"Hah!" Tevis cried. "You see? The face of fortune turns at last to one more deserving."
Glowering at the young man, Hart pushed the proper amount of coin back across the table. The sapphire ring on his finger glittered with icy fire; beside it rested the fiery ruby signet of the kings of Solinde. Save for the gold on his arms and in his left ear, the rings were the only jewelry Hart affected. The sapphire's setting matched that of Aldan's topaz, worked with tiny runes, and he recalled with a start that Hart was still considered a prince in Homana.
Aidan glanced at Tevis as he reached out to gather the coin. Like Hart, he wore a sapphire ring; were they fashionable this year? But his was not so massive, and the setting very new. The jet ring looked far older, set firmly in ancient gold.
Hart looked at Aidan intently. "You will have to play again."
"But I lost, su'fali… and that was the last of my coin."
Hart grunted. "Brennan gives you a light purse."
Aidan laughed and poured more wine. "He gives me all I need. I am not a profligate spender."
"Well?" Tevis asked. "How many in this game?"
"All three," Hart declared. "I will stake Aidan to more gold."
"Just so I can play? Su'fali, I swear, it is not that important to me—"
"You are my guest, and you will play." Hart's smile was charming. "I refuse to be the sole loser on my son's naming day."
Aidan dutifully lifted his cup. "To Prince Owain, may the gods grant him a good tahlmorra."
Hastily, Tevis raised his as well. "Prince Owain," he echoed absently, looking into the Bezat bowl. "Shall you stir?" He passed the bowl to Aidan.
Thus invited, he stuck two long fingers into the bowl and stirred the contents, rattling etched ivory against the rim. The game had mostly lost its appeal, since he now risked another man's coin, but it was good manners to continue when his uncle had been so generous. He only hoped he could win back enough to cover the loaned coin, since he hated being in debt.
"Here." Hart waited for Aidan to set down the bowl, then dipped in to draw out a piece.
They played mostly in silence, commenting briefly on the draws, or muttering dissatisfaction. Tevis' gaze was fixed on the bowl, but Aidan thought he did not really see it; his eyes had the dazed look of a man lost in thought elsewhere, no longer aware of his actions or surroundings. The skin of his face seemed tauter than ever, as if he was ill or under strain, but there was no other indication of his inattention.
"Tevis?" Hart said.
Tevis twitched on his stool. "My lord?"
"Yours is the next draw. For Aidan."
"Ah." He reached in, dug out the stone, turned it from one side to the other. "Bezat," he said blankly. "The deathstone."
Hart laughed at Aidan's resigned expression. "You lose! Now Tevis and I must play this out—"
The door was flung open. Dulcie's nursemaid stripped loose hair from her eyes. "My lord—you must come at once—"
Frowning, Hart pushed his stool away and rose. "Helda, what is it?"
"Oh, my lord—the baby—"
Hart threw down his winecup. It rang against the table even as it spilled a blood-red puddle onto polished wood. Aidan stood up so abruptly he overset his stool, and went after Hart; Tevis, white-faced, dropped the death-stone into the spreading wine and followed.
Aidan arrived in the nursery but a moment after Hart pushed his way through the crowding women. Ilsa was on her knees next to the cradle, clasping the linen-swathed infant to her breast. Her eyes were empty of everything save a harsh, horrible grief.
"Not again," Hart murmured, and then swung frenziedly on them all. "Out!" he shouted to the women. "All of you, out. At once."
Aidan and Tevis moved aside as the women departed raggedly. Night-clad Blythe arrived even as they left. "What is it?" she cried. Then, looking past to her mother, "Oh, gods—not Owain—"
Ilsa murmured down into the still bundle, seemingly unaware of Hart's presence. It was not until he knelt down and touched her that she raised her eyes.
"Meijhana—"
"Dead," she said only.
With trembling fingers, Hart peeled back the wrappings. He touched the face. "Cold," he murmured blankly. "Cold and white as death—"
Blythe's face was as white. "But he was well… earlier, at the ceremony… he was well—"
Hart's hand shook as he cupped Ilsa's head. "Oh, meijhana, there is nothing I can say to make the pain softer for you…"
What of you? Aidan wondered numbly. What of your pain, su'fali… a son and heir, born and unborn in the space of three days…
Tevis murmured something. Then, more loudly, "He was my son. Mine, too… I was second-father."
