Aidan did not answer. Keely had schooled her tone into a negligent matter-of-factness, but his kivarna told him the truth. She had hoped Shona would share her own unique gifts, thereby asserting the Cheysuli portion of her heritage. The girl had not; now Keely hoped—and probably prayed—Riordan would make up the difference. It was true that in Erinn the need was not so great as in Homana—Aidan's grandsire, Niall, had gained a lir so late it made his claim to the Lion tenuous in the eyes of the clans—but undoubtedly Keely wanted to leave the mark of their race in Erinn's history. It was a natural desire; he felt it in himself. But for Keely, the need was stronger.
She recalls too clearly what Strahan did to her… and the child she might have borne him. Dishonored, as Ian was—giving Erinn a Cheysuli lord will mitigate her guilt—
He broke it off. It was not his place to delve into Keely's feelings. They were private. Kivarna or no, he should respect them.
Sean combed his beard with two fingers. "Shona is out on the headlands, with the dogs. 'Twould not be a bad thing to see her alone, rather than cluttered up by a household."
Keely shot him a sharp glance. "She is not a woman for games." She turned the gaze on Aidan. "Tell her the truth of why you have come."
Aidan smiled blandly. "If you like, I will wear a placard."
His aunt scowled darkly. "I have good reason for what I say. Too many men tease and twist a woman. I'll not have it done with Shona."
Aidan set down the goblet. "Su'fala, the last thing I would do is tease and twist a woman. I promise, I will be honest with Shona—I see no reason to play games with a woman I might marry—but I will not blurt out my reason for coming before the proper moment. What chance would I have then? If she is anything like you, she prefers honesty to lies, but there is room for diplomacy. Also courtesy."
Keely's eyes narrowed. "Brennan taught you that."
Aidan smiled calmly. "My jehan has taught me many things, aye… but I am no more my father than you are your mother."
It was a telling stroke, as he meant it to be. Keely's mother—his granddame, Mad Gisella—had earned only contempt by her conduct with the Ihlini. The last thing Keely wanted was to be thought anything like her.
Keely raked him with a sulfurous glare. Then her mouth twitched. "Ku'reshtin," she said calmly, flicking a hand toward the door. "Go. I will let Shona deal with you—you will find her a worthy match." Another dismissive flick. "On the headlands, as he said. Amidst a pack of hounds."
Chapter Six
« ^ »
The turf was lush, thickly webbed, excessively green. None of the nubby rugs in Homana-Mujhar approached its thick texture, nor even the bear pelts in his own chamber, so far away. Erinn was much damper than Homana, and its flora responded with a vigorous, unrestrained growth. Everywhere he looked was green; even as he glanced back at Kilore, falling behind, he thought the mottled gray stones acquired a greenish hue, as if to blend in with the turf and trees and storm-gray skies.
So far from home, he thought vaguely, feeling the brief pang of regret flutter deep in his belly. He had not, as he had so belatedly realized in Ashra's company, ever been anywhere. It had never seemed odd to him—he was sufficiently satisfied with life in Mujhara and Clankeep—but now he knew himself incomplete. There were places in the world he could not go, and therefore places in himself he would never know. A man who chained himself to his home drew a curtain over his eyes, blinding himself to all the majesty of the world.
And yet he proposed, one day, to chain himself to a beast. The Lion of Homana, acrouch in Homana-Mujhar.
Is that so bad? Teel's croak emanated from overhead; Aidan glanced up. A man could have a worse tahlmorra than to be Mujhar.
Aidan was not disposed to argue. He could.
Are you wanting dogs?
He frowned briefly, momentarily nonplussed, then followed the raven's change of topic. More to the point: do I want the woman with them?
Teel angled back toward Kilore. Meet her and find out.
The raven departed swiftly. Aidan, laughing quietly, looked ahead. The headlands were flat, a green flood of turf edging toward the sea—except that the edge was sharp as a blade, dropping off to a chalky cliff. Somewhere along here, Aidan recalled, his grandsire had ridden a horse off the edge of the world, intent on escape. Deirdre had bidden Niall do it, to keep his honor intact; he had broken another part of his honor as he had broken his parole to Shea, Lord of Erinn, out the circumstances had required it. Had he not gone…
Aidan smiled. Had he not gone, he would never have married Gisella of Atvia, nor sired four children on her, including my own jehan—
In the distance, something barked. And again. And Aidan, knowing how to read the nuances of such sounds, stopped walking and held his ground.
