The Shapechangers

by Jennifer Roberson

  Storr shook himself and padded into the clearing. Enough, lir; you do not understand the girl. And she does not understand what is in her blood.

  “My blood?” Alix asked, shaken.

  Finn’s eyes narrowed as the equanimity left his face. He turned slowly to her, reaching to close a wide hand on her jaw. “What do you say?”

  She swallowed, suddenly frightened again. She fought back a shudder at his touch. “The wolf. He said something of my blood. What does he say?”

  The hand tightened until she winced. “My wolf?” he hissed. “You heard him?”

  She closed her eyes. “Aye.”

  Finn released her. Alix opened her eyes and found him staring at her speculatively. The gold in his ear glinted as he shoved hair back from his face. Slowly he smiled.

  “Then the story is true.”

  “Story?”

  He folded his arms over his chest and grinned at her. “Your crofter father did not tell your mother all he knew, or else you did not hear it.”

  “What do you say?”

  Finn flicked a glance at Storr, “Do I have the right of it, lir?”

  Can you not see it for yourself?

  The warrior laughed to himself and turned back to her. Playfully he caught her braid in one hand and threaded blunt fingers into the loosened plait.

  “You hear Storr, meijha, because you are only half Homanan. The other half is Cheysuli.”

  “No!”

  He frowned. “But even for all that, it is strange. The women do not take lir, nor do they converse with them. Yet it only serves to make me certain who you are.”

  Alix felt a renewal of fear. “I have said who I am. You speak lies to me.”

  He tugged on her braid. “You have much to learn, meijha. You have grown up apart from your clan. You are sadly lacking in the wisdom and customs of the Cheysuli.”

  “I am Homanan!”

  “Then say to me how it is you can hear my lir when no other can, save myself.”

  She opened her mouth to reply angrily but no sound came out. After a moment she jerked her braid free of him and turned away, hugging herself for warmth and security. She stiffened as his hands came down on her shoulders.

  “Meijha,” he said softly, “it is not so bad a fate. We are children of the Firstborn, who were sired by the old gods. The Homanans are nothing when you understand the heritage we claim.”

  “I am not a shapechanger!”

  Fingers dug into her shoulders. “You are Cheysuli. Cheysuli. Else Storr would not offer you his protection.”

  “You accept the word of a wolf?” Abruptly Alix clapped hands over her mouth and spun, staring at him. “What do I say? What do I hear from my own tongue?” She swallowed heavily. “He is a wolf. A beast! And you are demon-sent to make me believe otherwise!”

  “I am not a demon,” Finn said, affronted. “Nor is Storr. I have said what I am, and what he is, and—by all the old gods!—what you are. Now, come with me.”

  She wrenched away from his reaching hand. “Do not touch me!”

  Finn glared at her. “Your blood has saved you from my attentions, meijha, for a time. Do not seek to anger me, or I may renew them.”

  Alix stiffened as he took her arm and led her through the trees. He brought her to a slate-colored tent set in a tumbled circle of stone. The fire cairn still burned next to a blood-red rug, and she dragged her eyes from it in time to come face-to-face with a hawk perching on a staff before the tent. She stumbled back, gasping.

  The bird was large, even with wings folded. He was a myriad of rich browns and golds, with dark eyes that watched her, half-lidded. His deadly, curving beak shone in the muted firelight, and she felt a whisper of awe and appreciation in her mind.

  A man who has such a lir is powerful indeed…

  “Cai,” Finn said quietly. “This is my brother’s pavilion. He is clan-leader, and needs to be told who you are.”

  Wearily Alix rubbed a grimy hand across her brow. “And what will you tell him, shapechanger?”

  “That Hale’s daughter has come back to us.”

  She felt the strength pour out of her limbs. “Hale’s…”

  His eyes were bright and mocking. “Why do you think I told you of Lindir and the Cheysuli she wanted? You are their daughter.”

  Alix felt very cold. She hugged herself against his words. “No.”

  “You have only to ask my lir.”

  “A wolf!”

  “The lir are kin to the old gods, meijha. They know many things we do not.”

  “No.”

