Cheysuli 7 - Flight of the Raven

by Jennifer Roberson

  He drew a careful breath. "What did they tell you? That I am to die?"

  Her eyes lost their focus. "You are not to be Mujhar. The Lion wants someone else."

  It chilled him clear to bone. Aidan suppressed a shudder, shutting one hand around a link. For all he knew, it was his own; for a moment, it did not matter. "Granddame…" It took all his strength to sound very calm. "Lady, if that is true, then surely the gods will tell me."

  Gisella gazed at him. "The broken link…" she whispered.

  Aidan marked the bluish tint of her tips, the weakening of her voice. "Granddame—"

  But she no longer looked at him. Her grandson was forgotten. Now it was her son she tried to reach, third-born of Niall's children. "Strahan never would have slain you," she said in a poignant appeal. "He only wanted to use you. He needed you. He needed me. He needed all of us." The cords of her neck tautened. "I needed to be needed. What I did was not so bad."

  Corin's posture was impossibly rigid. "What you did cursed you in the eyes of your children forever," he said hoarsely. "You must decide if it was worth the sacrifice."

  Her eyes were fixed on his face. As the last breath rattled in her throat, she whispered something no one in the chamber could hear.

  When it was certain she was dead, Corin called in a servant from the corridor and ordered arrangements for the news to be carried throughout Atvia. Then, as the servant departed at once, Corin walked slowly back to the bed. He leaned down, shut the withered lids, then sat down upon the edge. From the bedside table he picked up a twisted gold torque.

  He gazed at it steadily, turning it over in his hands. Aidan, looking at it, recognized the workmanship as Cheysuli. He had several similar torques of his own, though none such as this. It was, he knew, a Cheysuli wedding torque, signifying the bond between warrior and wife.

  Corin's voice was odd. "He gave it to her before he had a lir. Before he knew what she was, and what she meant to do." He sighed heavily, frowning. Aidan sensed anguish, regret, sorrow, and more than a little confusion. No doubt Corin had expected to feel relief. But relief was slow in coming; what he felt mostly was grief. "She was Cheysuli, once. But they never gave her the chance to know what it meant."

  Aidan damped the kivarna purposely, giving Corin privacy. "I would not presume to speak for Hart and my jehan, to say if they would or would not have forgiven her. I know Keely did not." He paused. "What of you?"

  Corin's mouth twisted painfully. "She never asked. I doubt she knew how."

  "And if she had?"

  Corin looked at Glyn for a long moment. Tears stood in his eyes. "I think," he said finally. "I would have, had she asked. Had she tried."

  Aidan looked a final time on the woman in the bed, then turned to go. But Glyn, rising from her chair, stopped him at the door. Her hands were on his bare left arm, delaying him. He glanced at her in surprise and saw a deep compassion in her eyes. She did not have kivarna, perhaps, but her own measure of empathy was plain.

  "Wait," Corin said. He rose from the bed.

  Aidan wanted nothing more than to leave. Glyn's hands on his arm seemed to burn into his flesh, reminding him how easily he had succumbed to Lillith's power. He had wanted the Ihlini woman the moment he saw her, and while he believed any man, in his position, might feel the same, it grated within his soul to know he had been so malleable.

  "Come into the corridor." Corin's hand on his shoulder guided Aidan out of the room as Glyn pulled open the door. She shut it behind them, staying within, throwing up a barrier between the dead woman in the bed and two men who owed their lives to her, if not respect and honor and love.

  Aidan, dreading the question, stared resolutely down the corridor, as if his express disinterest might dissuade Corin's interest.

  But if Corin saw the unspoken wish, he did not honor it. His voice was harsh. "You said Lillith was dead."

  Aidan shut his teeth. "She is."

  "We have been fooled before, harani, and to our detri ment. Are you certain—"

  Aidan's tone was clipped. "Quite certain."

  Corin's expression was grim. "I hope you will understand if I insist on knowing how. Lillith has plagued us at all too many years—"

  "I killed her."

  "You—" But Corin broke it off. No doubt he was recalling his own sister had been responsible for Strahan's death. He relaxed. "Then we all owe you our gratitude. Leijhana tu'sai, harani."

