Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05

by A Pride of Princes (v1. 0)

  He bent over and tugged off his boots, one by one, welcoming the activity. And then, distracted, he looked at his sister in startled comprehension. "Oh, gods, Keely-one-handed. Hart cannot even do this!"

  Keely turned her face against his shoulder in unspoken grief for lost hands and lost brothers, not knowing, for her, which was worse, or would be.

  Hart pushed open his chamber door, leaned against it in weary numbness, at last moved aside and shut it. As always, he looked for Rael. As always, the hawk was on his perch, wings folded, perfectly groomed, content to wait in silence.

  He sighed. He wandered aimlessly to the bed, sat down on the edge, stared blankly at the floor. He wondered vaguely if he was ill; depression was foreign to him.

  "Gods," he said aloud; it seemed a most eloquent comment. Wearily he bent forward, reached to grab his boots, realized abruptly he no longer had the freedom to undress himself at his leisure.

  It stunned him. But then for longer than he could remember, he had not been required to change clothing or boots. In Valgaard, there had been no need, and there had been no time on the journey from Taliesin's cottage to Mujhara except to dip head in a bucket and scrub face and hands—hand—clean.

  Hart stared at his boot. At his hand. And at the hand that no longer existed. "Gods—" he said; he choked, and covered his head with his arms.

  "Let me," the woman said, and he jerked arms away in shock.

  Lisa. He gaped at her like a fool.

  Lisa. In his room.

  "Let me," she repeated, and knelt to remove his boot.

  Awkwardly, Hart scrambled away. He found himself standing some ten feet from her, still staring, still made mute by her presence; filled with abject humiliation, that she had seen his helplessness.

  And then anger began to replace it. "Go." he said curtly.

  Lisa rose. The incandescence of her beauty had not faded, and he felt renewed astonishment at the magnitude of it. "Hart," she said, "it does not matter to me."

  He was shaking. "You knew."

  "Dar told me what he had done." She was pale as death. "He thought I would approve."

  "And you did not?"

  "I was appalled." Her tone was even. At first he thought she spoke by rote, not caring what she said; beneath the tone he sensed a wire stretched to breaking.

  "I swear, I did not know what he intended. I did not know he would go so far."

  "But you did not tell the Mujhar." He recalled too clearly his father's shock.

  Even her lips were pale. "I could not find the words. Not after I learned how he lost his eye. To tell him his son had also been maimed by Ihlini treachery—?" White-faced, Lisa shook her head. "I could not do it. I thought it better left to you."

  He thought again of Dar. "You were in the house."

  As he intended, his tone accused.

  Lisa drew in a breath. Slender fingers shredded the gray-blue silk of her gown. "Dar came," she said. "We drank wine. We spoke of you. I told him I wanted no harm to come to you, nor to him, nor to Solinde. And he laughed, and said it would not; that the wager was merely a game." Her tone wavered minutely; she steadied it and went on. "I looked into his eyes, and knew he lied to me. But by then it was too late. The wine was drugged. I—slept." Color touched her cheeks; the glacial eyes were angry. "In the morning, he came in triumph, saying the enemy was removed. And he told me what he had done."

  Hart longed to believe her. "Did he tell you all of it?"

  "Aye." She did not look away as he displayed the handless arm before her. "He told me quite clearly, in his perversity, knowing I would be sickened, and seeking pleasure from it." Lisa drew in a trembling breath. "I swear, I swear, I had nothing to do with it."

  His eyes narrowed. "Why are you here? What did you tell my jehan so he would let you stay?"

  Her eyes were startled. "The truth. That I desire you to come home."

  "Home?"

  Fingers twitched in a gesture of arrested acknowledge-ment. "To Solinde," she amended.

  He nodded grimly. "Dar should like that."

  "Dar should not," she said quietly, "knowing he will be executed,"

  That startled him out of his bitterness. He stared at her and saw the grief in her eyes, that she tried to hide and could not. "I am not dead. It was a hand, not my head."

  And he knew, as he said it, the first seeds Taliesin had so carefully planted were beginning to take root.

  "It was treason," she said steadily. "He attacked the Prince of Solinde and otherwise threatened his person. I had no other choice but to petition the regent for Dar's arrest, and I did so immediately." She paused awkwardly.

  "It is for you to give the order, when the trial is completed."

  "Me?"

  "You are the Prince of Solinde."

  He did not deny it. "Why a trial, Lisa? So that others might argue in Dar's behalf? I should think the Solindish might prefer to be rid of me, regardless of circumstances."

  "Some, aye," she agreed, "but not all,"

  "What of you?" he asked. "What of the last of Bellam's line?"

  Lisa drew in a breath. "I came here to bring you home—" quickly, she caught herself, "—to Solinde. I came to tell you that we are in need of a prince of the blood." Her smile was slight, but wry. "A prince not entirely of our blood, perhaps, but there is some. Electra was your kinswoman as well as mine, though we tend to overlook it; I am not the sole bearer of the blood of Bellam's House. It should, in the end, please those who argue against you." Briefly, Lisa looked down at closed hands, "I came here to tell you I had chosen even before Dar arrived—it was why I sent the messenger—and that you were the one L chose."

  "Did you?" It was rhetorical; he was not certain he believed her.

  "Aye," she told him evenly, and held out her closed right hand.

