Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05

by A Pride of Princes (v1. 0)

  —down—

  He did not know his name. He did not know her name, only that she was there, here, lending him needed strength, giving him what he needed; what he had to have, to use, to wield in the name of his anger.

  Anger and something more. Something he knew as fear.

  He reached out for the strength, the fear, the rage; touched it, snared it, hugged it to his breast.

  —now—

  Before an Ihlini, he knew, his Cheysuli gifts were muted nearly to nothingness, but now—oddly—he felt stronger than ever before.

  —now—

  Jarek no longer laughed. "Slay him!" he screamed.

  —now— Brennan whispered. And within the webwork of the link, he tapped Sleeta and all the terrible heritage of his race.

  In the guise of a tawny mountain cat, he shredded Jarek's throat.

  Six

  —run—run—run—

  A litany in his head.

  —run—run—

  On four feet, curving claws raking divots of debris, the tawny cat ran. Running with him, Sleeta; black on black in the darkness of the night.

  —run—

  Deep in his chest, he coughed. Wreaths of vine and underbrush fouled his course, lacing his eyes with the whip-snag of tiny branches. Thorns caught at his pelt, breaking, clinging, burrowing into his flesh.

  Still he ran. Flowing, like honey through a flame.

  And then, unwanted, came the memory of what he had been, of what he had done, and he tumbled out of lir-shape into the man-shape known as Brennan.

  He landed on one elbow; it gave, folding beneath his weight, and threw him over onto a shoulder, his left one, and then all the pain he had forgotten came rushing back again to set his bones afire.

  Tangled in deadfall, he lay breathing heavily. His belly convulsed with it, until the grunting and gasping subsided, and he knew what he was again.

  Man.

  Brennan pressed himself up. Damp leaves formed a clammy cloak on naked arms against the night. He shuddered once, twice; gagged, and nearly spewed the contents of his belly onto the forest floor.

  "Too fast," he croaked, touching his pounding head.

  "Too soon . . . agh, gods, my head—"

  Sleeta's eyes were oil lamps in the darkness. Lir—lir—

  She pressed her chin against his shoulder, rubbing as if to offer strength and sympathy.

  The pain of his abused head nearly took precedence over the lir-link, which frightened him. He tried to set it aside and think only of Sleeta, but the pain was so bad even his teeth hurt with it.

  Lir. Sleeta leaned against him.

  Forcing himself to ignore his own discomfort, Brennan tried to assuage hers, soothing her with gentle hands and tender words. Through the link they were reunited, re-confirming their need of one another; the cat's fear, shock and weariness were echoes of his own.

  "Gods . . ." In human speech, it was the only word he could manage. He was disoriented, tangled up in the sensations of cat mixed with man, until for a moment he could not distinguish himself, being neither human nor feline, but thing.

  An owl hooted from near by. Another answered; in the distance Brennan heard the rising howl of a wolf, the yapping of his pack. He drew up both knees and rested his forehead against them, willing the pain to fade.

  Lir. Sleeta again, still pressed against him. His hand touched matted fur, sticky blood, fluid seeping from an open wound. And he was outraged at the sacrilege.

  "Sleeta—" This time the words began to make sense.

  He knelt, gently examining her head, throat, shoulders, carefully fingering ribs and belly and haunches. In the darkness much of her disrepair was hidden, but he knew she was not unscathed. The dogs had taken their toll.

  “Ku'reshtin," he muttered. "Setting hounds upon a lir."

  Effective. Sleeta licked at his neck. They distracted me from you. She paused. Blood, lir. Did he set the hounds on you?

  Brennan carefully touched his left ear. No more lobe, no more earring. Only blood marked the place where he had borne the cat-shaped ornament.

  No hounds, lir. This was done by man. This was done by Ihlini.

  No! Sleeta's shocked response was immediate. I would have known an Ihlini.

  So I thought, he agreed grimly. But in the past other Ihlini have walked unknown into Homana-Mujhar itself . . . who is to say what spell was cast to blind us to the truth?

  She was fretful from pain and incomprehension. The gods set us to guard the Cheysuli, to know enemy from friend, to recognize ill intent.

  And to know Ihlini?

