Hart exited with her. "You need take no guard. My lir and I are enough, I think, to ward you against most dangers."
She slanted him a cool glance over one shoulder as she turned toward the white mare she had ridden at their first meeting. "Are you? I think a man need only offer you a wager, and you would name me as the stakes."
He stopped short, staring at her in shock. She knows . . . oh, gods, she already knows, and this is nothing more than a travesty.
But Lisa gave no sign, no hint she knew anything of the wager between Hart and Dar. She merely waited for him to hand her up into the saddle, and when he did not move to do it at once she led the mare to a mounting block and did it on her own. Belatedly, Hart hastened to lend her a hand, though now she did not require it.
The white mare nosed him, pressing muzzle against neck and blowing even as he tried to turn her head away.
He looked up at Lisa, backlighted by the sun, and opened his mouth to speak. Then abruptly turned away.
Hart swung up into his saddle and waited for Lisa to fall in beside him. It was midmorning and cool; the air chilled his bare arms and lent an icy sheen to his fir-bands. He had brought nothing out of Homana save Cheysuli leathers. Solindish clothing would be warmer, but he preferred familiar garb.
How can I tell her? How can I explain?
Rael offered no answer. In silence. Hart escorted Lisa out of Lestra and into the countryside beyond.
He found it no easier when they were free of the city.
He did find it easier to forget about the wager altogether, losing himself in the pleasure of the moment. And so he did.
Lisa was an accomplished rider, as her flight through the wood had proved. He did not hold back now; together they galloped across the turf and lost themselves, for the moment, in the sheer joy of good horseflesh. Running on, running on, he could forget all about wagers and risks and titles, thinking only of how the stallion should move beneath him; how fast, how smooth, how willing. For an unblessed human, it was the closest thing to lir-shape.
The moment was spent too quickly. Hart eased his mount from a gallop to a canter, then to a walk, even as Lisa did. In companionable silence they listened to the horses blow, jangling bits and shanks and ornamentation.
He could smell the acrid tang of his stallion's sweat, the scent of flowers in the turf, the promise of summer coming. It was a good time to be alive. Better yet, it was a good time to share it with a woman.
"Is that your hawk?" she asked, pointing.
He glanced up and saw the shape against the sky; the outspread wings and lazy spiral. "Aye. Rael. He keeps his distance today, knowing this is a thing between man and woman, requiring no lir.”
She looked at him sharply. "He knows such things?"
Hart laughed. "Did you think him mute? A pet, or a tame bird like those kept mewed up at the palace?" Grinning, he shook his head. "No, lady. A lir is far more than anything you might imagine. Rael is an extension of myself, though his conscience is his own. We are bonded. He speaks to me, I to him, though it is all done silently."
"And does he value games as much as you?"
He heard the dry tone in her voice. So close to the edge of contempt; it hurt. "No," Hart said quietly. "Rael does not. Rael does, however, suggest I turn to things more important, such as learning how to rule."
"Then indeed, he is wiser than you."
"The lir always are." He felt safer discussing Rael than his irresponsibility. "Do you know nothing of them?"
She shrugged. "I know only the things I have heard: that they are magical animals with awesome arts, allowing the Cheysuli to assume shapes other than their own."
Her glance betrayed no distaste, but quiet curiosity. "You can really become a hawk? With wings and feathers and talons?"
The laughter was gone. "Aye."
"Does it hurt?"
Hart frowned. It had been so long since he had thought of lir-shape in terms other than an automatic exchange of human form for raptor that the words were harder to find than ever. In Homana, the Cheysuli were no longer the enemy, but part and parcel of the present. No one required explanations.
"There is no pain," he said thoughtfully. "Not as you know pain. But there is an oddness, an alienness, when I put off my human shape for another." He shrugged a little. "Knowing what I will become, it does not frighten me. I will come through it; I always do, and back again. But the first time, not knowing, is frightening and exhilarating all at once." He looked at-her intent face, wishing he could share lir-shape so he need not struggle for words that were inadequate no matter how glib his explanation. "From birth we are told that to be whole we require a lir. And although we have no reason to anticipate being left without one, the hidden fear is always there ... the fear that somehow the gods have forgotten to prepare the animal that is to become your lir." He shrugged. "The first time you assume lir-shape, you are so eager the fear recedes and you think only of the need, not the fear of what you do."
