Desperation threaded Brennan's tone. "They are dreams, Ian. What else was I to do? Allow him to frighten himself?"
Ian shrugged a single shoulder. "I have no answer for you. But Aidan still dreams… fear or no fear, something is real to him."
"And I gave it no credence, ever." Brennan collapsed against the wall, mouth pulled awry. "I am not and have never been the most discerning of men."
Ian watched him closely. Quietly, he suggested, "I think Aileen might understand what you feel. She has as much stake in Aidan's future as you."
Brennan's expression was bleak. "She says nothing of it to me."
Ian did not smile. "Have you ever thought to ask her?"
Brennan shrugged. "She is too quick to defend him. She hears nothing of my concern, gives no weight to what I say." He grimaced. "He is her only child; she will hear no wrong of him."
Ian shook his head. "Aileen is neither blind nor deaf. She defends him to others; is there need to do that with you?"
The stallion, now turned, thrust his head over the door, blocking their view of one another. Brennan cupped a hand over the bone of the nose and pulled the black head down so he could see his uncle. "I have the right to worry."
Ian stroked the silken neck. "No one will take that from you. But Aileen might help you bear it."
Brennan's expression was odd. "He needs to sire a son."
Ian's motion was arrested. "Why? Do you think it might be best if you replaced your son with a grandson? Just in case—"
"No!" The response came too quickly. "But he is twenty-three, su'fali… I had a son by then. My jehan had three of his own, as well as two daughters."
Ian said nothing a moment. Then, in precise, staccato, tones, "Have you never thought that, given more time, you and Aileen might have made a true match? One much like Niall's and Deirdre's?"
"There was Corin—"
"That was very nearly twenty-five years ago!"
Muscles clenched in Brennan's jaw. "You are saying I should give Aidan time."
"There is enough of it yet; aye. You know the price you and Aileen have paid… why ask him to pay it?"
Brennan's tone was as clipped. "Kings must beget sons."
Ian lost his patience. "The present king is living. His own heir is perfectly healthy, and he has an heir. I think the Lion, just this moment, requires no more than that."
Brennan shut his eyes. When he opened them, Ian saw bleak despair. "And if my son is mad? How do I get another? Aileen can give me no more… and I will not set her aside. I need a son from Aidan."
Ian shook his head. "Aidan is not mad. Aidan is only—different."
Brennan cupped Bane's black muzzle. "Kings cannot be different. It makes the Homanans afraid."
His uncle's expression was compassionate. "No more afraid than you."
The day was gray, growing grayer. Aidan, who had ridden out of Mujhara not long after a mid-morning meal, scowled irritably at the pewter-hued sky. Teel was in it somewhere, riding out the wind; Aidan looked, found him, sent his feelings through the link.
As if to spite the wind, Teel's tone was undiminished. Some things are worth discomfort.
"But it is summer," Aidan protested. "Summer rain I understand—this feels more like winter!"
Only yesterday you complained of the heat… I think you are merely perverse.
He could be, Aidan admitted. But now was not one of those times. Yesterday, it had been hot; now it was much too cold. Not so cold as to make him shiver, but enough to make him wish he had brought at least a fall cloak. Arms left bare by Cheysuli jerkin protested the chill. Lir-bands felt icy.
Wind changed direction and blew ruddy hair into pale eyes. Aidan stripped it back, peeling strands free of lashes, then forgot about hair altogether as his horse shied violently sideways to make his own discomfort known. The dun gelding did not bolt, but only because Aidan was ready for him.
"No," he said calmly, speaking also through the reins. "I think it would be best for both of us if you let me do the choosing of whether we walk or run."
Lir. Teel's voice. The storm is growing worse.
Aidan, who could feel the blast of the wind as well as the raven, offered no comment. He was too busy with the horse, who threatened to run again. Aidan did not really blame him. If he himself were a horse, he might run as well. The wind was full of urging, wailing down hilly croftlands. Its song was one of winter; of hearthfires and steaming wine. Or, if he were a horse, of windtight stable and warm bedding straw, with grain for the asking.
"Summer," Aidan muttered. "What will winter be like, I wonder?"
