A servant always left him a lighted candle; he always blew it out. Warrior training—and common sense—taught him safety lay in eyes well-accustomed to heavy darkness instead of blinded by too much light. But his room was an outer one, narrow casements slit the walls, and torchlight from the baileys crept through to bathe his chamber. Pale light burnished his arms: faceted lir-bands gleamed.
Bare of chest and feet, he swung back toward the door. He paused there, eyes shut, cursing himself for a fool.
"Leave it alone—ignore it—" Aidan bit into his lip. "Who is in control: a piece of wood, or you?"
Inside his head, the Lion roared. Aidan's belly knotted.
"Leave it alone," he repeated. "Gods—leave me alone—"
Time to go, someone said. How can you turn back now? It has become ritual… and you are not the kind who changes anything regardless of the need.
Stung, Aidan turned to glare through darkness at the rustling in the corner. "What am I to change? Would you have it be my tahlmorra?"
Now the tone was scornful. You do not even have an inkling what your tahlmorra IS.
Through the link, he lashed out. I know very well what it is—
Do you?
I have known all along. What do you think I am? Are YOU not proof that my tahlmorra is undertaken?
Because I exist? No. The tone, now, was cool. I exist because I am. Because the gods created me.
To be my lir.
The tone spilled into smugness. Or you to be mine.
Aidan swore beneath his breath. Mockingly, he asked, "Has any warrior ever revoked the lir-link?"
No living warrior.
It reminded Aidan of something, as it was meant to do: the precariousness of his race. "Has any warrior petitioned the gods for a new lir?"
Undoubtedly others have asked. But it is not my duty to tell you how the gods deal with ungrateful children.
"Ungrateful," Aidan muttered. "How could any man be so foolish as to consider how peaceful life might be if his lir was other than you?"
How can any warrior contemplate peace when he stands ready to fight a chair made of wood?
"Agh, gods…" Aidan put his hand on the latch. "You do not need to come, Teel. Stay in the corner and sulk; I can find my own way."
He jerked open the heavy door and stepped through, leaving it ajar. He thought for the merest moment he would be unaccompanied, but the rustling grew louder. And then the raven left the darkness and flew to perch on his shoulder.
Aidan extended an arm. "Try my hand," he suggested. "Like this, you scratch my shoulder."
Too soft, his lir chided, but exchanged shoulder for hand.
Aidan briefly considered taking a lamp with him, but decided against it. No corridor in the massive palace was left completely without light so guards or servants, if needed, could see to serve or protect, but unnecessary torches and lamps were extinguished. And he was, after all, Cheysuli, with yellow Cheysuli eyes; he saw what there was to see whether light existed or not.
"A fool," Aidan muttered, but set off anyway. Ignoring the stubborn compulsion gained him nothing but sleepless nights.
He had known, for as long as he could remember, he was different. The dreams of childhood had faded during adolescence, dissipated by the intense need for and the bonding with his lir, but once adulthood was reached the dreams returned in force. Now, at twenty-three, he was accounted a warrior in the clans and a full-grown man by the Homanans who called him a prince, but he was still plagued by dreams. By the vision of the chain. By the substance of the chain—until he put out a hand to touch it, and the links dispersed into dust.
As a child, it had frightened him. Growing older, he believed it merely a manifestation of a want and desire he could not fully understand. But of late the dreams had worsened. The desire had become a demand. And Aidan fully believed, with a dreadful certainty, he was somehow, someway, tainted.
"Tainted," he murmured aloud, aware of familiar tension.
Perhaps, the raven agreed. But why would gods choose a tool that is tainted? Teel paused significantly. Unless they merely forgot—
It was not precisely the sort of reassurance he craved. It was true the lir were a gift of the gods, but he preferred to think of himself as a man, not a tool. Not even a divine one; he asked no favors of the gods, for fear they might give him one.
Enough, he said dismissively, sending it through the link.
Well? Well? Why would they?
Firmly, Aidan said: We are not discussing gods.
Perhaps we should discuss them. You discuss everything else, yet very little of substance.
