“If you were at home for Bealtan, how would you spend the Eve?” she asked, sometime during our second dance.
Home. I shoved aside thoughts of how it would have been in Tellan this year, realized I would have been at the Moot anyway, finally concluded she had meant a much simpler question.
“In Ilnemedon?” I said, and laid my cheek against her soft hair. “A party, probably. You know most Bealla don’t celebrate the rite, not the way the Danaan do.” There would be any number of illicit observances, but they generally come down to simple sex rather than the sort of sacred practice that humans used to make of the holiday, and which Tanaan still do.
“What?” she blurted, drawing back to look into my face. “Then how do you—?” She shook her head. “That’s very sad.”
“Yes, it is.” A blasphemous opinion, that; but tonight it seemed true. I had never before considered how reserving the rite to the wizards and the righthe cuts people off from the gods, diminishes the experience of what is properly a truly holy day. “But I will look forward to raising a glass with you.”
“It will be very strange, so far from home,” Tru said thoughtfully.
I nodded, thinking how much stranger it would be for Letitia, who had expected to marry and ascend her throne the following morning. How pleasant the idea of that festival had seemed less than a month ago, and how the thought of her marrying Iminor made ice form in my chest now.
Fool, I thought, and changed the topic. “What do you think of the Beallan realms thus far?”
“Have we visited your home yet?” Tru said carefully.
I smiled, shaking my head. “I lived in Ballarona for a time, and I worked a job or two in Dromineer; but these days I live in Ilnemedon, farther south.”
“But that is not your home, either,” Tru said, perspicacious grey eyes on mine.
I shrugged, and offered her the cue that should have resulted in a neat twirl, but which just confused her. After a few steps we regained our rhythm.
Tru nodded. “Irisa isn’t my home, but I like it well enough.”
Suddenly Easca stood beside us, grinning.
“Excuse me,” she said in carefully-enunciated Ilesian. I withheld a laugh; Tru’s sudden grin deepened the temptation. They bowed elaborately to one another, laughing until half the eyes in the room were fixed on us; Tru planted a light kiss on my cheek and stepped away. I smiled and drew Easca into my arms.
“Thank you,” I said.
Easca grinned. “Some of the knights had a wager going about whether you could dance at all.”
I laughed. “Who lost?”
She cast me a coy smirk. “I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to say.”
“I’m just disappointed I couldn’t get into the pool!”
Easca danced in the same way as Tru: nimble, graceful, with no intention of ceding me control. Her bright amber eyes met mine frankly, the respect with which she had always addressed me melting into true fondness.
“I’m actually a very good dancer,” I said, “in the Beallan style. I could offer you any number of supporting witnesses from Ballarona and Ilnemedon…”
She laughed, then looked thoughtful. “The Beallan style?”
“On this side of the mountains, the man is expected to lead the dance.”
Astonishment flickered in Easca’s eyes, but then she laughed again. “Of course!”
“It’s up to the man to set the pace, to choose the steps—it’s all done with cues, pressures of the hand or hip—”
“And the woman is expected to both figure out what he means and go along with it,” Easca finished, as if the scheme were perfectly insane.
“Well, how is it done in the Four Realms?” I asked.
Easca looked thoughtful; after a moment she smiled. “The dances are much more… codified. There’s no need for someone to decide what steps will be followed: it’s all decided in advance. Partners can exchange cues about small decisions—” A grin broke across her face. “To tell you the truth, and if you ever repeat this I’ll deny it, the way a man gives and receives cues is one of the main ways a woman decides about him. Especially during the Bealtan season.”
I laughed. “So how am I doing?”
For a second her face was a mask of shock; then she laughed so hard she made us both stumble. “Oh, you’re impossible. You clearly want to be in charge of everything.”
“Well, of course,” I said, laughing too. “But I know exactly what I’m doing.”
Easca laughed again, shaking her head. “Well, that’s one thing when it’s just a tumble, isn’t it? But on a twelvenight when you may be picking the father of your child…? No, a woman needs someone who can be relied on to cooperate.”