There was nothing for it but to ride on, to reach the fringes of the wood that would provide some protection. The track, warded by trees and foliage, would be free of much of the wind, and he could go on to Clankeep screened from the worst of the weather.
Debris littered the air: leaves, dirt, torn petals of wind-tattered flowers. Aidan ducked his head, squinted, spat, urged the gelding a little faster. And then faster still.
"Go ahead," he agreed, giving the dun his head. "A bit of a run will do no harm, and will get us there the faster."
The gelding required no urging. By the time they reached the trees, Aidan was almost sorry. A gallop through the wind blew away the dull dregs of a troubled night's sleep, leaving him refreshed and in good spirits. He gloried in the sensation of horse against the storm, himself bent over the neck so as to give the wind no purchase. But he did not give into the impulse that told him to run again; the gelding deserved a rest, and the track was littered with stormwrack, providing treacherous footing for a horse already spooked.
"Shansu," he said, patting the gelding's neck. "Another time, I promise—for now we will walk."
The dun was ordinarily a well-mannered, settled horse, neither young nor old, and not given to coltish antics. But clearly the storm had set him on edge; now, as Aidan attempted to calm him, he pawed and swished his tail, indicating displeasure.
Aidan lifted an arm and pointed. "That way," he suggested.
The dun backed in a circle, eyeing the way they had come.
"No, I said that way—" Aidan turned him forcibly. "We have been to Clankeep uncountable times before… there is no reason for this. If there were danger, Teel would say so; I trust him more than you."
The gelding protested, snorting nosily. Dark eyes rolled.
Frowning, Aidan went into the link. Lir—is there danger?
So much for trust, Teel answered. No, there is no danger… nothing but the storm.
Relieved, Aidan aimed the dun yet again toward the east. "If this is a show of will, I could choose a better time… shall we discuss this a bit later?"
The gelding stood still and quivered.
Aidan stroked the ocher-brown neck again. "Shansu, my lad, my boy—'tis naught but a bit of a blow… d'ye think I'd be wanting you harmed?"
Erinnish, many held, was a tongue made for horses, but the gelding was Homanan. He chose to misunderstand.
Wind roared through the trees. The dun bolted and ran.
It was, Aidan thought grimly, an entirely horselike flight. After refusing to go east, fright had forced the gelding. If the storm had not worsened matters, Aidan might have let him run on since he was heading toward their destination. But he dared not in the wind. The track was fouled with debris. If the gelding tripped and went down—
"Never mind," Aidan muttered, cursing imagination.
He drew the reins in tautly and attempted to apply force of will to the restraint. He had gentled many a colt and won many a horse's trust, sharing much of his father's skill. But the gelding was having none of it.
Concern instantly deepened. Aidan knew the feel of it: the bit had been rolled forward, free of tender bars, and now was lodged in teeth. The horse was in control. The man on his back was nothing more than a minor inconvenience not worth the trouble of throwing off.
Aidan, amused by the all-too-accurate vision, grinned, then wished he had not as dirt fouled his
teeth. He spat. I could simply take lir-shape and let this fool of a boy run on without me—
But the thought of risking the gelding made him reconsider. His father had trained him too well; when it came to welfare, he thought of the horse's in place of his own.
Or, I could—
But what else he could—or could not—do, went unthought. Without altering his pace, the gelding dodged off the track and crashed into deadfall and foliage, neatly avoiding a tree trunk. Aidan also avoided the trunk, but did not miss the limp sweeping down from the rack of low boughs.
In reflex, he thrust out a warding forearm, knowing it much too late. Lir—
It was all Aidan managed as the tree limb embraced his ribs and swept him out of the saddle.
Chapter Four
« ^ »
He dreamed. He dreamed he was made of smoke and fire in place of flesh and blood. His heart was a white flame and his soul whiter still, so brilliant it was blinding. Out of the white flame of his heart and the whiter brilliance of his soul came the music that poured through his veins like quicksilver, burning what it touched with a pain exquisitely sweet. He wanted to cry with its beauty, but knew he dared not.
Water extinguishes flame. Extinguished, I will die.
