Cheysuli 7 - Flight of the Raven

by Jennifer Roberson

  Aidan stopped. This is the way I have to go. Something skittered out of his awareness, whispering of apprehension. He appealed to Teel at once. Should I go back?

  I did not say that, nor did I suggest it. I merely asked: are you certain this is the way you wish to go?

  Aidan drew a steadying breath and looked around. A path lay before him, though little more than a twisted, narrow passage through the trees and thick foliage. No one had passed for decades, and yet he made his way easily enough, even through snagging creepers and sweeping boughs. But he saw no reason not to go. He had felt no premonition of danger, and surely Teel would warn him if what he did might prove deadly.

  He released the breath evenly. If seems the thing to do. A thing I should do.

  The raven studied him a lengthy moment, as if weighing his worth. His eyes were bright and black. Well enough, Teel said finally, and flew away into shadows.

  Aidan went on. He rounded a curve in the twisted path and saw the ruins before him: tumbled, rectangular stones that once had stood upright in a meticulous circle, warding a chapel. The stones leaned haphazardly upon one another, or lay fallen in the dirt. The doorway was shallow and lopsided, its lintel stone cracked. The stones themselves had once been a uniform gray; now they were pocked and stained with age, wearing green lichen cloaks to hide blackened pits and scars.

  He approached slowly, peeling aside foliage. He was very much alone. Teel was gone, the link suspiciously empty. Aidan knew the raven was within calling distance if he chose to summon him, but obviously he was intended to go on without benefit of company. Not even that of a lir.

  A single stone stood three paces from the door. Aidan passed it, paused, then ducked beneath the cracked lintel and went in.

  The interior of the chapel was even worse than the exterior. Rotted beamwork had fallen like tossed rune-sticks in a fortune-game, hiding much of the floor. The place was little more than a shell, but Aidan felt the power. It was a tangible presence.

  The altar leaned crazily to one side like a drunken man, propped up by fallen brothers. Sunlight penetrated the gaps between the standing stones and slanted deep inside, stripping the altar gold and gray. Worn runes were dark against the stone, nearly indecipherable, but they snared Aidan's attention and drew him to the cracked plinth and tilted altar like an infant to the breast.

  He found himself on his knees. He could not recall when he had knelt, or if he had fallen; he knew only he felt dampness seeping through his leathers. His hands were pressed against the altar stone as if he worshiped it; he began to think he did. Or that he must.

  "Gods," he whispered hollowly.

  Did he pray? Or did he merely express awe, as so many did, not thinking at all of gods? Aidan could not answer. He only knew he hurt deep inside. Wracked with doubt, contempt, confusion, he was exquisitely certain he was insignificance personified.

  He knelt before the altar of his ancestors, and cried. Because of anguish, of doubt, of uncertainty. Because he was so unworthy. Because his color was so dull within the tapestry of the gods; his link so weak, so fragile, so very sure to break. He was Aidan, and he was nothing.

  "You are what you wish to be."

  Aidan jerked upright and spun on his knees, one hand slipping instinctively to his knife. But the hand fell away as he saw the man. The Hunter.

  He tingled unpleasantly from subsiding shock. With effort, he managed to speak. "Will you give me my answers now?"

  "If you ask the proper questions." The Hunter came into the chapel and found a stone on which to seat himself. The incongruity struck Aidan; here was a god for whom the chapel had been built, perched upon the wreckage with perfect equanamity.

  Aidan shook his head. "How do I even begin?"

  The Hunter smiled warmly. "You began quite some time ago. As a boy, in fact. The dreams, Aidan… all those turbulent dreams that troubled your sleep."

  "I have them no longer. Not since I sailed from Erinn."

  The Hunter's mouth quirked. "Aye, well… women often have the ability to make a man think of things other than troubling dreams." The smile widened. "Enjoy your peace—and sleep—while you may. You have spent much of your life with neither." He paused. "Are your knees not growing numb?"

  They were. Aidan took the question as an invitation to rise. He stood slowly, unsticking damp leather from knees, and fixed the Hunter with what he hoped was a compelling gaze. "Why are you here? Did I summon you?"

