Cheysuli 7 - Flight of the Raven

by Jennifer Roberson

  Lir. Teel again. The sun is going down.

  So it was. The woods were alight with sunset, gilding trunks and trappings. If he did not stop soon, he would lose all of the light and be left to make camp in the darkness, in a wood he did not know.

  Aidan sighed. "All right, fir. Your point has been made. Go off and catch your meal—I will make a camp."

  But once he had settled on a sheltering thicket of saplings, Aidan discovered how he had taken for granted things such as two whole hands. It was nearly impossible to unsaddle his horse, and he realized it was the first of many things he would be unable to do well one-handed. The acknowledgment came painfully. At first he tried to ignore it and go on as he always did; in the end, completely defeated, he swore at intricate buckles done up for him in Lestra, cursing thoughtless horseboys; then humiliation followed. So much depended on two hands, on eight fingers and two thumbs; he offered one of the latter and only four of the former.

  He could not undo the final buckle. Frustration welled up. Its power stunned even Aidan. "Is this some kind of test?" he shouted, staring up at the tree-screened sky. "Or merely ironic coincidence, something worth laughing about?"

  There was no answer save the clattering of gear from a horse only half unpacked. Aidan's ruined hand dropped away from the trappings as he leaned against the horse, brow pressed into saddle. Frustration and fear and futility were suddenly overwhelming. He felt very much as he had facing the Lion as a child, railing at a chain that existed only in dreams.

  "Why?" he murmured into leather. "Why did it happen to me? What did I do to deserve this?" He knew, even as he asked them, the questions were unworthy. They were also selfish and petulent, but at that moment he did not care. He was angry and very frightened, and very much a child.

  Aidan squeezed his eyes closed. "Oh, gods—I will be kin-wrecked… I will have to go before Clan Council and tell them what happened, and display my infirmity…" Humiliation writhed deep in the pit of his belly. "They will do all the things they did to Hart—" He sucked in a deep, noisy breath, trying to ward away panic. "Unless—unless I insist… I am not Hart, who was meant for Solinde… I will be Prince of Homana, and one day Mujhar—if I insist they change the custom—" Aidan pressed himself from the horse, new resolve hardening. "I will insist. I will. How can they deny me? One day I will be Mujhar—"

  But even as he said it, Aidan felt the infant resolve waver.

  To stand before Clan Council and denounce one of the oldest traditions of his race was not a thing he wanted to do. His father had asked, had petitioned; had even, he had been told, shouted at Clan Council, but it had changed nothing. Even for the Mujhar's middle son, the tradition could not be altered. Too many things had been changed. Now the older warriors, abetted by shar tahls, hung on to the old customs to keep new ones at bay.

  "Fools," Aidan said aloud. "Blind, arrogant fools… what use is it to waste a warrior now? We are no longer hunted, no longer at war… they would do better, all those shar tahls, to look to the future instead of to the past."

  The horse shook his head. Still saddled, he was unhappy. It renewed Aidan's anger. "Fools, all of them… had I any influence, I would change things."

  Teel's tone was severe. Questioning your tahlmorra?

  Was hunting so bad you are back already? Aidan abruptly drew his long-knife and cut the strap in two. "Why not question?" he asked aloud. "If they did not mean us to, they would not have given us words with which to ask them."

  Cutting that will not help you when you pack the gear tomorrow.

  No. Anger spilled away. "Too late," Aidan muttered, dragging saddle and packs free. Teel was right, of course. Teel was usually right.

  But then if you went in lir-shape, buckles would not matter.

  Aidan stopped moving. He had been afraid to ask; now he knew he had to. "Do I still have recourse to lir-shape?"

  You did not lose the hand. It merely changed its shape.

  The answer made him weak with realization. He released a gusty breath, mixing laughter with heartfelt relief. "Leijhana tu'sai, for that."

  Teel uttered a croak. And for other things as well.

  Aidan grinned and settled the gear, then tended to the horse. He felt better already, knowing he still could fly. Being kin-wrecked was bad enough, but not being able to fly—

  Aidan put it out of his mind. Instead he thought of his grandsire, Niall, who lacked an eye. He bore scars worse than Aidan's. No one called him half-man, or a failure. All knew better.

