Hart jerked open the door. "I may be the wastrel second son, regent, but I am not stupid. And if you think I am blind to your backward attempt to push me into this marriage, you are the stupid one."
Tarron merely laughed. Swearing, Hart banged the door closed behind him.
Five
Hart walked quietly into the Great Hall of Lestra's palace with Rael perched upon his left forearm and saw the faces, one by one, turn to stare. Conversations eddied, trailed off, died out as the gathered Solindish nobility and the Homanans who governed them recognized the Cheysuli Prince of Solinde. And then the noiae began again: whispers, murmurs, comments, in Homanan and Solindish, until Hart could no longer quite control the amusement that threatened to overtake his painstakingly practiced solemnity.
Those who know you, know better. Rael said pointedly.
Aye, but how many here know me? Tarron? No. He only believes he does. Dar? He knows me only as a mark.
As for the lady . . . inwardly. Hart sighed, by now surely the lady knows me only as a fool who risks her realm in silly games.
The chamberlain mounted the white marble dais and formally announced the Prince of Solinde. Hart, unaccustomed to such pageantry arranged solely for his benefit, winced visibly, then recovered himself almost instantly.
His years in Homana-Mujhar had taught him that kings conducted themselves with decorum at such formal festivities even when they did not feel it. He was not a king yet, but he needed the practice. Besides, the Solindish would expect it.
Now? Rael asked.
Now, Hart agreed. The better to impress them.
Accordingly, Rael lifted from Hart's arm and circled the huge hall, banking toward the high-backed chair set upon the dais. Women cried out at his passage and men set hands to knives; Rael swept relentlessly to the throne and settled himself upon the carved back. He spread his wings and shrieked aloud his dominance, then settled, folding his wings away, and surveyed all down the sharp hook of his deadly beak.
Hart moved toward the dais, mounting the steps even as the throng fell back. He was aware of the whispers and hissed questions, as well as the subtle hostility on the part of the Solindish. From the Homanans he sensed only a quiet, abiding pride; if they did not relish the thought of having Homana held by shapechangers in place of Homanans, they at least were willing enough to put the Solindish in their place by using the reputation of the Cheysuli.
He turned, trying to still the flutter of nervousness in his belly. Never before had he faced so many people as a ruler. Even in Homana he was only the second son, the prince who would trade his home for foreign lands. He was not Brennan, whose duties included nearly as many rituals and formalities as his father, the Mujhar, In Homana, he was simply Hart; Prince Hart, perhaps, by dint of his birth, but he had been easily overlooked.
Now, he found he could not be overlooked, even if he preferred it.
How they stare, all the eyes.
He drew himself up, though his posture did not require it. And then he smiled. "I am Hart," he said quietly, pitching his voice low; he had learned from his father the art of making men listen by underplaying the moment.
"Hart of Homana, second-born son of Niall the Mujhar, and styled Prince of Solinde." He saw narrowing eyes and tightening faces among the Solindish; how glibly he stole their title. "I am sent to learn kingship in the land I will rule; to learn how to govern a people in vassalage to Homana." Solindish mouths drew taut and flat, though some of the faces were conspicuously blank so as not to give anything away. "It is my wish that Solinde know peace, not war; that the hostilities of the past be buried along with those who have died." He drew in a steadying breath. "It is my personal desire that the overweening ambitions of the Ihlini be laid bare for all to see, so that there need be no discord in a land that deserves far better."
That, as he expected, sparked shocked murmurs and curses of disbelief among the Solindish; the Homanans merely watched him curiously.
"It is known to Cheysuli and Homanan alike that the Ihlini call Solinde their homeland," Hart continued quietly. "It is not my intention to banish them from it, because not all serve Asar-Suti. But it is my intention to halt the hostility that they foment, and let Solinde remain Solindish—instead of a servant of the Ihlini."
All the eyes stared back, divulging nothing and everything; Hart realized, somewhat belatedly, that he had learned more from his father than he had thought.
He smiled, spreading his hands. "Enough of such talk; I am more in mind of a celebration than a declaration of war. Let the dancing begin." And abruptly he stepped down from the dais into the gathered throng.