  That more than anything else.

  Brennan sat very still, not even daring to move his hand against her pelt. In but a few words Sleeta had said more of the purpose of the lir than he had ever heard from her before. As a child he had been taught that a lir was a gift of the gods, something incredibly special; the bond between warrior and animal was a blessing no one else could possibly comprehend, a thing to be cherished above all else. Such handing down of absolutes left little room for questions, even less for answers. The lir themselves had always been oddly secretive about so many things.

  "Why?" He asked it aloud because somehow it made it more substantial; he asked it gently, casually, because he was afraid she would give him no answer if he sounded too intense. "Why are you to know Ihlini above all else?"

  Having more power, they offer more threat. Sleeta licked his shoulder.

  It was not the answer he wanted; it told him nothing he did not know already. "Surely anyone with power offers equal danger."

  Her breath was warm. Who is his own worst enemy?

  "I am my own, of course—that tells me nothing." And then he stopped speaking. His fingers dug deep into the thickness of her pelt. "Unless, of course, you are confirming my jehan's contention that Cheysuli and Ihlini are bloodkin."

  Sleeta butted her head against his shoulder. Lir, lir, enough . . . can we not go home?

  Home. Did she mean Clankeep or Homana-Mujhar?

  "Sleeta—" But he did not finish his question because he heard movement in the forest.

  He thought at first it was the Homanans come to find him, to throw him down again on the altar to complete the sacrifice. He thrust himself to a crouch, legs drawn up to push himself into headlong flight, but he did not run. The world spun slowly out from under him, and he fell awkwardly over onto one hip, keeping himself upright only by dint of one rigid, outstretched arm.

  No, Sleeta said. Think before you run.

  He did as told, and understood what she meant him to understand. No, what he heard was not the noise of Homanans hunting him; not those fundamentalist fools.

  The unveiling of Jarek as Ihlini would be enough to send them fleeing. If there was one thing more horrifying to a Cheysuli-fearing Homanan than a warrior assuming lir-shape, it was an Ihlini sorcerer.

  No wonder Jarek spouted all that nonsense about Carollan—he used it to cover his real intent, to hide himself in the others.

  He crouched in the darkness with Sleeta crouched beside him. And then the cat gently butted an arm. The girl, lir . . . the one who got me free.

  Rhiannun. So she had done as she had promised.

  The noise came closer. No doubt she thought she moved quietly, using all the stealth she could, but to Brennan, warrior-bred and trained, her progress was easily followed. She had not learned to move randomly, to stutter-step, to wait, to move again, as if an animal. She rustled, snapped boughs, snagged vines and underbrush.

  He waited until she was close enough, and then he said her name.

  Her startled reaction sent her crashing back two steps and then she was caught fast, clothing and hair snagged on twisted boughs. He heard her rapid breathing and the tearing of thin fabric as she sought to free herself.

  "Meijhana—no. There is no need to flee me." And he rose out of his crouch to stand, one hand splayed against the trunk of a conifer to keep him from falling down.

  "My lord?" All movement stopped.
"Brennan?"

  "Aye. And my lir, whom you were good enough to release."

  He heard more cloth shredded, the clink of something metallic, the ragged eagerness in her breathing. And then she was free and stood before him. Debris littered her braids, clung to her clothing, marred her face. But she smiled, and laughed, and held out glowing gold.

  "Yours, my lord. When all the others ran, I took them to give to you."

  He had not thought to see the lir-bands again. Nor had he allowed himself the time to think on what the loss represented. Although the lir-gold did not make him a man or a warrior in place of a boy, it was still an integral part of who he was. The loss would have shamed him as much for his manner of death as wearing them honored his manner of living.

  "Lei’hana tu'sai," he whispered. "Oh meijhana, I owe you so much. For Sleeta ... my life ... for these. . . ."

  Her eyes avoided his. "I could not find the earring, my lord. Perhaps—if we were to go back—"

  "No. It does not matter. I lack the lobe in which to wear it." He smiled ruefully at her hiss of realization.