  If he could become like Niall—

  "So," he said aloud, "if I do not think myself crippled, I will not be crippled."

  Much better, Teel remarked. You are bearable now.

  Aidan knelt to lay a fire. "Leijhana tu'sai, again." Couched in exquisite dryness.

  Fix enough for two.

  Aidan stopped moving stones, peering through twilight at the raven-shaped shadow perched in a nearby tree. "Was hunting that bad?"

  Not for me—for him.

  Aidan dropped the rock and spun, moving from knees to feet in one quick motion. He hand was on his long-knife, but he forbore to draw it.

  "Wise," the man applauded. "At least you are not overhasty."

  The prickles died from his flesh. "If you do this often, someone will be."

  "Oh, no… I think not. The others do not hear me as a man. They hear me as the wind, or an animal, or something else offering no threat. You see?"

  The stranger moved out of the sheltering trees. His gait was awkward, ungainly; he leaned upon a crutch thrust under an arm. His right leg was missing from below the knee, yet he moved almost noiselessly. He sounded nothing like a man.

  Aidan took his hand away from the knife. "I have enough for two."

  "You see? Being crippled is not so bad… it softens another man's soul."

  Aidan stared as the stranger made his way out of darkness. He was old, though not truly ancient, with a fringe of white hair curling around his ears. The top of his head was bald. The rest of it was a face comprising the map of Homana; Aidan cut off the impulse of looking for landmarks he knew. The stranger deserved better, and he was better mannered.

  Dark brown eyes glinted from under bushy white brows. "A fine young man," he said. "Well-mannered… and well-born?" He nodded to himself before Aidan could give him an answer. "There is the look of a fox about you: red hair and yellow eyes… would a fox be your lir?"

  Only a flicker of surprise; Cheysuli were no longer strangers. "No," he said, "a raven." He thought of his other uncle. "Though a kinsman claims a vixen."

  "Oh, aye; of course." He wore rough woolen homespun tunic belted over equally rough-made trews, and a single brogan shoe. The half-trew on his right leg was knotted beneath the stump.

  Uneasily, Aidan thought of Tevis who was not Tevis at all, but Lochiel in disguise, using subterfuge to bring down a king. This was Solinde, after all; the homeland of the Ihlini. But his kivarna told him nothing, and neither did his lir.

  The stranger levered himself down and sat beside the fire that was not, yet, a fire. He smiled up at Aidan. "You did say food, did you not?"

  "Aye," Aidan knelt to resume his work. When the ring was built and kindling laid, he drew out flint and steel.

  And realized almost at once it would take two hands to light.

  The heat of shame set his face ablaze. He gritted his teeth tightly and refused to look at the man. He thought briefly of asking him—the stranger had two hands—but then realized it was folly. He would not always have someone to help. He needed to learn what to do.

  Eventually, he managed. A twist of useless hand, pressure from new sources, careful concentration. The fire was lighted at last. Sighing, Aidan turned, wiping dampness from his forehead, and saw the stranger nodding.

  "The patience will come," he said gently. "So will the acceptance." He gestured to his stump.

  Helplessness spasmed. "When?" Aidan blurted. "All I can think of now is what I was before!"

  "Natural, that. I h
ave done it, myself." The old man slapped the palm of his hand against one thigh. "The bitterness will fade, along with the helplessness. There are worse things in this world than lacking a bit of flesh."

  Aidan's grunt was politely noncommittal as he added fuel to the fire.

  Dark eyes glittered. "Do you count yourself less than a man?"

  Aidan, piling on wood, wanted not to answer. There was no way he could fully explain what it was to a man like himself, warrior-born and bred. But a glance at the stranger told him the man wanted an answer.

  Do not blame him… do not punish him, either. Aidan sighed and schooled his tone into patience and tolerance. "You are not Cheysuli… it is difficult to explain, but our law forbids a maimed man from remaining part of the clan. The warrior is expelled, cast out… in Old Tongue, he is kin-wrecked."

  "Why?" the stranger rasped. "Why throw away a warrior because he lacks a useful hand?"

  Aye, Aidan agreed. But retreated from bitterness into an explanation. "In the old days, when we were hunted, it was necessary that each warrior be able to fight. If he could not, he could not protect his kin, or his clan… he ate food better given to someone who could."