It did not take long for Tarron to make his way through the couples who danced, or those who stood in groups and discussed politics. The regent, clad in habitual black, stepped to Hart's right side and said, quietly, "My lord, perhaps it would have been better if you had worn Solindish garb. Perhaps you should have left your hawk in your chambers—"
"—and perhaps it would have been better had I not attended at all." Hart smiled coolly at Tarron. "Would you say so to the Mujhar, regent? Would you bid him dress Homanan when he is a Cheysuli warrior?"
The brown eyes reflected shock. "My lord—"
"I am not my jehan,” Hart said quietly. "I do not mean to be. But I am, first and foremost, Cheysuli. If I choose to wear leathers instead of velvets, I shall. If I choose to take Rael even into my bridal chamber, I shall. I shall, regent, do precisely as I please when it comes to my personal conduct." He caught up a cup of wine from a passing servant. "The Solindish will have to accept me as I am, Tarron, So will you."
"So much gold, my lord." Tarron's distaste was plain. "They will say you are a barbarian.”
Hart grinned. "At least a wealthy one." He sipped wine, watching the regent over the rim of his cup. He was not surprised Tarron found his garb displeasing, for he was a man who abhorred ornamentation. The regent's black clothing, though of good cut and quality, was very plain. Hart's soft leathers, equally black, were also equally plain—except he had put on rune-scribed wristlets, torque, plated belt, sheath and knife, all of heavy gold.
Tarron's mouth was flat. "And how long will you keep it?" he asked grimly. "You will lose it all in a fortune-game."
Hart grinned. "Here it is called Bezat."
The regent's jaw bunched as he gritted teeth. "My lord, if you will excuse me—"
"No." Hart smiled blandly. "It is time you made the introductions, regent, as you are the one who knows all the Solindish nobility. May I suggest you begin with those lords who desire to wed the Lady Lisa?"
Tarron stared back. "Now, my lord? All of them?"
"Those who desire to wed the lady," Hart said evenly. "Those whom you think may well have a chance."
Tarron's expression gave away nothing. "Aye, my lord. Of course,"
Over the next two hours Hart met more men than he cared to acknowledge, and yet he had to. In execrable Homanan they greeted their newly-arrived prince and bid him courteous, insincere welcome, politely offering whatever assistance or companionship he might require.
And as he opened his mouth to answer the first of them, he realized he dared give them only Homanan, or he would never be understood.
Jehan and Brennan—always said I should pay more attention to my language lessons . . . that one day my ignorance would catch me up. . . .
Hart looked at the gathered Solindish aristocracy. Uncomfortably, he realized that the vanquished always were required to give up more than land or status. They gave up language and culture as well, replacing both with the preferences of the victor.
How was it during Shaine's qu'mahlin? he wondered idly. How was it for the clans that had to flee Homana to live in foreign lands?
"My lord." Tarron again. "My lord, may I present Dar of High Crags, born of one of the oldest lines in Solinde."
Hart came out of his brief reverie to find Dar standing before him in silence. The Solindishman's smile was blandly polite, offering nothing more than the
courtesy demanded of his rank, but Hart saw the glint in his brown eyes and the twitch of amusement at the comer of his mouth.
"Dar of High Crags," Hart repeated. "How old a line is it?"
"Very old, my lord," Dar answered politely. "At least as old as the Lady Lisa's; my kin has served hers for more than seven centuries."
"And in all of that time has none of you ever wed into the royal house?"
The barb went home. Dar's eyelids flickered, but he managed a benign smile. "History changes from one night to the next, my lord . . . surely you know that better than most. Is it not true that the Cheysuli ruled Homana for a thousand years, then gave it over to the Homanans?" He paused for the benefit of Homanan ears. "And now you take it back?"
"In accordance with the wishes of the gods," Hart said smoothly. "Have you not heard of our prophecy? Surely you have, Dar . . . surely the Ihlini in service to the Seker have made certain you know of it, if not the truth." He sipped wine. "The Wheel of Life is a thing no man may fully know, except that the gods have a purpose when they set it into motion."