  Aidan shrugged. What had happened was too personal, too unsettling for him to share with anyone. He recalled too clearly the power that had risen at his command. While he himself had not laid hands upon her, it had been at his behest that the gods had come to his aid. She was as dead as if he himself had twisted the chain around her throat and thrown her from the tower.

  That sort of power, that sort of influence, terrified him.

  "Aidan—"

  "You would not understand."

  "I might." Corin sighed. "I know very well what that woman was. But let it go. What matters is that she is dead." His gaze went to Aidan's waist, to the gold threaded through by leather. "Gisella spoke of this. She said Lillith meant to break it."

  "She said a great many things." Forboding made him curt. "Su'fali, forgive me… there are things too personal to speak of. Let it suffice that Lillith is dead, and Gisella, and the chain is whole."

  "And what Gisella said of you?" Corin's hand clasped a bare arm briefly. "You know better than to give credence to a madwoman on her deathbed. She was babbling—talking to gods?" He shook his head. "Let us go down to the hall. There are preparations to be made—"

  "No." Aidan felt the apprehension rising. He recalled with distressing clarity that Gisella had not been the first or only one to tell him he would never hold the throne. There had been Shaine, then Carillon. Even the gods themselves seemed to be preparing him for something else, something more. And the Lion, time and time again, had repudiated him.

  He knuckled dampness from his brow. The biting edges of comprehension made him queasy. "I have to go." He heard himself: a half-choked, unsteady voice. "Teel is in Erinn. I have been too long without my lir."

  "Aidan." Corin's hand closed on him again. Now his tone was commanding, granting no room for compassion. "Gisella was mad, and a tool of the Ihlini. Whatever she said to you, whatever her babbling meant, let none of it bear fruit. She was mad."

  Aidan looked into the steady blue eyes so much like his grandsire's single one. He wanted to give in and agree, to laugh and jest and suggest they go to the hall, as Corin wanted, but he could do none of those things. He could find no words to tell Corin that Gisella had not been babbling.

  That she was not the first to warn him of his ending.

  That he was very much afraid.

  Chapter Twelve

  « ^ »

  Wolfhounds gathered around her. Muscles tensed, tails waved, dark eyes brightened expectantly. Shona held the stick: the dogs were prepared to chase it until she forfeited the game.

  It was a good throwing stick: long as her arm, gnarled and rounded, bent just enough in the middle to distribute the weight properly. It was their favorite, and hers; toothmarks scored in the wood dated back five generations. Shona pulled it behind her head and hurled it with all of her strength. An ocean of dogs gave chase.

  It was a game she generally enjoyed, laughing aloud and calling encouragement as the winner then fought off a pack of usurpers, intent on snatching the stick from his jaws. But today, this morning, she neither laughed nor called out. She simply threw the stick again and again, methodically, until at last even the strongest of the pack retired to sprawl on the turf, huge tongue lolling freely. The stick lay at her feet, where the big male had spat it out.

  She felt no worse, nor better. Perhaps she should have chased the stick.

  "Shona."

  Her mother. Shona shut her eyes a moment, then turned. "Aye?"

  Keely's faint smile was neutral. "I thought you would be glad to see him go."

  Shona bent and picked
up the stick. "I am."

  "Are you?"

  "Of course. We said what there was to say, I'm thinking… what good in beating a dying horse?"

  Keely sighed. The wind snatched at braided hair, trying to undo the plait that dangled over one shoulder. Like her daughter, she wore woolen tunic and trews, belted with Erinnish copper. "There is something to be said for speaking your mind honestly, instead of hiding behind diplomatic falsehoods. You are much like me: you say what you think. But there is a price for such openness, Shona. That sort of forthrightness makes it difficult to hide your feelings even when you most want to."

  Shona hurled the stick. The dogs, still sprawled on turf, merely watched it fly, then fall. None of them went to fetch it.

  She made a gesture of futility encompassing dogs and herself. "What am I to do? I meant to send him from me, brideless… then Corin's summons saved me from explaining more than I already had: that I'm refusing to surrender control of my life to something so binding as the kivarna. 'Tis n't fair." She broke it off, grimacing bleakly. "But it gives me no choice, now. 'Tis in my blood, and his… and we've had a taste of it." Glumly, she stared at the dogs. "Like a newborn pup on a nipple: give me more—and more—and more."