“To listen, you mean,” I said, smiling.
She shrugged. “That’s a matter of taste. Would you choose a partner who always listened?”
I thought about this. “Always listened? Yes. Whether she always followed my cues…”
“Oh, I suspect you want that, too,” Easca said lightly. “No matter how amusing it might be to play with a woman you couldn’t rule, when it came down to the serious stuff…”
“Ah, well,” I sighed, mock-regretful. “Then I will simply have to content myself with toasting your nuptials, whenever that occurs.”
Easca smiled. “Don’t hold your breath.”
Halfway back to the table, I heard someone call my name. I paused, seeking the voice, and recognized Suibne Taidgh, third son of the Granniu righ, with whom I had shared innumerable nights in gambling halls and ballrooms across Ilnemedon.
“Ellion Tellan!” he said again, grinning; I wove among the tables to meet him. I had never done more than shake his hand in Ilnemedon, but here it was perfectly obvious that we must embrace; even as we stepped back he let a hand linger on my arm, as if we had grown much closer in our absence. It felt absolutely, inexplicably genuine.
“Where the hell have you been?” Suibne said, moss-green eyes intent in the midst of his cordial grin.
I shrugged. “Out and about.”
Suibne gave me a sidelong look. “On a pleasure outing with a party of Tanaan and the Prince of the Aballo Order.”
I manufactured a laugh. I’d sat at enough gaming tables with Suibne to know how well he read people, and of course there was no concealing the Tanaan; but I hadn’t realized he was acquainted with Amien. Or had he deduced it?
“Oh, yes, it’s been nonstop delight,” I said. “Why are you traveling so late?”
Suibne shrugged. “Coran Mourne finally left Ilnemedon two days ago. Of course no one would leave until Himself did, but everyone was already in Fair mode. It’s been nothing but parties!” His affable expression didn’t flicker, but he grasped my elbow and steered me out of the center of the room, dropping his voice. “You’re escorting Herself to the Moot?”
I glanced at him, maintaining the smile. “Where did you hear that?”
Suibne waved dismissively. “I have eyes.”
I allowed myself a chuckle. “That you do, my friend.”
“So?”
I sighed. “It would be inappropriate…”
“Then I have heard nothing. I never saw her at all. But you should stable your horses here and fly with me; the last thing you want is to ride upriver in the midst of gods-only-know-who, and I’ve got an airship big enough for all your friends.”
“Oh, I wish we could,” I said. And I did: an airship wouldn’t reach Teamair any faster than we would, but Suibne would be well-rested and safe throughout the journey. As long as we didn’t climb into the basket with him. “But we expect to need our horses after the Moot, so it really doesn’t make sense…”
Suibne shot me an assessing look, covering it with a smile. “Ah, well, then, stop at Sucello on your way. I’m sure everyone would appreciate a night behind good walls.”
I wanted to stop and stare at him, but there were too many eyes in the room: I forced myself to continue moving, letting him steer me towards the table at which my
companions sat, while the enormity of what he had offered reverberated in my head. Sucello was the final place on the road to Teamair in which a loyalist might hope for any sort of security. The city occupies the narrow neck of land in which the headwaters of the Elen, the western shore of the Nanno, and the road to Teamair converge; and the Granniu righthe have a long tradition of holding that passage neutral and safe for Moot traffic, no matter what tensions may stand among travelers on the pilgrimage. The fortress itself enjoys commanding placement as well as excellent construction; only a fool would attempt its conquest. Any guest of the Taidgh family can expect to enjoy a night of complete safety.
But we weren’t just any guests, and Suibne was sharp enough to be perfectly aware what he was inviting: not only Letitia and her escort but the enemies pursuing her.
“My friend, your hospitality is legend,” I said finally.
“My pleasure entirely,” he said, and then we arrived at the table, just as Letitia and Iminor returned from the dance. The rest of the Tanaan were already there, and they all looked curiously at Suibne.
