Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05

by A Pride of Princes (v1. 0)

  "I thought to be frank with her for the sake of honesty and honor, not because of the wager," Hart said quietly. "Let us end it, Dar. It is a travesty. It is unfair to Lisa and Solinde."

  Dar did not smile. "Then declare it a forfeit. Go home to Homana in the morning, and do not come back again."

  Hart matched him stare for stare. "You know I cannot."

  "I know you should . . . and, one day soon, you will. When I have won."

  "You are so certain of her, then?"

  Dar smiled. "What choice is there, shapechanger? She wants me to live—she told me so herself—so she will not choose you. She would prefer Solinde remain Solindish; again, so she will not choose you. She would prefer a man she knows as Consort, so she will not choose one of the other lords." He drank again, then leaned forward intently. "She will name my name, shapechanger. Be certain of it."

  Hart smiled. "Then why are you so uncertain?" His smile widened as Dar's lids flickered. "No matter what she may have said to you tonight, you still are not sure. You still have doubts. You know there is a good chance she may choose me after all."

  "Lisa will do what is right for Solinde."

  "She will do what is best for all concerned," Hart poured more ale into his cup. "It is how such decisions are made; one weighs all issues, and then one decides which best serves all involved." It was what he had done with the old lords and their river dispute, though he could offer nothing until the Seal was recovered.

  Dar said nothing for a long moment, then shouted for Oma to bring the Bezat bowl. But Hart shook his head as the stones were offered.

  "No?" Dar's sandy brows lifted. "You say no?"

  "I say no." Hart drank ale. "The game begins to pall, Dar ... I will pass."

  Dar slapped his belt-purse down on the table. Red gold chimed.

  Hart smiled. "No."

  Dar stripped his fingers and wrists of gem-studded silver.

  Still Hart smiled. "No."

  "What do you want?" the Solindishman asked. "The Seal is already wagered." He smiled suddenly. "The stallion. You want to win back the stallion Lisa gave you."

  Slowly Hart shook his head.

  Dar's brown eyes narrowed. "Then what?"

  "To watch you squirm," Hart said softly, "and now I have seen it without wagering even a silver penny." He pushed his stool back, scraping it against hardwood, and rang down a red coin on the table to pay for his ale.

  "You will lose, Dar. Lisa. Solinde. Your life. Because I have learned when to stop, and you have not even begun."

  Dar rose abruptly. "Shapechanger—"

  "Cheysuli," Hart said gently, and walked quietly out of the tavern.

  He was in a private room adjoining his bedchamber, slumped in a chair and lost in thought, when a servant knocked at his door. He considered ignoring the knock, then gave it up and went to the door.

  "My lord." Not a servant at all, but Tarron. "My lord, a message has come from the Lady Lisa. She requests your presence at once." He paused. "I know the messenger; the summons is genuine."

  "Now?" It struck him as odd she would send a message at night, though it was not late.

  "Aye, my lord." Although perfectly polite, the tone in Tarron's voice told Hart the regent thought it just as unusual. "The message is that a decision has been made, and she would have you and Dar of High Crags know it at once so the travesty may be ended." Tarron frowned. "My lord—"

  Hart raised a silencing hand. "Do not ask, regent. When I return, you will have your answer. It may please you—or it may not." He chewed his bottom lip a moment, thinking deeply. "Tell her messenger I will come at once."

  "Aye, my lord." But still Tarron lingered. "If there is anything you wish to confide in me, be certain I will hold it in strictest confidence."

  Hart smiled. "I trust you, Tarron. But this is between a man and a woman—no, between men and a woman—and until I know the lady's answer, there is no sense in confiding anything. When I can, I shall,"

  The regent inclined his head. "Aye, my lord. Of course."

  And he was gone.

  Hart shut the door and turned to look at Rael, perched on his now-empty chair. "Well? Do I dress to celebrate, or to exile myself from yet another realm?"

  If you delay to change your clothing, she may change her mind.

  Hart grinned, "Aye. And if she has chosen in my favor, I would do well not to give her that chance." He nodded thoughtfully and opened the door again. "We go, lir . . . to gain a cheysula, or lose a realm."