Lisa looked into the sky to watch Rael's soaring flight.
"And when you are a hawk, what do you feel then?"
The answer was instant. "Freedom." As she looked at him, he smiled. "Freedom. No more am I earthbound; no more do I require legs, feet, horse, or other means of transportation. I have only myself, requiring only myself . . . and I become the freest thing alive."
"But you are still a man."
"Mostly. I keep my human thoughts and feelings, although I experience things as a hawk. Human instincts are augmented, not overcome. I know I am a man in the form of a hawk. I am still Hart."
She turned from Rael to him. "Is there danger in it?"
He shrugged. "There is a question of balance. A Cheysuli in lir-shape is both and neither; it is possible for him to lose himself to the animal form, but it only rarely happens. It is something we are carefully taught, this balance," He saw the comprehension in her eyes, and the realization of the dangers. "I will not lie to you, Lisa. If a warrior in lir-shape should grow too angry, relying too much on animal instinct instead of both, he can tip over the edge and lose humanness altogether,"
"And remain an animal."
"Or something made of both." He plaited the mane of his bay stallion, thinking through the best way to explain to her what he had learned quite young. "It is one reason the shapechange is more difficult in extremity. In pain, a man might lose himself. In anger also, and sheer exhilaration. The shapechange requires concentration, and responsibility. There is always the risk that a warrior in lir-shape may become something other than himself."
"And risk is something you understand very well." Lisa smoothed hair back. "I have known Dar nearly since birth; his family has served mine for centuries. I have seen how it is with him, this need to risk his wealth in wagers. The coin means little to him, other than representing victory over the odds." Briefly, her mouth twisted ironically. "I see much the same in you, although you are worse. Dar enjoys a good wager, but I think you need it."
"For as long as I can remember." He did not smile, not try to avoid the topic. "I do not lose myself in lir-shape, perhaps, understanding the need for self-control . . . but a wager is different. I do lose myself."
"And so the balance is broken, and you tip over the edge." Lisa looked at him squarely. "Last night you told me you take pride in nothing. I think you lied, albeit unknowing. If nothing else, you take pride in being Cheysuli; in the ability to become a hawk and know the freedom of the skies."
He did not look away. "Aye."
"Then I offer you a challenge, my lord. I offer you risk." Lisa smiled a little. "Put it aside, Hart. Set aside this need of the game, and look instead to becoming a prince in fact. Solinde is in the palm of your hand. Grasp it, my lord, or surely you will lose it."
"It is out of my hand," he said. "Blame me, blame Dar, blame us both, but we have undertaken a wager that will end this controversy over Solinde. One of us will be the victor, the other the vanquished . . . with you and Solinde in the middle."
; Lisa went rigid in her saddle. "What have you done?" Her face was taut and pale. "What have you done?"
Hart drew in a deep breath. "I came to see you intending to tell you the truth at once. I delayed it because it was easier, as always, to avoid speaking of it at all, and because I wanted to spend time with you. And so now the time for truth is on me once again, I find I have no more desire to spoil what is between us than I did before."
"Hart—"
"You must wed," he said clearly, overriding the beginnings of her protest. "And wed soon, for the sake of Solinde. For all I avoid responsibility whenever possible, I am no stranger to political intrigues and marriages. Three choices face you, Lisa: wed me, wed Dar, or wed another powerful Solindishman with the ability to help you hold Solinde."
She said nothing.
Hart did not look away. "If you delay, my own hold on Solinde increases; are they not advocating you wed within a month?" Grimly he nodded, though she remained locked in rigid silence. "If you wed Dar, Solinde will one day revolt; he has as much as promised it. If you wed another Solindishman, there will always be those who advocate rebellion. If you wed me—“
Lisa cut him off. "Why?" she asked flatly. "Why would I wed you? You offer me nothing, my lord wagerer . . . you offer nothing to Sotinde save irreverence and irresponsibility."