  "In a way, but not through any prayer or muttered invocation." The Hunter's tone was dry. "I came here because it is time for you to know more. To answer all those questions you have had, and no one of whom to ask them."

  "Good," Aidan said, before he thought about it.

  The Hunter—the god—laughed. "Men believe we move in mysterious ways merely to confuse the issue. No. We have reason for what we do. If we wrote it in stone, most men would forget to read. If we showed ourselves to everyone the way we have to you, we would therefore become commonplace, and consequently of no importance. Gods must maintain some portion of mystery here and there, or the awe and honor recedes, and nothing is ever done."

  Aidan had never thought about it that way.

  The Hunter picked a daub of mud from his leathers. "There are men and women in the world who consider the gods little more than figments of imagination—for we gave you that, as well—and little more than a mechanism by which some—those quicker of wit and large of ambition—control others. It is a simple explanation, and effective. There are also people in the world who lay everything at the feet of a natural progression, denying our power, our presence, our existence." He shrugged. "They are welcome to disbelief."

  "But that is heresy," Aidan protested.

  "Ignorance," the god corrected. "They are afraid. Puffed up with self-importance because they believe strength lies in not requiring gods. They believe they have discovered Truth, and that it lies elsewhere. Not in the palm of the gods." Smiling, the Hunter made the Cheysuli gesture denoting tahlmorra. "But it was we ourselves—gods, Aidan—who gave man self-rule and the ability to think for himself; therefore we also allow him his petty heresies. It is an individual's personal decision which afterworld he prefers—or none at all."

  Aidan felt battered. "But I have always believed."

  "We know that. And now you will benefit from it." The Hunter glanced away from Aidan a moment, then smiled. A woman came through the low doorway: a small gray-haired woman with magical eyes and a weaver's callused hands.

  "Aidan," she said kindly, "you have been patient far beyond most men's capabilities."

  Shame flared. "I have not. I have doubted, and feared, and railed. I have questioned."

  The Weaver was unruffled by his admission. "Naturally," she agreed calmly. "Men must always question. We gave them curiosity, and impatience, and anger, and the need to know. You are a man; you are no different. But you still have been very patient."

  Aidan felt on the verge of a great discovery. And he felt afraid. "So—now you will tell me everything?"

  "We will give you the means with which to make your decision."

  The response was swift. "There is no need. I will do whatever you ask."

  She smiled, hands folded in a multicolored skirt woven of colorless yarn. "We do not require blind obedience, though often it seems that way… and some would go so far as to argue we do." She shook her head. "No. We require sacrifice and hardship, but given and undertaken freely, because learning is not accomplished without either."

  "Have I learned anything? Or nothing?"

  There was a sound at the tumbled entryway. "Surely you have learned something," remarked the Cripple as he crutched into the chapel. "You have learned how easily a man can be steered from the proper path by a woman."

  Aidan stared fixedly at the old man, marking again the creviced face, the shiny pate, but mostly the missing right leg. It was as if the god had chosen to show himself in the guise Aidan had seen first.

  He swallowed heavily, pulling himself
back with effort. "Do you mean Shona?" Dread rose up like a wave. "Are you saying I should not marry her?"

  The Cripple's dark eyes glinted. "We are saying no such thing. She has the blood your House requires."

  "Then who do you—?" Heat bathed him. "Lillith."

  The old man leaned on his crutch. "Ashra warned you," he chided gently. "She gave you good warning, and you chose not to heed it."

  The response was swift. "I was lirless."

  "An excuse."

  "But the truth. She used sorcery."

  "No. You believed she did, because you stopped believing in yourself." The Cripple shook his head. "Lillith, though indeed powerful, used nothing more than herself. With you, it was sufficient."

  Shame suffused him. He was hot and cold at once, unable to look any of them in the eye.

  The Cripple's tone softened. "But I will warrant you learned something from it."

  "Aye." The single word was heartfelt. "You answered me. When I called. When I asked your intercession. The chain." He filled his hands with heavy gold. "You answered my petition."

  The Cripple was silent. The Weaver also said nothing. Aidan looked sharply at the Hunter, trying to suppress apprehension so violent it knotted muscles and belly.