Blythe reached for his arm, but he withdrew it. Slowly he moved toward the huddled, grieving queen and the Cheysuli who knelt with bowed head, one large hand grasping the tiny fingers of the son who would never rule in his father's palace.
"Oh, no," Blythe said brokenly. "He should not… he is not Cheysuli, and does not understand about private grief—"
Aidan did. He moved at once to intercept the Solindishman. "Tevis, no. Let it wait. Come away, for now—" He put his hand on Tevis' arm. "Let the first grief pass—"
Fingers closed, then spasmed. It ran through Aidan like fire, setting bones ablaze even as his blood turned to ice, still and dark and cold, so cold—
"You," he croaked. "You—"
Tevis' eyes were black. "Put no hand on me."
"You—" Aidan choked.
Even Hart was drawn from his grief by the sound of Aidan's horror. He turned, rising, clearly distracted.
The kivarna was blazing within him like a pyre. In that moment Tevis' intentions were clear. "You killed the child!"
Blythe's voice was shrill. "Are you mad? Why would Tevis—?"
Hart grabbed Aidan's arm and jerked him around. "What are you saying?"
"It was Tevis," Aidan declared. The truth was so clear to him—could none of them see it? Feel it, as he did? "It was Tevis—"
The Solindishman's face was white. "I am his second-father. I am sworn to him, to protect him—and you say I killed him?"
Hart's voice was harsh. "Aidan, this is nonsense… Tevis has been with us for hours."
Aidan was shaking. "I know it. I know it. I feel it—" The final shred of disbelief dissolved the remaining vestige of Tevis' shield. "By the gods—Mini—"
"Are you mad?" Blythe cried.
The barriers were gone. Aidan sensed the seething ambition and raw power in the man, the tremendous upsurge of so much power, barely bridled; and hatred, so much hatred; too much hatred and power and absolute dedication to the service of a god no one else dared worship.
Tevis lifted a hand. Around his fingers danced the faintest glow of flame, cold purple flame; godfire at his fingertips, revealing all too clearly what he was. As, now, he intended.
"Wait," he said softly.
Perversely, Aidan wanted to laugh. "Ihlini," he said again, wondering at his blindness. How could he not have known? How could the Cheysuli blood in him not know, or the Erinnish kivarna? He of all people—
"Aye," Tevis spat between his teeth. "Child of the gods; child of prophecy—like you!"
"He was a baby!" Hart shouted. "A helpless infant! What purpose does it serve to end his life?"
"Because I must end all the lives," Tevis snapped. "Each and every life I can find—each and every seed—"
"Tevis," Blythe whispered.
"—until there are no seeds left, save ours." Tevis cast a malignant glance at Hart. "Had you left his son unborn, you would not now know this grief. It is your fault, my lord of Solinde… to save the lady this pain, you had only to do one thing."
Aidan heard the sluggish distraction in Hart's voice. Shock was starting to distance him from a reality he could not face. "One thing—?"
Tevis smiled. "Name me your heir, my lord. Put me on the throne after you—"
"No!" Blythe cried. "Oh, gods—no—NO—"
&
nbsp; "Ah," Tevis remarked. "She has only just realized the man she slept with is Ihlini. A Cheysuli and Ihlini, in carnal congress… just as the prophecy warned."
Ilsa, forgotten, rose slowly. Her face was ravaged by grief, but it diminished none of her intensity. "Your war has been with adults, Ihlini—always. Why now do you turn to a child? What harm could he do you?"
An elegant shrug. "Now, very little. But it is important to me that no seed survive. Asar-Suti has made it quite clear that if the Ihlini are to regain dominion over the world, we must first destroy the Cheysuli and anyone who serves them."
"How?" Aidan asked. "You were with us. How could we not know? How could you touch this child from afar?"
Tevis displayed the sapphire. "A token from your father, my lord of Homana… something he gave my aunt many years ago. It has served us very well in the meantime. Anything once worn by man or woman contains an essence of that person—combined with Ihlini arts, we make a shield, so we may walk freely among you and the lir. As for touching him from afar, a simple thing to do with an infant. I merely thought on a tiny heart, quite still, and wished it into truth." He smiled. "A fortunate thing, this ring—Brennan should have known better than to give it to Rhiannon."