The river, in full spate, poured across the turf. Ash-gray, smoke-gray, storm-gray, even palest silver. A handful of hounds—no, more—nine or ten; he could not count them all. But they clearly counted him, ranging themselves around him. None of them barked, now; the warning had been given. They waited.
Bitches, most of them. Two or three half-grown males, still pups, awkward and gangly. And one huge male who stood hip-high to Aidan, massive shoulders tensed. Hackles bristled on neck, shoulders, rump; deep in his chest, he rumbled.
How many men would test that? Aidan wondered in detachment. How many men would dare?
Not he. He was no fool.
The pups, he saw, were less interested in domination than in seeing who he was. But the big male—their sire, undoubtedly—was in no mood to allow anyone closer to Aidan, or Aidan closer to them. And the bitches—how many were there, again?—would not allow a stranger to harm their young.
Impasse. Aidan sighed, wondering how long it would take Shona to release them. He could take lir-shape and escape this travesty, but he wanted to meet her as a man, on her terms; taking lir-shape would lend him an advantage he did not, just yet, want to display.
Then he saw her. Distant yet, but approaching, striding along the edge of the cliffs with no apparent thought for her nearness to danger; hummocky turf curling over the edge could give and send her to her death. But Shona strode on easily, smoothly, without haste; could she not call to them? Or whistle?
No. He realized that as she came closer yet. She was blatantly unconcerned with any discomfort or anxiety engendered by the wolfhounds. What concerned her were the hounds themselves.
She came into their midst as one of them, a hand touching here, there; thick long tails waved. But none of the hounds moved, save to flick an ear, or thump her hip with a tail.
Her language was Erinnish, as expected. Her tone cool, quiet, unhurried. He could wait as long as it took. He saw it in her eyes.
Aidan assessed her. Tall. Very tall; she was, he thought in shock, at least as tall as himself. While he did not match the elegant height of most Cheysuli, he was easily six feet. So was Shona.
And big-boned to match her height, with broad, level shoulders. There was no delicacy in her, or fragility, or anything approaching femininity. She was, quite clearly, Sean's daughter. Keely, next to Shona, would be shorter, slighter, leaner.
A true-born Erinnish, big of bone and stature…
Incongruously, he thought of Blythe. Slender, elegant Blythe, very much a woman. And while there was no doubting Shona's gender—no man would dare—there was nothing at all in her reminiscent of feminine Blythe. Whom Aidan had thought beautiful.
No, he thought wryly, that is not in Shona's purvue.
But something was. In movement, in posture, in expression, Shona's gift was presence.
She was blonde, like Keely and Sean. A wild, unruly blonde, had she worn her hair cut short. But she did not, and so the curls were tamed. The long, heavy braid—thick around as his forearm—hung over her left shoulder, dangling to her hip. She had tied it off with a leather thong ornamented with amber beads. Their color matched her tunic; her trews were dusty ocher.
Sean's daughter indeed: brown eyes observ
ed him calmly. Her features, though perfectly regular, were not those he might have chosen, given leave. They lacked the elegant aquilinity of Blythe's. There was no delicacy. It was a strong, almost masculine face, devoid of beauty or elegance. Its statement was one of strength. And of unremitting power.
Something tickled his belly. This woman was born for a throne… it shines out of her like a beacon—
He wondered what Teel would say.
He wondered what Shona would say.
"Enough," she said softly in a low, smoky voice.
For one odd moment he thought she meant him; that she knew why he had come and was giving him his dismissal. But he saw the hackles go down; the male wolfhound's tail waved.
The growling stopped. Aidan blinked. The sound had been so low, so infinitely soft, he had not truly heard it. But with its absence, the silence was absolute. The threat was dissipated; he felt himself relax.
"So," she said, "you're here. What are ye wanting from me?"
To marry you, he said. But only to himself.
Blonde brows arched. "Are ye mute?" she asked.