He saw himself, but it was not himself. The Aidan he saw was another man, insubstantial, incorporeal, substantive as smoke. He drifted this way, that way, shredding himself as he moved, then forming himself again. And then the man of smoke congealed into anther shape, taking the form of a raven, also made of smoke, and the raven flew swiftly skyward in a bid for needed freedom.
South: to an island: away from Homana-Mujhar and all the Cheysuli Keeps; away from the world everyone else called home, until the raven found a new home among the standing stones now fallen, cold and green and gray, where he perched upon a shattered, rune-scribed altar as if he wished to speak of gods.
The altar was overturned. From beneath it, something glinted with the dull-brilliance of muddied gold. The raven, knowing need, left his perch and descended.
A chain. Coiled beneath the altar, perfect and unblemished. Its beauty was so compelling that even the raven was moved to desire it. But a raven has no hands; he shapechanged himself to a man and knelt down to pick up the chain.
He touched it. It was whole. He lifted it. It was whole. He took it from the shadows, unable to breathe, and held it in the light.
The links were the size of a man's forearm. Seamless, flawless gold, filled with twisted runes too intertwined to decipher.
He dared to breathe on it. One of the links broke.
Grief swallowed him. Why do I destroy when all I want is to make things whole?
He still held half of the chain. The other half had fallen, spilled on leaf-molded floor.
A sound. He turned, still kneeling, still grasping his half of the chain, and saw the shadowed figure in the tumbled doorway of lichen-clad stones.
The voice was firm and commanding. "You hold me in your hand. What do you want from me?"
Aidan tried not to gape. Where had the stranger come from?
For that matter, where was he?
"Who are you?" he blurted.
Disbelief was manifest: black brows arched up, then snapped together over a blade-straight nose. "The Mujhar," he said. Clearly the stranger believed Aidan could surely name him; only a fool could not, or a man with no eyes to see.
Aidan heard the undertone of expectation couched in blatant arrogance. But he heard it, he did not feel it; something was not right. Something was not real.
The Mujhar—? he echoed blankly.
Certainly the man looked it. He wore black velvet and leather of exquisite quality and cut; a scarlet rampant lion clawed its way across the black silken overtunic belted with heavy gold. Hands, hooked into the belt, were strong, long-fingered, callused, the hands of a soldier; no Cheysuli, he. The eyes were a clear, piercing gray. Black hair was frosted silver.
Neither young nor old. Aidan thought him fifty. But something he could not name whispered of agelessness.
It would do no good to wonder when he knew the man lied. "Who are you?" he repeated.
Gray eyes narrowed. "I have said: the Mujhar."
It was too much. Aidan, frowning, glanced around the ruins, trying briefly to place himself. And then the arrogance of the tone—and the claim—restored his attention to the stranger.
Who is he to say such a thing? And then he nearly laughed. And to me, when it comes to that; I know the truth.
"Mujhar, you say?" Aidan sat back on his heels. "And I say you are lying."
Well-cut lips tightened. "That is punishable by death."
"Oh?" Aidan smiled. "Then kill me, Mujhar… kill the man who will hold the Lion when the proper time is come."
"You?" Black brows swept up again. "You will hold the Lion?"
Aidan spoke lightly. "So I have been told. It has to do with my birth—I am Brennan's son, and grandson to Niall."
"Ah." It was succinct, yet brimming with comprehension. "Where I am, there is no time… and I did not realize so much had already passed." He smiled consideringly. "Are we to Niall already?"
This man is mad. And I am mad for listening.
He adopted a coolly condescending tone. "You will forgive me, I hope, if I fail to display the deference due a Mujhar—I show it to my grandsire, who is deserving of it. You I do not know."
"Oh, I think you do." The gray eyes were oddly lambent. "The history of the Cheysuli is full of my name and title."
Aidan held on to his patience. "Then why not give me both."
"You have the title: Mujhar. The name I am called is Shaine."
Shaine. Shaine? Shaine?
He wanted to laugh, but could not. This man touched his pride, as well as heritage. "I will thank you to keep your mouth from the name of my ancestor."
Gray eyes glinted. "But it is my name."
"Shaine is dead," he said flatly.
The stranger merely nodded. "A long time ago. Would you like to hear how?"