"Your aunt," Hart echoed. "Rhiannon?"
The smooth, urbane expression of a Solindish nobleman faded. Aidan heard Blythe's stifled denial; saw the draining of Hart's face. Tevis was no longer precisely Tevis. His features were much the same, but more refined, more feral. In his mind's eye, Aidan made the eyes a lighter brown, almost yellow; the hair a shade darker, now black.
"Oh, gods," Aidan blurted. "Strahan had a son."
Blythe's voice was a travesty. "Where is Tevis, then? Was there a Tevis?"
"Most certainly," Strahan's son agreed. "I killed him." He displayed the black ring on his other hand. "I killed Tevis and his father in High Crags, when I knew he was coming here. The father's body I left—there was no need of it—but Tevis' I required in order to arrange the proper glamour." He smiled. "Those who knew Tevis, saw Tevis when they looked at me. Those who did not, saw me. So, aye, meijhana, it was also Tevis you lay down with… at least, as much Tevis as remains of him, in this ring."
Blythe, trembling, pressed both hand against her mouth. Her face was ashen with comprehension.
Ilsa took a single step, then stopped. Against her breast she still cradled the murdered child. "I curse you," she said simply. "I am of the oldest House in this realm, Ihlini. With all that I was, I am, and will be—I curse you."
Tevis smiled at her, gently inclining his head. Then he looked at Hart. "I have killed the son," he said. "Now I must kill the father."
Something glittered in his hand. Silver, not purple; the godfire was gone. Not a knife, but its edge as deadly. Aidan had heard of the slender silver wafers with curving, elegant spikes. He had also heard the name: Sorcerer's Tooth. It flashed from the man they had known as Tevis and sliced across the room.
"Lochiel," he said softly, "so you will know me as you die."
Without thought, Aidan moved. He meant to knock down the Tooth; to block Hart from the lethal wafer. But he knew, even as he thrust out the hand to catch it, he had made a deadly mistake.
The entry was painless. It sliced into his palm, then through it, severing muscle, bone and vessel as the spikes rotated through the fine bones of his hand and exited the other side. Fingers closed once, spasming, and then vision turned inside out.
Hart caught him as he fell. And as he fell, he recalled the Ihlini forged their Teeth in poison.
Blythe screamed. And then she stopped.
Or he did.
Chapter Nine
« ^ »
Where he was, it was cold. So cold he ached with it. He could not move; could not see; could not hear or speak, but his awareness flickered with something akin to life even though he knew he was dead.
Someone had placed him on a barge. He lay on a bier, covered with a silken shroud, and his flesh was dead on his bones.
He floated in perfect silence on a lake of glass so clear he could see the darkness of the depths. He was alone. No one steered the barge. No one held the vigil at his side. No one wailed or keened or grieved, as if his death made absolutely no difference at all to anyone, even to his lir.
Teel.
He was alone. He felt a vague distress that his life could have so little meaning that his death would hold even less. He was prince, warrior, child of the prophecy, in line for the Lion; it was as if he had never been. The barge floated silently upon the waters of the glass-black lake, and he was still alone.
Teel.
He heard the ripple in the water. It was faint, so faint he believed it imagination, but the rippling slowly increased until he became convinced it was real. Someone—or something—approached him through the water.
Teel?
He struggled to open dead eyes. And again, this time to move an arm; neither answered. His flesh was still and cold and heavy, so heavy; Aidan began to understand death, and to know the futility and helplessness of a live spirit trapped within dead flesh.
The rippling became a splashing. Aidan, blind still, heard something grasp the edge of the barge. He felt no fear—he was dead—but curiosity overrode helplessness. With all the power remaining to him, he snapped open his eyes and looked.
A man. A warrior: Cheysuli. He wore leather and gold, clan-worked all, and his coloring was true. In his planed, feral face was a strange, eloquent sorrow. Softly he pulled himself out of water he did not displace, and then stood upon the barge. Aidan saw he was dry.