Until this moment, no. Aidan cleared his throat. "Handsome dogs," he said; the inanity amazed him.
Shona considered him. "They'll do," she allowed gently. " 'Tis what I do, d'ye see? I bred the boyo myself, and all the lads and lasses… but not all the bitches, of course. The line must not get too tight, or the blood will ruin itself."
Aye, he agreed fervently. Much like our own.
Shona gestured briefly. "That one, d'ye see, came from over-island. And that one from Atvia…" She shrugged. "They're not known for their wolfhounds, there, but 'twas a line I admired. I brought the bitch in to shore up what was here."
Why are we discussing dogs? Aidan smiled weakly. "I like that one there."
Shona glanced briefly at his choice. Her contempt, though fleeting, was manifest. Her smile was barely polite. " 'Tis a judge of wolfhounds, is it?"
"No," he demurred.
Eyes crinkled. "Good; the man admits it. He's the worst of the litter, that lad. A bit crooked in the rear to run down a pack… but you'll be knowing that, I'm sure."
"No," he said again. "I know nothing about wolfhounds." And less about myself; this is not a woman I would look at, in Homana—
Shona laughed aloud. It was a full, hearty laugh, more like a man's than a woman's. "So, it knows what it doesn't know—not so many men will admit such a thing, and fewer to a woman. You must be worth the knowing." She tilted her head a little. "Are you worth the knowing?"
"Some days," he agreed.
Shona smiled. It set her face alight. And then she turned to the wolfhounds, said a single word, and Aidan was engulfed.
"There," she said, "they're free. And so are you, if you like; they'll none of them harm you now."
Not intentionally, perhaps, but ten or twelve wolfhounds—even some only half grown—were enough to drag down a man even in polite greeting.
The pups, of course, were uncontrollable, but the others were only slightly more reserved. Aidan found his elbows trapped in gently insistent mouths, and his manhood endangered by whipping tails thick as treelimbs. He did what he could to protect himself—something deep inside laughed to consider Homana's future unmanned by a pack of dogs—then one of the hounds reared up and put both front paws on Aidan's chest.
Off-guard, Aidan stepped back, felt the paw beneath his boot and heard the anguished yelp; sought to move, and did: landing full-length on the turf.
"Agh, get off the man… let the man breathe, d'ye heat—?" Shona waded in, slapping at hips and shoulders. Eventually the knot parted; Aidan saw sky again, instead of a forest of legs.
He was laughing. He could not help himself. He had grown up with only cursory attendance by dogs—Cheysuli, having lir, did not keep pets—and knew little enough about the subtleties of unblessed animals kept as companions. He had known Homanans who trained dogs for hunting, or kept cats to kill the vermin, but he had never thought about what it was like. There had been Serri and Tasha in his childhood, and eventually Teel. Lir were very different. A man could reason with lir; now, in this moment, all he could do was laugh and fend off exuberant hounds.
Shona urged them back, giving Aidan room. Eventually he sat up. He did not at once stand, thinking it might be easier to keep his balance on the ground. The dogs milled around him, snuffling at ears and neck. Noses were cold, damp, insistent; Aidan pulled up his cloak and snugged it around his neck.
Shona laughed. "They're meaning you no harm. 'Tis their way of welcoming you."
Incongruously, he thought of another welcome. The welcome of a woman for a man, home from hunting, or war. He saw Shona standing before a rude hillcroft, wild hair and homespun skirts ravaged by the wind, waiting for his return. He saw Shona bedecked as a queen, receiving foreign envoys who were agog at the height and bearing of Homana's queen; at the overwhelming strength that blazed within her spirit. And he saw Shona kneeling in soiled bedding, sweat-and blood-smeared, gently aiding a wolfhound bitch as she strained to pass a leggy pup into the world.
He took no note of the milling wolfhounds. Only of Shona, in their midst; of the sudden excruciating acknowledgment that pinned him to the turf.
This is what it is to recognize a tahlmorra—
Smiling, Shona reached down a hand. "You'd best come up from there, or they'll be making a rug out of you."
Fingers linked, then hands. And Aidan, moving to rise, felt the power blaze up between them.