  Keely sighed heavily. "Gods—how could we have foreseen? Your jehan and I put off having a child immediately, because of many things… and when at last we knew I had conceived I made him promise, if you were a girl, you would have all the advantages a boy has, growing up—if you wanted them. Among them was free choice in marriage partner…" Keely's bleak expression mirrored her daughter's. "And now because of this, that choice is stripped from you."

  Shona shrugged. "I could still refuse. 'Tis difficult now, but once he's gone and the memory of the kivarna dies away…" She laughed abruptly. "Perhaps what I'm needing is to find an islander with kivarna. . ." But that, too, trailed into silence. "No. 'Tis too late. I'm lying if I deny it." She pressed both hands against her face and scrubbed violently at her brow. "Agh, what I should have done was go to bed with someone. If I knew what it was already, perhaps I could fight off this kivarna." She took her hands away and smiled ruefully at her mother. "But right now all I'm thinking about is how I felt when Aidan touched me. And how I'm wanting more."

  "Like a newborn pup on a nipple." Keely smiled crookedly. "I come from a race ruled by tahlmorra. I am perhaps not the best person to offer advice. But it seems to me if the gods touched his blood and yours with this 'gift'—and then brought you together—perhaps there was a reason."

  Shona snorted inelegantly. "The easy way, I'm thinking—let the gods make the choice."

  Keely shook her head. "You must make the choice. And then you must live with it."

  Shona shook her head. "No. 'Tis n't a question of living with the choice. 'Tis living with the man."

  Keely looked past her daughter to the wolfhounds, rousing from their rest to fetch the stick once more. "There are worse to be had than Aidan."

  "And he is half Erinnish." Shona grinned lopsidedly as she took the stick from the big male. " 'Tis something in his favor—that, and the hounds like him."

  Keely signed resignation. "I suppose there are worse ways to judge a man."

  "None better," Shona said, and hurled the stick skyward.

  Aidan stepped off the ship onto the docks at Kilore and stopped dead in his tracks. The lir-link meshed even as he sent the preemptory call to Teel.

  Relief as the link flared anew washed through him with such abrupt violence he nearly fell. Trembling, he draped himself against the nearest stack of crates and lost himself in the reaffirmation, conscious of odd looks from strangers and not caring in the least. All that mattered was Teel. Only Teel.

  Lir.

  Eyes snapped open. Where are you?

  Here.

  Aidan looked up intently and saw the dark speck in the sky, rising over the fortress atop chalky palisades. The smile hooked one corner of his mouth and then both, widening to a transfixed expression of relief and exhilaration.

  Slowly the speck enlarged, and wings became visible. Aidan sighed deep contentment. Muttering his thanks over and over again, he gripped the crate and waited for the physical contact. As Teel settled onto his left shoulder, Aidan grinned fatuously into the sunlight.

  After a moment, he laughed. Has it been like this for you?

  Teel did not answer at once. When he did, the characteristic acerbity was missing. We belong together. They made us for one another, you and I.

  You were the one who said I should go.

  But I did not say we would enjoy it. Teel paused. Will you fly?

  Aye, Aidan said fervently. I have been too long on the ground.

  Teel lifted off the shoulder and flew. Aidan, not caring one whit who saw the shapechange, with or without warning, lifted both arms, snapped up hands, give himself over to the change.

  The void was swift and powerful, filling him with familiar exultation. As always, he walked the edge of pain, but it was a sweet, comforting pain, filling every portion of his being with triumph. He would not trade this for anything, anything at all.

  Muscles knotted. Bones reknitted. The heart, pumping blood, sought and found new avenues. Aidan, shouting aloud, heard the human voice altered even as he cried out, and knew the change complete.

  He did not go at once to the fortress, but lingered over Kilore with Teel, sweeping across the ocean, then angling back again. He was not a hawk, to soar, or a falcon to plunge in stoop, but a raven. He flew as a raven flies, glorying in the freedom, but knew it only delayed what lay before him. So he flew to the fortress gates, took back his human form, and gave polite greeting to the astonished guard contingent.

