His hand trembled, then spasmed. "Take it off—"
Lillith shook her head. "For now, I will leave it. It will be a reminder, so you do not forget who holds the power here." She turned from him and moved to the nearest chair, spreading blue skirts as she settled into black cushions. She did not seem to notice that he was transfixed by the silver cuff, unable to look at her. "I want you to understand very clearly how things are in Atvia."
"Lady, I do" He fisted his hand and thrust it into the air, displaying the shining shackle.
"Good." Lillith smiled. "I have no intention of robbing you of your birthright."
He frowned before he could hide it.
"No," she said, "why should I? You are Alaric's grandson, kin to Osric and Thorne and Keough, and all the lords before them. I would be a fool if I stripped Atvia of her rightful blood."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because it pleases me to be here." Lillith's tone was bland.
"As it pleased you to seduce a lirless Cheysuli?"
Black eyes glinted. "Does Ian dream of me?"
"No more than I will, Ihlini." He tried to ignore the silver on his wrist. But it was cold, so cold. "What is your purpose? Why do you stay with Alaric? If you speak the truth about my inheritance, you must know I will not want you here."
"By the time you inherit this realm, there will be no need for me here."
"Lillith—"
"We must speak of the future, Corin," she said quietly, overriding him easily. "Alaric is an old man. His wits fail. Atvia suffers from the lack of a strong hand at the helm. If something is not done, Atvia will fall to those who wish to conquer her and take her for their own."
He frowned. "Who would benefit from conquering Atvia? The realm owes fealty to Homana."
"Liam would take the island in a moment if he knew of Alaric's weakness. It has nothing to do with Homana; Atvia and Erinn have battled for years."
That he knew well enough. But he shook his head.
"No. I think Liam—"
"No." she said plainly, "you do not think. You know nothing of Liam at all, having met him only yesterday."
"My jehan—"
"Your father has not seen Liam in twenty-two years," Lillith said flatly. "And even then, he knew him as Prince of Erinn, not the lord himself. Power changes men. Power will change you." She spoke coolly, without excess emotion, expressing things the way his father might.
He found he did not like it; Lillith was enemy. "I will not waste my time trying to convince you Liam means Atvia harm," she continued. "You would never believe me. But I will say this: unless a strong man assumes the throne, Atvia will fall. If not to Liam, to someone else." She paused, and her tone was subdued. "There are other realms in the world besides those we know."
It was an odd statement. To Corin, the world was made up of a handful of realms: Homana, Solinde, Erinn, Atvia, Ellas, Falia, Caledon, and the Steppes. In childhood, he had learned a little of them all. There had been no others named.
"And you want me to assume the throne. Now. Ahead of time."
Lillith's shrug was eloquent. “Alaric's time draws short.”
"Then why precipitate it?"
"For the reasons I have given."
"No," he said flatly, "there must be something more."
He grasped the easorcelled silver with his left hand, sensing a disorienting ambience in addition to the icy touch, and tried to twist it off. But the silver was solid, inflexible, hugging his wrist as firmly as the tir-bands hugged his arms.
"It would serve you," she said. "Take the throne now, establish your claim . . . make certain Atvia understands you are the lord. Give the people no chance to be swayed by foreigners.”
Foreigners. Again she spoke of external threats. And yet, to his knowledge, there were no foreigners; the world was made of eight realms, those he had already named. Four of them were part of the prophecy.
But this was Lillith. "You are lying," he said curtly. "You are Ihuni, and you are lying, and I want no part of your plots."
"But Atvia is your responsibility, Corin."
She was so cool, so calm, so certain of her influence.
"Not yet," he answered firmly. "Alaric is lord until the day he dies, and I go home in seven months."
"Alaric will be dead within seven weeks," Lillith said gently. "Unless, of course, I should prefer it be seven days—or perhaps seven hours."
Corin swore, pushing himself from the chair. The silver was heavy on his wrist, heavy and cold, unneeded ballast for his spirit. "So help me, Ihlini, I will have you sent from Atvia now—"
Lillith also rose. They faced each other across a space no wider than five paces, knowing centuries of contention.
