"The chain," he explained, though he knew she would not understand. No one understood; no one could understand.
Sudden anguish was overwhelming. He craved reassurance as much as understanding. The former he could get. As the hated tears renewed themselves, he went willingly into her arms.
She pressed her cheek against his head, twining arms around small shoulders to still the wracking sobs. "Oh, Aidan, Aidan… 'twas only a dream, my lad… a wee bit of a dream come to trouble your sleep. There's no harm in it, I promise, but you mustn't be thinking 'tis real."
" 'Twas real," he insisted, crying hard into her shoulder. " 'Twas real—I swear… and the Lion—the Lion meant to eat me—"
"Aidan, no. Oh, my sweet bairn, no. There's naught to the Lion's teeth but bits of rotting wood."
" 'Twas real—'twas there—"
"Aidan, hush—"
"It woke me up, calling…" He drew his head away so he could see her face, to judge what she thought. "It wanted me to come—"
"The Lion?"
Fiercely, he shook his head. "Not the Lion—the chain—"
"Oh, Aidan—"
She did not believe him. He hurled himself against her, trembling from a complex welter of fear, anguish, insistence: he needed her to believe him. She was his rock, his anchor—if she did not believe him—
In Erinnish, she tried to soothe him. He needed her warmth, her compassion, her love, but he was aware, if distantly, he also required something more. Something very real, no matter what she said: the solidity of the chain in his small-fingered child's hands, because it was his tahlmorra. Because he knew, without knowing why, the golden links in his dreams bound him as fully as his blood.
A sound: the whisper of leather on stone, announcing someone's presence. Pressed against his mother, Aidan peered one-eyed over a velveted shoulder and saw his father in the hall. His tall, black-haired father with eyes undeniably yellow, feral as Aidan's own; a creature of the shadows as much as flesh and bone. Brennan's dress was haphazard and the black hair mussed. Alarm and concern stiffened the flesh of his face.
"The nursemaid came—what is wrong?"
Aidan felt his mother turn on her knees even as her arms tightened slightly. "Oh, naught but a bad dream. Something to do with the Lion." Forced lightness. Forced calm. But Aidan read the nuances. For him, a simple task.
The alarm faded as Brennan walked to the dais. The tension in his features relaxed. "Ah, well, there was a time it frightened me."
Aidan did not wait. "I wanted the chain, jehan. It called me. It wanted me… and I needed it."
Brennan frowned. "The chain?"
"In the Lion. The chain." Aidan twisted in Aileen's arms and pointed. " 'Twas there," he insisted. "I came to fetch it because it wanted me to. But the Lion swallowed it."
Brennan's smile was tired. Aidan knew his father sat up late often to discuss politics with the Mujhar. "No one ever said the Lion does not hunger. But it does not eat little boys. Not even little princes."
Vision blurred oddly. "It will eat me. . ."
"Aidan, hush."
" 'Tis fanciful foolishness," Aileen admonished, rising to stand. "We'll be having no more of it."
A dark-skinned, callused hand was extended for Aidan to grasp. Brennan smiled kindly. "Come, little prince. Time you were safe in bed."
It was shock, complete and absolute. They do not believe me, either of them—
His mother and his father, so wise and trustworthy, did not believe him. Did not believe their son.
He gazed blindly at the hand still extended from above. Then he looked into the face. A strong, angular face, full of planes and hollows; of heritage and power.
His father knew everything. But if his father did not believe him.
Aidan felt cold. And hollow. And old. Something inside flared painfully, then crumbled into ash.
They will think I am LYING.
It hurt very badly.
"Aidan." Brennan wiggled fingers. "Are you coming with me?"
A new resolve was born. If I tell them nothing, they cannot think I am lying.
"Aidan," Aileen said, "go with your father. 'Tis time you were back in bed."
Where I might dream again.
He shivered. He gazed up at the hand.
"Aidan," Aileen murmured. Then, in a flare of stifled impatience, "Take him to bed, Brennan. If he cannot be taking himself."
That hurt, too.
Neither of them believe me.
The emptiness increased.
Will anyone believe me?
"Aidan," Brennan said. "Would you have me carry you?"