  He thought of Brennan as he ordered a horse saddled and brought. No doubt his rujho would compliment him on his decision to take a cheysula, even if it was not his decision at all. Brennan would tell him he was finally growing up, maturing, becoming the man he was meant to be.

  He sent a wry glance heavenward. Brennan would no doubt tell me I am only answering my tahlmorra.

  And perhaps you are. Rael, sounding insufferably smug, circled over the bailey as the horse was brought.

  Hart sighed and swung up, gathering reins hastily as the bay stallion stomped and snorted his displeasure at having his evening meal interrupted. Hart took a deeper seat and reined him in, calling his thanks to the groom, and went out of the bailey at a long-trot.

  Iron rang on stone as Hart guided the bay through the winding streets of Lestra. Lisa's dwelling was not far from the palace, but the journey took too long nonetheless; his belly was so twisted up he was afraid he might never be able to eat again. He could not begin to predict Lisa's decision, though he had been foolish enough to wager on it. And, the gods knew, wagered more than he could afford to lose.

  Much more, he thought hollowly as the shadows and torchlight played tag along the walls. Fool that I am, I should have known better. It is no wonder jehan banished me for a year; I have been gone but three months, and already I have risked a realm, myself . . . the prophecy.

  He gritted his teeth. Rael, what do I tell him if the wager is lost?

  The truth. Rael responded. No matter what the punishment, the loss of Solinde is worth it.

  It was not the comfort Hart sought. Disgruntled, he withdrew from the link altogether.

  One of Lisa's servants waited outside as Hart drew the stallion to a halt. He dismounted slowly, delaying the moment of truth, and handed over the reins. Rael perched himself upon the roof. No light showed from the house, for all the windows were shuttered against the night air.

  Hart drew in a breath so deep it made him light-headed, and then he knocked on the door.

  He was shown to a private receiving chamber warmed by a blazing fire and was offered wine, ale or usca. He declined all, too nervous to drink, and asked when the lady would present herself.

  "As soon as my lord of High Crags arrives, my lord," the servant answered, and bowed himself out.

  "Except the lord of High Crags is already present."

  Dar stepped out of a curtained antechamber. With him were six men, all in Solindish livery.

  Oddly, Hart felt relieved. At last the man had shown his true colors. "Where is Lisa?”

  "Lisa has gone to bed," Dar said quietly as one of his men moved to lock the door from the inside. "Lisa has done her part of this night's work by summoning you here; the rest is left to me."

  Hart nodded. "And what are your plans, Dar? To pack me off to Homana before the wager is settled?"

  Dar grinned and waved a casual forefinger. His men moved closer to Hart. "Which wager, shapechanger? The one between you and me—or the one I struck with Strahan?"

  That, Hart had not expected. He was unsurprised by the six men who clearly meant him no good, but he had not considered that Ihlini would enter into it. "What has Strahan to do with this?" he asked curtly, trying to ignore the tightening of his belly. "You are not Ihlini; Rael would have known it."

  "No, I am not Ihlini," Dar agreed. "But I am an ambitious man, as well as one desirous of winning favor with those in power, and Strahan offered me something I could not pass by. Of course, he couched it as a wager; he sai
d he did not believe I could do it. So now I have done it, and he will pay me my price." Dar grinned.

  "One way or another, the lady will be mine."

  Hart felt strangely relaxed. There were no Ihlini in the room, and Rael was on the roof; Although the windows were shuttered against his entry, his closeness still lent Hart all the power he needed to assume lir-shape. Dar had badly underestimated his enemy.

  "Dar-"

  But he was given no chance to finish his sentence. Six men laid hands on him, and none were gentle.

  "Bring him here." Dar indicated the ironwood table.

  Hart resisted, but six to one were not good odds.

  "Dar, it is easy enough to trap a man, but not so easy to trap a hawk—"

  "Draw your sword." Dar ignored Hart altogether, speaking to one of the men. The Solindishman did so, waiting attentively.

  Rael— Triggering the link, Hart drew on the magic in his blood.

