Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05

by A Pride of Princes (v1. 0)

  Kiri licked at his face. A cool nose nudged his neck and urged him desperately to rise. And then Hart and Brennan were lifting him, dragging him, as the world caught fire around them.

  "—not so far—" Hart gasped, wrenching one-handed Corin's left arm across his shoulders.

  "We will steal you from him yet." Brennan told Corin firmly.

  And even though they dragged his feet, Corin shut his mouth on complaints.

  Slowed by their burden. Hart and Brennan had more difficulty avoiding the Seker's grotesque mimicry of lir.

  None was especially mobile, being rock instead of flesh, but the advantage lay in being impervious to fumes and heat and flame. As Hart and Brennan slowed to negotiate the safest way with Corin, the monstrous creatures advanced.

  Corin shivered. "Cold," he said. "—cold—"

  Brennan's laugh was hoarse. "If only winter were this cold—"

  "Almost, rujho—" Brennan gasped, "—nearly through the defile—"

  "Look!" Hart exclaimed. "Look above the opening!"

  Brennan looked, saw the pristine line of white wings against the darkness, and laughed hoarsely. "Did you think Rael would leave?"

  "—so long—" Hart croaked.

  "Put me down—" Corin said. "Down—down—down—"

  "Almost there—" Brennan's throat burned. "Nearly through—"

  "Down!" Corin cried.

  They carried him through the narrow defile choked with steam and into a different world. This one too had suffered the presence of Ihlini, but here the damage was less extensive. Instead of stone there was soil, if thin and discolored in places. The trees were wracked by wind and whim, roots bared to the elements, but they were wood instead of stone, foliage in place of steam.

  In Strahan's lair, it had been summer. Here it was winter, and frost lay upon the ground,

  "That tree," Brennan rasped, and as they reached it carefully put Corin on the ground.

  Almost immediately he tried to crawl away from them, heading unerringly for the defile.

  "Corin—wait—' Hart caught an arm and was shocked at the rigidity of sinew beneath the flesh. "Corin—"

  "—go back—" Corin gasped, "—go back—the Seker—"

  More roughly than they intended, his brothers dragged him back and forced him into place.

  "Look at his eyes," Brennan said.

  Hart shook his head as he saw the shrunken pupils.

  "The poison is not wholly banished,"

  Corin tried to draw up his legs, but weakness and stiffness forbade it. "Gods—" he said, "—oh—gods—"

  "At least he calls on ours," Brennan said dryly. "Hold him down. Hart."

  "The farther from the Gate, the safer he will be."

  "No doubt. But we need to wrap his legs—"

  "We need to heal him," Hart said sharply. "But this close to Valgaard, I doubt we can summon the magic."

  Corin shuddered beneath their hands. "—burning—" he muttered. "—burning—"

  Above them, Rael shrieked in agitation.

  "Whole legs or broken, we go," Brennan said firmly; together they hoisted Corin up again.

  Distance closed the defile. With each step they left behind the field of smoke and stone, the brooding, glassy fortress and the Gate of the netherworld. Stars shone more brightly. The moon was freed from smoke and steam and painted a pathway for them.

  "—down—" Corin begged.

  "Not yet," Brennan told him through gritted teeth.

  "Not until we put more distance between you and Valgaard."

  "The Seker—the Seker—" Corin shuddered in their grasp.

  "Beat him off," Hart ordered succinctly. "Somewhere in that Homanan fleshed body is the Old Blood, Corin ... as much as in Brennan or me. Call on it. Use it—'

  He tripped, cursed, bit his lip against the pain in the stump of his arm.

  And then, abruptly, the lir-links came blazing back into life, and all of them cried out.

  "Down—" Brennan gasped, and they put Corin down as gently as they could. At once, Kiri pressed her muzzle into his throat. As Brennan opened his arms to Sleeta, he saw comprehension creep back into Corin's eyes.

  Even as his twin knelt to grasp Sleeta against his chest, Hart rose. He moved away from his brothers, clearing the tangle of arms and legs and lir, and thrust both arms into the air. From out of the darkness came the white hawk he called Rael.

