Cheysuli 7 - Flight of the Raven

by Jennifer Roberson

  "What events?" she asked suspiciously.

  Aidan shrugged slightly. "Nothing worth the telling." He scratched gingerly at the bruise. "Have you a woman in mind—or are you simply wanting to argue?"

  It was Brennan's turn to stare, albeit from a more awkward position. He frowned, marking the bruise, the pallor, the unfeigned detachment that spoke, to him, of boredom. Aidan was often detached, but rarely ever bored.

  Brennan glanced at Aileen, seeking an explanation. Clearly she was as baffled by Aidan's demeanor. In that they always agreed. "No," he answered finally. "It had only just come up."

  "Brought up by your father." But Aileen's tone was less than hostile. "D'ye really not care?"

  Aidan smiled at her. "You cared because you loved Corin. Jehan cared because he knew it, and because he thought you might be worth the loving." He glanced briefly at his father, then back at his mother. "It makes no difference to me. There have been women in my bed, but none I want to keep there. If you have a candidate for eternity, I am willing to listen."

  Aileen glanced at Brennan. "Hart has four daughters."

  "And Keely, one." Brennan pulled at a lobeless ear, reaching for a long-absent earring. "Maeve has a daughter. Maeve has two."

  Aileen's tone was odd. "Legitimate, if you please." Brennan scowled; Maeve was his favorite. "Maeve's daughters are legitimate. She and Rory are married."

  Aidan's tone was amused. "She wants a princess for me."

  Aileen folded her arms. " 'Tis better for a prince."

  He grinned, laughing in silence. "Very well, five princesses to pick from. Unless you take bids from other kingdoms, such as Ellas and Caledon."

  "No," Brennan said thoughtfully. "There is the prophecy to think of. We now know the four realms mentioned… we need add no other blood."

  "No," Aidan agreed. "Only the Ihlini."

  Brennan looked at him sharply. "No son of mine—"

  "Of course not, jehan." Aidan's tone was dryly deferential as he stretched out booted feet and planted both heels. "So, am I to choose sight unseen?"

  Aileen frowned. " 'Twas what was done for us, your father and I. We saw naught of each other."

  "And look at the result." Aidan's smile was so charmingly disarming, neither of them could respond immediately. "You are both of you fools—or skilfins," he continued, ignoring their stricken stares. "The Prince of Homana at least has the courage to admit he loves the Princess… she might do as well. Old wounds do heal—if you give them the time." He looked straight at his mother. "Twenty-four years is a long time. I'm thinking the two of you might be happier if you started all over again."

  "How can you—" Aileen cut it off. Color waned in her face. "Oh, no," she whispered dazedly. "Deirdre said it might be true—she did say it might show itself…" Even her lips were white. "How long have you known how I feel? How your father feels?"

  Aidan frowned. "I have always known how you feel. How either of you feel. How everybody feels."

  "Always?" she echoed blankly.

  Brennan sat erect. "What are you talking about?"

  Aileen's hand was on her throat. "Kivarna," she murmured. "Oh, Aidan, after all this time… and none of us knowing—none of us thinking—"

  "Knowing what?" Brennan asked testily. "What are you talking about?"

  "Kivarna," she repeated. "Oh, gods, Aidan—is that what it is? All this time—is that what this is?"

  Her son and husband stared.

  Aileen pressed rigid fingers against her face. "All those things we've felt, the both of us, and you knowing them all—" She squeezed shut her eyes. "And you not knowing why—"

  "Aileen!" Brennan said sharply. "What are you talking about?"

  "Aye" Aidan agreed, detachment shredding abruptly. "Jehana—"

  Aileen's face was white. Hands shook as she clasped them tightly in her lap. She tried to smile at Brennan, but it faltered. "Kivarna," she said only. "Your son is Erinnish, too." And with that she went out of the room.

  Brennan stared after her. He had not seen her so distraught in years. Not since Aidan was young, and troubled by the dreams.

  Frowning, he turned to his son. Aidan put up his hands. "A word, nothing more. But I am Erinnish, aye; I have been all my life." He grinned. " 'Twas her doing, I'm thinking."