For a moment, he wanted it. But the new knowledge was too painful. Betrayal was not a word he knew, but was beginning to comprehend.
Slowly he reached out and took the hand. It was callused, large, warm. For a moment he forgot about the betrayal: the hand of his father was a talisman of power; it would chase away the dreams.
Aidan went with his father, followed by his mother. Behind them, in the darkness, crouched the Lion Throne of Homana, showing impotent teeth.
He clutched his father's hand. Inside his head, rebelling, he said it silently: I want my chain.
Gentle fingers touched his hair, feathering it from his brow. " 'Twas only a dream," she promised.
Foreboding knotted his belly. But he did not tell her she lied. He wanted his mother to sleep, even if he could not.
PART I
Chapter One
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Deirdre's solar had become a place of comfort to all of them. Of renewal. A place where rank did not matter, nor titles, nor the accent with which one spoke: Erinnish, Cheysuli, Homanan. It was, Aileen felt, a place where all of them could gather, regardless of differing bloodlines, to share the heavy, unspoken bonds of heritage. It had nothing to do with magic, breeding, or homeland. Only with the overriding knowledge of what it was to rule.
She knew what Keely would say; had said, often enough, phrased in many different—and explicit—ways. That women had no place in the male-dominated succession lining up for the Lion Throne. But Aileen knew better. Keely would not agree—she seldom agreed with anything concerning the disposition of women—but it was true. Women did have a place in the line of succession. As long as kings needed queens to bear sons for the Lion, women would have a place.
Not the place Keely—or others—might want, but it was something nonetheless. It made women important, if for womb instead of brain.
Aileen's womb had given Homana one son. Twin boys, enough to shore up Aidan's tenuous place in the succession, were miscarried; the ordeal had left her barren. She was, therefore, a princess of precarious reknown, and potentially threatened future. Brennan would not, she knew, set her aside willingly—he had made that clear—but there were others to be reckoned with besides the Prince of Homana. He was only a prince; kings bore precedence. And while the Mujhar showed no signs of concern regarding her son's odd habits, she knew very well even Niall was not the sole arbiter. There was also the Homanan Council. She was the daughter of a king, albeit the island was small; nonetheless, she understood the demands of a kingship. The demands of a council.
Only one son for Homana. One son who was—different.
She shivered. The solar was comfortable, but her peace of mind nonexistent. It was why she had gone to Deirdre.
Aileen stood rigidly before the casement in the solar with sunlight in her hair, setting it ablaze. A wisp drifted near her eyes; distracted, she stripped it back. The gesture was abrupt, impatient, lacking the grace she had mastered after twenty-four years as Princess of Homana; twenty-four years as her aunt's protegee, in blood as well as deportment.
She folded arms beneath her breasts and hugged herself, hard. "I've tried," she said in despair. "I've tried to understand, to believe 'twould all pass… but there's no hiding from it now. It started in childhood… he thinks we're not knowing… he believes he's fooled us all, but servants know the truth. They always know the truth—d'ye think th
ey'd keep it secret?" Her tone now echoed the rumors. "The heir to Homana rarely spends a whole night in sleep—and he goes to talk to the Lion, to rail against a chair…" She let it trail off, then hugged herself harder. "What are we to do? I think he'll never be—right." Her voice broke on the last word. With it her hardwon composure; tears welled into green eyes. "What are we to do? How can he hold the throne if everyone thinks him mad?"
Deirdre of Erinn, seated near the window with lap full of yarn and linen, regarded Aileen with compassion and sympathy. At more than sixty years of age she was no longer young—brass-blonde hair was silver, green eyes couched in creases, the flesh less taut on her bones—but her empathy was undiminished even if beauty was. She knew what it was like to fear for a child; she had borne the Mujhar a daughter. But Maeve, for all her troubles, had never been like Aidan. Her niece's fears were legitimate. They all realized Aidan was—different.
Deirdre knew better than to attempt to placate Aileen with useless platitudes, no matter how well-meant. So she gave her niece the truth: " 'Twill be years before Aidan comes close to inheriting. There is Brennan to get through first, and Niall is nowhere near dying. Don't be borrowing trouble, or wishing it on others."