  Lir—lir—oh, gods. Rael—Hart discovered an uncommon incoherence, even within the link. Rael—Rael—Rael—

  Shansu, the hawk soothed. Shansu, my lir . . . my proud, brave warrior. Do you see? Do you see? Hart appealed. The Ihiini has ruined me—

  Rael soared closer yet. I see strength and pride and an unrelenting determination to withstand the arts ofAsar-Suti.

  Ruined, lir—

  Shansu, the hawk soothed. Oh, lir, it has been so long—And he settled briefly, with infinite gentleness, on the handless, outthrust arm. He touched his hooked beak to Hart's shoulder, eyes alight, then lifted from flesh to seek the air again, saying nothing about Hart's tears.

  On the ground, Brennan's arms were filled with cat.

  Bare flesh felt the dry texture of her pelt, fingers touched protuding ribs beneath taut flesh, eyes sought the truth in her own.

  Sleeta, he began, intending to question her, and then put away words to lose himself in the renewal of the link.

  There was no need to ask her anything, all was present for him to discern through the thing that bound them. He knew fear and pain, anguish and anger, the pride that made her so strong.

  All is well, she said. All is well, lir.

  She was heavy, so heavy, though lacking her normal weight. Gently, she set her teeth against cheek and jaw and nibbled, more catlike than was common. One huge paw patted a thigh, the other kneaded a hip.

  "Leifhana tu'sai" Brennan whispered. And could not say if he intended the thanks for Sleeta or the gods.

  On the ground, Corin writhed. His bones were alive with fire.

  Lir, Kiri said, try harder to overcome it.

  He thrashed, and his legs spasmed. The Seker—he said. The Gate…

  Think of me instead.

  —burning— In the link, he felt her strength. Gods, Kiri—it burns—He hitched himself up on one arm, meaning to reach for her. Without warning, he vomited.

  Abruptly, Brennan and Hart discontinued greetings to lir and turned to their brother again.

  "We are too close," Hart said anxiously.

  "Then send Rael to seek out safety, some place we can settle him until this crisis passes." Brennan's tone was sharp. "There is no opportunity for us to heal him until we have found proper refuge."

  Instantly Hart went into the link. We need a place of safety, he said. Some place Strahan has no power to find us.

  Done. Rael said, and soared eastward toward the Molon Pass.

  "Shansu," Brennan told Corin. "I promise, rujho, Strahan will not win."

  Hart felt Corin's brow. "Nor his malodorous god."

  Corin's breathing was labored. "I thought if I made myself vomit the blood ... I could win . . . could overcome the power—" He grimaced from unseen pain, baring teeth shut tightly. "Strahan wanted you so badly . . . I thought if I acted like he had won, if I tricked him, I could find a means to escape—" His head thrashed against the earth until Brennan trapped it and held it still. "I knew if I drank again, I would be truly lost—" Teeth bit into bottom lip. "I needed to know a way out ... I let him think he had won, so he would show me—show me a hidden exit—" He spasmed. "Oh, gods, it hurts!"

  "Hold your silence," Brennan told him gently, "There will be time for this later."

  Corin's eyes were transfixed on Brennan's face. "But—you have to know ... I do love Aileen!" His mouth warped into a rigid rictus of pain. "I do want her, Brennan . . . Strahan found my weakness."

  "And uncovered your strength." Brennan's face was stark, though his tone reflected none of it. "There are things all of us want. Corin, even against our wil
ls. Much of Strahan's power is that which we give him ... he lets us make our own guilt, instead of forcing it on us."

  "And I did want the Lion. .. long as I can remember—"

  "Corin." Brennan bent close. "I swear, it does not matter. Do you think I could hate you for it after what you have done for us?"

  “I could." Corin tried to smile. "In your place, I could. But now—now, I think ... I think there will be no place for me—"

  Hart caught his rigid hand. "Do not give in now.'"

  "So tired," Corin murmured.

  Lir, Sleeta said sharply. The man.

  Brennan looked up quickly. And then gaped in astonishment. “jehan—?"

  Hart twisted to look. Like Brennan's, his face reflected shock. And then he expelled a breath, laughing a little.

  "Not jehan, Brennan . . . Carrion's bastard son. The deaf-mute."

  "Carollan," Brennan breathed. "By the gods, I had forgotten he lived in Solinde."

