“Are you?” The anger was banished now, replaced with bitter helplessness. “You are not me.”
“Thank the gods, no.” Brennan lifted his shoulders briefly, as if shedding unwanted weight. “You are not as hard as you believe. I see it in you, Kellin. You still care what people think. It all matters to you, but you will not permit yourself to admit it. You fight with yourself; do you think I am blind? I need no kivarna to see that two men live in your soul.”
“You cannot begin to know—”
“I can. I see what drives you, I see what shapes you. I only wish you would not give into it. It does you more harm than anyone else.”
Kellin lashed out. “I do not care what anyone else thinks, only you—” He checked abruptly; he had divulged too much.
Brennan closed his eyes a moment. “Then why this charade? If you truly do care what I think—”
“I do. I know what I have done; it was done intentionally. I do not intend to alter it.” Kellin’s smile was humorless. “This way, I cannot be hurt.”
Lines were graven deeply into Brennan’s dark face. “You hurt yourself, this way.”
“I can live with myself.”
“Can you? Can you cohabit with both men? Or must you destroy one to allow the other more freedom?”
Kellin spat his answer between his teeth. “This is what I wanted. This is what I decided. This is what I am.”
Brennan made a dismissive gesture. “Another time, then, for this; there is something more important. Tell me what occurred last night.”
Kellin sighed and stared down at the knife still clenched in his hand. “It was Corwyth, the Ihlini who killed Rogan and Urchin. He came to the tavern and told me Lochiel still wants me, and will take me whenever he likes. Whenever he wishes, I was told, the Ihlini will put out his hand and I will fall into it.”
Brennan nodded. “An old Ihlini trick. He terrorizes victims long before he confronts them.”
“I have vanquished the lion,” Kellin said, “but he will look for something else. Corwyth has convinced me Lochiel will be as patient as necessary.”
“Kellin—”
“They were dead when I reached them.” Kellin looked at the knife, recalling the bulging eyes and pallid faces. “There was nothing I could do.”
“Then you must stay here,” Brennan said. “Homana-Mujhar will shield you.”
Kellin barked a laugh. “I would go mad inside a ten-day!”
“There may be no choice.”
“Mad, grandsire! I am halfway there already.” He flipped the knife in his hand, then again, until it spun so the hilt and blade became alternating blurs. In mid-flip he caught it. “I will not stay here.”
Brennan’s anger showed for the first time since his arrival. “Is this some manner of expiation for your guilt? A twisted version of i’toshaa-ni?”
“I feel no guilt,” Kellin told him. “That is for my jehan to do…but I think it quite beyond him.”
Brennan groaned in sheer frustration. “How many times have I told you? I have said again and again—”
Kellin cut him off. “You have said, and I have heard. But it means nothing. Not until he says it directly to me.”
Brennan shook his head. “I will not send word to him again. That is finished.”
Kellin nodded. “Because the last time he refused to extend hospitality to your messenger and packed him off home again. So, slighted, you surrender. I think my jehan must be mad as well, to speak so to the Mujhar of Homana.”
“Aidan does not speak for himself, Kellin. He speaks for the gods.”
“Facile words, grandsire. But listen first to yourself—and then recall that he is your son. I know very well who should have the ordering of the other.”
Brennan lost his temper. Kellin listened in startled surprise; he had never thought to hear such language from his grandfather.
“Go, then.” At last the royal fury was spent. “Go into the taverns and drink yourself into a stupor. Go to your light women and sire all the bastards you wish so you may leave them as your jehan left you, wondering what manner of man you are to desert a child.” A pale indented ring circled Brennan’s mouth. “Risk your life and the lives of honorable men so you may enter the game with Lochiel. I no longer care. You are Homana’s heir for now, but if I must I can find another.”
Kellin laughed at him. “Who can you find? From where? There are no more sons, grandsire; your cheysula gave you but one. And no more grandsons, either; Aidan’s loins are empty. He is in all ways but half a man.”
“Kellin—”
He raised his head. “There is no heir to be found other than the one you invested twenty years ago.”