  He sighed. “Wait here, rujholla. I will speak to Duncan first.”

  Anger spurred her out of her immobility. “What do you call me now, shapechanger?”

  “Rujholla?” His smile faded into regret. “It is Cheysuli—the Old Tongue—for sister.” He sighed. “Hale was my father, also.”

  Chapter Four

  When Finn at last pulled the pavilion doorflap aside and motioned her inside, Alix went numbly, without protest. She had considered, briefly, running again, but his words had dulled her senses. She was incapable of making a decision. She answered his beckoning hand.

  First she saw only the torch in the corner and squinted against its acrid smoke. Then Alix’s eyes fell on the seated man who held a compact bow in his hands. Transfixed, she stared at his hands; firm and brown, long-fingered and supple. Slowly he smoothed fine oil into the dark wood, rubbing it to a gleaming patina of age and richness. As she stared he put aside the bow and waited.

  He was much like Finn, she saw, recognizing characteristic features of the Cheysuli race. But there was something more in the bones of his face. Promised strength, calm intelligence and the same inherent command she saw maturing in Carillon.

  He rose smoothly to his feet and she saw he was taller than Finn; long-boned and less heavy. His face was wide-browed with a narrow nose, with the same high cheekbones and smooth planes as Finn’s. Like his brother he wore a sleeveless jerkin and leather leggings, but his gold armbands bore the sweeping image of a magnificent hawk, lined with odd runes. At his left ear hung a golden hawk with wings outspread.

  Alix straightened under his calm perusal, lifting her chin as she tried to regain some of her vanished composure. He put out a hand and turned her head so the torchlight fell on her cheek.

  “What has happened to your face?”

  His voice was untroubled, smooth and low. Alix was taken aback by his question. “A tree limb, shapechanger.”

  Something glinted in his eyes as she used a purposely rude tone. For a moment she was very afraid.

  This man is more subtle than Finn, she thought apprehensively, and far less predictable.

  He released her chin. “How did a tree limb come to desire the taste of your skin?”

  She slid a look at Finn, who remained exceedingly silent. But the other man saw the exchange and laughed softly, surprising her. It also drew quick resentment from her.

  “Do you propose to force me, shapechanger, as your brother intended?”

  He studied her solemnly. “I force no woman. Did Finn?”

  Alix gritted her teeth. “He tried. He wished to. The wolf would not allow it.”

  “The lir are often much wiser than we,” he said significantly.

  Alix was shocked as she saw dark color move through Finn’s face. For a moment her perception of him altered through the eyes of his older brother. Alix saw him as a rash young man instead of a fierce, threatening warrior. The image surprised her.

  “Shapechanger…” she began.

  “My name is Duncan. Calling me by it will not make you accursed, girl.”

  She recoiled from his reprimand and answered glumly, “What is it you want of me, now I am made prisoner?”

  Duncan’s lips twitched. “If you are indeed Hale’s daughter, you are no prisoner. You are of the clan, girl.”

  “No.”

  Finn shifted. “Do you see, rujho? She will not listen.”

  “Then I will
have to convince her.”

  Alix blanched and drew away from him. He let her get as far as the doorflap, then smoothly reached out and caught her arm.

  “If you will remain with me, I will answer the questions in your mind. This is new for you. Understanding, I promise, will come with time.”

  His hand pulled her steadily away from the doorflap. Alix was frightened again. “I do not believe what he has said. I am Homanan. I am not Cheysuli.”

  “If you will be seated, I will tell you a story,” Duncan said quietly. “I am no shar tahl to give you the birthlines and the prophecy, but I can tell you much of what you must know.” His eyes flicked to Finn. “Leave her with me. You had best tend to Carillon.”

  Finn smiled crookedly. “The princeling sleeps, rujho. The earth magic has removed his cares for a time.” He straightened under the silent command. “But I will see to him, for all that. Tend her well, rujho; she was gently reared.”

  His departure left Alix alone in the pavilion with Duncan. She waited mutely, unable to force her mind into coherent thought.

  Duncan gestured to a spotted gray pelt on the floor and she assented silently, gathering her skirts about her knees as she sat. “What will you do with me?”