  Carollan approached at a jog. He was, like their father, a big man, tall and strongly built, though now age stole flexibility and fluidity of movement. His hair was gray, bound back into a clubbed braid. Unlike Niall, he still had two eyes of unwavering blue. Both were fixed on Corin.

  He knelt as Hart and Brennan moved aside. His hands were infinitely gentle as he examined eyes, mouth, ears, wiping away the trickles of discolored blood.

  "Jehan—?" Corin's head rolled weakly from side to side, until Carollan stilled it. "Jehan . . . has Strahan given you back your eye?"

  The large hands were soothing. Carefully Carollan scooped Corin up, settled him against a broad chest and started back the way he had come.

  Hart and Brennan did not hesitate, but fell in to flank him on either side. With them went the lir.

  Six

  He was white-haired, but oddly youthful. There was no age in his face, none at all, though the expression in sky-blue eyes told of things seen in ages past as well as anticipating all the days of the future. He tended Corin with endless patience and gentleness, though he required Carollan's aid because of his ruined hands. Quietly courteous, he turned aside anxious queries from Brennan and Hart and gave all his attention to the youngest of Niall’s sons. And at last. Hart and Brennan subsided into a forced, rigid patience.

  Taliesin. They knew him well enough, though neither had met the man. More than man, at that: Ihhni, once servant of the Seker, harper to Tynstar himself, Strahan's father, and later to the son. Taliesin of the Ihhni, who lived apart from everyone save Carillon's bastard son.

  Hart looked at the harper's hands. Such wracked, twisted things, incapable of functioning normally. There were some small things Taliesin could do, but more intricate chores called for straight, flexible fingers and hands with unknotted bones. Once he had made music for Solindish kings and queens and sorcerers; now he saved a Homanan king's Cheysuli son from death.

  He looked at the stump of his wrist. How he hated the absence of his hand, the lack of fingers, thumb, palm; knowing the lack sentenced him to a life apart from his people. Slowly he sat back in the chair and scratched absently at his scalp, taking solace in Rael's presence upon the chair back, and yet knowing the lir-link was forever tarnished by his inability to fly. The lack of a hand, translated out of human mass into raptor's, meant the lack of too much wing; short hops, perhaps, would be possible, but to resemble chicken instead of hawk—

  Hart shut his eyes. He was so weary, so diminished by reaction ... he needed rest badly, and solid food, and an escape from worry and fear.

  A hand touched his arm. His eyes snapped open and he looked up at Brennan, who tried to smile encouragement and failed. By Brennan’s face he knew his own; too pale, too gaunt, too dirty. And the eyes, though yellow instead of blue, were full of memories and more than a trace of confusion.

  Strahan has touched us all— Hart sat more upright, then leaned forward as Brennan moved back to the pallet on which Corin lay. Taliesin had made it clear he required none of their help—Caro was enough, he said—but still they could not keep themselves from returning time and again to the pallet. To stare down helplessly at the one who had done most to thwart the Seker and the Ihlini, and all the while they had believed him traitor to their race,

  Taliesin sighed, brushed back a strand of fine white hair, and turned to look at them both. Caro still knelt at Corin's side, unable to hear what was said; unable to speak of it if he could. "He will recover," the harper told them. "He started it himself, by forcing himself to vomit . . . the draught I have administered will ease the burning in his blood until it passes normally. It is a side-effect of drinking the Seker's blood; I experienced it myself.

  He is lucky he drank only one goblet, or we would be hard-pressed to win him away from Strahan." He sighed.

  "As for the legs, well, time will heal them of its own accord, but time is not a luxury any of you may lay claim to." He rose and slipped ruined hands inside the wide sleeves of his blue robe. "If I thought you would go without him, I would send you on to Homana-Mujhar."

  "Why?" Brennan asked sharply. "Is something wrong in Mujhara?"

  The harper sought and found a seat on a stool, settling himself with a calmness that belied the intent of his words. "Nothing that your return cannot help put to rights, although it will not settle things entirely. Your cousin has done too much harm in your absence. There is unrest in the clans."

  "Cousin?" Hart frowned. "Teirnan? Why? What has Teir done?"

  With feeling, Brennan swore. "He meant it, then, the fool."

  "Meant what?" Hart scowled at his brother. "Enlighten me, rujho."