  Aidan smiled blandly. "Surely you have seen the Lady do similar things."

  One of the men cleared his throat. "Aye. But she always warns us, first."

  That did not sound like Keely. But then perhaps she had changed, during her years in Erinn; after all, he had not known her at all. She had sailed from Homana when he was but a few months beyond a year. He did her a disservice if he gave credence to all the tales.

  He was admitted at once and went immediately into the fortress, looking for Sean and Keely. He found them in the central hall, occupied by guests. He paused in the doorway, thinking another time might be better; Keely saw him, put something down, rose and called him in. Sean, bent over a gameboard with another man, looked up, saw him, pushed away his stool.

  Aidan acceded to Keely's invitation solemnly, the peace regained in lir-shape dissipating too quickly. He felt the eyes on him, all of them, and glanced briefly at the visitors as he made his way to Keely. And realized, as he looked at the man with Sean, he was among kinfolk. There was only one man in the world who claimed all of Sean's size and more, as well as the flaming red beard.

  "Well?" Keely's voice was sharp.

  He saw no reason to soften the truth, or belabor it. "The Queen of Homana is dead."

  She was very still. Then she drew in a deep breath, released it, nodded once. "Leijhana tu'sai."

  Aidan felt a flicker of unaccustomed hostility. "Are you giving me thanks for the news, or to the gods for answering your petition?"

  Keely's mouth opened. Blue eyes were wide and astonished, outraged by his presumption, and then he saw the flinch of comprehension. Keely turned from him rigidly and sought her chair, sitting down with exceptional care. She took from the table the thing she had held as he entered; he saw it was a sword. Now it rested across her knees, as if she meant to continue polishing it, but she made no move to pick up the cloth. Both hands were on the blade, dulling the shine; he saw the tension in her fingers as she closed them, and he wondered if she intended to cut herself so the physical pain would keep the emotional at bay.

  "Jehana," Keely said numbly. No one made a sound, not even Sean, who watched her compassionately, or the blonde woman nearest her with a young child in her lap.

  The moment lasted a year. Then, with renewed resolution, Keely shook her head. "No. That was Deird
re—" She looked at Aidan, blinking away unshed tears. "There are kinfolk for you to meet."

  Aidan smiled. "I know. Rory Redbeard, is it not?" He nodded a greeting, glancing at the huge man.

  "And your su'fala," Keely continued steadfastly, as if introductions might delay the acknowledgment of Gisella's passing. "Maeve. And four of five cousins."

  Courtesy kept him in the hall. He greeted all of them—the blonde, green-eyed woman very much like Deirdre, her mother; the red-haired boy of sixteen, so obviously Rory's; the blonde girl of fourteen or so, and another perhaps ten, both sweet-faced and shy; the last a very young child in Maeve's arms—but he wanted only to find Shona. There were things he needed to say to her.

  "Where is—"

  Sean was the one who answered. "Outside, with Riordan. And Blais." His brown eyes were steady. "On the south side of the wall, shooting arrows."

  Aidan nodded absently and turned to go at once, only vaguely aware he should stay to talk, to exchange news, but to do so would drive him mad. He had renewed his link with Teel; now there was Shona.

  "Aidan."

  Irritated, he turned back. Keely rose, holding the sword. "I want you to have this. I had it made—'tis a woman's blade."

  The Erinnish lilt nearly made him smile. "I thank you for your generosity, su'fala, but what use is a woman's blade to me?"

  "Not for you. For your daughter. For Shona's—" Keely broke it off, scowling fiercely at the blade. "I want no milk-mouthed granddaughter in Homana-Mujhar. Give her a sword, Aidan—and give her the means to use it."

  Keely set the sword into his hands. He appraised it carefully, marking its superior balance, the perfect weight and excellent quality, and grieved that he would dishonor the giving as well as hurt Keely. But there was nothing else for it. He would not lie to her.

  Aidan handed back the sword. "Keep it," he said softly. "And give it to Shona's daughter."

  The emphasis was deliberate. As he turned away he heard her indrawn breath of shock, and knew she understood what he intended to tell her daughter.