"The wager is this," he said quietly. "If you wed me, Dar gives over the Third Seal—and his life. If you wed Dar, I am sent home to Homana . . . and Solinde remains Solindish."
"Under a Homanan regent!" Color spilled into her face, then out again. "Dar put up his life?"
"Aye, lady—at his own behest. I do not want it."
"But you accepted the wager!"
"I am on the edge of the blade," he said clearly. "If I go home to my jehan, having lost Solinde, I will have lost him as well. Worse, I wilt have destroyed the prophecy."
Hart nodded slowly. "Aye, Lisa, I accepted the wager. Dar gave me no other choice."
"What choice did you give him?” He saw tears in her eyes. "If he loses this wager, he loses his life! I think that is more important than a Cheysuli prophecy—"
"One life is little when balanced against a race," Hart told her quietly. "Hear me, Lisa, when I tell you that above all, I serve the prophecy. Wastrel that I have been, I am fully committed to this. Aye, you spoke of pride—and I do take pride in something. I take pride in the prophecy."
"So you leave the choice to me," she said bitterly. "Yet again you turn your back on responsibility and reduce the future of Solinde to a wager and a woman's choice of husband." She said something more, equally bitterly, but the words were Solindish, and he did not know them. He knew only that he had angered her far more than even he had anticipated.
"Lisa—"
"Did Dar put you up to this?" she asked abruptly.
He considered lying, knowing the truth made him appear vindictive. But he nodded. "It was his suggestion."
Lisa shook her head, pushing hair out of her face in irritation. "You are a fool, my lord prince of wagerers. Dar knows me too well, and he has learned you also. As he expected, all my pride screams at me to wed Dar if for no other reason than to force your loss, and your subsequent loss of Solinde. And I would ... if my better judgment would allow it." She looked at him squarely, "If only to pay him back, I should refuse him. But it would cost him his life, and that I cannot bear."
"There is an alternative," Hart said quietly. "Wed another man entirely."
"What other man?" Lisa asked bitterly. "There is no other man in Solinde who can do what Dar can to rally the Solindish to war again. We are too weary of such things. Niall and those before him have defeated us soundly too many times. Without the right leader, what good would it do us now?" She shrugged. "But Dar could do what is necessary, and would. If I wanted this war, I would be a fool to wed a Solindishman other than Dar."
He saw the turmoil reflected in her eyes, in her features.
"But if I wed you to save my land from war, it costs me Dar. And that price I will not pay."
"Then wed no one."
Lisa's sharp laugh was little more than a sound of despair. "If I do not choose someone, I will be forced to it. The situation warrants it; they have not done it only because they respect me personally, and my heritage. But for Solinde, to thwart Homana, they will. They will have no other choice."
"Lisa—"
She gathered her reins and turned the mare toward Lestra. "Forgive me, my lord, but I desire solitude. I have no taste for your company."
He knew better than to allow her to depart under such circumstances. But he knew also that to stop her was to destroy all hope of winning her. And so he let her go.
Seven
Tarron's move to assemble more parchments was arrested in mid-motion. "I must have misheard you. You want what, my lord?"
Helpfully, Hart gathered the parchments from the table and placed them on the stack in Tarron's arms. "I want you to teach me how to rule. It is what I came for,"
"No," Tarron said plainly, "you came because you were sent."
Hart scowled at him. "Aye, aye, all right—I came because I was sent. But I am done with shirking my responsibilities. Teach me how to rule."
"Have you seen the Mujhar do none of it?"
Oh, aye, he had, in bits and pieces. But he had steadfastly refused to attend council sessions, petition hearings and other assorted requirements of kingship, perfectly willing to let Brennan do it all instead. He had a rudimentary knowledge of what constituted governing—the ruler had to sit in judgment on citizens who had disputes, settle treaties between other realms, levy taxes, tribute, and so on, plus innumerable other duties— but when it came down to it, he had not the faintest idea what was expected of him. Particularly in a foreign realm.