“My lady,” Suibne said to Letitia, offering her an elaborate bow and a
roguish grin.
Letitia glanced at me. I chuckled: flirtation was as automatic to Suibne as breathing; what could be more compelling than a chance to take a run at a Tana, a royal no less?
“Letitia, allow me to present my friend Suibne,” I said. “We have many of the same friends in Ilnemedon.”
Speculation flickered in her eyes for a second, but she seemed to understand, or maybe she had been taught: when royals are introduced by first names only, everything is understood to be outside the purview of everyday rules. If I did not claim royal rights for her, neither could royal obligations be put on her in this meeting. I wondered whether she had absorbed the significance of my equally-nonspecific introduction of Suibne.
“My friend,” I said to Suibne, “these are Letitia and Iminor—and these are our friends Nuad, Mattiaci, Tru, Easca—” Suibne offered Tru and Easca equally dandy bows, making me smile again. “—Ogma, Tuiri, Fiacha—and I believe you know Amien.”
“A pleasure to meet you, sian,” Suibne said to Amien.
“Likewise,” the wizard said, and glanced at me.
“Suibne just invited us to stay with him at Sucello on our way to the Fair,” I said to the wizard. “Naturally I said yes.”
This time Amien smiled. “Your hospitality is legend. It’s been some time since I’ve seen your…?”
Suibne laughed. “My father will be delighted to have you as our guests.” He glanced at Letitia again. “As will I.”
She gave him a courtly smile. “I’ll look forward to it. Amien—” She glanced at the wizard; he nodded.
“It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Suibne,” she said, and extended a hand. He took it up in a well-practiced gesture, converting the offered handshake to a kiss on the wrist. Letitia just smiled again, glanced at Amien, and walked out with the wizard on her heels.
“Will you sit with us?” I said to Suibne. “The brandy’s decent.”
Suibne smiled and settled in Amien’s seat, signaling the man who served our table for a brandy. “Thank you. When did you leave?”
I thought about the question. “Beginning of last month, more or less.”
This earned me a look of surprise. “Seems longer.”
I shrugged. “Mourning started at Ardan, remember.”
“Yes,” Suibne said, as if I’d solved a mystery. “That’s right. And afterward all anybody talked about was the Moot. Who will muster against the Bard? Who will be ard-righ? Of course the only proper answer to that question was Coran Mourne.”
I shifted in my seat, restless.
“At least the betting pools were more interesting,” Suibne continued. “I think I spent more time in gambling halls than anywhere else during the last twelvenight, just to get away from all those people telling one another what they wanted to hear.”
“Well, who do you expect?” I said, mostly because I didn’t want him to ask my opinion.
Suibne shrugged. “Expect? Coran. Like for it…?” He shrugged again. “None of them inspire me. I can’t decide whether Cooley’s a fool or in league with demons; I know Conwy’s a fool, and I worry that he’d haul the entire muster east to protect the Ruillin; Coran’s smart enough, but…” He sighed; I controlled the impulse to rise and walk away, wondering why I had thought opening this vein was a good idea.
“It just feels as if we’re waiting for a candidate who won’t come to the Moot at all,” Suibne continued. It occurred to me how very different this was from our usual conversations, which tended towards the topics of happenings at the gaming tables and who was dueling over what offense. “As if we’re waiting for Lugh Lámfhada, and all we’ve got is…” He shook his head, then cast me a quizzical look. “What?”
I smiled a little, shaking my head. “Strange to sit with you in this place and talk about these things. Everything is out of sorts this month.”
Suibne glanced up the length of the table, as if he had just remembered our companions.
“Yes,” he said to me, then distributed his gaze around the table again, mischief playing over his face. “I’m sorry, I’ve been remiss,” he said to the Tanaan. “Human politics bore even us. Let’s talk about something more interesting. What is the rakehell of Ilnemedon like when he’s not at home?”
I groaned, feeling myself blush; then relief swept over me. “They don’t speak Ilesian, Suibne.”
But Easca cast me a glance comprised of equal parts mischief and speculation, and said carefully, “Rakehell?”