Brennan reached out and caught the flipping knife easily. “You are a fool,” he said clearly. “Perhaps Homana would be better off without you.”
Kellin looked at the hand that held his knife. He had not expected the weapon to be caught. Brennan was at least as quick as he; a forcible reminder that the Mujhar of Homana was more than merely a man, but a Cheysuli as well.
He met his grandfather’s eyes. “May I have it back?”
“No.”
He did not avoid the packleader’s eyes. To do so was to submit. “I have need of a knife.”
“You have another. Use it.”
Kellin clenched his teeth. “That one belonged to Blais. I have sworn never to touch it.”
“Then unswear it,” the Mujhar said. “Tu’halla dei, Kellin. Such things as that come easily to a man who cares for nothing.”
It was more than he had anticipated. It twisted within his belly. “It shall be as this, then?”
Brennan did not move. “As you have made it.”
After a long moment, Kellin averted his stare. The young wolf, he acknowledged ruefully, could not yet pull down the old.
Three
In his chambers, Kellin sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the small darkwood chest for a very long time. It rested inoffensively on a bench against the wall, where he had placed it many years before. He had looked at it often, stared at it, hated it, knowing what it contained, but once locked it had never been opened again.
He drew in a deep breath, wishing he need not consider doing what was so difficult, because he had made it so. He realized that in truth he need not consider it; it was more than possible for him to get another knife despite his grandfather’s suggestion. He could buy one in Mujhara, or find one in the palace, or even go to Clankeep and have one of the warriors make him one; everyone knew Cheysuli long-knives were superior to all others, and only one Cheysuli-made was worth the coin. But the challenge had been put forth. The old wolf mocked the young. The young wolf found it intolerable.
His palms were damp. In disgust Kellin wiped them against his breeches-clad thighs. He tests you with this. Prove to him you are stronger than he thinks.
Muttering an oath, Kellin slid off his bed and strode without hesitation directly across to the chest. The lid and the key atop it was layered with dust; he had ordered no one to touch the chest. Dust fell away as he picked up the key, smearing fingertips. He blew the iron clean, squinting against motes, hesitated a moment longer, then swore and unlocked the chest. Kellin flung back the lid so sharply it thumped against the wall.
His lips were dry. He wet them. A flutter of anticipation filled his belly. I would do better to leave this here, as I vowed. I want no part of this. Blais is dead ten years, but it feels like ten hours. Kellin’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. Then he thrust a hand inside and drew out the contents: a single Cheysuli long-knife.
The grief had not lessened with the passage of years, and the act of retrieving the knife intensified it tenfold. Kellin felt the tightening of his belly, the constriction of his throat, the anguish of his spirit. The wound, despite the decade, was still too fresh.
Kellin held the knife lightly, so that it lay crosswise across his palm. Candlelight glinted off steel because the hand beneath it trembled; he could not help himself. He reca
lled in precise detail the instant of realization, the comprehension that Blais was doomed because his lir was dead. In that moment he had come to understand the true cost of the magic that lived in a Cheysuli’s blood. And knew how much he feared it.
The gods give warriors lir not to bless them, but to curse them; to make them vulnerable, so they can never be men but minions instead, set to serve spiteful gods. They give warriors lir simply to take them away.
Kellin stared hard at the knife, daring himself to break down. Beautifully balanced, the steel blade was etched with Cheysuli runes denoting Blais’ name and Houses: Homana first, and Erinn. The grip itself was unadorned so as not to interfere with the hand, but the pommel made up for the plainness. An elaborate snarling wolf’s head was set with emeralds for eyes.
Kellin’s throat closed. To swallow was painful. “A waste,” he said tightly. “The gods would have done better to take me in his place.”
But they had not, despite his pleas, and he had cursed them for it often. Now he simply ignored them; there was no place in Kellin’s life for gods so vindictive and capricious as to first steal his father, then permit his liege man to die.
Anger goaded his bruised spirit. Kellin slammed shut the chest and turned to his belt with its now-empty sheath. He slid the knife home with a decisive motion so that only the wolf’s head showed, snarling a warning to the world. Apropos, Kellin thought. Let them all be forewarned.