"Teach me,” he said only, hoping it was enough.
Apparently it was, although Tarron eyed him doubtfully. "Well enough, my lord; follow me. I am bound for a hearing regarding a petty dispute between two northern Solindish lordlings. They are feuding over a boundary formed by a river; the river has changed its course, and now they dispute ownership of the land it has laid bare."
Dutifully Hart followed Tarron out of the chamber into a corridor, though his heart was not in it. He opened his mouth to beg off, then shut it sharply. It was time he learned to accept tedium as gracefully as his father and brother.
"Without the Third Seal, what can you do?" he asked.
Parchment crackled. "Delay," the regent said succinctly. "No real business can be conducted without it, but until I hear from the Mujhar I cannot let slip the news the Seal is lost. We must hope the Solindish do not grow restless over countless delays and obfuscation ... I think they will not understand why it is you lost it in a game."
Hart ignored the latter. "And if Dar has already let it be known?"
"It would certainly serve his own interests." Tarron nodded as guardsmen in Homanan livery swung open the heavy wooden doors of the audience chamber. "But perhaps this will serve yours, my lord; if you are the one to make the decision, it will let the Solindish know you are indeed planning to rule." He nodded greetings toward the men waiting in the chamber and made his way to a table on a dais.
"Me?" Following, Hart kept his voice low. "I have no experience in such things."
"I suggest you get it, my lord, as any man does: by listening, and by determining which party deserves the judgment rendered in his favor." Tarron put the stack of parchments on the table and stepped away, motioning Hart to accept the only chair. "And now, my lord, I leave you to it."
Astonished, Hart watched the regent turn and walk away. He wanted to shout after him, to order him back, but he would not, not before the Solindish lordlings who waited to present their case.
Oh, gods. Lamely, he smiled at the lords. They stared back grimly, hard old men, prepared to humor no one.
Oh, gods. But he summoned what he could of his courage and sat down, intending to do whatever it was a ruler did to the best of his ability.
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br /> Even if he had none.
After dark. Hart ordered a horse and rode to The White Swan. He felt after a day spent listening to two old Solindish lordlings arguing who had more right to the new parcel of land—mostly in incomprehensible Solindish no matter how many times he requested Homanan—he deserved an evening's entertainment. But he made up his mind not to wager, only to while away the hours in a hospitable-tavern.
Or even an inhospitable tavern.
By now most of the regular patrons were accustomed to his presence. He still was not precisely welcomed, but neither was he greeted with hostile stares and crude comments. Now most of them shrugged and turned back to their games, leaving him to his own devices.
Unless Dar was present. But this time, for the first part of the evening, he was not, so Hart sat by himself at a table and drank ale, forgoing wine entirely.
The wine-girl, Oma, made a particular point of flashing the Homanan signet ring in his face whenever she could. Eventually he called her over and offered to buy it back, but she merely grinned and shook him off. She was too shrewd to give in so easily, and too pleased by the grim frustration she caused him. And so in the end he gave it up entirety, turning back to his ale, and lost himself in contemplation.
Until Dar came.
The Solindishman glittered with silver and sapphires at collar, cuffs, wrists, fingers and belt, ice against indigo velvet. The royal colors. Hart knew, and wondered if Dar had dressed for him in the spirit of the wager. But then he spoke, and Hart knew he had dressed for no man at all.
"I have been with Lisa," he said calmly, sitting down at the table without bothering to wait for an invitation. "A most sumptuous meal, and served by the lady herself." A raised finger brought Oma with a cup and his favorite wine. "She told me an interesting tale."
"Did she?" Hart drank ale.
Dar waited for Oma to pour his cup full, then waved her away. Over the rim of the cup he assessed Hart. He sipped thoughtfully, then thumped the cup down onto the table. "So, you thought to win her through frankness."
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