  "But what is it—?" And then he gave it up. "Agh, gods—" Brennan collapsed once more against the wall. "Perhaps I should give you more time—sharing your life with a woman is never an easy thing."

  Aidan, like his father, leaned against the wall, but took more care to settle still-sore ribs. "She really does love you. She always has, in her way. But she has never admitted it to herself; certainly not to you. She thinks of Corin, and feels guilty. She believes you deserve better, and so she blames herself."

  Brennan sat in silence. Something pinched deep in his belly. Something that whispered of dread; of a thing left unattended to fester in someone's spirit, shaping a life for too many years.

  He swallowed tightly and rolled his head against the wall to look at his son. "This is what she meant? This—kivarna?"

  Aidan shrugged. "The word is as foreign to me. I have never heard it before."

  Brennan, tensing, sat up a little. Very carefully. "But—you can do this? Always? This reading of people's thoughts?"

  "Not thoughts. Feelings. And only bits of them. I thought everyone did." Aidan carefully felt his discolored cheekbone. His tone, now, was deliberate: he wanted to change the subject. "Have you ever come off your horse?"

  "Many times." Brennan's thoughts were not on enforced dismountings. "Aidan—" He frowned. "You have been able to do this since childhood?"

  Aidan lifted a single shoulder. "It began very young. I cannot say precisely when."

  Gods, he can be cold—"—young," Brennan echoed. "Such as a night in the Great Hall, with the Lion… and a chain."

  Aidan turned his head deliberately and looked into his father's eyes. What Brennan saw made him cringe. "I thought everyone felt it. That it required no explanation."

  "I should have listened," Brennan rasped. "I should have listened then. Even Ian sees it."

  "Jehan—"

  "How is a child to trust when his parents give him no chance to say what troubles him most?" Brennan shut his eyes. "Gods, I have been a fool… and I have made you this way."

  Aidan's tone was tight. "What way, jehan? What 'way' am I?"

  "Different." The answer was prompt. "Private. Withdrawn. Guarded. As if you trust none of us." The pain tore at his vitals. "I did that to you."

  "If you are concerned that I know everything you think, everything you feel—"

  "No." Brennan cut him off. "What you know, you know; how much does not matter. What matters now is that you have this ability… and that you dream dreams."

  Aidan's smile was wintry. "Everyone dreams."

  "Gods—" But he let it get no farther. His mind was racing, running back over the years, over the memories, drawing from the deepest part of the well the things that glittered most brightly, like the keen edge of a new blade. "You were ill so often, and for so long…"It was not an explanation. It was not a just excuse. It was nothing more than a father's plea for understanding from a child he has turned away through misinterpretation. "You spoke to the Mujhar."

  Aidan's tone was closed. "I spoke to my grandsire."

  "But not to me, nor your jehana." Brennan's jaws clenched. "I suppose we deserved it, your meticulous privacy. But it was so long ago—did you never think to try again?"

  Aidan's gaze was unflinching. "I sense feelings. At first, I knew you were only frightened, worried for my welfare. But you changed, even as I did. You began to realize a child's fancies were being carried over into adulthood." Aidan's expression was taut. "Your feelings were all too blatant: you questioned my sanity. My worthiness for the Lion." His mouth warped a little. "How many children, even those in a man's body, care to discuss it with a jehan who wonders such things?"

  Brennan's face was ravaged. "If you had
told us of this ability—"

  Aidan's tone sharpened. "I did not know what it was."

  "If you had said anything—"

  "You gave me no leave to try." Unsteadily, Aidan straightened. "But now you have, and I have said something of it. Enough. It has a name, now… better we leave it at that."

  "How? There are things to be settled…"

  "Such as marriage?" Aidan smiled. "Perhaps it is not such a bad idea."

  Again, he changes the subject. And perhaps I should let him. Brennan made a dismissive gesture. His tone was conciliatory. "Perhaps your jehana has the right of it. Perhaps I do move too soon, pushing you this way and that—" He broke off, sighing, to look at his son. "There are times I think too much about what will become of the Lion, when the throne is not even mine. I look back at our history and see how tenuous is our claim—how vulnerable our race. We are still badly outnumbered… if the Homanans ever turned against us again…" But he let it trail off. Aidan was not listening. "Aidan…" He waited. "Aidan, I want to do right by you. If now is not the time—"

  Aidan's response was detached. "It makes no difference."