  The brown man's tone was infinitely quiet. "Think what it means," he suggested, "when a man can say he summons the gods at will."

  Aidan had no answer.

  The Hunter's eyes were steady. "Does it make him a god?"

  "No!"

  "Think, Aidan. Surely it means something."

  "It means—" Sweat dampened his temples. Aidan wet dry lips. "It means they have chosen him for something."

  "And does that make him better than anyone else?"

  "No."

  "Perhaps—different."

  Resentment shaped his tone. "You want me to claim myself different, so you can shame me. So you can enforce humility."

  The Hunter laughed. "We are not that cruel, Aidan. Answer truthfully."

  "Do I think myself different?" Aidan looked from one to the other, to the other. "Aye. Because I am."

  The Hunter idly inspected a cracked thumbnail. "And what will you do with your difference?"

  Suddenly infinitely weary, Aidan sat down on a fallen stone. He could think of nothing to say that would please them, or satisfy their convoluted examination, and so he said nothing at all.

  The Weaver's blue eyes were bright. "At least you do not speak before you know how," she observed dryly. "That is something."

  "Something," the Crippled echoed. "I think he has become weary of us. I think he is exercising his impatience."

  "What do you expect?" Aidan snapped. "You batter me with words and innuendos, hinting at tasks and undertakings… do you think I will sit meekly by waiting forever while you decide if I am worthy for whatever new game you have developed since the last time we spoke?" He glared at them. "What is the sense in bestowing self-rule upon us, and curiosity, if we are not to use either?"

  "Some people do sit meekly by forever." The Cripple said mildly. "Everyone—and everything—has its place in the Wheel of Life."

  Aidan, who had had this conversation with the Weaver, glanced at her. She did not smile.

  "Chained warrior," the Hunter murmured.

  "Chained prince," added the Weaver.

  "Chained raven," ended the Cripple.

  The Hunter took it up. "Chains that bind a man; chains that free a man."

  The Weaver nodded once. "Bound, the life goes on. Broken, it is free."

  The Cripple smiled. "Which do you seek?"

  Aidan touched the chain. "I made it whole."

  Dark eyes were fathomless. "The choice was made freely?"

  "Aye. I chose it."

  "Who are you?" asked the Weaver intently.

  "Aidan of Homana." He looked at each of them. "Prince of Homana, after my jehan, who will be Mujhar. A warrior of the clan. Cheysuli." He paused. "And very, very confused."

  The Hunter laughed. "The last is obvious. As for the others… well, your road yet lies before you. You have not come as far down it as we had hoped."

  Fear flickered to life. "Not—?"

  The Weaver's voice was gentle. "There is still the task to be done."

  Aidan was on his feet. "What task?" he shouted.

  "And the sacrifice to be made," agreed the Cripple, ignoring the outburst. "But I think, when the time comes, he will make it freely."

  Aidan, angry and afraid, opened his mouth to ask another question. But he was all alone in the chapel.

  And no wiser at all.

  Chapter Three

  « ^ »

  In Hondarth they had purchased horses for themselves, and made arrangements for Shona's baggage train to follow at a more sedate pace. Now, having covered the distance between the port city and the crossroads near Mujhara, Blais looked at Aidan.

  "Which way?"

  "East. That way." Aidan gestured. "Mujhara is west, but a few leagues up the road. Clankeep, from here, will take you half a day."

  Blais shrugged. "I've waited twenty-two years to see it. Half a day won't tax me."

  Shona shook her head. Around her mount, wolfhounds milled. "You should come with us to Homana-Mujhar. There are kinfolk, and the Lion… can't you wait a day or two before haring off to look for Teirnan?"

  " 'Tis n't just that," Blais said quietly. "There's the Ceremony of Honors, first, to celebrate my lir and warriorhood Cheysuli fashion, and to receive the gold I'm due." He slanted a smile at Aidan. "Then I'll be 'haring off' to look for my father."

  Aidan frowned. "Forgive me if I offend, but who will be your shu'maii? You know no one in the clans… unless you mean to name me."

  "No." Blais grinned cheerfully. "And I do know someone—a shar tahl, in fact. His name is Burr."