Corin frowned as he stared at her. He badly wanted to ask Kiri's advice, but their link was blocked by Lillith's nearness. "What do you want?" he asked. "What is it you want, Ihlini? My cooperation?—you know I will never give it. My departure?—on Alaric's death the realm is mine, regardless of where I am. But you stand here and tell me to reach out my hand and take the throne; you hint you will put Alaric out of my way. Collusion? No. I will never condone his death. And yet I wonder ... I wonder if I refuse it, if I go, does it serve some unknown Ihlini purpose? Do you tell me to stay, to take the throne, only because you know the asking will make me go?"
Lillith laughed. "Have I confused you, Corin? Do I show you the two-sided mirror?"
"You show me the perversity of your race," he retorted. "Do you think I will listen to you?"
"If I choose to speak, you will." Lillith gestured and the door flew open to slam against the wall. "Simple tricks," she told him derisively. "The old gods saw to it the Ihlini could not level most sorceries against their brother race, but some small powers remain."
"And Asar-Suti?" he asked. "Does he promise godhood in exchange for servitude?"
For a moment, a moment only, Lillith's color changed.
And then she smiled, smoothing her skirts, and gestured for him to go. "A servant will show you to your chambers."
There was little for the servant to do with Corin's shoulderpacks other than remove the contents and put them away in trunks and casks. Corin, watching in silence, realized there was little about him that denoted his rank. He had come away from Mujhara with few belongings; under the circumstances, he had not wanted to ride with a baggage train. Now he was dependent upon Alaric for such things as extra clothing, and he did not like it.
Had I thought about it, I might have planned more carefully, he told Kiri, and then flinched away from the interference in the link. Lillith's presence was everywhere in the castle, imbuing even the walls with the stink of sorcery. Outside, at greater distance, he had no doubt the link would be re-established, but within the walls of the castle he was cut off from his lir in everything save physical contact.
The servant bowed himself out. Corin, hardly noticing, went instantly to Kiri. He sat down on the bear pelt by the bed and gathered the vixen into his arms. She was warm, alive, affectionate, but he badly missed their interior dialogue, the link that gave him the ability to change his shape. He felt stripped of half his identity. "Gods, Kiri ... I am so alone."
As be bent down, she pressed her muzzle against his neck. He felt cold nose, warm breath; smelled her familiar musky scent. Bright amber eyes seemed to tell him all was well, but it served only to make him even more restless and ill at ease. Suddenly Kiri seemed no more than a tame fox, little more than a pet. It made him angry, resentful, uneasy; it robbed him of his sense of self, so important to the Cheysuli.
Is this what it was like for my jehan? Lirless all those years, despairing of ever knowing the magic of our race . . . Corin shivered once. Gods, I could not bear it. . . this is bad enough, and I know it is temporary.
Against her fur the silver wristlet gleamed. He felt his fingers curl, tighten, fist, until he wanted to smash it into the nearest wall. It did not matter that he would shatter delicate bones; he wanted only to rid himself of the shackle Lillith had put on him.
"No chain," he said aloud. "No chain, but this is more than enough."
He turned his hand over, baring the underside of his arm. The silver was seamless, displaying no joints; a solid ring of metal. Corin pulled his knife, slid the tip of the blade beneath the cuff and tentatively pried. The shackle was very snug, leaving no room for the blade. Steel scraped on silver; a subtle stinging told him he sliced hair instead of metal.
The door swung open.
Corin, seated on the floor with Kiri in his lap and the knife in his hand, prepared to send the servant away. But when he looked up, scowling, he saw plainly the woman was not a servant at all.
Cheysuli was the first word that came to his mind. And then another: jehana.
Corin said it aloud. And then, awkwardly, he sheathed the knife and rose, turning Kiri out of his lap.
He had, he thought, prepared himself for the meeting.
On the voyage from Hondarth he had, every night in his bunk, carefully considered what he would say and do when he saw Gisella. But now, seeing her, he could do nothing at all.
"Which one are you?" she asked. "Which son does he send?"