"Talmorra." Dar nodded. "Aye, I have heard of the fatalism that rules your race. And I have heard how blindly you serve it."
Tarron cleared his throat. "My lord of High Crags—my lord prince—"
"I think you may leave the lord of High Crags with me," Hart interrupted, without taking his eyes from Dar's. "Are there not things you must attend to?"
"Aye, my lord." In obvious relief, Tarron bowed quickly and departed.
"Neatly done." Dar scooped a cup of wine from a passing servant.
Hart was not ready to change the subject. "There is a purpose in all things," he said quietly. "All things, Dar . . . even the handing over of a Solindish throne to a Cheysuli warrior."
The woman's voice was cool. "And was there a purpose in risking my horse in a game?" she asked. "And the Third Seal, my lord—what purpose in losing that?"
Hart inclined his head to acknowledge Lisa's arrival.
"He was my horse, lady—freely given. As for the Seal, well—" He shrugged, grinning ruefully “—had I known it was the price that bought your willingness to marry, surely I would never have risked something so valuable."
She gazed at him wide-eyed in unfeigned astonishment. "My willingness to marry?"
Dar interrupted smoothly. "Lady, he seeks only to turn the subject. That he should be so thoughtless as to risk your horse on the very day the gift was received, or to risk him at all—"
Hart looked only at Lisa. "You might ask him," he suggested. "You might ask him how he considers the ring as a way of securing you for a cheysula.”
She frowned. "A what?"
"Wife," he amended, "Do you intend to marry him?"
Dar's hand was on Lisa's arm. "That is none of your concern, shapechanger."
She slipped free easily, obviously well accustomed to avoiding the possessiveness of men, and turned to face Dar squarely. "But it is my concern." Delicate color deepened in her face to compete with the frost in her eyes. "Is it true, Dar? Do you think I will wed you because you hold the Seal, when it should be mine regardless?"
Brown eyes narrowed minutely, weighing the need for frankness against the requirements of diplomacy; Dar discarded his elegant courtier's manner instantly. "I think you will wed the man best able to help Solinde," he said flatly. "You must wed such a man—a strong, loyal, dedicated Solindishman, who wants only the best for his land ... a man who can forge the warring factions into one united front—"
"And take Solinde back from Homana?" Hart interposed. As they stared, he shook his head. "You reckon without the Cheysuli, who require this land—or at least the bloodlines from it."
"And do you require me?" Lisa demanded icily. "The last of Bellam's line, born of the oldest House of Solinde . . . how could you overlook me?"
"How could I?" Hart grinned. "Not easily, Lady Lisa—no more easily than Dar."
She looked from him, to Dar, back again. And then she laughed, surprising both of them. "And do you think I would wed either of you?"
"Lisa—" Dar began.
Still she smiled, though her eyes remained cool. "No," she said, "I would not. I want no man who values games over the welfare of Solinde.”
"Then I will stop," Dar said flatly. "I will stop altogether, here and now, no more to waste my time and wealth in foolish games of chance."
Lisa turned to Hart. "What of you?" she asked. "Will you make me the same promise?"
Without hesitating. Hart shook his head. "No, lady, I will not."
Her mouth twisted, briefly ironic. "Honesty from you, at least, displeasing though it may be." She looked at Dar. "You are all you have described—strong, loyal, dedicated, and capable of uniting Solinde. I will indeed require a man with the same abilities, but I will choose him myself." Coolly, she smiled. "I find it shameful that Solinde demands a man to rule when a woman could do as well—and I am deserving of it." She put out a slender hand. "Give me the ring, Dar. You know it is rightfully mine."
He spread eloquent, empty hands. "Alas, I have left it home."
Her tone was very grim. "Dar—"
"Lisa." He cut her off, "We are old, old friends, and older adversaries in this game of men and women. You ask for honesty? I give you honesty . . . I give you a truth you may not like." He glanced at Hart as if regretting his presence, but continued regardless of it. "The Third Seal is mine, won fairly from a man who did not know what he risked. He lost. He lost it all, including his only chance to marry the woman he needs to marry, in order to hold this realm. But I won. I won. And I keep what I win, regardless of who else might want it... unless they are willing to pay the price."
