Cheysuli 7 - Flight of the Raven

by Jennifer Roberson

  "—and his lord's eldest daughter."

  Hart's tone was even. "There is nothing to stand in their way."

  And you do not want me to. Aidan laughed at Hart, lifting hands in surrender. "Aye, aye, I understand… no more said of it." He covered a yawn with one hand. "Dawn is done, su'fali. Time for me to sleep, before I fall off my horse."

  "You are too good a rider, and he too good a mount. You have that of Brennan; the horse has it of me." Hart looked for Rael. "There. Shall we go?"

  Aidan nodded after a moment, turning the bay southward to wind back down the hills. Pleasure in the morning was now tinged with empathy. He had seen the brief wistful expression on his uncle's face, the subtle tensing of flesh by blue eyes as Hart looked for and found his lir. But he sensed more than wistfulness. He felt more than relief.

  Hart wanted to fly with every ounce of his being.

  With every fiber of the missing hand that denied him the chance.

  Chapter Four

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  Aidan rolled over in bed. Sheets were tangled around him; with effort, he stripped them away. He frowned into unexpected daylight, blinking still-gritty eyes clear. What am I doing in bed at this time of day?

  And then he remembered. A full night spent over the game, the dawn upon a hilltop. He vaguely recalled falling at last into bed when everyone else was waking.

  How long—? He looked at the hour-glass. Four hours abed; barely time to recall his name.

  A long, elaborate stretch succeeded in reminding his body it had a purpose other than lying sprawled in bed. Then something moved upon the canopy. Aidan glanced roofward quickly, momentarily startled, then grinned relief and self-derision and relaxed into the mattress once more, rubbing a stubbled jaw. On the canopy frame perched the raven.

  So, Teel remarked. Half a day gone already.

  Aidan yawned noisily. Not quite half… half of a half, perhaps… Yet another yawn. A growl from his belly stopped it; he clapped one hand to flesh. How long since—? he began, then remembered the cheese he had eaten while drinking Solindish wine.

  And the wine remembers me… He rolled out of bed and stood, scrubbing a sleep-creased face. He wondered what he most needed: bath, food, more sleep. And in which order.

  No time, Teel mentioned. The lady has sent for you.

  For one irrational moment Aidan thought his lir referred to the Weaver. Then realized what he meant. "Now?" he asked aloud.

  The raven contemplated. Perhaps later, he suggested, which told Aidan how badly he looked.

  He promptly ordered a bath, and food to go with it. Then he would see the lady; likely she would thank him.

  Ilsa of Solinde.

  Aidan had heard all the stories, the songs and verses extolling her beauty, but such things, he had learned young, were often exaggerated. And when it came to feminine beauty, he knew very well what one man believed was beautiful was often not to another.

  Ilsa was beautiful.

  Ilsa was glorious.

  One unwavering glance out of long-lidded, ice-blue eyes, and he was half in love with the woman wed to his uncle. The other half of him felt awkward as a boy in the first flush of young manhood only just discovering women, and what they could do to a body.

  Inwardly, he reminded himself, She is forty years old, or more.

  Ilsa's luminous smile mocked him, as did the fine-boned features. "Aileen had nothing to fear."

  Aidan blinked, gathering wits with effort. He was not thinking of his mother, though Aileen and Ilsa were very close in age. Ilsa was not his mother, any more than he her son.

  This woman could not be old enough to have borne Blythe or the twins.

  Her Homanan was flavored with the delicate Solindish accent he had first heard in Blythe. He had liked it in Blythe, finding it attractive. Now he heard the same in the mother. "Wasted years, the worry. The crop stands tall in the field."

  He understood her then. "But the harvest not yet begun." He smiled, inclined his ruddy head, gave her the honor rank and beauty were due. "Cheysuli i'halla shansu."

  "Resh'ta-ni," she answered, though the accent was bad. Ilsa laughed at his expression, much as he sought to hide it. "Hart taught me some of the Old Tongue, but nothing of the accent. Forgive my poor attempt."

