Cheysuli 7 - Flight of the Raven

by Jennifer Roberson

  The Lion coughed. It blinked. And then it opened its mouth—

  "Aidan! What is it? What is that noise?"

  He awoke, sweating, aware of the dream and the not-dream; the echoes of Shona's voice and the outcry within the lir-link.

  "Teel?" he asked numbly.

  "Lir—lir—Ihlini—

  Shona was sitting upright. "Gods—all over, such noise—"

  Lir—lir—Ihlini—

  He scrambled up "Teel?"

  Ihlini—Ihlini—

  "Aidan?"

  "Ihlini," he breathed. "Here? In Clankeep?"

  Outside, there was screaming.

  "Oh, gods," he blurted. "Ihlini—in Clankeep—"

  Even as Shona hastily pulled on soft boots, Aidan was at the doorflap. He wanted to tear it open, but did not, instinctively knowing not to give their presence away. A part of him told him it probably did not matter; if Ihlini were in Clankeep, they would not search pavilions. They would simply destroy everything.

  Aidan drew aside the flap far enough so he could peer out one-eyed. And saw the conflagration.

  He spun at once. "We have to get out. Now. Now, Shona—they are burning everything."

  Lir—lir—Ihlini—

  Throughout Clankeep the lir cried their warnings, within the links and without. Aidan heard screaming.

  Women and children, screaming.

  "Shona—"

  She was beside him, cradling belly. "Where do we go?"

  "Out of Clankeep. Entirely away—" He had a knife, and somewhere a bow… hastily he caught up the warbow and the pitiful handful of arrows. "They are killing the children, meijhana."

  He saw it go home. Shona snatched up a cloak and dragged it around her shoulders. She wasted no time looking for anything else, or begging for this or that. She merely waited, grim-faced, as he nocked one of five arrows. Beyond her face, through the slit of the doorflap, he saw the flames lapping at the pavilion across the clearing, and shadows running in darkness.

  "We must get beyond the wall," he told her. "We must go out toward the gates, then slip through."

  "Or over the wall," she said calmly.

  "You cannot climb—"

  "I will."

  Aidan tore aside the doorflap. A line of flame licked from the burning pavilion and crept across to theirs.

  "This way—the back—" He caught her hand and dragged her.

  They ducked out, shredding the laces with Aidan's knife. The night was ablaze with flame. The cold, lurid flame that came from the netherworld.

  Their pavilion, but newly raised, stood six paces from the wall. Aidan had believed it a safe, cozy spot: shielded by wall at the back, by trees on either side. Only the front was unprotected; there had been no need in Clankeep.

  "The children—" Shona whispered, as screams renewed themselves.

  "To the wall." Aidan steadied her as best he could, while watching for Ihlini. Teel?

  Above you… lir, they are everywhere—Ihlini everywhere—

  Around them, trees caught fire; laces of purple flame danced along close-grown limbs, passing destruction from brother to brother. Burning sap dripped onto the new pavilion even as the lone streamer from the clearing touched their doorpole, and climbed.

  Shona clawed at the wall. It was of natural, undressed stone, lacking mortar save for the moss and dirt of years sealing the joints together. In childhood, Aidan had scaled it; it was not difficult to climb because it was not sheer, but Shona was unbalanced by the child, lacking grace and control.

  He did not see a way for her to climb it normally, even as she thrust fingers into seams and dug a booted toe at joints.

  "I will—" she murmured. "I can—"

  Behind them, screams and fire, and the shrieking of a hawk.

  "Climb, Shona—" He thrust a hand against her spine, trying to steady her.

  Lir—lir—lhlini—

  The warning shrilled through the link. Aidan wrenched his head around and saw the horseman come riding.

  "Shona—hold on—" He spun, raising the warbow, and sighted hastily. Loosed, but the arrow was wide.

  He was dazzled by the flames. Throughout Clankeep pavilions burned, falling into charred heaps. Crown fires spread from tree to tree, leaping across the wall into the wood beyond. He saw people running: Cheysuli and lhlini. He heard people shouting, women screaming, children crying in shock and fear.

  The horseman still came on, bared blade gleaming.