He gritted teeth, but did not answer. He merely walked, saying nothing, passing out of shadows into torchlight, into darkness again. Through countless corridors and passageways, knowing them all by heart, until he reached the Great Hall.
There are times, the raven commented, even Cheysuli are fools.
Aidan, searching for release from the tension, settled on irony. It is because of the other blood.
Teel considered it. I think not, he replied. I think it is merely you.
Muttering under his breath, Aidan shoved open the doors.
Go back to bed, Teel suggested. You know how you feel in the morning when you spend the night chasing dreams. You know how you look.
Irritated, Aidan shifted back into human speech as he shouldered into the hall. Against his flesh he felt the texture of the silver, the whorls and angles and patterns set by craftsmen into the metal. "You know very well when I try to ignore the dream, it only gets worse."
Because you allow it to.
He let the door fall closed behind him, hearing its distant grate. Irritation spilled away. Fear trickled back. He recalled all the nights very clearly. Especially the first, when he had come at the age of six to find the chain of gold in the lap of the Lion Throne. And how he had shamed himself, frightened by something of wood; and by things he could not fathom.
All came rushing back. Humiliation caused him to squirm; why could he not forget?
Tension made him curt. "Is it there?"
Probably, Teel observed dryly. Is it not always there?
Aidan sighed and moved away from the heavy silver doors. The flames of the firepit had died to coals, lending dim illumination to the cavernous hall. Shadows cloaked the walls: tapestries and banners; history set in cloth. Wheels of swords and daggers painstakingly bracketed in a perfect and deadly symmetry. Spears and pikes sprouted from display blocks set in corners; flagsticks dangled silk. In the folds crouched Homana. Beyond the pit, on the dais, crouched the Lion Throne.
Teel rode Aidan's hand easily, considerably lighter than the hawks, falcons and eagles other warriors claimed. It was, Aidan felt, a facet of his very differentness that his lir was a raven. The bird was hardly unknown in the history of the clans, but neither was it common. Aidan considered it a jest played on him by capricious gods. In addition to sending him dreams, they gave him an irascible lir.
Teel pecked his thumb. I have ridden faster rocks.
"Then get off my hand and go sit on one."
Obligingly, the raven lifted and flew the length of the hall. But he did not sit on a rock. He sat on the head of the Lion.
Aidan, ruddy brows lifted, stopped at the foot of the dais. "Surely sacrilegious—you profane the Mujhar's throne."
Teel fluffed a wing. Considering the Mujhar is only the Mujhar because of lir like myself, I think it is allowed.
Steadfastly, Aidan stared at the raven. Then, drawing a breath, he made himself look down at the cushion on which his grandsire sat when he inhabited the throne.
So, Teel observed, the dream remains constant.
Aidan shut his eyes. The painfully familiar sense of loss and oppression rushed in from out of the shadows.
Stiffly, he knelt. He waited. Felt the coldness of glossy marble through the leather of his leggings. Smelled ash, old wood, oil; the scent of ancient history, intangible yet oddly vivid.
Let me touch i
t, he begged. Let me know the chain is real.
But when he put out a hesitant hand, the links dissolved to dust.
Breath spilled raggedly. "Oh, gods… oh, gods—why do this to me? What have I done to deserve it? What do you want from me?"
But even as he asked, futility overwhelmed him, much as it had the very first time. And, like that time, what he wanted was to cry. But he was twenty-three: a man fully grown. An acknowledged Cheysuli warrior with a lir to call his own… if Teel condescended to let him.
Aidan did not cry. He was no longer six years old.
Though there are times I wish I were, so I could begin again.
Teel's tone was cool. What use in that? he asked. The gods made the child. Now the rest is up to the man.
"Stop," Aidan declared.
When you do.
"I swear, you will drive me mad, hag-riding me to death."
Teel's irony slipped, replaced with an odd kindness. I will keep you sane when you hag-ride yourself to death.
Aidan let it go. He was too weary, too worn. There was something he had come for. The ritual to perform.
He sighed, cursing himself out of habit. He knew what he would find, but Aidan put hand to cushion. Touched the worn nap of the velvet. Felt nothing but the fabric. Not even the grit of dust.