Lips and throat answered him. "Did you not swim?"
The other smiled. "I swam. But where I am, water cannot touch me."
Aidan, staring, saw the sword in his left hand. A true, two-handed broadsword of steel and gold, with a massive hilt bearing the rampant lion of Homana. In its heavy pommel, to balance the heavy blade, was a blood-red ruby. Down the length of the blade walked runes.
Two links Aidan possessed. Two Mujhars: Shaine, and Carillon. And now the third before him.
"Donal," he breathed.
The warrior smiled. "Aye."
Aidan looked again at the ruby. Huge and brilliant and red; the Mujhar's Eye, he knew… and no longer in existence.
Donal saw his expression. "Niall returned it to me."
"But—you were dead. And he threw the sword away… he went into the Womb of the Earth and threw it down the oubliette."
The voice was very gentle. "The sword was made for me, by Hale, my grandsire. When I have need of it, it answers."
Aidan wet dry lips; a thing he had believed impossible, on a dead man. With great deliberation he pushed himself into a sitting position. Silken shroud—crimson and black, the colors of Homana—slid down to his hips. He shivered, for he was naked beneath the fine silk. "There was no chain," he said. "I did not dream of a chain. Always before it has been the chain first, and then the Mujhar."
Donal's austere face softened. "Are you so certain?"
Aidan looked. Gold glittered in silk. At his feet, upon the bier, lay the chain. The links, as always, were solid, perfect… deadly.
He very nearly laughed. He knew the pattern now. "What have you come to tell me?"
"Do I have to tell you something?" Donal gazed across the lake into the setting sun. "No. I will let the others speak for me. The gods have set me a different task."
Aidan shivered, though he was not cold. "What task?"
"You may call me a steersman, for now." Donal moved to one end of the barge and lifted the sword as a man would hold a staff. Long brown fingers closed on steel; by rights, it should cut.
Astonished, Aidan saw the sword reshape itself. The steel and gold flowed in either direction until it stretched, lengthening, and when it stopped he saw it was no longer a sword, but a golden pole, a steersman's pole, and as Donal slid it into the water Aidan saw the ruby send forth a starburst of brilliant light.
"To ward off the Darkness," Donal explained.<
br />
Aidan looked at the setting sun. He believed, in that moment, that his life or death would be decided by what he agreed—or refused—to do.
Quietly, Donal steered. "Your journey has been interrupted. I am here to put you back on the proper path."
"Then—I am not yet dead."
"Not as I know death. But neither are you alive, as the living know it. It is best to simply say you are elsewhere for the moment."
Aidan said nothing.
"Men die," Donal said. "Even Cheysuli die. But occasionally the gods see to it that a certain man—or woman—does not, because they have a use for him."
"Use," Aidan echoed. "A weighty word, I'm thinking."
"Most words are." Water splashed softly. "They sent me; therefore I am assuming they have some use for you."
Aidan thought about it. He recalled the things he had been told by the Hunter, by the Weaver, and by the two Mujhars. "And have they given you leave to tell me what this use is, or am I to guess?"
Donal looked at him. The setting sun illuminated his face. It was a face similar to his own, Aidan realized, though the color was much darker and all the angles sharper. The Erinnish in him had softened hue and hardness, redefining the wildness into something more civilized. It was easy to see why the Homanans, seeing a clan-born Cheysuli, had been so willing to name them alien.
This is what I might have been, instead of what I am. Had my line not looked to outmarriage…
He touched a strand of ruddy hair. The eyes in his head were right, but certainly not the hair. He did not know whether to be grateful or sorry for it.
Donal's tone was muted. "It would do little good for me to tell you all the answers, Aidan. Men are men, not gods; they often shun the knowledge of a better way. Men are willful, but the willfulness is what the gods gave them. And so the gods bide their time, waiting to see if the man will follow his proper tahlmorra, or turn away from it." Yellow eyes were strangely calm. "What of you, kinsman? Which path do you choose?"
"All Cheysuli follow their tahlmorras," Aidan answered automatically, and then knew how foolish it sounded in view of Teirnan's actions, and those of the other a'saii. Quickly he asserted, "I intend to follow mine."
Cheysuli 7 - Flight of the Raven Page 18