  He would, as any man, forgive her anything. He very nearly said so, then swallowed it back. It was, he assumed, something she had heard all too often. He wished for once he had a gift for eloquent phrases, the ability to flatter with a smile, a gesture, a word. But he was not a courtier, disliking much of the game. His kivarna made him wary of false words when he understood most of the feelings.

  Ilsa, still smiling, stroked back a stray wisp of hair from the winged arch of one brow. Her hair, he knew, had always been white-blonde, because they told stories about it. The pearlescent sheen was unchanged, and likely would remain that way. No one would be able to tell the difference, once she dulled into true white. It was a boon others would kill for; she accepted it gracefully. She wore it in two heavy braids bound with thin gold wire. It glistened in the daylight.

  That she was abed, he had known; this close to labor, Ilsa took no chances. Hart had said her delivery of Dulcie was not easy, and she was no longer young enough to carry easily. No one wanted to risk the child who might yet be an heir, or the woman who was queen.

  The chamber was flooded with daylight. No shuttered casements for Ilsa; she welcomed in the midday sun and granted it the freedom to go where it would. The curtains on the bed were drawn back and tied to testers, looped with gold cord.

  Ilsa eyed him critically. "He kept you up all night."

  Aidan laughed, smoothing fingers across his jaw. The bath had worked its miracle, as had a shave and food. But Ilsa was too discerning; she had had years of practice. "Aye. But I slept earlier." He did not tell her a lifetime of troubling dreams had accustomed him to less sleep.

  Slender, elegant hands stroked the pearl-studded blue coverlet mounded over her belly. Padded bolsters sheathed in satin braced her upright. "I have told him, time and time again, not everyone is as suited to days without sleep," she said, sighing resignation. "Even he is not… but I have given up remonstrating with him. He does what he will do. I should have known better than to think he would ever change."

  There was no-bitterness in tone or words. Not even faint resentment. No matter what she said, he knew what she thought. Even without the kivarna, Aidan understood very well how strong was the bond that made Hart and Ilsa one.

  "But you have," he countered. "I have heard how bad he was as a young man… how he refused all responsibility to lose himself in the game. I have seen him with his daughters. I have heard him speak of duty. Regardless of the cause, he is not the same man."

  Ilsa smiled. Delicate color crept into her face. "In many ways, he is. And I would have it that way. Why banish what you love?"

  He thought of his grandsire and Deirdre. What they shared was as strong, in different ways, as the thing between Hart and Ilsa. As a child he had been nebulously aware of something intangible linking Niall and Deirdre. Once older, having lain with a woman, he understood more of it. Lust was one thing, love another; the warmth and underlying respect Niall and Deirdre shared made the relationship invulnerable to outside influences. He sensed the same thing in Ilsa and Hart. But never between his parents. That they cared for each other, he knew. And were afraid to admit it.

  "Why indeed?" he agreed, thinking of himself. Who will share my life? Will it be as good as this?

  Ilsa's skin was translucent, pale as a lily. The eyes were luminous. In her he saw the twins, fair-haired Jennet and Cluna; and Blythe, who lacked the fairness, but had the slender, tensile strength with its powerful allure. How had Hart felt the first time he had seen her?

  How did I feel the first time I saw Blythe?

  One day before. Inwardly, he grimaced; a lifebond took more time. He had grown too accustomed to winning a bedpartner with a warm smile or a gesture. The women of Homana-Mujhar and the c
ity responded readily to the title as well as himself, hoping for various rewards. Before coming to Solinde he had thought of women as pleasant diversions, or an escape from harrowing dreams. This circumstance was different. It was foolish to expect anything more than the first stirrings of attraction.

  Although those I admit to freely. Blythe is magnificent… but I think Tevis' presence will make things difficult.

  Ilsa gestured. "Will you sit?"

  Aidan glanced at the indicated chair near the bed, then shook his head. "My regrets, but no. I have no wish to tire you."

  She waved a gently dismissive hand. "They have kept me in bed a month. Listening to you speak will not prove onerous."

  He glanced at the mound of bedclothes over her belly. She had borne six children, though only four survived. And now bore another to give her lord an heir.

  It came out unexpectedly. "What if it is a girl?"

  He had not meant it. He had barely even thought it. Embarrassment burned his face.

