Homanan line. . . ." Jarek's smile was odd.

  And then he began to laugh, but the laughter was odder yet.

  Brennan rolled his head against the stone. "Fools and madmen, all—"

  Grinning, Jarek gave the order. "Strip him of his armbands."

  He was stripped.

  "Fetch the cat."

  Sleeta—Sleeta—Sleeta—

  Jarek stepped close. Torchlight glinted off the knife.

  "Your earring, my lord." And touched blade to ear as he took the lobe into his hand and stretched it down, as if he meant to cut the earring free.

  Brennan spat at him. "In the name of the sun and the wind and the rivers, the earth and the sky and the seas—"

  Jarek laughed.

  "—name of the Hunter, the Weaver, the Cripple—"

  And Jarek laughed.

  "—I curse you, Jarek son of Elek—I curse you to die the death of a lirless man, beneath the jaws and claws of a beast— "

  Jarek bent close, still laughing, and bared his teeth in a mocking challenge. "Levy all the curses you desire on Jarek, son of Elek, my lord. They will not touch me."

  His eyes were black in the whipping torches, but the rims were a clear, eerie gold. "What I do, I do in the name of Asar-Suti, and he holds precedence over all your petty Cheysuli gods!"

  "Ihlini!" Brennan cried.

  "Now!" Jarek roared, overriding Brennan's shout.

  Now, Sleeta echoed, as the lir-link blazed to life.

  Brennan, tearing free of them all as out of the darkness the cry of a hunting cat rose, hardly noticed that Jarek's knife sliced through weighted flesh and severed his lobe. Pain was something he no longer acknowledged. Only anger. A terrible, burning anger that swallowed his knowledge of self and tipped him over the edge.

  —down—

  Rage fed the flames.