Holding the broken chain, Aidan said nothing.
Shaine did not smile. "The weak link has a name: Aidan of Homana."
Anger rose, was suppressed. It would do no good to argue with a man who did not exist. "You are in my dream," Aidan rasped. "Dreams have no substance. This chain has no substance. Nothing you say is real."
"Then why did you summon me?"
Aidan shook his head. "I did not summon you. A man cannot summon a dream… nor can he raise the dead."
"But I am there, in your hand." Shaine pointed precisely. "The chain, Aidan; that link. I explained it all to you once, must I explain it all again?"
Aidan looked at the link clutched in his hand. His fingers tightened on it. If, in his twisted dream, this link was Shaine, who were the others?
But he banished the question at once; Shaine was his concern. "Begone," he said tautly. "I want none of you."
Gray eyes glittered. "But I am in you, Aidan. All of us are."
Aidan threw down the chain. Shaine disappeared.
The tremor ran through his body. It convulsed legs, arms, neck, then snatched at lax control. He felt the spasm, the jerk, then the sudden cessation of movement. He lay limply on the ground, sprawled in broken foliage now compressed beneath his body.
What—? he asked vaguely, numb with disorientation.
"Shansu," a voice said quietly. "Let the world settle."
Aidan had little choice. For the moment he knew nothing of who he was or where he was, or what had happened to him. Only that somehow—how?—he had come to be lying on his back on the ground.
"Shansu," the voice repeated. "I would be the last to harm you."
Who—? Aidan forced open eyes. Dazzled, he stared blindly up at the pewter-gray sky screened by a lattice of limbs, and recalled he was in the wood.
Not inside a ruined chapel with a dead Mujhar standing before him.
Consciousness solidified. "Teel," he managed aloud, groping through the link for familiar reassurance.
There was nothing. Nothing. No Teel. No link. Only the absence of everything, as if he had been emptied.
"Teel!"
The spasm returned in full force, this time prompted by the frantic flailing of his limbs. He still had no control, but this time he was the cause.
A hand touched his brow and pressed him gently against the ground. "Shansu." A third time. "Your lir is safe, I promise. I only sent him ahead. Clankeep is not so far… unless, of course, I have misreckoned the distance." The tone was wry. "That is possible, I suppose; I am not accustomed to human time divisions, or distances reckoned as leagues. Still, as the raven flies…" Now the tone was amused.
"Who—?" Aidan squinted.
The hand was cool on his brow. "For now, it makes no difference. I have a name, aye, but we do not bestow them on men, who cannot deal with the power held in a true name. If you like, you may call me the Hunter; it will do as well as my real one, which means very much the same."
Another one, Aidan thought dimly. First the one calls himself Shaine, and now this one… It drifted away on a wisp of disbelief. He would not allow himself. Self-possession was the key, if he was to survive.
Aidan licked dry lips. "I came off my horse."
"Most dramatically. Unlike you, the horse is unhurt." The voice was amused.
Aidan focused with effort. Now he could see someone. A man, kneeling by his side. A brown man: hair, skin, eyes, leathers, all degrees of peat-brown, as if he hid himself in the wood—or, Aidan thought dimly, as if he was of the wood. Not old, not young, but in between; a score of years older than Aidan, a score younger than Niall. Dark eyes were kind, but compelling.
Something in Aidan answered. "You are Cheysuli—?" But he broke it off almost at once. "No—no, of course not… how could I think such a thing?"
The Hunter smiled. "There is Cheysuli in me. Or, to be precise: there is me in Cheysuli."
For a man only recently revived from unconsciousness—and with an aching head—it was much too confusing. Very like his meeting with Shaine, which, Aidan was certain, came as reaction to the fall. "Let me sit—aghh—"
"Perhaps not," the Hunter said mildly.
Aidan was appalled by the pain. His head hurt, aye, but not so much as his chest. A demon was kicking his ribs. "Am I broken?" he asked faintly.
"Bruised, a little. Repairable, certainly. I could do it for you, but that is not my gift. I Hunt; I do not Heal."