  "Hold him," Dar said. "Stretch out his left arm so the flat of his hand is on the wood. Quickly Hart tapped the power.

  Smoothly, Dar drew his knife and stabbed it through the splayed hand, pinning it to the table. "There," he said. "Shapechange now, shapechanger."

  Pain burst in his hand and set the world afire. Too shocked to do anything more than gape, Hart knew the shapechange was banished. As he had so clearly told Lisa, a man in extremity lacked the required concentration.

  Dar's eyes were dilated black. “Once you told me you would sooner wager your left hand than your lir, shapechanger. Well, you have lost the wager. And now you have lost the hand." He signaled the man with the sword.

  "Hack it off. Now."

  The blow was swift and very clean, slicing through flesh and bone to stop short in the ironwood. And pain-less, so stunned was Hart. Standing only by dint of the men who held him up, he stared at the arm that now ended at his wrist.

  Rael—Rael—RAEL-

  Dar made a moue of distaste. "So much blood," he said. And then he himself fetched the iron from the fire and slapped white-hot tip against stump.

  Hart meant to scream. But it died acoming as he collapsed into the arms of Dar's men.

  Interlude

  Lillith looked down on her brother. Strahan knelt on one knee at the rim of the vent, at the edge of the Gate itself.

  One hand was outthrust, palm down, as if he intended to summon Asar-Suti himself. As perhaps he did; white flame licked up, touched, curled around the fingers, gloved his hand entirely, then deepened to lilac, to lavender, to deepest lurid purple. In its reflection, Strahan smiled his beautiful, deadly smile.

  She saw a tendril of flame slip beneath the cuff of his doublet, beneath the white edge of his linen shirt. Where it went she could not follow, for it cloaked itself in his clothing; then, abruptly, it blossomed at his collar, caressed the flesh of his neck, touched a gentle fingertip to the sharp-edged line of his jaw.

  Still Strahan smiled. Even she no longer smiled, but he was lost to her utterly, caught up in eerie intercourse with the god of the netherworld, who made and dwells in darkness. Still he knelt, smiling, as the flame flowed out of the Gate to his hand, then upward to his neck, and began to lap at his face.

  Strahan's lips parted. A thin, tensile wire of flame touched, withdrew, touched again, then flowed up to shape his mouth into something more than flesh. Emboldened, more tendrils appeared, and within a matter of moments Strahan's face was alive with a webwork of fragile purple lace. It overlay his features, shaping them into those of another man—or into the god himself.

  "Strahan—" But Lillith stopped herself. It was not her place to remonstrate with her brother, who was the god's own chosen. It was her place only to serve, accepting all that was asked, offering whatever she could,

  Strahan laughed. He was ablaze with delicate fire, and yet fabric and flesh was untouched. Kneeling, he was an incongruous torch; laughing, he was far more than merely human, even by sorcerous standards.

  And then, abruptly, the webwork came undone. Tendrils withdrew, untying knots; untied, the knots fell into disarray. Within moments Strahan was merely Strahan, and the god was gone from him.

  He shut his eyes and released a shuddering breath of deep satisfaction, as if he had lain with a woman. Head bowed, he made his obeisance to the god, and then he rose to face his sister across the glowing Gate.

  "Done," he said. "Dar has won his wager."

  "One you are pleased to lose." Lillith sighed herself; he seemed perfectly normal again. "And the woman? Will you pay his .price?"

  Strahan smiled. "Dar is an overly ambitious man with overweening pride. One day he and his pride will stumble over those ambitions, and he will fall."

  It was not precisely the answer she wanted; perhaps he was still caught in the thrall of the god, speaking of things she could not know. "How will you break this one?"

  Strahan shrugged. "I think it is already done, or very nearly so. The Cheysuli can be a hard, seemingly heartless race, even with their own; the clans require whole men as warriors, unmaimed—whole in flesh as well as spirit—in order to maintain the viability of the race.

  Much like animals, they cull the pack of the weakest in order to protect the rest." Again he shrugged. "Perhaps they have the right of it; I have no use for the weak."

  Lillith, smiling secretly, thought it an understatement.

  "And how will you 'mend' this one?"