  The stranger scratched at his stump. "A harsh law, that. But there are times in a man's life—or in the life of his people—that hard decisions must be made. When it comes to survival…" Again he gestured at the stump.

  Aidan's mouth twisted. "I am less sanguine than you. This is but two weeks old."

  "Then I will ask it again: do you count yourself less than a man?"

  He was, at first, angry: who was this old man, this stranger, to ask him such a thing? But then anger spilled away. He knew he spoke the truth, though part of him tried to deny it. "No. This is not me. Not a hand. Not a leg. What I am comes from somewhere else… somewhere in here." Aidan touched his breast.

  The stranger nodded. "But you would rather have it back."

  Aidan thought of Hart, and quailed. "Who would not want it back?"

  "And what would you give up to have it?"

  Aidan looked into the eyes. They were expressionless in the darkness, but oddly purposeful. He no longer doubted the stranger was more than merely a stranger, come upon him by coincidence.

  Not here. Not in Solinde. Not where Lochiel yet roams.

  His hand went to his knife. He thought again of Hart, offered reattachment of his still-whole hand at the Gate of Asar-Suti, in the depths of Strahan's fortress. He had heard the story. The cost was service to Strahan. The cost was the weight of his soul.

  Resentment faded. So did bitterness. Certainty replaced both, and an unexpected resolve. "It is only a hand," he said clearly. "Not worth the price you want."

  "But to be whole again… a true warrior… not to be kin-wrecked—"

  Aidan laughed at the man. "Not for any price will I risk my tahlmorra."

  Firelight made the old man young. His eyes were dark as pits. He sat upon his rock with his good leg stretched before him and the crutch at his side. He rubbed the knotted stump. "Think again," he suggested. "Think twice, or thrice, or more."

  Aidan shook his head.

  The old man smiled. Once more he touched his stump, save now the leg was whole. "Come here," he said.

  Aidan knelt down before him.

  "Give me your ruined hand."

  Aidan offered the god his hand. "What are you called?"

  "In this guise, I am the Cripple." He studied Aidan's hand, examining curled fingers, the two-sided scar. "He struck well, the Ihlini. But it was not at you he struck."

  "No."

  "You took what was meant for someone else."

  "He was a kinsman. And a king."

  "Kings are men, too. Men die; kings die. How do you know it was not his tahlmorra to die?"

  He had not thought of that. "But—I had to. I could not let him be struck down. I had to. There was no choice."

  "Perhaps it was tahlmorra. Perhaps it was yours, Aidan."

  He dared a glance at pit-black eyes. "Was it you who sent Donal?"

  "I sent him. I could not allow you to die just yet, even as you could not allow your kinsman to be struck down. And so you live." He shrugged. "For now."

  Aidan shivered. He tried to suppress it; could not. "Can you tell me what you intend for me? Am I always to travel blind? I will serve you willingly, if you only give me the chance."

  "No." The Cripple's tone was cold. "No man accepts everything willingly. Sacrifices must be made. Too often a man knowing the sacrifice would never be willing to make it, just as you were unwilling to let the Ihlini kill your kinsman."

  "But—"

  "You will know what you must when the time is come. Now, as for this…"

  Aidan looked down. The twisted hand was still cradled in the hands of the god, but liquid spilled out. At first he feared it was blood, but it was rich and gold and heavy.

  "Open your hand, Aidan."

  A part of him wanted to laugh. But he knew better, now. He no longer thought to question.

  The fingers, tendons reknitted, answered his bidding. The liquid congealed, then formed itself into a shape. Across his unscarred palm lay a heavy rune-worked link perfectly matched to the other two.

  The god smiled on him. "You sacrificed no portion of your tahlmorra. The price for your hand was honesty; that, you gave tenfold."

  "Donal," Aidan said, staring at the link.

  The god did not answer. The Cripple, with his crutch, was gone.

  Aidan laughed. He wanted to cry. But he thought the laughter best. When he was done, he looked at the link. Then he looked at his hand, perfect and whole and unblemished.

  "Why?" he asked of Teel.

  The shadow that was his lir fluttered feathers briefly. He asked you questions. You answered them. I think you might be wise to assume you said what he wanted to hear.