  Bared blade—a sword—

  Aidan did not take the time to think. He ducked beneath the sweeping blade and nocked a second arrow. Behind him the raven-painted pavilion flared into flames, hissing and crackling as fabric was consumed. From all over Clan-keep the smell of burning oil and paint hung in the air, as well as the stench of charred flesh. Smoke rolled through the clearings.

  Renewed screaming and outcries became an underscore to the macabre dance he entered into with the horseman. The night was moonless and dark, which made the shadows thicker, and the lhlini rode a black horse. The only thing Aidan saw was the pallor of a face and the glint of the naked blade.

  No sorcery here, save godfire—he must use a conventional weapon—

  It was something, Aidan thought. At least he had a chance.

  Shona still clung to the wall. He saw her pale face turned toward the burning pavilion. The lir-torque at her throat glinted in the flames, throwing light into her eyes as she opened her mouth to shout.

  The sword scythed by. Aidan, ducking once more, came up and loosed again.

  It took the horse full in the throat and brought the animal to its knees, screaming as it died. The rider flung himself free and rolled, tossing off a dark cloak as he came up. Dark leathers polished shiny glistened in the godfire. The sword still sang in his hands.

  "Shona—climb—"

  "No purchase," she answered evenly, stepping back to level ground.

  Aidan cursed. He could not afford to have his attention diverted by Shona, and yet he could hardly keep it from her. His kivarna was shrieking at him: she was frightened, as he was, but also very angry. What he sensed most was rage. A cold, deadly rage engendered by the Ihlini.

  They were killing children.

  He had lost the other arrows. One remained to him. Aidan nocked even as the Ihlini ran toward him with the sword.

  The face swam out of the flames. A cool, smooth face, underscored by upswept cheekbones and dark arched eyebrows; the chiseling of nose and mouth. Aidan had seen that face.

  "Tevis," he blurted.

  The other smiled coolly. "Lochiel," he corrected.

  Who had murdered Hart's son.

  Aidan loosed. Lochiel sliced the arrow in half.

  He cannot be so fast. But Aidan believed it was possible he could be many things.

  He threw down the useless bow and yanked his knife from the sheath, feeling a sickening tightness in his belly. A knife was no match for a sword.

  The pavilion burned behind him. Aidan felt the heat, heard the crisping fabric, smelled the acrid stench of burning pelts. Another step, and he would be in the flames.

  Shona ran by him, ducking into the burning pavilion. Even as he opened his mouth to shout, she was out from under the collapsing ridgepole. Keely's sword was in her hands.

  He caught it as she offered him the hilt, and put his knife into her hands. "Go to the gate," he said swiftly. "Make your way into the wood—"

  But it was all he could manage. Even as Shona nodded, turning to follow order, Lochiel came at him.

  She ran. Awkward and ungainly, cursing the Ihlini, Shona did as he told her. And Aidan could breathe again.

  The sword was a willow branch. It was ground to suit a woman, and then only in practice: the blade was stripped of weight and edge. Its hilt was finer and less heavy than that of his own weapon, and the pommel knot, for him, was unbalanced, hindering his grip. But still it was a sword.

  Aidan blessed Keely. Trying not to think of her daughter.

  Lochiel was swift and
relentless. Aidan parried once, twice, a third time, countering the blows with strength born of rage and desperation. He heard the screaming, the killing, the shrieking. The roaring of the flames. The sound of his own breathing, through a raw and burning throat.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Shona stop running. Saw her swing around. Saw her come back toward him.

  No, meijhana—no—

  The kivarna told him the truth: she could not bear to leave him. She could not bear not to know.

  "Run!" he shouted to her.

  Irresolute, she slowed. Instinct warred: protect the child, aid the man. Defend what was hers.

  A strong, proud woman. An eagle of the Aerie, undeterred by Ihlini. Knowing she could not flee when the man was left behind.

  "Run!" Aidan shouted.

  The blade broke in his hands.

  Gods—

  Lochiel laughed. The tip of his sword drifted down; deftly he turned, caught his knife out of his sheath, and threw.

  It spun, arcing swiftly, and lodged itself hilt-deep in Shona's breast.