He dressed rapidly, replacing soiled breeches with new; a plain wool shirt and velvet doublet, both brown; and Homanan-style boots. Over it all he fastened the belt, brushing the knife hilt with the palm of his hand to make certain of its presence. Time I tested Corwyth’s promise.
* * *
The Mujhar had assigned new watchdogs. Kellin wondered briefly if they knew or were curious about what had become of the last four, but he did not trouble himself to ask. He merely told them curtly to keep their distance, making no effort to befriend them or endear himself to them; he did not want them as friends, and did not particularly care what they thought of him.
This time Kellin rode; so did they. They followed closely, but not so closely as to tread upon his mount’s hooves. Testing them—and himself—he led them deep into the Midden to its very heart, where the weight of filth and poverty was palpable.
No one will know me here. And so they would not; Kellin wore nothing to give away his identify save his ruby signet ring, but if the stone were turned inward against his palm no one would see it. He preferred anonymity. Let those of the Midden believe he was a rich Mujharan lordling gone slumming for a lark; he knew better. He wanted a game, and a fight. As he had told the Mujhar, he did nothing without a point.
The tavern he selected lay at the dead end of a narrow, dark street little better than the manure trench behind the hall garderobe in Homana-Mujhar. It was a slump-shouldered hovel with haphazard slantwise roof; the low door, badly cracked, hung crooked in counterpoint to the roof. The building resembled nothing so much as a drunkard gone sloppy on too much liquor.
Kellin smiled tightly. This will do. He dropped off his horse and waited impatiently for his watchdogs to join him on the ground. “Three of you shall remain here,” he said briefly. “One I will take with me, because I must in compromise; it seems I have no choice.” He thrust the reins to one of the guardsmen. “Wait here, in the shadows. Do what you are honor-bound to do; I make no claim on your loyalty. You answer the Mujhar’s bidding, but answer also a little of mine: leave me to myself this night.” He gestured toward one of them. The man was young, tall, blocky-shouldered, with pale blond hair and blue eyes. “You will come in with me, but see you it is done without excess attention. And strip off that tunic.”
The young guardsman was startled. “My lord?”
“Strip it off. I want no royal dogs at my heels tonight.” Kellin appraised him closely. “What is your name?”
“Teague, my lord.”
Kellin gestured. “Now.”
Slowly Teague stripped out of his crimson tunic with its black rampant lion. He handed it reluctantly to another guardsman, then looked back at Kellin. “Anything else, my lord?”
“Rid yourself of your sword. Do not protest—you have a knife still.” He allowed derision to shape the tone. “Surely more than enough weaponry for a member of the Mujharan Guard.”
Cheeks burning, Teague slowly divested himself of the swordbelt and handed it over to the man who held his tunic.
Kellin assessed him again, chewing the inside of his cheek. Finally he sighed. “Even a horse with winter hair still shows its blood.” He bent and scooped up a handful of mud, then smeared it purposefully across Teague’s mail shirt to dull the polished links and to foul the pristine breeches. He ignored the young man’s rigidity and pinched mouth. When he was done, Kellin washed his hands in slushy snow, then nodded at the discomfited guardsman. “They will not know you at once.”
Distaste was not entirely suppressed though Teague made the effort. “They will not know me at all, my lord.”
Kellin grinned. “Better. Now, my orders.” He waited until his expectant silence gained Teague’s complete attention. “Once we are through that door I am not to be called ‘my lord,’ nor do I desire your interference in anything I undertake.”
Teague’s jaw was tight. “We are charged with your life, my lord. Would you have me turn my back on a knife meant for yours?”
Kellin laughed. “Any knife meant for my back would have to be fast indeed. I doubt I will come to harm—though the gods know I would welcome the challenge.” He gestured at the remaining three guardsmen. “Take the horses and move into the shadows.”
“My lord?” Teague clearly had not forsaken the honorific. “It is not for me to reprove you—”
“No. It is not.”