  Ilsa's laughter cut off the beginnings of an apology. "No, no—do you think you are the first to ask it? You are only the most recent… just last evening one of my ladies asked the same."

  "It is none of my concern—"

  "It is everyone's concern," she corrected gently. "It has been from the beginning… this will be my last child."

  He opened his mouth. Then shut it.

  "Hart's decision," she said. "And perhaps a little of mine. It was difficult with Dulcie, though I was in no danger. The physicians suggest precautions, so I have taken myself to bed." She spread eloquent hands, then let them rest again on the bedclothes. "Boy or no: the last. And perhaps it is time." Ilsa tilted her head and smiled. "Instead of having children I would rather have grandchildren."

  His answering smile was vague. "Blythe."

  "And the others, eventually." The light in her eyes faded. "Hart spoke to me earlier. I am sorry, Aidan… I wish we had known a half-year ago. Then we might have looked to Homana instead of northern Solinde."

  Aidan shrugged. "Hart explained it all."

  "But if I do not bear a son…"A turn of her hand was eloquent. "A grandson could inherit."

  Aidan thought of Dar, looking to marry Ilsa to put his son on the throne. Now that son could be born to Hart instead. And the nephew of Dar of High Crags would rule in place of Cheysuli.

  He shifted weight self-consciously. "Lady, I will go. I have been asked to stay until the child is born, to bestow the kinsman's blessing. After that, I am for Erinn." There was no sense in staying. Here, Blythe was the only option; now there was none at all unless he looked to Erinn.

  Ilsa's smile was kind. "Keely's girl is older than my two fair-haired halflings. And undoubtedly more polite. I think you will do well."

  He sensed relief in her, that he did not protest the marriage between Tevis and Blythe. He knew very well a match between Homana and Solinde would solidify the two realms and undoubtedly please the Homanans, while displeasing the Solindish. Hart had been Prince of Solinde in truth as well as title for more than twenty years, and yet it was all too obvious he was not fully certain Solinde wanted him. Ilsa was their queen. For her, they suffered Hart.

  Her son they would accept, for her sake. He will have acceptable blood, if tainted with Cheysuli. I wonder if they

  think to get the throne back someday, when Hart is in the ground and his son—Ilsa's son—sits in the father's place?

  Ilsa was Solindish. He did not really blame her for wanting a Solindishman for Blythe—he might desire the same for his daughter, were he a Solindishman—but he wished blood might play a less important role. His own life was ruled by merging the proper bloodlines, and now it also entangled Blythe, who should be free of it. Solinde was Solinde—and yet now they made it Cheysuli.

  He closed his hand on the two links dangling from his belt. Perhaps that is the reason for this service. By merging the blood and begetting the Firstborn again, there no longer is any need for dividing up the realms. Four realms become one; six races the same. Something cold stroked his spine. And the lir for none of us?

  "Aidan—?" Ilsa began, but the opening of the door cut off the rest of her words.

  Cluna and Jennet, of course. Crowding into the room to plead for their mother's attention. Behind them came Hart with a small girl in his arms: black-haired, yellow-eyed Dulcie, Cheysuli to the bone.

  Aidan smiled at the girl. Something in him answered the fey look in her eyes. Blood calling to blood? He took a step closer. "A lovely girl, su'fali."

  "My little Cheysuli," Hart declared, pausing a moment to let Aidan look at her, then moving past to Ilsa. "The gods finally condescended to let one of us look the part."

  Cluna and Jennet were chattering at their mother, both mindful not to press too close. Pale hair, as before, straggled; Ilsa was gently chiding. Hart too stood close, then sat to bring Dulcie down where Ilsa could touch her, stroking fine black hair into neatness.

  Aidan found the chamber crowded. He was not accustomed to children, and as unaccustomed to kin. A twitch from deep inside told him what he wanted: the freedom to fly the skies.

  Hart, he knew, would understand, requiring no explanation. The others mostly ignored him, but something was due Ilsa.

  Aidan paused at the door and looked back at her. Her bed was full of daughters, except for her oldest one. The one he most wanted to see. "May the gods grant you a son."