  Brennan made an impatient gesture. "He swore to renounce the prophecy because he refuses to acknowledge that some day Cheysuli and Ihlini must coexist, cohabit, in order to merge the bloodlines."

  "Aye, well, I am not so fond of that idea, either. But—to renounce the prophecy?" Hart shook his head. "Teir is too quick to act sometimes, but to turn his back on what gives our lives meaning? I think not."

  "I think aye," Taliesin said gently. "He has done it, Hart. I hear little enough here in Solinde, and rumor is often blown out of proportion, but some truth leaks through. And you must recall that in Solinde, the people are willing enough to hear words of Homanan trouble."

  "Which are?" Brennan prodded.

  "That Teirnan has withdrawn from his clan," Taliesin answered. "He has struck his pavilion and formally petitioned the shar tahl to remove his rune-sign from the birthlines." So calmly he spoke of things Cheysuli. "He has gathered other malcontents and together they have gone from clan to clan, all across Homana, to win warriors to the cause of the a'saii."

  "Idiocy!" Hart's startled disbelief was manifest. "What does he think to do?"

  "What he hopes to do is fracture the Cheysuli into separate factions, those dedicated to the prophecy and those who are newly turned against it." Taliesin shrugged.

  "Niall has done as I expected, once I had told him the truth of things. No longer could he—and Ian—believe implicitly in Ihlini evil, when only a portion of us worship Asar-Suti. They have acknowledged that we are not so bad after all, most of us, and that perhaps it would aot be impossible to believe a Cheysuli could lie down with an Ihlini and bear children with all the required blood."

  In his eyes was serenity, though his words were heresy.

  "Some of you already have begotten children on Ihlini."

  "But not Firstborn." Brennan's tone was taut. "And not willingly."

  "You lay with Rhiannon willingly enough," Taliesin retorted gently, "though, admittedly, you were unaware of her heritage."

  "And so are we to believe the Firstborn will result from trickery?" Brennan shook his head. "I am not Teir, harper, but I find it impossible to believe the day will come when Cheysuli and Ihlini can live in peace."

  "Or lie down with one another?" Smiling, Taliesin shrugged. "The gods are not fools, Brennan . . . they arrange things deftly and with surpassing subterfuge, when it is required. I give you a prophecy of my own." His
eyes were very distant. "There will come a day when a prince of the House of Homana takes to wife an Ihlini woman, born of Asar-Suti—"

  "No." In unison.

  "—and from that willing union will come the child known as the Firstborn, the boy who will one day rule."

  "And this is what Teirnan fights," Hart said grimly. "I begin to understand."

  "And will you join with him?" the harper asked. "Or take up your part in the prophecy?"

  Hart shook his head. "I have no part. I am the middle son, unpromised to House or princess." Briefly, he glanced at Brennan. "Once I was Prince of Solinde. Once I was a warrior." He displayed the stump of his wrist. "Now I am a man without a clan."

  "And Solinde a realm without a king." Taliesin's smile was inexpressibly gentle. "Whatever you may think of me because I am Ihlini, I hope you will also realize that I am a man who loves his country. The House of Solinde is in descent. It is time for a new House, built on strong, proud rootstock. Yours would do, I think."

  "I am Cheysuli—" But Hart stopped short.

  "You are many things," Taliesin told him gently, "and all of them of incalculable value."

  Brennan saw mute, bitter protest rising in Hart's eyes and moved to make the explanation himself, knowing it was too painful for his brother. "Taliesin—I think you misunderstand. We were taught, in childhood, all Cheysuli traditions. All the customs, rituals, beliefs." He scrubbed wearily at his forehead. "One custom, cruel as it may sound, is that a warrior stripped by physical dismember-ment or permanent handicap of his ability to perform a warrior's duties voluntarily leaves his clan. He is—"

  "—kin-wrecked." Hart's clipped interruption stopped Brennan dead. "It is not so heavy a sentence as the death-ritual, perhaps, requiring no forfeiture of life—" his tone was bitterly ironic, "—but what he does forfeit is his clan. His kin, unless they choose to accompany him."

  Hart shrugged one shoulder in eloquent acknowledgment of his plight. "I can hardly expect the Mujnar and everyone else of the House of Homana to follow me into self-exile."