That won Aidan's attention. "Hunt—" he muttered blankly. "What is it you hunt?"
"Men."
Something jumped inside painful ribs. "But—" He stopped. "No—I think not… you could not be—"
"—hunting you?" the brown man finished. "Oh, indeed I could be… in fact, I am certain I am."
Sweat sheened Aidan's face. He felt it under his arms; in the hollow of his belly, beneath aching ribs. "What have you done with my lir?"
"Sent him ahead, as I said. Do you think I could hurt a lir?" The tone changed to shock. "No more than harm you, who are true-born or the Cheysuli…" The Hunter's voice faded. His face registered concern. "I have little experience with humans, even with those of my blood… perhaps I would have done better to come in another guise." He frowned thoughtfully. "But this one has always served me… it has always been so benign…"
Aidan lost fear and patience. "Who exactly are you? And why are you hunting me?"
The dark face creased in a smile. "To discover what you have learned."
"Have—learned—?" It was incongruous to Aidan that any of what he saw was real. That what he heard was real; the fall had addled his wits. First Shaine, and now the Hunter. "Am I supposed to have learned anything in particular? Or anything at all?"
"Oh, I think something. You have been alive for twenty-three years… I think you must have learned something." The smile was undiminished, though irony laced the tone.
And yet another time, as if repeated asking would eventually win him an answer: "What have you done with my lir?"
The brown man's smile vanished. "Ruefully, he rubbed his jaw. "I see the link is even stronger than we expected… we might have done better to lessen it, to make lir and warrior less dependent upon one another, but without the strength of that bond, there could be repercussions. And we could not afford those." He shook his head. "No, I think it is as well."
Patience frayed. "What is as well?"
"The bond," the Hunter answered equably. "The thing you call the lir-link. The thing that sets you apart from all the others we made… except, of course, the Ihlini." He sighed. "We do not succeed in everything. Imparting free will was a risk we decided to take… the Ihlini were the result." He paused. A trace of grimness entered his tone. "And, now, the a'saii."
Aidan gritted his teeth. "You have not answered my question."
"About your lir! But I have. I sent him ahead, to Clankeep."
Response was immediate. "Teel does no man's bidding! Teel can be sent nowhere, unless I do the sending!"
"Ah, but the lir answer to a higher power than that of the Cheysuli. They can be sent wherever we say."
"There is only one other power—" Aidan broke it off. He stared hard at the man, daring him to repeat the oblique claim, but nothing was forthcoming.
The wind, for a moment, rose, then died away to nothing. Storm clouds peeled away, leaving behind a clear sky. It was, abruptly, spring, not summer; grass grew, trees budded, the air was warm and light. Even as Aidan sat there, braced against the ground, a flower grew up between the fingers of one hand. And blossomed.
The Hunter's smile was mild. "Perhaps you begin to see."
Aidan snatched his hand away. The denial was absolute. "No."
The Hunter nodded in silence.
I am mad. I am. I must be. Or sick in the head; the fall—it was the fall… I landed on my head, and everything is a dream—yet another dream… first Shaine, now this Hunter—Aidan squinted fiercely. If I look at things more closely—
What he looked at was a man who clai
med he was a god.
Spring dissolved itself. It grew cooler as Aidan stared, until he began to shiver. It was cold, too cold; in winter he wore fur-lined leathers, forsaking the linens of summer. But now he was caught, bathed by winter's breath. The ground around him hardened. The trees sloughed leaves. The grass beneath was dead, and all the flowers gone.
But a moment ago it was spring… Aidan shivered. And then it was warm again.
When he could, he cleared his throat. Perhaps if he proceeded with extreme caution… "Why did you send Teel away? If he is of your making—"
"Oh, not of mine—I do not do the making. That is a task for others, though all of us, of course, have some say in the matter." The Hunter's expression was kind, as if he understood all too well what Aidan was thinking. Which perhaps he did, if he was what he claimed. "As to why I sent him away, the answer is simple enough. This is a thing between you and I, Aidan, not among you and I and the raven. Even the lir are not privy to all we do."