  After a moment, he accepted what she gave him. Heavy rings chimed. He looked down at the Third Seal. At the Second, which Tarron had held. And the First, that had been in Niall's keeping.

  "The Trey," Lisa said.

  "I know what it is." He felt empty, "I do not think I can."

  "There is also this." Lisa held out her other hand.

  When he did not move to accept what she offered, she turned over her hand and opened it. Against her palm the sapphire glowed.

  "My signet," he blurted, startled.

  "I got it from the wine-girl after Dar told me she had it."

  He smiled wryly. "She would not sell to me."

  "She did not sell to me." Lisa answered his smile. "I won it from her, Hart."

  He stared at her in shock. And then began to laugh.

  Lisa smiled also, but the amusement faded quickly,

  "Will you come. Hart? Solinde has need of you."

  "To give the order for a patriot's execution."

  Her gaze did not waver. "If you would prefer—if it is a test—I will do it myself."

  "As you would have put down my broken-legged horse."

  Her chin rose minutely. "I do what must be done. There are requirements of state."

  His eyes were oddly intent. "I have been told," he said slowly, "that in Solinde the customs are different."

  "Aye." Her tone was guarded.

  "I am told that in Solinde, it does not matter so much that a man lacks a hand. That a king lacks a hand."

  Comprehension lighted her eyes. "My lord, in Solinde all that matters—in kings—As that they do not lack the wherewithal to sire children on their wives."

  Hart smiled crookedly. "No," he said, "I do not."

  She lifted a delicate chin. "Then will you come home with me?"

  He studied her a long moment. And then he turned and set the Trey of Solinde down onto a table, and stepped closer to the woman. He took the sapphire signet from her palm and slipped it onto her thumb, knowing it too large for any of her fingers.

  He did not smile. "Only if you wear this."

  "The requirements of state." But there was laughter in her eyes.

  Niall sat slumped in hi
s chair. Nearly all of them were gone; his sons, his daughter, his brother. Only his meijha remained.

  Deirdre stood behind his chair. She leaned down, caught his neck in both arms, hugged briefly. "All of them," she said; nothing more was needed.

  "All of them," he echoed. "But gods, how changed they are."

  "Were you expecting something else?" She asked it gently, knowing it would hurt him. "You, who lost an eye to the Ihlini?"

  He sighed, reached up to catch her arms beneath his chin, held them. "Each," he said, "so changed. Corin, I think for the better, though there is pain in him; I saw it. And Brennan—something in his eyes, something—" He shivered. "And Hart—“ Abruptly, Niall checked, took his left hand from Deirdre's arm and stared at it, studying palm, fingers, thumb. "Gone," he said hollowly, then dropped it to his thigh. "He will not stop, meijhana. I know him and his kind too well ... the Ihlini will not stop."

  She moved around the chair to stand close beside him, one hand stroking back silvering hair. "No."

  "He will seek them out again, or me, or Ian, or someone else of the proper blood ... he will seek them out, and take them, and do his best to twist them to his needs ... to fulfill his god's desires."

  "I know."

  "Strahan does not give up."

  "No." Deirdre knelt beside the chair and locked her hands around his forearm, feeling the tension in the sinew beneath the bare flesh. On his arms, lir-gold glowed.

  "But neither do the Cheysuli. Neither did your sons."

  "No." Niall closed one of her hands in his. "Leijhana tu'suai for that." He sighed. Looked at the folds of yarn and tapestry. Studied it absently. And slowly, some of the tension drained away; amusement crept in to replace it. "Which lion did you say was me?"

  Deirdre laughed, and showed him.

  Epilogue

  She walked steadily through the corridor of spiraling columns, passing beneath tier upon tier of glass forming interlocked arches above her head. So lovely, all of it, in its glassy magnificence; in its sharp-edged, threatening beauty. Much like her brother, she thought.

  She saw him, then, where he had spent the entirety of the night, and all of the following day. It was night now again, although within the heart of Valgaard it was difficult to tell. When one wanted light, one needed only to summon the godfire.

  Lillith did not. In darkness she walked to the Gate.

  There she paused, and waited.

  He did not look up. He did not, in any way, acknowledge her presence. He sat cross-legged by the lip of the Gate, head bowed, staring fixedly into the hole. Black hair spilled over his shoulders. The glow of godfire touched the circlet and set it ablaze in the heavy darkness.

  "So," she said, "they are gone. You have lost them yet again."

  Strahan did not answer.

  "Brooding will not help."

  “I am thinking, hardly brooding . . . there is a decided difference."

  She was relieved. He sounded normal. "Aye," she agreed, "there is, and I am glad you know it."

  Strahan sighed. "What do you want, Liliith?"

  "To offer condolences, if you want them; encouragement, if you need it."

  "No and no." One pale, slender hand brushed nonexistent dust from a knee.

  Liltith waited. He said nothing more. Perhaps he was brooding. "Strahan." She knelt down, spreading blood-red skirts, and looked at his face across the Gate. It was a mask in the glare, lacking definition. "You did try."

  After a moment, he nodded. "And I will try again. Perhaps this time I will succeed . . . already I have a plan."

  A plan. Lillith smiled. She felt anticipation.

  At last he looked at her. "It does not matter: time."

  She lifted winged brows. His face was so like hers, except for the mismatched eyes.

  Casually, he said: "I have all the days of forever."