  "These are enough, meijhana. That I promise you." Slowly he slipped hands through the heavy gold circlets, one by one, and slid the bands up past his elbows until the gold was locked against living flesh. The bands were cool for only a moment, and then they warmed, remembering their customary place, and he was whole again. "Leijhana tu'sai," he said again, tracing the cat-shapes in the metal.

  Rhiannon shrugged a little. "The return of your gold is still not enough to repay the pain I have caused you and your cat. If I had known what Jarek intended—" She stopped short, and tears welled into her eyes. "Oh, gods—how could I have been so blind, so stupid . . . how could I not have seen what he meant to do?"

  He reached out and caught the back of her head against the palm of one hand and cradled it gently. Slowly he pulled her in until she pressed her fare against his soiled jerkin, clinging to his arms. At first she held herself stiffly, plainly made uncomfortable by his rank if not by his compassion. Slowly he gentled her, as he had gentled so many fillies.

  "Shansu," he said softly. "Peace, meijhana—I think no less of you for your grief." Yet even as he said it, he wondered if he meant it. In the clans, grief was an exceptionally private thing. A Cheysuli showed none where others might see it.

  Traditionally. But traditions change ...

  The tears did not last. Rhiannon moved back, out of s his arms, and wiped her face, succeeding only in smearing grime across both cheeks. Twigs and leaves clung to her braids. But he thought he had never seen a woman who looked lovelier, even in disrepair.

  "Oh, my lord—" She reached up and touched fingertips to his neck where the blood from his stolen lobe had crusted. "My lord, they have used you so cruelly. First your poor head, then the drug, the chains . . . now this."

  She caught one of his arms as he wavered and tugged a gently, urging him down. "Sit, my lord, I beg you. It is clear you are close to collapse."

  "Is it?" Awkwardly, grateful for her assistance, Brennan sat down. Sleeta lent him warmth by pressing against one side; he wrapped an arm around her and gloried in her presence. "Gods, what I did—" He broke off as the s world turned yet again, and bit back a curse as he tried to stay upright.

  "Lie you down," Rhiannon said. "Here—I will help—"

  And she moved quickly as he toppled, taking his head into her lap. Tentatively she stroked sweat-stiffened hair back from his forehead. Her fingers were cool and light, and the pain was not so bad beneath her touch,

  "Sleep, my lord," she said. "No more harm will come to you."

  He smiled, though he did not open his eyes. "You A sound so certain, meijhana."

  "I am. No harm, my lord Brennan—I promise. Your lir is here, and so am I."

  For the moment, there was nothing more he wanted.

  He dreamed of darkness and close confinement, and the knowledge of his fear. Weighed down, he could not move.

  Only his voice knew freedom, and even that was denied him. Muzzled by a deep, disturbing sleep, the only sound he emitted was a throttled wail, a muffled plea for release.

  "My lord."

  The woman's voice intruded. From a distance he heard it. He reached out for it, trying to catch it and cling to it like a babe to a mother's breast.

  "My lord—" She paused, "Brennan . . . Brennan—wake up. I am here. I am here. I promise."

  He struggled toward the voice. Something touched his face: a hand, warm and kind, offering him compassion.

  He reached out, caught it, clung, and the darkness began to recede.

  "Brennan—"

  And he came up out of the dream into reality again, and caught her against his chest, pulling her body beneath his, knowing only one way to banish such gods-cursed fear; how to prove he was alive, alive, after coming so close to death.

  "Please—" he whispered, and then abruptly he was awake.

  —oh, gods—

  Even as he moved to relieve her of his weight, of his uncharacteristic demand, her hands pulled him back down.

  "No."

  "But—you know what I meant to do—what I would have done, whether you wanted it or no. . . ."

  "I know." She reached up to catch a lock of his hair.

  "Do you think I am unwilling?"

  A dozen questions spilled into his mind. He wanted to speak of Jarek; of the line between lust and love; of the differences in gratification and gratitude. He could give her so many reasons for what he had so nearly done, and what his body still wanted him to do. But looking into her face, into her eloquent eyes, he saw no desire for explanation. She knew as well as he. She wanted as much as he.

  She locked her hands into his hair and pulled his head down, down, until her breath caressed his face. "I did not love him, Brennan. That much I promise you."

  For now, it was enough.