Futility was overpowering. "Why?" The shout filled the hall. "Why do I always come back when I know what will happen?"
"Because the gods, when they are playful, are sometimes cruel instead of kind."
Aidan lurched to his feet and spun around, catching himself against the Lion. He had heard nothing, nothing at all; no scrape of silver on marble, no steps the length of the hall. He stared hard like a wolf at bay, thinking of how he looked; of what appearance he presented—hair in disarray, half dressed, haranguing a wooden beast. Heat flooded him. Humiliation stung his armpits. He wanted to shout aloud, to send the man from the hall, away from his royal—but embarrassed—presence; he did not. Because he looked at the man who faced him and recognition shamed him.
His grandfather smiled. "I know what you are thinking; it is written on your face. But it is unworthy of you, Aidan… you have as much right to be here, no matter what the hour, as I do myself."
On the headpiece of the Lion, the bright-eyed raven preened. I have told you that, myself.
Aidan ignored his lir. Embarrassment had not receded; if anything, he felt worse. What he wanted most was to apologize and flee—this man is the Mujhar!—but he managed to stand his ground.
After a moment's hesitation, he wet his lips and spoke quietly. "I may have the right to be here, but not to disturb your rest."
"The rest of an old man?" Niall's tone was amused. "Ah, well… when you are as old as I you will understand that sleep does not always come when you want it to."
He began to feel a little better; the Mujhar was now his grandsire. Wryly, Aidan smiled. "I know that already."
"So." Niall advanced, holding a fat candle in its cup of gleaming gold. "Why have you said nothing to me of these dreams? Do you think I have no time for my grandson?"
Aidan stared at the man who, by right of gods and men, held the Lion Throne of Homana. He, like Deirdre, was past sixty, yet as undiminished by age. Still tall, still fit, still unmistakably regal, though no longer youthful. Tawny hair had silvered, fading like tarnished gilt; Homanan-fair skin had creased, displaying a delicately drawn fretwork born of years of responsibility; of the eyes, one was blue and bright as ever, the other, an empty socket couched in talon scars, was hidden behind a patch.
Aidan drew in a breath, answering his grandfather's question with one of his own. "How can you have the time? You are the Mujhar."
"I am also a man who sired five children, and who now reaps the benefits of my children's fertility." Briefly, Niall eyed the raven perched upon his throne. "You I know better than the others, since you live here in Homana, but there are times I fully believe I know you least of all."
Aidan smiled. "It is nothing, grandsire."
Niall arched a brow.
"Nothing," Aidan repeated.
"Ah." Niall smiled faintly. "Then it pains me to know my grandson feels he cannot confide in me."
Guilt flickered deep inside. "No grandsire—'Tisn't that. 'Tis only…" Aidan shrugged. "There is nothing to speak about."
Niall's gaze was steady. "I am neither a fool, nor blind—though I have but one eye I still see."
Heat coursed through Aidan's flesh. The sweat of shame dotted a thin line above his lips. He made a futile gesture. "They are just—dreams. Nothing more."
"Then I must assume the servants are embroidering the truth." The tone was very quiet, but compelling nonetheless. "I think it is time you spoke. If not to Aileen or to Brennan, then to me. I have some stake in this."
Aidan clenched his teeth briefly. "Dreams, nothing more—as anyone dreams. Fragments of sleep. Thoughts all twisted up, born of many things."
The Mujhar of Homana forbore to sit in his throne, usurped by a black-eyed raven who, as a lir, had more claim than any human, Cheysuli-bred or not. Or so Teel told them. Instead, Niall sat down upon the dais, setting down the candle cup with its wax and smoking flame. "Tell me about them."
Aidan rubbed damp fingertips against soft leather. Tell him. Tell him? Just like that?
Niall's tone was kind. "Locking things away only adds to the problem. Believe me, I know; I spent far too many years denying myself peace because I believed myself unworthy of this creature looming behind me."