  Aidan screamed. The kivarna between them shattered, destroyed in a single moment as the knife penetrated. The broken sword fell from his hands as Aidan lunged to grab Lochiel, but the Ihlini stepped neatly out of the way. The blade he had so negligently lowered to aid his knife throw came up with a snap of the wrist. The tip pricked into Aidan's left shoulder as he hurled himself forward, then drove through relentlessly.

  Pain. Pain redoubled, and tripled; his kivarna reverberated with the outrage done to Shona. His own injury did not matter. What mattered to him was Shona—

  But his legs would not work, nor his arms. He felt the blade grate on bone as Lochiel twisted the sword, jerking it from his shoulder, and then blood flowed swift and hot.

  Shona.

  He fell. To his knees. His left arm hung uselessly, twitching from shock and outrage.

  Shona.

  Lochiel walked by him. Away from him. He turned his back on him. He carried the bloodied sword lightly, easily, deft as a born swordsman. Aidan, twisting frenziedly to watch even as he tried to rise, thought the young Ihlini graceful as a dancer as he stepped across burning ridgepoles and deftly avoided drifting bits of burning fabric. The screams, now, were gone, replaced by a deadly silence.

  Save for the crackle of flames.

  Lochiel went to Shona. He knelt and pulled the knife from her breast. Her swollen belly pushed toward the sky. Lochiel tore tunic aside. The bloodied knife glistened.

  Aidan knew what he meant to do. Instinctively, he knew.

  In one rushing expulsion of breath and strength, Aidan lurched to his feet. He tried to run. Fell. Lurched up again, staggered, stumbled across the ground. Dripping blood hissed in ash.

  Shona.

  He had no knife. No sword. Only desperation, and the wild, killing rage.

  "Put no hands on her—"

  Lochiel, kneeling, slanted him a single glance across his shoulder. And then turned back to his work.

  "Put—no—hands—"

  Lochiel removed the baby, cut the cord, wrapped the child in Shona's cloak. Carefully he set the bundle on the ground beside the body. With a lithe, twisting turn, he rose to face Aidan.

  "I want the seed," he said. "I will make the seed mine."

  Legs failed him. Aidan fell awkwardly. "Sh-Sh-Shona—"

  "No more time," Lochiel murmured.

  From out of the burning darkness looped the glitter of a blade. The edge bit in, then turned. The skull beneath shattered.

  Chapter Nine

  « ^ »

  Muddy ash fouled Brennan's boots. Blankly, he stared at them. How much of the ash was from wood? How much of the ash from bone?

  He shuddered. The spasm took him unaware, rippling through from head to toe, stretching his scalp briefly until the flesh at last relaxed. And he knew, with sickening clarity, it was what his son now fought. But on a different level: Aidan had nearly died. Aidan still might die.

  Clankeep lay in ruin. Most of the wall still stood, for stone does not die from fire, but nearly all of the pavilions were destroyed. Some lay in skeletal piles, ridgepoles charred black. Others were nothing but coals, or mounds of muddy ash.

  Brennan, looking, felt sick.

  A man nearby, bending to peel aside a charred husk of bedding pelt, let it fall from ash-smeared fingers. "My fir," he murmured rigidly. And then nodded, accepting; he had spent the morning looking, while Brennan inspected Clankeep. Now the man was freed. Now the warrior could go.

  Brennan watched him. Deep in his belly the snake of futility writhed. Lirless, the warrior would die, though he had survived the attack.

  "A waste," he murmured quietly, damning the tradition. Damning the need for it.

  The lirless warrior stood over the bedding pelt and the remains that lay beneath it. Shoulders slumped briefly; then he made the fluid gesture Brennan knew so well. And walked out of the walls into the charred forest beyond.

  So many already dead. And now one more.

  Brennan sighed. He was weary, so very weary… drained of strength and answers. Here he was superfluous, with nothing to do but watch as the others tended their dead, their living, the remnants of their lives.

  "So many dead," he murmured, "and all because Lochiel desired to send us a message. To assure us he existed."