The seasons, without fanfare, continued changing. Grass grew, then died; flowers bloomed, then died; trees changed their shapes; the sky was day, then night; then night and day again. And all without a word from the brown man watching Aidan. Without a single gesture to say he realized what he did was not done—could not be done—by anyone but a god.
Think about something else…
Aidan stirred, then ventured another question. "Why are the lir not privy to all you do?"
"Oh, they are quite arrogant enough without requiring another reason. They are familiars, not gods—they cannot know everything, or they become quite insufferable."
"No," Aidan said faintly, letting it sink in. "Teel needs no more cause for any additional arrogance. He has quite enough as it is."
White teeth gleamed. "I thought you might agree. I think any warrior would, faced with such a course." The Hunter rose, stretched legs, moved to a shattered tree stump. As he sat down, a tiny sapling sprouted at the base of the broken stump. "Teel is—different. I thought him well suited to you."
Aidan sat upright carefully, holding himself very straight. I will say nothing of this to him—all these wonders he performs. Perhaps I am not meant to notice.
But that seemed incongruous. How could he not notice?
Once more, Aidan focused. "Why? Why is Teel suited to me? Why not another warrior?"
"Because you also are different." There was no sting in the quiet words; from a god, they were revelation. "You will spend much of your time questioning things; that is the way of you. Many men act first with little thought for result—rashness is sometimes a curse, sometimes a virtue—but your gift is to think things through before acting." The Hunter smiled. "You will make mistakes, of course—you are man, Aidan, not god—but you are also exceedingly cautious. Some might call you reluctant, others will name you afraid, but cowardice is not your curse."
Aidan wet drying lips. "What is my curse?"
The god looked down at the sapling trying mightily to be a tree. He bent, cupped its crown in his fingers, murmured something quietly in a tongue foreign to Aidan. Then, in clear Homanan, "Not so quickly, small one… there is time for you to grow. For now you must wait on men." He took his fingers away and looked again at Aidan. "You are simply you. Try to be no one else. Let no one force you to be."
"But—" Aidan, staring at the tiny tree, did not finish, forgoing the question he meant to ask in a flood of others like it. "Is that all?"
"All?" Brown eyebrows arched. "Trying to be himself—or herself, as Keely learned—is one of the most difficult tasks a human can face."
Aidan waited a moment. "But I have to be Mujhar."
The Hunter was very solemn. "That, too, is a task. Not every man succeeds." He shifted on the stump. "I am here to tell you nothing more than I have. It is not the nature of gods to tell their children everything—man does not learn by being told; he must do. So, you will do." One leather-clad shoulder lifted and fell in a casual shrug.
Aidan, who felt in no way enlightened or casual, scowled at the Hunter. "Are you really here?"
"Are you?"
In spite of himself, he smiled. "With this pounding in my head, I could not begin to say."
Brown eyes glinted. "Horses are made for riding, not for falling off of. Now you must pay the price." He paused. "You might have flown, you know."
"I might have," Aidan agreed. "There is nothing so free as flying… but riding a good horse has its own brand of magic."
The Hunter laughed. "Aye, well, we gave you free will… choosing to ride instead of fly is one of the smaller freedoms."
Aidan shifted restlessly, then surpressed a wince. "That is all—? You came merely to say I must be myself?"
"Enough of a task, for now. But since I am here, you may as well tell me about your dream."
Ice encased his flesh. "You know about my dream? You know about the chain?"
The answer was oblique. "I mean the dream you dreamed just now, before coming to yourself. Your eyes were wide open, but you saw nothing of the day. Only inside yourself."
Aidan felt moved to protest. "But you are a god."
The Hunter looked annoyed. "You are a man," he said plainly. "We made you deliberately impulsive and idiosyncratic, and gave you minds with which to dream… do you think we also put thoughts in your heads? Why would we want to do that when it defeats the purpose of living?"
"My heads hurts," Aidan replied. "That is my only thought."