  Ilsa glanced up from her crowded bedside. Her lovely face was alight. "Leijhana tu'sai, kinsman. May your words carry weight with the gods."

  As Aidan stepped into the hall, he wondered if they could.

  Chapter Five

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  He was waiting for her, as she had asked. In shadow, in a chair, hands resting unquietly on the downward sweep of each armrest. A ring glittered on one finger: sapphire set in silver. On yet another, jet, rimmed with delicate gold.

  Blythe shut the door quietly, looking at him in concern. The flesh was drawn too tautly over the bones of his face. It made him look almost feral. "It may be nothing," she said. She had already said it twice, on the way to meet him in private.

  He did not move at all, not even to agree, or to shake his head. He was angry, frightened, confused, but afraid to admit it. Afraid he had no right. She saw it in his eyes.

  She walked slowly across the chamber to stand in front of the chair. The man seated in it did not look into her eyes, but stared as if transfixed at the girdle spanning her waist. Silver chimed as she moved, swinging with her skirts. It stopped even as she did; the silver sang no more.

  She could hardly bear to look at him without touching him. It had been so from the beginning, from the very first time they had met. She had put no credence in such tales, consigning them to silly serving-girls dreaming away the hours, but then Tevis had come down from his mountain exile bearing an invitation from Ilsa to spend as much time as he liked. They were of an age, she and Tevis, and like-minded about many things. The instant attraction had flared into something far more physical; and yet the knowledge they dared not fulfill what they most desired increased the tension tenfold. That her parents approved was implicit in Ilsa's invitation; it was, Blythe knew, their way of telling her Tevis was suitable in all the ways that counted for kings and queens.

  The last way was hers to decide: could she love and live with the man?

  He filled her days and nights. She judged every man against him, comparing the shape of facial bones, the set of eyes, the line of chin and jaw. Even the way hair grew; in Tevis, easy to see because he cropped it short. She thought him everything a man should be to light up a woman's world. The chatter among the serving-girls and court women told her she was correct; he lighted more worlds than her own, or would, had he the chance to stray.

  But Tevis had never strayed.

  He was a man, even as men judged one another. And yet sensitive as a woman. It was the contradictions in him that appealed to her most: the quietude that spoke of privacy and deep thought; the unders
tated power of personality that, allowed to flare, might consume them all.

  Blythe drew in a breath and released it carefully. She put out both hands and locked them into his hair, palms pressing against his head as she threaded fingers tightly. Near-black hair was cropped short, displaying the elegant shape of his head. At the back of his neck it was longer, trying to curl; thick springy waves seduced her.

  Slowly she drew him forward. It was a measure of her own apprehension and anguish that she touched him as she did, forcing the intimacy they wanted so badly, but had not shared. Neither of them had dared. Now, she knew, they had to.

  His breath caressed the girdle; she pressed him closer yet, turning his face against her pelvis. The arch of his cheek, through the velvet, was hard.

  She fought to keep her voice even. "We cannot be certain—"

  Lean, long-fingered hands clasped her hips. His words were muffled by skirts, but she heard them. "Aye, I think we can." The hoarse tone was firm, but underscored with despair. '"He has made no secret of it: the heir to Homana has come to Solinde to find a wife."

  She felt the flutter of trepidation in her breast. Her hands in his hair tightened. "If you were to go to my father—"

  "He already knows."

  Desperation rose. "And have you spoken to him? Have you actually told him you want to marry me?"

  He withdrew from her sharply, taking his hands from her. A spasm twisted his face. "No. Of course not. How can I? He is the Prince of Solinde, and I am—"

  "—kin," she finished flatly, "—to the Queen of Solinde."

  It was a tangled sovereignty. Hart still used his Homanan title, forgoing the loftier Solindish ranking until his father died, when he would inherit fully. But Ilsa was Solindish, the highest of the highborn, and the Solindish Council had bequeathed her the title when she married Hart. Their petty revenge, Blythe knew; she knew also it did not matter. Her father did not care.

  Just now, it might help.

  He rose and moved away from her. The room was her own, a private sitting chamber adjoining her personal apartments, and they both knew it unwise. She was allowed great freedom, but only because of trust. She wondered if they would betray it.