  He gave Rhiannon into the care of serving women when they reached Homana-Mujhar. Sleeta he tended personally, as always. And, at last, he turned his attention to himself, tarrying in a hot bath even when his kinfolk came knocking at his chamber door with questions regarding his health, word of his battered appearance having been passed among the servants and so to his kinfolk. He sent them away with promises of a full explanation, and fell asleep in the cask.

  At last he faced his kinfolk in Deirdre's airy tower solar, though now it was dark outside. He was more than willing to give an explanation now that he was clean again, clad in fresh leathers and smelling of cloves instead of fear and close confinement. But he did not begin at once, because Ian stepped close and stopped him short with a hand upon his arm.

  He inspected Brennan's left ear attentively a moment.

  “A clean cut," he said after a moment. "You are lucky. You might have lost the entire ear."

  Maeve, standing near one of the tripod braziers, grimaced and touched her own, as if sharing a measure of his pain. Keely, sitting crosswise in one of Deirdre's chairs, combed unbound hair away from her face with stiffened fingers. Her blue eyes were very thoughtful.

  Deirdre, playing hostess, poured wine into a cluster of cups and began to hand them out. As she came to Brennan, he saw how tightly set was her mouth. She said nothing at first, giving Ian his portion, but he seemed to sense she intended to and moved away smoothly. It left Deirdre and Brennan confronting one another over a cup of blood-red wine.

  He took it from her, but her fingers pressed his own.

  "Next time," she said quietly, "let the bath wait."

  "I was filthy—'

  "I know. And I am saying, let it wait." Her green eyes were steady, unyielding. "Think of your father instead of yourself."

  He opened his mouth to protest, to repeat how badly he had needed the bath, but he shut it in silence instead.

  A glance at his father, waiting quietly in a chair near the fireplace, underscored the intent of Deirdre's words. Niall would say nothing, but there was suddenly acknowledgment in Brennan's mind that he had worried him deeply and unne
cessarily, even if for only the brief length of time required by the bath.

  He sighed. "Aye. Aye, I will." He touched Deirdre's shoulder briefly in thanks, then went to his father. The others would hear clearly enough, but it was to Niall he would speak. "I am well, jehan. I swear. There is—discomfort—" he shrugged "—but it will fade."

  Niall looked up at him from the chair. "Who put you in irons?" he asked quietly.

  "Irons!" Maeve stared. "What does he mean, Brennan?"

  The others, clearly, had seen only the lobeless ear.

  The Mujhar had seen his wrists with their bracelets of flesh rubbed raw. And now everyone else did as well.

  Keely abruptly swung her legs around, rose and crossed to him. Forthright as ever, she grabbed one of his hands and pulled it out where she could see it and his wrist clearly. He felt her fingers spasm briefly in shock, and then she let him go,

  "Who dared to chain you up?" Her tone was level, on the surface unemotional, but he heard the truth beneath the sound. Anger. Outrage. An abiding disbelief,

  "His name was Jarek," Rhiannon said, and shut the door behind her.

  As one, all turned and stared at her. Even Brennan did not move to her at once, though he meant to, because he was too startled. He had known she was attractive, but the women had made her beautiful.

  Awkwardly, she curtsied deeply. Heavy skirts—a deep, rich blue—draped on slate-gray stone. Her hair, bound back smoothly in a single braid, coiled like glossy black rope against soft wool. "My lord Mujhar—" And abruptly, she lost her balance.

  It was Ian, closest, who caught her arm and raised her.

  Her face blazed with brilliant color. She allowed Ian to hold her stiff arm and did not attempt to move again, as if afraid she might embarrass herself further.

  "Be easy, meijhana," Ian told her kindly, offering her his warmest smile. "There are times formality is required, but this is hardly one of them." His fingers squeezed her arm gently. "Be welcome among us, lady."

  Brennan looked at his uncle instead of Rhiannon. It was no secret among Deirdre's ladies—and therefore the rest of the palace—that the Mujhar's brother was a man worth having, as friend or bedmate—or both—but Ian had never shown any indication of desiring permanency in feminine companionship. Certainly he did not now, but there was no mistaking his attentiveness to Rhiannon.