She was awash in candleglow. In crimson and gold she set the hall ablaze; rubies glittered in braided hair. But they could not compete with the determination in her eyes, or her pride. That and her dignity were palpable.
"I am Lisa of Solinde," she said evenly. "I can rule without the ring.”
"But not without a Consort." Dar sipped wine; his eyes were alight with inner amusement. "The lords of Solinde will require a male heir as soon as is humanly possible, lady, to insure the succession. It seems to me you have need of me as much as I of you."
"But I can take another man," she reminded him gently, patently unaffected by his challenge. "Where will that leave you?"
"Without," Hart said succinctly.
Dar shook his head. "She will do what is required. Lisa has pride, integrity, honor . . . and an incredible sense of duty." He bowed his head in a courteous salute. "In the end, rather than leaving it to others, she will make the decision herself."
"Then leave me to it!" Lisa said sharply. "Leave me altogether!"
Dar bowed. "Aye, my lady. At once."
As the Solindishman left. Hart looked at Lisa in mild surprise. "A sharp tongue, lady."
"With him, I need one." Lisa took the cup of wine out of Hart's hand and drank down what remained, eyes aglitter over the rim. Abruptly she pressed the cup back into his hands. "Dar always makes me angry, which makes me all the angrier."
Hart skillfully eased her through the throng, guiding her slowly toward a quiet comer. "Are you enemies, or bedmates?"
Lisa looked at him sharply. "Not bedmates," she said dryly. "Nor enemies, to tell the truth." She sighed and sat down on the padded bench against the wall, deftly spreading crimson skirts to decorously cover gem-crusted leather slippers. "Since we were young, there was talk of uniting our houses. It was believed that Dar could provide Solinde with the strong leadership she requires."
She slanted him a glance from eloquent eyes. "You know, of course, that we prefer self-rule. We want no foreign overlord."
"I know. And were there no prophecy, I might be disposed to grant it, once in the position to do so." Hart shrugged as he sat down beside her. "But I am not, and I am a dutiful Cheysuli. I serve the prophecy."
"Why?" she asked bluntly. "If it does not please you, turn your back on it."
"Because I aspire to th
e afterworld." Hart grinned and leaned back against the wall, stretching out long legs. "Out of character, she is thinking. A man who wagers the Third Seal of Solinde could not possibly concern himself with what happens after death." Then, more solemnly, "But I do. Every Cheysuli does. The gods have given us a place here in the world, and promise a better one when we are dead." He smiled wryly. "We need only be faithful children."
"Faithful to a daydream dreamed too many years ago."
But Lisa's smile removed the sting of the words. "So, you serve your prophecy in hopes of reward after death. It seems such a futile thing . . . and perhaps a little childish."
"I am not a child."
Lisa looked at him a long moment. "No. I think you are not."
He gazed out at the people: at those who danced; who clustered to mutter of politics; who advocated rebellion and the taking of his life. "We are an old race," he said finally. "Thousands and thousands of years. We are children of the gods: it is what Cheysuli means." Still he stared, though his vision blurred and he saw only colors and candlelight. "The Homanans tried to slay us all, to annihilate us entirely, in a purge that lasted decades . . . the Ihlini have done it again and again, through sorcery, plague, intrigue. So many centuries of hatred, prejudice, fear ... so many years of being the hunted, not knowing if we would survive." He blinked and turned his head to look at Lisa. "We survived because of the gods. Because of the afterworld. Because of the prophecy." Silently he turned a spread-fingered hand palm-up. "All of it shapes our lives. Without it, we would perish."
She said nothing for a long moment, seemingly unable, And then she shook her head. Rubies glistened in her hair. "How is it a man—a Cheysuli—who is so dedicated to this prophecy can risk himself in a game?"
Hart laughed; it was a single burst of sound. "Because I cannot help it."
Lisa frowned. "Cannot?" She shrugged. "I say, simply stop."
Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 Page 23