For a moment his tongue was locked in silence. Having heard of Gisella's madness from his father, his uncle and others, he had reconciled himself to incoherence, wandering wits, perhaps even tantrums. But not such clarity. Never such conciseness.
"Corin," he said hoarsely. "Third-born of his children."
"Mine, too," Gisella said. "Mine, too, Corin."
He drew in an unsteady breath. He was accustomed to his father's disfigured face, even beneath the patch; to the wear derived from worry and the experiences of his past. And somehow Corin had unknowingly transferred much of it to Gisella, expecting to see identical signs in her flesh. But there were none.
At thirty-nine she did not share the same uncanny youthfulness as Lillith, but she was not what Corin expected. She was, plainly, Cheysuli; the Atvian was unseen. Black hair was pulled back from her face, displaying the widow's peak that lent her features an odd elegance.
There was no hint of silver, no trace of age in her coiled braids. Her flesh was taut and dark, untined except for a delicate tracery at the edges of yellow eyes. Most striking of all, having borne two sets of twins, she retained the slendemess inherent in Cheysuli women. And she certainly claimed the posture.
Corin and Keely were Niall; now he saw Brennan and Hart.
"Jehana," he said again, and wished that he had not.
"Jehana," she mimicked, shutting the door behind her."Aye, I am your jehana. Gisella of Atvia; Gisella, Queen of Homana."
"Aye," he said carefully, wary of her mood.
"I have ordered the packing begun."
He blinked. "Packing?" He felt a fool, cursing himself for his inability to say more than a single word.
Gisella smiled. "It is time I was a wife to my husband again."
"Wife—" He stopped himself, drew in a deep breath, tried to keep his tone uninflected. "There is no place for you in Homana."
"Then I will make one." Yellow eyes glittered a moment; he was reminded of Brennan and Ian. Of a predator stalking its prey. Gisella, watching him, laughed.
"They told you I was mad."
Corin was foundering quickly. "Aye," he said plainly at last, giving up on diplomacy.
"Do you think I am mad?"
She waited expectantly, clearly unoffended by the possibility he might say he believed she was. He wondered what he would say if it were given out that he was mad.
"All I know." he said slowly, "is that you tried to give all of us to Strahan."
"Is that proof of madness?" Gisella asked. "It was not what Niall wanted, nor any of the Cheysuli, but it hardly makes me mad. It makes me an enemy."
"Are you?" He stared at her. "Are you an enemy?"
"Would I give you to Strahan now?" She laughed. "Oh, no, no. That time is passed. I would rather keep you."
That pleased Corin no better; he pictured himself a lapdog on her leash. Or a dogfox in a cage. He looked at Kiri uneasily, wishing they could converse.
Gisella moved into the room almost idly, playing with the girdle that clasped slender hips and spilled down the front of her skirts. She wore red, deep, rich red, and rubies set in silver. “That time is passed," she repeated. "The time now is for me to stand at Niall's side ... to share my husband's bed." She turned abruptly, catching him off-guard. "To send that whore from my place."
Anger rose instantly. "Deirdre is my jehana. You will not call her a whore."
He had never, to anyone, claimed Deirdre was his mother. From childhood it had been made plain that Deirdre was mother in blood only to Maeve; that she was not cheysula, but meijha, not queen, but beloved of the Mujhar. The lines of descent were too important for dissembling or convenience, even among the Cheysuli; all of Niall’s children knew Gisella was their mother. But he would not claim her now.
"Whore," Gisella said sweetly. “Meijha, then, if you like. It changes nothing. I am Queen of Homana. I am Niall’s wife. I am mother to his children, and I intend to assume my place."
"He will never have you." He was adamant in his certainty.
"Homanan law will make him." Gisella's eyes were on Kiri, "I will go before the Homanan Council and I will plead my case." Her voice was quiet and even. "I am the forgotten wife, the forgotten Queen, conveniently pushed aside in the name of Niall's lust. I bore him four healthy children—three of which are sons—and I have borne exile meekly, with no thought to disagree." Her eyes were eerily feral. "But now I weary of such treatment. I desire better. I desire the place to which I am entitled, the privileges of my rank, the respect and honor of my husband." Her lids half-shuttered her eyes, but he saw the yellow glint. "I desire to know the love of all my children."