"I know how. I was taught. All of us were taught." Aidan did not smile. "Shaine killed himself when he voided Ihlini wards set to keep Cheysuli from Homana-Mujhar."
"A painful death, and somewhat unexpected," agreed the other. "But by then it no longer mattered… Finn would have killed me once he walked the hall. It was what he came to do." Briefly the eyes smoldered. "Hale's shapechanger son… gods, but I hated them. And Alix was the worst, coming before me like Lindir, but dark instead of fair." Lips writhed briefly. "Carillon would have wed her, and made her Queen of Homana. I could see it in his eyes."
Dumbstruck, Aidan stared. The words came very slowly. "She married Duncan instead."
"Duncan. Your great-great-great-grandsire." Gray eyes narrowed. "A long history. I weary of it all."
This cannot be happening. None of this is real. Aidan stared at the man. He filled his eyes with the man, stretching lids wide, then swallowed back the sour taste filling his mouth. Am I dead? he wondered. Could this all be real?
The knots in his belly tightened. Aidan felt numb. "If you are Shaine…" he mumbled. "If you are Shaine…"He twitched the thought away. "Am I dead?" he asked flatly. "Oh, gods, am I dead? Is this what it is to die?"
"Dead? You?" White teeth parted the beard. "No, not yet. There is time still left to you."
Fleetingly, Aidan wondered how much; he forbore to ask. Relief was too overwhelming, until he considered again the circumstances.
He wiped one sweaty hand on a legging-clad thigh. His only chance was to focus on something, anything, to keep himself from losing control. "If you are Shaine the Mujhar, you are dead."
The man did not reply.
Aidan felt sick. He wanted to spew out the contents of his belly across the fallen altar, or onto leaf-thickened floor. Sweat bathed his flesh. His head began to ache. Worst of all was the fear.
I HAVE gone mad.
And then, Gods, where is Teel? What has become of my lir?
Still kneeli
ng, he shuddered. Hands clenched on the links.
This is a new dream… gods, let it BE a dream—
Shaine the Mujhar stared back. "We are not discussing me. We have come to speak of you."
"Me?" Aidan blurted. "What have you to do with me?"
"Stand up," he was told.
Aidan slowly rose. Links in his hand chimed.
The man examined him. "Cheysuli," he said in disgust. "I should have known Carillon would lift my curse as soon as he claimed the Lion… well, it took him five years to win it back from Bellam, and longer still to end the extermination." The line of the mouth was bitter. "Qu'mahlin, you shapechangers call it? Aye, well, nothing lasts, not even the Cheysuli…" Gray eyes narrowed. "Red hair, fair skin… is it merely you mimic the fashion?"
Sickness was unabated. His belly writhed within. But he focused on something else so as to ignore his discomfort.
"Mimic the fashion—?" Abruptly, Aidan understood. It made him angry, very angry; it gave him courage again. "These lir-bands and the earring are mine, gained in the usual way, and properly bestowed during my Ceremony of Honors. There is no fashion to them; nor to me, my lord apparition: I am Cheysuli and heir to Homana."
Shaine the Mujhar smiled. "Are you so certain of that?"
Aidan struggled with himself. I am mad—I must be mad—why else am I standing here arguing with a fetch? He glanced around for Teel. Where is my lir?
Shaine the Mujhar still smiled. "Are you so certain?"
The derision snared Aidan's attention. "Of course I am certain," he snapped. "I have told you who I am, and you say I am not dead; how would I not be heir?"
"By never accepting the throne."
Aidan swallowed a shout. Quietly, he said, "I was born to accept the throne. The Lion will be mine."
Shaine lifted a hand and pointed to the chain dangling from Aidan's hand. "Men are but links," he said. "Links in a chain of the gods, who play at the forge as a child plays at his toys. Make a link, and solder it here—solder another there… rearrange the order to better please the eye." The arrogance had faded, replaced by intensity. "Some links are strong and never yield, bound to one another… others are flawed, and break, replaced by those who are stronger so the chain is never destroyed. It is a game of the gods, Aidan, to forge a flawless link, then join it to the other. One by one by one, making the chain strong. Making the chain perfect. Disposing of weakened links so as not to harm the whole."
Cheysuli 7 - Flight of the Raven Page 5