  He stood over her, arms folded. The torch painted his dark angular face and danced in his yellow eyes. Like Finn, he wore his black hair cut to his neck, where it fell loosely. Unlike Finn, he did not seem so inherently violent.

  Duncan settled himself cross-legged before her, hands resting on his knees. “I do nothing with you save welcome you to your clan. Do you expect to be slain?”

  She stared at her own hands, clasped tightly in her lap. “You are shapechangers. I have been raised to fear you. What else can I expect?”

  “Finn said your jehan was arms-master to Shaine when the qu’mahlin began. Surely he has not raised you to believe the lies.” His calm voice forced her to look at him. “Torrin was a faithful man, and honorable. He would not plant the seeds of untruth, even at Shaine’s bidding.”

  “You speak as if you know my father.”

  Duncan shook his head. “I never met him. I know few Homanans, now, because of Shaine’s qu’mahlin. But Hale spoke of him when he came to the Keep.”

  “I do not understand.”

  He sighed. “It will take much time. But first you must believe Hale is your father. Not Torrin.”

  Her chin rose stubbornly. “I cannot accept that.”

  Duncan scowled at her, suddenly very like Finn. “Foolishness has no place here. Will you listen?”

  “I will listen.”

  But it does not mean I will believe.

  He seemed to hear her rebellious, unspoken words. For a moment Alix was nonplussed by the feeling but dismissed it quickly as Duncan began the story.

  “Hale took Lindir into the forests. Her jehana—Shaine’s wife, Ellinda—died soon after. Shaine took another wife, who miscarried three times and then bore him a stillborn son, which made her barren. The Mujhar claims it was Cheysuli sorcery that stole his daughter, slew his first wife and denied his second living children.” Duncan paused, “And that began the qu’mahlin.”

  “War,” she said softly.

  “The qu’mahlin is more than war. It is annihilation for the Cheysuli race. The Mujhar wants every last one of us slain; the race destroyed.” His yellow eyes met hers. “His decree touches even his granddaughter.”

  Alix felt color drain from her face. “Shaine’s granddaughter…”

  “Your jehana was Lindir of Homana. You are the Mujhar’s granddaughter.”

  “No. No, you tell me lies.”

  Duncan smiled for the first time. “I do not lie, small one. But if you wish, you may ask my lir. Cai has told me you have a gift of the gods, and can converse with all the lir.”

  “The hawk…” she whispered.

  A golden tone stirred within her mind, softly. You are Hale’s daughter, liren, and bloodkin to us all. Do not deny your heritage, or the gift of the gods.

  Duncan saw the anguish and fear in her face. He touched her trembling hands gently. “If you wish to rest, I can finish the story another time.”

  “No!” she said wildly. “No, I will listen! What more can you say that will not destroy what comprehension I have left to me?”

  He took his hand away. “Hale was slain in the qu’mahlin by Shaine’s troops, as he sought from the beginning. Lindir, carrying a child, returned to her jehan to beg his understanding. She wanted shelter for her child.” Duncan’s face was grim. “The Mujhar needed an heir. He had no son, and his lady-wife made barren. Lindir’s child, were it a boy, would be that heir.”

  A chill washed through her, leaving apprehension in its wake. “But there was no son…”

  “No. Lindir bore a daughter, and died. The Mujhar, still dedicated to his purge, ordered the halfling girl-child taken to the forests and left to die.”

  “But it was only a child…”

  “A shapechanger. A demon.” His voice was rough as he said the Homanan words. “A halfling best left to the beasts.”

  Alix looked up into his impassive face. She saw it soften into understanding and sympathy and sternness. He had told her, she realized, and he expected her to believe him.

  “How do you know this?” she asked. “You?”

  “It has been told to the shar tahl, who has given it to the clan.”

  “The shar tahl?”

  “Our priest-historian, the Homanans would call him. He keeps the rituals and the traditions, and makes certain all know the proper heritage of the Cheysuli. Mostly he tends to the words of the prophecy.”

  “What is this prophecy you prate of?” she asked, irritable. “Finn speaks of little else.”