The Hunter displayed white teeth. "We gave you the freedom to rule yourselves, Aidan, because we wanted children, not minions. Devotion is appreciated; respect we honor highly. But we do not want fanatics and zealots. That is not why we made men." He paused, then softened his tone. "Now, tell me of the dream."
He did not want to, any more than tell Niall. But he had spoken to the Mujhar. Surely he could find it within himself to divulge the dream to a god.
He drew in a trembling breath. "Shaine," Aidan said, and told him the whole of it.
He thought, at the end, the Hunter would disparage him for it, saying he was too fanciful, or blame it on the fall. But the Hunter did no such thing.
"It was not false," he said quietly. "Who calls it so is a blind man, with no soul to use as eyes. Those in your head can play you false; those of your soul cannot."
"But Shaine has been dead for nearly one hundred years!"
Frowning, the Hunter nodded.
It frightened Aidan badly. "Have you no explanation?"
"There are tests," the Hunter replied absently. "I am only one among many; I cannot tell you what others plan for you. There are tests, and tasks… no tahlmorra is fulfilled without pain, or there can be no growth. Without growth or evolution, there can be no change. Without change, the world dies."
"Evolution?" Aidan echoed.
The Hunter's smile was sanguine. "A mechanism for change. For the betterment of a world."
Aidan, lacking reply, merely stared at the god.
"So." The Hunter rose. "I have said what I came to say. There remains only this." He reached into his belt-pouch. "This is for you, and only you. When you have learned both use and meaning, you will be closer to finding the answers to all those questions you ask aloud in the darkness of the night."
Something arced through the air. Aidan, scrambling forward painfully, caught it. And knew it instantly by touch. By the texture of the gold, formed into a seamless, flawless link big enough for a man's wrist.
"You do know—" he began, but found the Hunter gone.
In his place reared a tree, in full-blown majesty.
Chapter Five
« ^ »
Aidan made his way through Clankeep and rode straight to the blue pavilion bedecked with a painted black mountain cat. It was not his own; he had none. It was his father's pavilion, though Brennan rarely came. Its use had fallen to Aidan, though he also spent most of his time in Homana-Mujhar.
He reined in the dun before the laced doorflap. And scowled up at his lir, perched in perfect
indolence atop the pavilion ridgepole.
You knew, he charged, sending annoyance through the link.
Teel fluffed feathers.
"You knew," he said aloud, as if the dual challenge carried more weight than one or the other.
I knew nothing, the raven retorted.
Aidan's brows shot upward. His tone dripped sarcasm. "Oh? Is this the first crack in your vaunted self-assurance? You admit to ignorance?"
Teel thought it over. I knew what he was, he conceded at last. But not what he wanted.
It was, Aidan thought, a compromise. Something Teel rarely did. "Why?" he asked aloud. "Why did he come to me?"
Teel turned around twice on the ridgepole, then stared down at his irritated lir. You are angry.
"Aye," Aidan snapped. "Should I not be? I have just spent a portion of my life—I'm not even knowing how much!—talking with dead men and gods."
Ah. Black eyes were bright. Anger is good.
Aidan glared. "Why?"
Because it is better than fear. If you give in to the fear, it can overwhelm you.
"For now the only thing overwhelming me is frustration," Aidan retorted. He scowled blackly at the raven. "You did not answer my question. Why did he come to me? This god."
Teel fluffed feathers. I am quite certain he told you.
"Something of something," Aidan agreed. "Not enough to make sense, merely to confuse."
Teel cocked his head. Gods are often like that.
Aidan drew breath for waning patience, caught it on a hiss as the pain of bruised ribs renewed itself. "Then I am to assume you will give me no answers to the questions I still have."
We are not put here to answer all your questions, Teel said .brusquely. Only some of them.
"With you choosing which ones."
We answer what we can, if the questions are in your best interests. Teel dug briefly under a wing, then looked down at Aidan once more. You will know what you must know when the time to know is come.
Cheysuli 7 - Flight of the Raven Page 6