Deaf. Blind. Mute. Flesh rolled back from his bones, baring the Aidan within. His body pulsed with a tangle of emotions so alien he felt ill.
Shock… astonishment… denial… anger… fear… an odd recognition—
—awareness, sharp and abrupt, of intense, painful arousal—
And comprehension so acute it cut like a knife.
Shona.
And then she tore her hand from his. The contact was broken. The clarity, the empathy, the comprehension was cut off, leaving him sweating and shaking and ill, bereft of understanding. All he knew was an unpleasant incompleteness.
Much like a lirless warrior.
Vision cleared. He found himself still half-kneeling on the turf, splayed fingers rigid. His breathing was ragged, noisy, as if he had fought a war and lost.
Shona's face was white as the chalk cliffs. Like Aidan, she shook. "Who—?" she blurted. "Who are you—?"
He tried to speak and could not. Unwittingly, his free hand groped for hers.
Shona lurched back a step. "No—"
The wolfhounds growled.
"Wait—" he managed to croak.
Three more steps. Then she whirled, braid flying, and ran.
Chapter Seven
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He lay supine, heels, buttocks, and shoulder blades pressed into cool turf. A mounded hummock pillowed his head. Wind blew down the headlands, rippling the folds of the cloak he had snugged across his chest. Hair teased his eyes, but he let it alone, ignoring it, until it crept between lashes. Then he stripped it away limply and tucked the hand back into woolen cloak.
He did not know why he lay on Erinnish turf so close to the chalk cliffs, defying the vigorous wind, except that it brought him an odd sort of numbness. Not a true peace, for that required a contentment in spirit, but a certain detachment, a distance that allowed him to push away the acknowledgment of what had happened.
He smelled salt, sea, fish, and a pervasive dampness. The rich earth of Erinn, supporting webby turf. But most of all he smelled emptiness, albeit in his mind. And a blatant futility.
"I should go home," he said aloud.
He had thought it several times since Shona had left him. But he had not said it, until now; now it took on the trappings of resolve. He would go home—
"Lad."
It took Aidan a moment. Then he realized the voice was quite real, not a figment of his currently turbulent thoughts, and he sat up. He intended to stand, but Sean waved him back down. The Lord of Erinn,
wind-blown, wind-chafed, joined Aidan on the spongy green turf and, as Aidan, stared out into the sky beyond the edge of the cliffs. Sean had changed out of the plain woolens worn for swordplay into more formal tunic and trews of very deep red. Silver bands the width of Aidan's forearms clasped formidable wrists, worked with intricate knots of wire and thumb-sized bosses.
Aidan drew in a breath, then sighed. "She told you."
Sean continued to stared into the sky. His voice was a rusty baritone. "She told us a stranger came, giving her no name. And that when he touched her—when she put out her hand to help him up—the world fell into pieces."
Aidan gritted teeth. "Not so much the world, for me. I fell into pieces."
Silently, Sean put a hand to the turf and uprooted a plot with gentle violence. Then, as if realizing what he had done, he replaced it and tamped it down with broad, deft fingers. And laughed softly, acknowledging the fruitlessness of his repair.
Aidan waited. He still felt empty, and numb, and bereft of something he had only briefly begun to understand, in that instant of physical contact.
Sean's laughter died. His face was a good face, full of strength and character undimmed by nearly fifty years. The gods had been kind to him, gifting him with strong but well-made bones, and a spirit to match them. Aidan had heard stories of how Sean had come from Erinn to win Keely's regard, knowing full well if he lost he lost everything. He had won, in the end, but the battle had been duplicitous and dangerous. He was not, Aidan knew, a stupid man, or a fool; Sean of Erinn was an ally well worth having. And Aidan had hoped, for a very short span, Sean would also become a father.
It was Shona's face, Shona's eyes, Shona's hair, underscored by masculinity. And it hurt with an intensity he had not believed possible.
Sean frowned. "There is a thing of Erinn, my lad, very hard to explain. 'Tis a thing of the blood, much as your lir-gifts are… with something of the same price to be paid, in certain circumstances."
Recognition flickered sluggishly. "Do you mean the kivarna?"
Sean's eyes sharpened. "What are you knowing about it?"
Cheysuli 7 - Flight of the Raven Page 25