Aidan glanced only briefly at the Lion. Then sat down on the dais next to Niall, putting his back to the beast. He felt a vast impatience—how could he share what no one would believe?—but attempted to honor his grandsire by fulfilling part of the request. "This has nothing at all to do with unworthiness. I promise, grandsire, I know who I am and the task I am meant for: to rule as Mujhar of Homana." Easily, he made the palm-up Cheysuli gesture denoting tahlmorra, and his acceptance of it. "I think I will do as well as the next man when my time comes—you and my jehan have taught me very well; how could I not be worthy?" He flicked fingers dismissively, thinking it enough.
Niall waited in silence.
Discomfited, Aidan stirred. "No one can understand. Why should I speak of it? When I was a child, I tried to tell them about it. But neither of them believed me."
"Who did not?"
"Jehan and jehana. They both said I was a child, and that what I dreamed was not real. That I would outgrow it…" Bitterness underscored the tone; Aidan pushed it away with effort. "Would you speak of a thing people would ridicule you for?"
"Aileen and Brennan would never ridicule you."
Aidan grimaced. "Not them, perhaps… not so obviously. But what is a child to feel when his parents call him a liar?"
Niall's brows knit. "I have never known you to be that. I doubt they have, either; nor would ever say such a thing."
"There is such a thing as implying—"
"They would not even do that."
It was definitive. Aidan shifted his buttocks and stared gloomily into the hall. "I wish there were a way I could explain what I feel. What I fear."
"Try," Niall suggested. "Tell me the truth, as you know it. Tell me what disturbs your sleep."
Aidan rubbed gritty eyes. What he needed most was sleep.
No. What he needed most was the chain.
He sighed and let it go. "What I fear is the meaning behind my dream. The same one over and over." Now it was begun. Tension began to ease. With it went strength. Slumping, he braced elbows on his knees and leaned his chin into cupped hands. "For as long as I can recall, the same dream over and over. I think it will drive me mad."
Niall said nothing. His patience was manifest.
Aidan sighed heavily and sat upright, scraping hair back from his face. In the poor light his thick auburn hair was an odd reddish black, falling across bare shoulders too fair for a Cheysuli. A man, looking at him, would name him all Homanan, or call him Erinnish-born. Unti
l he saw the eyes.
"There is a chain," Aidan began. "A chain made of gold. It is in the lap of the Lion."
The Mujhar did not give in to the urge to turn and look. Mutely, Niall waited.
Aidan, abruptly restless, thrust himself upright and paced away from dais, Lion, Mujhar. Away from his lir, uncharacteristically silent. He stared in disgust at the firepit, letting the coals dazzle his eyes, then swung back to face his grandsire.
"I know—I know how it sounds… but it is what I feel, what I dream—"
"Aidan," Niall said quietly, "stop trying to look through my eyes."
Brought up short, Aidan shut his mouth and waited. He had been carefully tutored.
Niall's gaze was kind. "You are wasting too much time trying to imagine what I will think. Simply say it. Tell it; you may find me less ignorant than you believe."
Aidan clenched his teeth; how could anyone, kin or not, fully understand?
But in the end, it was very easy. "I have to have it," he said plainly. "If I do not, the world ends."
Niall's expression was startled. "The world—ends?"
Aidan gestured acknowledgment; it sounded as odd to him. "The entire world," he agreed dryly. "At least—for me." And then he gestured again. "I know, I know—now I am being selfish, to think of the entire world, and its fate, being determined by what I do… but that is what I dream. Over and over again."
He waited. Before him the old man sat hunched on the dais, silvered brows knit with thought. Niall frowned pensively, but his expression gave nothing away.
The thought was fleeting and unwelcome. There is madness in my kinfolk—
But Aidan knew better than to say it. Niall would only deny it; or, rather, deny its cause as anything other than accident. He had said, time and time again, the madness of Aidan's Atvian granddame, Gisella, was induced by an early, traumatic birth—but Aidan sometimes wondered. He was capable of intense thoughts and impulses, sometimes as disturbing as his dreams, though he always suppressed them. He had heard the same said of Gisella. And he knew from repeated stories his su'fala, Keely, had never been fully convinced the madness was not hereditary.
"Well," Niall said finally, "everyone dreams. My dreams are odd enough—"
Cheysuli 7 - Flight of the Raven Page 3