Aileen made a jerky gesture meant to dispel the bad-wishing, a thing Erinnish abhorred. "No, no… gods willing—" she grimaced "—or their eternal tahlmorras—Aidan will be old… but am I wrong to worry? 'Twas one thing to dream as a child—he's a grown man now, and the dreams are worse than ever!"
Deirdre's mouth tightened. "Has he said nothing of it? You used to be close, you and Aidan—and he as close to Brennan. What has he said to you?"
Aileen's expulsion of breath was underscored with bitterness. "Aidan? Aidan says nothing. Aye, once we were close—when he was so little… but now he says nothing. Not to either of us. 'Tis as if he cannot trust us—" She pressed the palms of her hands against temples, trying to massage away the ache. "If I say aught to him—if I ask him what troubles him, he tells me nothing. He lies to me, Deirdre! And he knows I know it. But does it change his answer? No, not his… he is, if nothing else, stubborn as a blind mule."
"Aye, well, he's getting that from both sides of his heritage." Deirdre's smile was kind. "He is but twenty-three. Young men are often secretive."
"No—not like Aidan." Aileen, pacing before the window, lifted a hand, then let it drop to slap against her skirts. "The whole palace knows it… the whole city knows it—likely all of Homana." She stopped, swung to face Deirdre, half-sitting against the casement sill. "Some of them go so far as to say he's mad, mad as Gisella."
"Enough!" Deirdre said sharply. "Do you want to give fuel to such talk? You're knowing as well as I there's nothing in that rumor. He could no more inherit insanity than I did, or you." She sat straighter in her chair, unconscious of creased linen. "He's Erinnish, too, as well as Cheysuli… how d'ye know he's not showing a bit of our magic? There's more than a little in the House of Eagles—"
Aileen cut her off. "Oh, aye, I know… but the Cheysuli is so dominant I doubt our magic can show itself."
Deirdre lifted an eyebrow. "That's not so certain, I'm thinking, with your hair on his head."
Aileen grimaced, one hand drifting to brilliant locks. Aidan's was darker, but still red; only the eyes were Cheysuli. "There's nothing about my son that bespeaks Erinnish roots—he's as bad as any of them."
Deirdre's smile was faint. "By 'them,' you're meaning Cheysuli?"
"Cheysuli," Aileen echoed, forehead creased in absent concern. "One moment they're all so human… the next, they're alien."
"Aye, well, they could say the same of us." Deirdre took up the forgotten embroidery in her lap, examining it critically. Her skills faded year by year, but not her desire. The worst thing about aging, she thought, was the inability physically to do what her mind wanted. "I think women have made that complaint many times before, whether the man in their bed is a shapechanger, or nothing more than a man."
For the first time Aileen smiled. She had never been beautiful, but beauty was not what made her Aileen. The beauty of Erinn's eagles lay in vividness of spirit, and a crude physical splendor. "You wouldn't be saying that of the Mujhar."
"I would," Deirdre retorted. "No doubt he's said it of me; no man understands a woman."
Aileen's brief smile faded. "Does a mother understand her son?"
Deirdre's hands slowed. "I'll not say you've naught to think about, with Aidan, but there's no madness in him. And there are worse things to a man than dreams; worse things to a throne than a dreamer."
"I wonder," Aileen murmured.
Deirdre schooled her tone into idle inquiry. "What does Brennan say?"
"Nothing." Aileen shifted on the sill, cocking one knee against the glazing so that her weight was on the stone. "He feels it as much as I, but d'ye think he'll admit it? Admit he doubts his son?" The line of her mouth flattened. "When Aidan was little, and so sick, Brennan and I shared everything. But Aidan withdrew, and then so did Brennan. There was nothing left between us. Now, when he speaks of it at all, he says merely 'tis Aidan's tahlmorra to hold the Lion Throne."
Deirdre sighed. "So says his birthright. But there are times, to my way of thinking, they put too much weight on what they believe instead of on what they feel."
"They believe in the prophecy, each and every one of them." Then Aileen laughed. Bitterness was manifest. "Except, of course, for Teirnan and his a'saii, lost in the woods of Homana."
Deirdre's mouth tightened. "Teirnan was a fool."