Iminor translated, smug; I glanced away, blush deepening and competing with an inexplicable desire to laugh; Easca repeated the question in Tanaan for the benefit of the other knights. Immediately they were all staring at me. After a second Mattiaci laughed; a second later it had spread to all of them. Suibne watched them: grinning, but a wonder in his eyes that he forgot to conceal when he turned his gaze on me.
“Am I to infer that you are… well-behaved on the other side of the mountains?” he said.
I shrugged. “We’ve been busy. You know.”
Suibne laughed. “This is going to completely destroy your reputation! No women fighting over you?”
“That doesn’t happen—”
“No duels?”
“Suibne,” I said.
“No drinking?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Well, thank the gods for that.” Suibne laughed again, looking up the table at the Tanaan. “Thank you. You have made this trip worthwhile! Ellion, I’ll be holding this over your head for years to come.”
I found myself smiling. “Oh dear gods.”
Suibne rose, raised his glass to the group, had another sip of brandy and set it aside. “Safe travels, friends. I’ll see you at Sucello.”
I rose too, meeting his dark-eyed gaze; he grinned and embraced me again. “A pleasure.”
“Likewise, you rogue.”
He laughed and stepped away from the table; upstairs, in the inn’s eastern wing, Amien drew up the power of the earth on which Nemetona stood to encircle Letitia in safety. Not only the familiar earth-energies but the wild power of the smith-god blasted through me; my vision was suddenly full of Amien’s hands hovering over Letitia’s narrow feet and the emerald glow of the ward’s first tendrils unfolding into physical being, as if I were seeing the operation through Amien’s eyes. A dozen mingled flavors of need ripped through me; I wrenched myself free of all of it, caught myself against the back of the chair Suibne had occupied.
“Fouzh,” I heard myself say; I straightened up, grasping after ordinary consciousness. I blinked; my companions’ faces swam into view, most of them watching me with varying degrees of dismay.
“Well, then,” I said to no one in particular. “I’m going for a walk.”
Outside, cold wind raked the top of the bluff, sending clouds scudding in front of Arliyn where s
he hung less than an hour above the horizon. I paced the road we had traveled on our way in, south towards the river and the lower circles of the city. It would have required the merest shift of attention to know exactly what Amien was doing: to see his strong, heavily-veined hands tracing paths of protection around Letitia’s silken body, to know the tingle of summoned power against my skin even at this distance. Instead I pushed the awareness away, casting about for something mundane to which I might fix my eyes and mind.
But the roads at the top of the bluff were quiet; the only traffic was men walking from one inn to another in search of some new entertainment and the comings and goings of entertainers and rich men’s staff. I flung myself down the steep climb to Nemetona’s commercial district, where the Fair-month revel spilled out of the inns to the street. Here the buskers and street-vendors held sway, and the throng of people cushioned the blows of the wind; but it was all too ordinary to focus on. The jostling traffic clogged where some busker had set up in the middle of an intersection; the only way open led down a side street, towards quieter residences and craftsmen’s closed shops. I wove through the narrow opening, escaped into the quiet of the minor lane, strode down the darkened way as if I had some destination in mind, watching Arliyn hide and peep behind the roofs. The tug of Amien’s working had gone quiet, but I found myself listening for more.
I couldn’t remember what it was to hold myself closed, to live behind an invisible wall that shunted aside all but the most persistent arcane energies. I hadn’t felt this naked to power since my initiate. And unless I could persuade someone whose opinion mattered that Letitia should turn aside, I was bound for the Moot, where every wizard in the human realms would gather to lace the air with so many disparate arcane energies that I would twitch as if bound by a lover and tweaked to within a fraction of release. It would be only a matter of time before Amien’s scheme for me to step up as his War-Lord seemed like sense. Already it felt like the come-hither stare of a voluptuous but utterly indiscreet woman: I knew following the impulse would end in disaster, but the lure was just so damned strong…
The Shadow of the Sun (The Way of the Gods) Page 49