  It took Aidan a moment to remember. When he did, he stared hard at Blais. "Burr is from the north, across the Bluetooth. I have spoken with him… how do you know him?"

  "I wrote to Clankeep." Blais's patience was exaggerated for Aidan's benefit. "Burr wrote back, telling me what he could of my father, since no one else would." His face hardened. "Is it they're afraid I'll do the same? Without even knowing me?"

  The question made Aidan uncomfortable. "I cannot answer for Clankeep… I only know that Teirnan's rune was erased from the birthlines. He was kin-wrecked, Blais—that means he no longer exists in the eyes of the clans."

  The feral set of Blais' facial bones was more pronounced as he stared back at Aidan. "Kin-wrecking one warrior should not be passed on to his son, if he's done nothing. They're not knowing anything about me, least of all whether I'll be following my father. Why not judge me for me?"

  Aidan shifted in the saddle. "He repudiated everything. The clans, the prophecy, the Lion—everything. He took with him warriors, lir, women, and children. Do you expect Clan Council to look kindly on a man who turns his back on everything our race stands for?"

  Blais slipped into Old Tongue. "No. I expect them to look kindly on a son who is not guilty of the jehan's crime."

  Aidan looked at his cousin. He could not really blame Blais for his bitterness. He was not certain he would feel so sanguine if he were judged by the actions of a kinsman he had never seen. It was unfair, he thought; but then he had come to believe there were several things about Cheysuli tradition that were unfair.

  "Go," he said quietly. "Burr is a good man—a shar tahl with insight—and he will aid you. He will make a good shu'maii. But if you need me, send your lir. Or come yourself. You will be welcomed in Homana-Mujhar."

  Blais laughed. "That is something, I'm thinking." He glanced at Shona. "Be careful with the boyo, lass. Homanans are more fragile than Erinnish."

  "Blais—" She steadied her horse. "Blais, give thought to whatever you do. 'Tis n't always your greatest strength—" she smiled "—and sometimes your greatest failure. Take the time, my lad, to be certain of what you do."

  "Did you?" Blais inquired. " 'Twas you who brought all those wo
lfhounds." And then, as Shona glared, he lifted his arm in a farewell wave and took the eastern road. His wolf loped beside him.

  Outlying crofts, cradled in troughs between hills, soon gave way to villages and then at last to the proper outskirts of Mujhara herself, until Aidan and Shona clattered through narrow cobbled streets toward the rose-hued stones of Homana-Mujhar, deep in the heart of the city. Shona spent much of her time whistling and calling back her wolfhounds, who wanted to investigate—or challenge—everyone, and Aidan was much relieved when the massive bronze-and-timber gates finally jutted before them.

  "Homana-Mujhar?" Shona asked, leaving off remonstrating with the big dark male.

  "The front gates." Aidan drew rein and leaned slightly downward, offering his signet ring as identification, but the men on the gates knew him and called out vulgar greetings, until they spied Shona and found a better use for their tongues.

  Aidan, laughing, waved her through, counting wolfhounds, and was relieved as the last of the great dogs slunk through. The two bitches with litters had been left with the baggage train, so that he and Shona had not been slowed by puppies.

  First the outer bailey, then under the portcullis that gave entry into the inner bailey and to the palace itself. Shona muttered something beneath her breath, staring in awe at the curtain wall, parapets, and ramparts. Homana-Mujhar lacked the crude, overt strength of Kilore, Aidan thought, but its sprawling magnificence could be denied no more than its defenses.

  " 'Tis no wonder it never fell," Shona breathed.

  "But it did," he told her. "Once, to Bellam of Solinde—with the help of Tynstar the Ihlini." He jumped off his horse and threw the reins to a horseboy, then turned to lift Shona down.

  She was having none of it. Trews precluded the encumbrance of skirts and she jumped down herself, slanting him a scornful, amused glance, then gathered her hounds close. "What of the lads and lasses?"

  "We have kennels, of course."

  She nodded pensively. "But—now? Can they not come in with us first?"

  He blanched, envisioning giant wolfhounds racing through the corridors of Homana-Mujhar. "All of them?"