"Get out." He was shaking. "Get out of my room. Go. I want nothing to do with you—"
"But you do." Gisella stood before him. "You do, Corin. You want to love me. You want to have me love you in return. You want a mother, a jehana. You want a cheysula for your jehan. You want things to be right in your world, so you can feel good again. You want to know that all those years were not wasted; that indeed, your mother loves you. And would have loved you better, had your father allowed it. Had he not sent me away for the sake of an Erinnish princess."
"You would have given me to Strahan—"
"What other choice did I have?" Her shout stopped him cold. "What choice, Corin? Lillith raised me. Lillith shaped me. Lillith told me to."
"Lillith is Ihlini," he said tightly. "What did you expect?"
"I expected—and received—love," Gisella told him. "It was what she gave me. It was what my father gave me. In the name of that love, I did what I was told."
"To Strahan—"
Gisella looked away. "I was confused," she said softly. "Confused, afraid—so afraid." She crumpled the silver girdle so that the links bit into her flesh. "I did what I was told."
Corin stared at her for a long, stricken moment. And then he backed away. Hugging himself, he backed away, Knowing himself as confused.
And perhaps equally afraid.
"Go." He stared at the floor. "Just—go."
She went. He heard the chime of silver links, the rattle of clashing rubies, the swish of heavy skirts. He heard the door thud closed. And then he was alone.
Alone with the wondering.
Six
Alaric of Atvia was indeed an old man, though Corin could not venture how old. A few years more than sixty, he knew, and yet he seemed much older. His hair was white. His frame was wracked with palsy. When Corin compared him to Liam, but fourteen years Alaric's junior, the contrast was astonishing.
And somehow frightening.
He had been called to attend his grandsire in one of the massive halls. He had gone immediately, in deference to the courtesy Deirdre and Niall had taught him, but he did not like it. And now, facing the man, he liked it even less.
The old man, the old king, was a pile of bones in
an oversized chair. Rich cloth adorned the bones, but it did not hide the fragility of his flesh or the brittleness of his spirit. The loss of many teeth altered the line of mouth and jaw. The flesh over the nose had thinned so that it was little more than a blade-thin beak jutting out of a hollowed face. His brown eyes were rheumy, nearly swallowed by drooping lids, and he stank of insidious decay.
One hand stabbed out peremptorily, indicating a place before the throne. "Here!"
Uneasily, Corin approached. Even with Kiri warding one teg, he wanted to take his leave.
"Here!"
Corin stopped before the throne. The hand with its rigid finger was little more than thinning hide stretched over bone. He could see dark, mottled blemishes and knotted sinews beneath the flesh.
"Here." The hand was lowered at last.
Corin waited. He could think of nothing to say, of nothing to do, other than to force himself not to stare.
And so he looked at Alaric's feet, wishing himself anywhere but where he was.
"Gisella says you are my grandson."
"Aye."
"Look at me, boy! Tell me what you see!"
Startled by the thready shout, Corin looked at the man. "My lord?"
" ‘My lord,' " Alaric mimicked. " 'My lord' indeed! Tell me what you see!”
Corin's short-lived courtesy vanished; he did not like this man. "I see death," he snapped. "Death, decay, disillusionment, and the destruction of a man."
"Tell me what you see!"
"An old man,” Corin cried. "The man who killed his cheysula ... the man who destroyed his daughter . . . the man who lay with an Ihlini witch in exchange for petty power!"
"What power?" Alaric demanded. "What power do I hold? Atvia? No. Sorcery? No. The control of my wits and body?—no! Lillith has stolen them all.”
Corin frowned. This was not what he had expected.
Alaric had always worked with Lillith, trying to shape the downfall of Homana. "You reap what you sow," he said shortly.
Alaric laughed, although the sound was unlike any Corin had ever heard. And the tears ran out of his eyes.
"The seed of my destruction was sown so many years ago," he said. "More than forty, when Lillith first came to Atvia."
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