  "But what do they want from me?"

  They are gods. Who can say?

  Futility possessed him. "Teel—please—help—"

  When at last the raven spoke, his tone was more gentle than Aidan had ever heard from him. I do what I can. It is all a lir can do, certainly all I can do… the gods made us, too. And even the lir cannot predict or explain a tahlmorra that is still on the loom.

  Aidan gripped the link. "Why me, Teel? What do they see in me? Why do they come to me?"

  Through the lir-link he heard a sigh. I cannot say, Teel answered. No one has told me, either.

  Chapter Two

  « ^ »

  Crying out, Aidan awoke abruptly, thrusting himself upright into the dawn. For a long moment he did not know where he was, only that he was somewhere… and then he realized he was not in the Great Hall of Homana-Mujhar, trying to touch a chain in the lap of the Lion; nor was he in Lestra, staring in shock at a hand sliced nearly in two by poisoned Ihlini steel.

  "Agh," he said aloud, "they are starting again!"

  Teel, in a tree, fluttered. What are starting again?

  "The dreams." Aidan rubbed his face, stripping dew-dampened hair out of gritty eyes and being glad all over again he could use both hands for the motion. He lowered his recovered hand and examined it critically again, as he had every morning since meeting the Cripple. Five days, now. The relief had not passed.

  Neither had the dreams.

  He wore three links at his belt, rather than two. They chimed as he rode, reminding him constantly of dreams and gods and tasks. He slept poorly and woke too often during the night, trying to banish the dream-chain long enough to get a proper night's sleep. He could not recall a time when he had felt so confused, so disoriented. At least before the gods had come to him, he had believed himself merely fanciful. Now he believed himself mad.

  Sighing, Aidan peeled back blankets and kicked legs free. "Time to go, lir. Erinn gets no closer while I lie here in skins and wool, thinking about dreams."

  It gets no farther, either.

  Aidan forbore to answer and commenced packing his horse. He had long since learned commenting on Teel's re
marks made no difference. The raven was cleverer than he; his best wager was to ignore him altogether, because then there was no clear-cut victory.

  Of course, it meant the contest continued.

  But it was better than nothing at all.

  When he came across the wagon with its bright-painted canvas canopy, Aidan gave it a wide berth. He was ready to pass it by and forget about it, as travelers usually did on the road; often, it was safest. But the woman on the seat was so vivid she caught his eye and turned his head quite literally; Aidan nearly stared.

  Her answering smile was so warm and guileless he could not simply ignore it—not if he desired to name himself a man for he rest of his life. He slowed his horse at once and waited for her team to catch up, then fell in beside her. His greeting was in accented Solindish; hers in the same tongue, though flawless. Much as he had expected.

  Black hair fell in tight, tangled ringlets all the way to a narrow waist. She wore a chaplet of bright gilt dangling with false pearls that framed a heart-shaped face, and copper hoops in both ears. Black eyes were bold but also shy, as if she longed to be a bawd but had not yet learned how to do it properly. She was not truly beautiful, not as Ilsa was, but she had a burning liveliness of spirit that put Aidan in mind of his mother and Deirdre.

  He glanced beyond her shoulder to the closed canvas canopy. "You should not be traveling the road alone."

  "No," she agreed gravely, though her eyes were bright with mirth. "It would be a very bad thing. And it is why I do not do it." Her hand parted the bright canopy, baring the face of a young man so remarkably beautiful Aidan thought it might do better on a woman.

  "A very bad thing," the young man said, crawling through the canopy to take his place on the seat beside the woman. "But then we know better than to allow Ashra to go anywhere alone… there are men who would stoop to stealing her to share more than she might care to."

  And men who would steal you… But Aidan's manners would not allow him to say it.

  Like Ashra, the young man had black hair, though he lacked her length or ringlets. The bones of his face were truly beautiful, and the skin smooth and dark and unblemished. Something in his expression and the assemblage of bones reminded Aidan of his own race, though he had never seen a Cheysuli with such magnificent purity of features, or green eyes. And yet there was something else as well. He was most like Ilsa, Aidan decided finally, though dark instead of light. His suppleness bespoke exceptional grace, and his speaking voice was firm, yet melodious.