  “That is not for me to say. The shar tahl will speak with you when it is the proper time.” He shrugged, lifting his spread-fingered palm. “Tahlmorra.”

  Alix looked at him in the flickering shadows of the slate-colored pavilion. He was alien to her, part of the vague dreams she had dreamed over the years, growing up knowing the Cheysuli were accursed and outlawed and sentenced to death by the Mujhar. But she knew he did not lie to her, for all she wished to believe it. There was no deceit in his eyes.

  “If what you tell me is true, there is one more thing,” she said hollowly. “You are my brother, like Finn.”

  Duncan smiled. “No. Finn and I share a jehana, but Hale was to me what the Homanans call foster-father. My jehan died when I was very young.”

  She smoothed the weave of her skirts. “I do not entirely understand. You said Hale took Lindir away and got a child on her. Me.” The word was dry in her mouth. “But if he was father to Finn, and foster-father to you…I do not understand.”

  “Hale was liege man to Shaine. It is a Cheysuli thing; hereditary service to the Mujhars and their blood. Until the purge, the Mujhars of Homana ever had a Cheysuli liege man.” Duncan smiled faintly. “Hale spent most of his time at Homana-Mujhar, serving his lord, according to custom. Lindir was a golden child who took great joy in teasing her jehan’s fierce liege man; it was a game to her. Then she was no longer a child, and Hale was no longer indifferent to the promise of her beauty. She had fulfilled that promise.” He saw Alix’s shocked face and laughed softly. “The Homanans hide their meijhas and call them light women. The Cheysuli keep cheysulas and meijhas—wives and mistresses—and honor them both.”

  “But Hale left your mother!”

  “He did what he wished. That is understood among us. Men and women have the freedom to take whom they choose, when they choose.” He grimaced. “Though now we have few warriors, and fewer women.”

  Alix swallowed with effort. “I would rather be Homanan.”

  Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “But you are half Cheysuli. In our clan, that is counted whole.”

  But her mind had gone past that, grasping the slippery strands of comprehension. She put the relationships together until she had an understanding of them. Then she looked at Duncan.

  “Lin
dir bore a daughter and Shaine lost the heir he wanted.”

  “Aye,” he agreed.

  “So he turned to his brother, Fergus, who had a son.”

  “Aye.”

  Alix took a shaking breath. “He made that son—his nephew—heir. Prince of Homana.”

  Duncan watched her closely. “Aye.”

  She felt her heart begin to hurt. “Then Carillon is my cousin!”

  “Aye,” Duncan said softly, understanding.

  Alix drew up her knees and clasped her arms around them tightly. She pressed her forehead against them and squeezed her eyes shut in denial and realization.

  Before I was only a croft-girl, but one who put him at ease. Now I am Cheysuli—shapechanger!—accursed, and his bastard cousin. Grief surged into her throat. He will never come to me again!

  She hugged her knees and keened silently in the shapechanger’s tent.

  Chapter Five

  Alix, at dawn, sat warmly wrapped in a brown blanket, numbly aware she had slept in the shapechanger’s presence. She had not meant to. She vaguely recalled her silent tears and his urging her to sleep, but no more. Now she sat alone in his pavilion, bereft of the heritage she had known all her life.

  The doorflap stirred and Alix glanced up, expecting Duncan. Instead she saw Carillon and stood up with a cry, letting the blanket slide to the ground.

  Then she froze. His eyes were withdrawn from her, strange, and she saw none of the warm welcome she had come to expect.

  They have told him…

  Alix’s arms dropped to her sides. Desolation swept in to fill her soul. She would not look into his face and see his rejection of her.

  “Alix…”

  “You need say nothing, my lord,” she said remotely. “I understand how a prince must feel to learn the croft-girl he has kept company with is a shapechanger.”

  He moved into the pavilion. “Are you so certain they have the right of it?”

  Her head jerked up. “Then you do not believe them?”

  He smiled. “Do you think I am so easily manipulated, Alix? I think they lie to you. There is nothing Cheysuli about you. Your hair is brown, not black, and your eyes amber. Not beast-yellow.”