  "Brennan." It was Ian, walking slowly through ash-grayed mud and charred pavilions. His face was strained, and old. "They found her the day after, over there. She has been attended to. They gave her the Ceremony of Passing six days ago." Ian's gesture was aimless. "There is nothing we can do, save tell Aidan when he wakes."

  His mouth was oddly stiff. "If Aidan wakes."

  Ian hesitated a moment too long. "Given time—"

  Brennan's tone was vicious. "Do you think time will make a difference? You have seen him—you have heard him! When the Ihlini cracked his skull, all the wits spilled out."

  Ian drew in a quiet breath. "You do him an injustice."

  "By the gods, su'fali—he is mad! You heard his babble! When you can understand a phrase, it makes no sense at all." Brennan's face spasmed. "I would be the first to declare him fit and the last to declare him mad… but I know what I have heard. I know what I have seen."

  Ian's tone was patient. "I have seen men struck in the head do and say strange things—"

  "And have they prophesied?" Eloquent irony.

  Ian sighed. "No."

  "Gods—" Brennan choked. "Why did they let us have him at all if they meant to take him from us?"

  Ian offered no answer.

  "So many times, as a child, he nearly died. We knew he would, Aileen and I—we tried to prepare ourselves for the night he would wake, coughing, and die before the dawn… the fever that would burn him… knowing we would lose him, and that there would be no more." Brennan balled impotent fists. "And now, when he is grown, when he is a strong, healthy man—they take him away from us!"

  "Harani—"

  "I should not have let them come. When he told me he meant to bring Shona here, to bear the child here—" Brennan's face spasmed. "I should have refused. I should have said it was better for her to bear it in Homana-Mujhar—"

  "You could not have prevented him."

  "—where there are physicians, and midwives—and protection from the Ihlini."

  "There was nothing you could have done. Aidan is grown, Brennan… he makes his own decisions."

  "I could have insisted."

  "He—and Shona—had a perfect right to do as they wished. You had no right to stop them."

  "But look what happened—"

  "Tahlmorra," Ian said softly.

  Brennan's shoulders trembled. His voice was a travesty. "Why did they give him to us if they meant to take him away?"

  Ian put a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "Come, harani. It is time we went back. Aileen will need you… and, perhaps, your son."

  Brennan shut his eyes. "They have destroyed my son," he whispered. "Even if he li
ves."

  He became aware he had been shouting. His throat ached from it, but when he tried to form the words with his mouth, nothing happened. He felt separated from his body, drifting aimlessly, apart from the world and yet still a part of it. And when he opened his eyes, he stared out of the bed into faces he did not know, yet they knew him.

  He sensed the violence in his body before it came, and as it came he understood it. His flesh crawled upon his bones, rippling and writhing. And then his limbs began to twitch. Slowly at first, then more quickly, until the convulsions took bones and muscles and made clay of them, molding them this way and that.

  Fire was in his head.

  He screamed. He heard himself screaming, though he could make no sense of it; he heard voices attempt to soothe him, though he could make no sense of it. He did not know the language.

  He convulsed, head slamming back into the pillow on a rigid, arcing neck. Arms and legs contracted. His teeth bit bloody gashes in his tongue until someone forced a piece of padded wood into his clenched jaw. His teeth ground until gums bled, shredding the padding. Splintering the wood.

  The seizures passed at last. He lay spent against the mattress, quivering in his weakness. No one spoke to him now. Perhaps they understood he had no means with which to answer.

  Memory. It ran around inside his head like a ball set to spinning; spinning and spinning and spinning until at last the momentum ended; then bouncing and rattling and rolling against the inside of his skull.

  Memory: Flames. Screams. Stench.

  Oil and paint and flesh.

  Blood hissing in ash.

  His jaws snapped open. His throat disgorged sound. But nothing was emitted, save the rasp of a dying breath.

  Memory: Death.

  Each day someone held a candle near his eyes. He could see it, but could not blink. Could not tell them it hurt. The words were garbled nonsense. When he tried to put up a hand to block the candle's light, the arm spasmed and jumped. They held it down for him. Some days the spasm passed. Others it spread and worsened. Then they held him down, pinning arms and legs.