  Brennan held onto his equable tone with effort, knowing instinctively that to press his son now was to lose him. "Marriage is a large step for any man. For a prince—"

  "It makes no difference." Aidan insinuated careful fingers into the folds of his jerkin, as if testing for soreness. "Perhaps a change such as this is precisely what I need, after everything else."

  Concerned, Brennan frowned. "Aidan—"

  His son smiled lopsidedly and raised a preemptive finger. "First you suggest I marry, now you attempt to talk me out of it. Which do you want?"

  Brennan stirred restlessly; Aidan was, as usual, cutting too close to the bone. "I want you content."

  Aidan's smile faded. He stared blankly at the door, distance in his gaze. "Perhaps that is not my tahlmorra. Perhaps, instead—" But he waved it off without finishing. Detachment faded, replaced by dry irony. "A wedding will change many things."

  If he wants to let it go… Brennan forced a smile. "A wedding usually does."

  The tone altered oddly. "And if it changes everything—" Yet again Aidan did not finish, but his expression was intense.

  Brennan's smile faded. Something cold touched the base of his spine. "Are you all right? Is there something troubling you?"

  Aidan did not answer, staring fixedly into the distance.

  He is not here, Brennan thought. In the flesh, perhaps, but not in the mind. He goes somewhere—else. "Aidan," he said aloud. Then, more urgently, "Aidan!"

  His son stirred, clearly startled. And then he sighed, scrubbing at a wan, discolored face. "I am—confused. Forgive me… I have not been paying attention."

  Brennan leaned forward. "Then tell me. Share it with me. Let me be the jehan I should have been years ago."

  Aidan weighed his words, then sighed in resignation. His crooked smile was, Brennan thought, oddly vulnerable. "More than confused—irritated. There are things in my life I cannot understand, and no answers are forthcoming. No matter who I ask—" He sighed heavily, fingering the bruise. "Have you ever spoken with a god?"

  It was an odd tack. "To them; many times."

  "One particular god?"

  He strived for lightness; to keep his head above water. "No. I generally address my comments—or petitions—to as many as possible, just to improve my chances." Brennan waited for laughter. When he heard no response at all, he dismissed forced levity. His son was revealing more of himself than ever before. This time the jehan would listen. "Why? Do you speak only to one?"

  Aidan sighed. "I had never thought it necessary—like you, I spoke to them all. But now—" Abruptly he broke it off and rose, heading toward the door. "If there are five princesses to be considered, perhaps I should go to see them."

  He is gone—I have lost him—

  Nonplussed by the abrupt change in subject and his son's implicit dismissal, Brennan rose hastily. "But none of them are here."

  Aidan paused in the doorway, arching ruddy brows. "Then perhaps I should go where they are."

  Chapter Eight

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  The fire had died to coals. The horses, a few long paces away, were hobbled for the night, tearing contentedly at the now-sparse grass surrounding their plots. Food was packed away, bedrolls unfurled, skins of wine unplugged. Sprawled loose-limbed against saddles, two Cheysuli warriors stared up into star-peppered darkness and shared the companionable silence.

  Eventually, Aidan broke it. "Tomorrow," he mused idly, scratching an itching eyelid. "Solinde in place of Homana."

  His companion grunted absently, fingers stroking the huddle of chestnut fur slumped across most of one leg.

  "It will feel good to leave Homana behind awhile. It will give me a chance to start over again," Aidan mused. Then, thinking he had given too much away, he sighed and rolled his head to grin at his great-uncle. "Escort enough, I'm thinking… Teel, you, and Tasha."

  "Certainly more comfortable; I prefer it this way, myself." Ian's answering smile was wry. "But Aileen nearly won the battle."

  Aidan swallowed wine, mopped up a few spilled drops dampening his chin, then shook his head in detached irritation. "Why do women insist on so much ceremony? There is no need to send me into Solinde trailing a hundred men in my wake… and as for that chatter about protection, I say it is nonsense. We are at peace with Solinde—we have been for tens of years—Teirnan's a'saii have disappeared, and even the Ihlini are silent. What is there to protect me from?"