"You only say that because he seduced your daughter… you're not caring a whit what Teirnan thinks about anything else, after what he did to Maeve." Aileen shifted restlessly, adjusting heavy skirts. "Maeve is happy now, in Erinn, and perfectly safe—my son is neither, I'm thinking."
"Your son will do well enough." Deirdre bit through a thread. "As you said, Maeve is happy—and who would have thought that possible after what Teirnan did to her?" Deirdre sighed, untangling colors. "I thank the oldfolk of Erinn for hearing a mother's pleas… Rory Redbeard's a good man, and has made her a good husband."
"Since he couldn't be having Keely." Aileen smiled briefly. "He wanted her, you know. For all she was meant for Sean, and the Redbeard came here knowing…" She let it trail off. "Maeve is nothing like Keely. If that was what Rory wanted, he got something other than expected."
Deirdre raised a brow. "By the time Keely and Sean sailed for Erinn, only a fool would have thought he yet had a chance. After Teirnan's bastard was born, Rory took Maeve for Maeve's own sake, not as a replacement for Keely."
Aileen laughed aloud. "There is no replacement for Keely."
"And no replacement for Aidan… the boy will be whatever it is he's meant to be."
Brief amusement fled. Aileen stared at her aunt. Deirdre's composure occasionally irked, because she claimed so little herself. Just now, it made her want to shatter it, even as she longed for Deirdre's serenity. It was a thing unknown to her, with a son such as Aidan.
"There is something wrong with him. There is something not right." Aileen stared at her aunt, daring her to disagree. "Next time you see him," she said intensely, "look into his eyes. Then ask yourself these questions: "Is my grandson happy? Is my grandson sane?" "
Deirdre stared, aghast. "I'd never do such a thing!"
"Ask," Aileen suggested. "Better yet, ask him. But don't listen to what he says—look in his eyes, instead. 'Tis where you'll find the truth. Cheysuli eyes or no, 'tis where you'll find the truth."
Chapter Two
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He was up and out of his bed before he knew who or where he was; before he knew what he wanted. The need drove him to it. The compulsion preempted everything: thought, logic, comprehension, much as lir-sickness had. It overtook his body and carried him to the door, where he pressed himself against it in mute appeal for passage.
Inside his head tolled a certainty tainted with a plea:. This time I can touch it… this time it will be real—THIS time, I know�
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But the declaration faded, along with certainty, as he came sluggishly to himself from the depths of unsettling dreams. He realized, in despair, it had happened yet again.
Sweat filmed him. He slept nude, as always, disliking the bindings of sleepclothes, the excess warmth of covers. So now, damp with dreams and fear, he shivered in the chill of a cool summer night and cursed himself for a fool.
With great effort he stilled his breathing, pressing his brow against the heavy door as if the pressure of flesh on wood might drive out the dream he dreamed. But it never did, never, no matter how hard he tried, and at last he turned, giving up, scraping shoulder blades against wood, and stared blindly into darkness.
"Why?" he whispered raggedly, through the headache only beginning. "Why does this happen to me?"
In the darkness, something stirred. But no answer was offered him; after too many years of the asking, he no longer expected one.
The pounding of his heart slowed. He swallowed heavily twice, disliking the bitter aftertaste of the dream, and scratched irritably at a scalp itchy from dream-fear and reaction. He shivered once, controlled it, then stood up at last from the door.
He lingered only a moment, considering what might happen if he simply went back to bed; he knew better. He knew very well, having tasted futility more often than dreamless slumber. So he gave up the sweet contemplation of what it might be like if he could simply sleep, as other people slept, and stumbled to the nearest clothing chest to pull out age-softened leather leggings.
No more: only leggings, enough for now, he thought; more would be too much. More would be too hot; the summer night was cool, but dreams banished comfort and basted him with warmth.
It would not be so bad, he thought wryly, if at least I dreamed of women. They are worth the discomfort of a night become too hot.
He had been a man, as manhood is reckoned, for nearly eight years. He had dreamed, and spilled his seed, into women and into his bed. But it was not of women he dreamed when the dreams were sent by gods.
Cheysuli 7 - Flight of the Raven Page 2