  Strahan laughed. "By offering him a reason to live again. Service to me can make him whole, though not in the way he might wish. But by then it will not matter—he will be too firmly bound."

  Deftly she smoothed the velvet of her skirts. "Only one—the youngest—remains. It is time I went to Atvia."

  Strahan looked at her, but she knew he did not see her. "Safe journey," he said only, then knelt again at the edge of the Gate.

  PART IV

  CORIN

  One

  Faster. Faster. Faster-

  He bent low in the saddle, low, so that the pommel ground into his belly and his cheek was pressed against the stallion's dampening neck. Whipping gray mane stung Corin's eyes until they teared; he found release in it, knowing he need not be ashamed of tears shed because of irritation to the eyes themselves, and not anguish of the heart.

  Faster—

  The world was a collage of green and blue, brown and gray, all blurred together by tears. He clutched leather reins and pushed them forward against the stallion's neck, giving him his head. On and on the blue roan ran, doing his rider's bidding.

  Beneath clamped legs fluid muscles bunched, rolled, stretched, tautened, fed by the pumping of the stallion's great heart. Corin tasted dirt and horsehair; smelled the acrid tang of sweat and wet blankets. In his ears was the song of a winded horse; the rhythmic pounding beat of iron-shod hooves against hard-packed road. In his heart was anguish.

  Oh, gods—forbidden my home for a year— And he squeezed the stallion yet again with legging-clad legs, urging him faster yet.

  You will kill the horse.

  For a moment Corin did not recognize Kiri's tone. He was so caught up in the sound and rhythm of the horse and the weight of his own pain that he had neglected to think of the vixen.

  He turned his head against damp horsehair and peered over his shoulder. Far behind, in the sienna-colored dust of his passing, he saw the rich red flash of his lir.

  If not the horse, you will kill me.

  That stopped him as nothing else could. Corin sat upright in the saddle, gathering reins, and eased the stallion down- Slowly, carefully; for all he was angry and hurt and frightened, he had no wish to ruin the roan.

  If he had not already.

  Slowly. Slowly. From gallop to canter, canter to trot, trot to winded walk, head dropped, nostrils sucking and blowing great gulps of air as the stallion tried to answer the demand of his heaving lungs. Guiltily Corin freed his right foot from the stirrup and swung it over the roan's damp, blue-washed rump, letting his weight linger briefly in the left stirrup and against his th
igh. He did not halt the stallion but let him walk on, knowing the roan needed careful tending if he was to recover completely.

  Corin dropped off and kept moving, dragging reins free of the dangling head to lead the horse onward.

  Sweat ran down the roan's face. Lather flecked chest and flanks. He stumbled over hooves but newly-shod.

  Still walking, Corin half-turned and looked over a shoulder for Kiri. No longer did she run, trotting instead; he could see the brush of her black-tipped tail swinging behind her hocks. Closer now, he could see the glint of eyes in her mask, and the lolling of her tongue.

  Remorse surged up at once. Oh, lir, I am sorry. I should know better than to punish you.

  Save your apologies for the horse. I have a choice; he does not.

  Corin looked again at the roan stallion. He had served well and faithfully for three years, and was rewarded with thoughtless, cruel behavior. Walking on, not daring to stop until the stallion was cooler, Corin ran a soothing palm down the proud nose and promised him better treatment.

  Guilt clenched the wall of his belly yet again. It is no wonder jehan feels it necessary to punish me ... I give him reason enough.

  Then stop, the vixen suggested.

  "How?" Corin asked aloud, clearly frustrated. "There are times I grow so angry I cannot control myself, knowing only that I have been wronged. And when I try to explain, jehan will not listen."

  What is there to explain when your behavior has accounted for the lives of twenty-eight people—perhaps even more?

  The guilt rose higher in his belly, reaching out cruel fingers to grasp, twist, pinch. "That was Hart." He had meant it to defend and accuse all at once, but his tone was subdued instead, full of acknowledgment. Aye, twenty-eight people dead, probably more, all because he and Hart had insisted on going to the Midden, which was a place none of them frequented for a very good reason.

  Well, it had been Hart's idea.