  Ian's smile faded. The tone was carefully neutral as he stroked the huge cat at his side, chin resting on his thigh. "From yourself, perhaps?"

  Aidan's contentment spilled away. The aftertaste in his mouth turned sour. "She wasted no time, did she? Or was it jehan, instead?" He shifted irritably against the saddle. "I should have said nothing of it. It is private, personal… it should make no difference—"

  "That you know what others feel?" Ian tipped his head. "You must admit, harani, it is a powerful gift—"

  "Is it?" Scowling, Aidan cut him off. "I did not choose to have it. I do not choose to use it. I only know what I know, what I feel—"

  "—and what others feel." Ian's tone remained affable. "I only remark on it because it may be an explanation—"

  "—for why I am so different?" Aidan twisted his mouth. "No man is like another."

  "No." Ian drank from his wineskin with less spillage than Aidan; he had had much more practice. "And that very differentness is something all Cheysuli must deal with, when faced with an unblessed Homanan trying to comprehend how we can shapechange. We are alien to them, trading flesh and bone for fur… but this Erinnish gift you apparently have augments even that. And so I begin to see why we confuse the unblessed; you confuse me. You confuse us all."

  Aidan's hand stole to his belt. Fingers touched the heavy link looped over leather next to his buckle. He stroked the gold absently. I confuse myself.

  "But it does not matter." Ian settled more deeply into his blanket pallet, adjusting to Tasha's weight. "You are you, and I am I; we are what the gods decree."

  Something thrummed across the lir-link: a feather-touch of amusement. Aidan glared hard through the darkness at Teel, perched upon a pack slumped on the other side of the fire. The raven said nothing, but Aidan translated the silence. He had had years of practice.

  Gods, indeed—Abruptly, he was restless. He sat upright, slinging aside the stoppered skin, and swung on his knees to face his kinsman. "I am different," he said intently. "But no one knows how much. No one knows who I am. No one knows what I am…"

  The light from the coals was dim. But Ian's expression was visible: Aidan's vehement outburst had clearly startled him. "Aidan—"

  Everyone says I should speak, to divulge what I think; that it will do me good…

  He did not necessarily think so, but was willing to try. There was too much pressure inside, too much apprehension. He needed to share it with s
omeone other than a lir who couched so much truth in obscurity.

  If only they could listen—

  "I talk to gods, su'fali. To gods—and to the dead."

  Ian's hand stilled on Tasha's head.

  Aidan smiled a little. There was no amusement in it. "Ten nights ago, I met with Carillon. Before that, it was Shaine."

  "Shaine," Ian echoed.

  "The father of the qu'mahlin." Aidan shifted slightly, relaxing the tautness of bunched thighs. "Then, of course, there was the Hunter, the god himself…" He let it go unfinished. "But you could argue that it was the fall I took—that it addled my wits, and I merely dreamed all of it." Aidan's tone was elaborately dry. "But how would that explain seeing Carillon? I did not dream that. He was as real as you, standing before the Lion. He made the Great Hall his own, even with me in it. Even dead so many years… however many it is."

  "Sixty-six," Ian murmured. "Have you learned nothing at all?"

  Aidan looked at him sharply. Ian still lay stretched out against his saddle, one side engulfed by Tasha. His expression now was calm, but the mouth smiled a little. The eyes, so eerie a yellow, gazed serenely into the heavens.

  "You believe me?"

  "I have never known you to lie."

  Now he distrusted the truth, certain no one could understand so easily, or in such a calm frame of mind. "But it was Carillon I saw! Carillon I spoke with!"

  "And what did he have to say?"

  Aidan frowned. He had expected startled reassessment, the mention of possible madness. Even though Ian had always given him the latitude to be himself, Aidan had not believed it could remain so. Not in light of his revelation.

  But now something else caught his attention. "You knew him," Aidan said. "You knew him personally."

  "Carillon?" Ian grunted amusement. "In a manner of speaking. I was four years old when he died."

  "He was killed."

  "In battle, aye. Actually, after a battle; the Atvian king killed him. Osric himself." Ian drank again. His tone was meditative. "A long time ago."