“—but I think you should know this is not the best of all places to spend your time drinking or dicing.”
“Indeed,” Kellin agreed gravely. “That is precisely the point. Now—you are to go in and find your own table. I require two things of you only: to sit apart from me, and to be silent.”
Teague cast a scowl at his companions waiting in the shadows, then grudgingly nodded. “Aye.”
Kellin jerked a thumb at the door, and the muck-smeared guardsman went in muttering under his breath. Kellin waited until enough time had passed to nullify the appearance of companionship, then went in himself.
The stench of the hovel tavern struck him first. Soiled rushes littered the packed earthen floor in crumbled bits and pieces Kellin was certain harbored all manner of vermin. Only a handful of greasy, sputtering tallow candles illuminated the room, exuding an acrid, rancid aroma and wan, ocherous light easily dominated by shadows. An hour in such a place would render his clothing irredeemable, but Kellin had every intention of remaining longer than that. He anticipated a full night.
Teague sat at a small flimsy table in the corner nearest the door. A crude clay jug stood at his elbow and an equally lumpy cup rested in his hands, but he paid attention to neither.
Their eyes met, slid away. Kellin was faintly surprised that Teague would enter so convincingly into subterfuge. There was no hint of recognition in the guardsman’s face and nothing about his posture that divulged his true purpose. Mud clung to his mail shirt; a little had spattered across a cheekbone, altering the angle. His hair now also was mussed, as if he had scrubbed a hand through it hastily. Teague’s expression was closed, almost sullen, which suited Kellin’s orders and the surroundings.
Kellin was deliberate in his perusal of the room and its occupants, knowing the men measured him as carefully. He allowed them time to mark his clothing, bearing, and size, as well as the heavy knife at his belt. He wanted no one to undervalue him, so that when the fight came it would be on equal terms. He admired the elegant simplicity of organized viciousness.
The tavern was crowded, but mostly because its size was negligible. Most of the men spoke in quiet tones lacking aggression or challenge, as if each knew the other
’s worth and standing within the context of the tavern, and did not overstep. There would be rivals, Kellin knew, because it was the nature of men, but with the arrival of a stranger old rivalries would be replaced with unity. He and Teague, apart or as one, would be suspect, and therefore targets.
He grinned, and let them see it. He let them see everything as he strode to the lone empty table and sat down upon a stool, shouting to the winegirl to bring him a jug of usca.
She came almost at once to judge the cut of his cloth and the color of his coin. Kellin dropped a silver piece onto the table and let it ring, flicking it in her direction with a single practiced finger. Only the gold of his ring showed; the ruby with its etched rampant lion rested against his palm.
“Usca,” he repeated, “and beef.”
She was a greasy, unkempt girl with soiled clothing and filthy nails. She offered him a lone grimy dimple and a smile with two teeth missing. “Mutton and pork, my lord.”
“Mutton,” he said easily, “and do not stint it.”
She wore a stained, threadbare apron over soiled gray skirts, and the sagging bodice gaped to display her breasts. She bent over to give him full benefit of her bounty. He saw more than she intended: flesh aplenty, aye, and wide, darkened nipples pinching erect under his perusal, but also a rash of insect bites. Dark brown hair swung down in its single braid. A louse ran across her scalp.
“My lord,” the woman said, “we have more than just mutton and pork.”
She was certain of her charms. In this place, he knew, no man would care about her filth, only the fit of his manhood between her diseased thighs. “Later,” he said coolly. “Do not press me.”
The brief flash of dismay was overtaken at once by enmity. She opened her mouth as if to respond, then shut it tight again. He saw her reassess his clothing, the coin, then forcibly alter hostility into a sullen acceptance. “Aye, my lord. Mutton and usca.”
Kellin watched her walk away. Her hips swung invitation as if by habit; the rigidity of her shoulders divulged her injured feelings. He laughed softly to himself; he had frequent congress with Midden whores, but not with one such as she. He did not think much of acquiring lice as boon companions in exchange for a dip in her well-plumbed womanhood.
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