Someone had cracked his head, like an egg against a rock.
He dreamed. Not of a golden chain. Not of a living Lion. Of a man. A young, magnificent man, strong and full of life. His vibrancy was tangible; his power as yet untapped.
A tall, lithe young man, striding like a mountain cat through the webwork of Aidan's dreams. His eyes were cool and gray, with a gaze so compelling it could stop a hardened assassin from unsheathing sword or knife. The hair was thick and black, framing a youthful face of austere, yet flawless beauty, bearing the stamp of authority far surpassing any monarch's. It was not a womanish face, even in all its beauty; a trace of ruthlessless in the mouth maintained its masculine line. Only rarely did it smile. When it did, power flickered; he could rule or seduce man and woman with equal facility.
Dreaming, Aidan twitched.
The man was not Cheysuli. The man was not Ihlini. The man was of all blood, forged from the heart of war, tempered on the anvil of peace. And his gifts were such that they surpassed all others.
Aidan whispered: Firstborn.
And knew what it meant.
Rebirth.
And death.
The ending of what he knew; the beginning of what he did not.
He cried out in fear, recoiling from the truth; from the man who prowled his dreams.
Deep inside, something roused. Something woke.
He spoke. He heard himself. Saw their frightened faces as they heard him. Saw the horror in their eyes; the comprehension of madness: surely he was mad? What else would make him so?
He spoke. He raved. He chanted. The convulsions came again. And passed.
Lips were bitten. Tongue and gums lacerated. Muscles shrieked with each dying spasm.
The broken head mended.
He thought perhaps he might, until the child of the prophecy strode through his dreams again.
He woke. He knelt on the floor. Shouting. They all came running, all of them, and this time he heard himself. This time he understood. The words of his dream spewed out.
"I am the sword!" he cried. "I am the sword and the bow and the knife. I am darkness and light. I am good and evil. I am the child and the elder; the girl and the boy; the wolf and the lamb."
He wavered on his knees, but none dared to touch him. Words poured forth. "Bom of one prophecy, I am come to make another. To bind four realms into one; to bind eight into four. I am the child of the prophecy; child of darkness and light; of like breeding with like."
He sucked in a quivering breath. "I am Cynric. I am Cynric. I am the sword—and the bow—and the knife. I am the child of prophecy: the Firstborn come again."
He stopped. The words were gone. He was empty, and hollow, and purged.
Aidan tumbled downward, welcoming the darkness. But hands raised him up again, showing him the light.
The door was ajar, as they always left it now. Deirdre, who had ordered old hinges oiled so as not to disturb Aidan, slipped into the chamber. It smelled of herbs and an odd pungency. Aidan's wounds had been healed; even so, the smell was not of blood or body.
She frowned, pausing to draw air deep into her lungs. Exhaling abruptly, she knew. It was a thing she had not smelled since leaving Erinn.
She looked to the high-backed chair set so closely beside the bed. "By the gods, Aileen—are you summoning the cileann?"
Aileen started, crumpling the dried herbs she clutched in her hands. The pungency increased, then faded as she rose, scattering broken stems and leaves. As she saw her aunt, she dropped back into the chair. Color tinged her face. Defiantly, she raised her chin even as she brushed bits of herbs from her skirts. "Neither Homanan nor Cheysuli gods have answered all our petitions. I thought perhaps the cileann—"
"This is Homana," Deirdre said quietly. "The cileann have no dominion here. 'Tis too far from their halls."
Aileen's face crumpled. "I wanted to try something! Nothing else has worked!"
Deirdre crossed the room. A glance at Aidan's bruised, too-pale face told her his condition was unchanged. He had roused but three times since the attack, and only long enough to babble nonsense in three languages: Homanan, Cheysuli, Erinnish.
But now she turned her attention back to her niece. Aileen's red hair was unkempt, twisted into a haphazard plait. She had eaten little since Aidan had been brought to Homana-Mujhar, nor had she slept but an hour here and there.
Deirdre put a soothing hand on Aileen's head, stroking dull hair gently. What she said was inconsequential, much as the words a horseman uses to quiet a fretful colt, but at last it began to work. Aileen wiped away tears and managed to smile at her aunt. "My thanks, for that. But it has been so hard—"
"I know, Aileen, I know… and may be harder yet. But you cannot be squandering your strength now, when it does no good. He will need you when he wakes. You must eat, and sleep, so he'll be knowing you when he rouses. He will be expecting his jehana, not a hag-witch with greasy hair and ditches beneath her eyes."
As Deirdre had intended, Aileen pressed hands against her face. Vanity, in this case, would decoy her thoughts, even if only briefly.
It passed too quickly. Aileen took her hands away and stared steadfastly at her son. "What if he never wakes?"
"He may not," Deirdre said steadily. "I have heard of such things: men and women who, struck in the head, never rouse entirely. They sleep until they die. But Aidan is very strong, and very stubborn. I think if the gods meant him to die, he would not be alive now."
"Brennan says—" She checked..
Deirdre sighed quietly. "Brennan does not know everything. He is upset, as you are. And worried, as you are. And, like you, he has known too little of rest and food. Do you blame him for speaking nonsense?"
Aileen's tone was dull. "Is it nonsense to concern yourself with the succession of Homana? He must, Deirdre… he is Mujhar now, and cannot afford to set aside such things. If Aidan dies, or is mad, what is Homana to do? There must be an heir for the Lion."
"There will be an heir for the Lion."
Aileen's tone, abruptly, was filled with self-loathing. "But not from the Queen of Homana."
"There is no need," Deirdre declared. "She has already borne a son. The Lion is satisfied."
The fire died out of green eyes. Aileen looked at her son. "If he lives," she whispered.
He lived. He came awake with a throttled cry and this time remained awake.
The link thrummed within him. Lir, Teel said. Lir, I am well. I sit above you on the bedframe.
He did. Relief was all-consuming. Aidan, released, trembled. And wondered, as he trembled, if he would lose himself again. If the convulsions would steal his body and twist it into knots.
It hurt to breathe. His body, wracked too often, ached from residual pain; from cramps now passed, but remembered with vivid intensity. With exquisite clarity.
His lips were swollen and bitten. His tongue much the same. But his wits were perfectly clear.
I am not mad, he declared. Then, in doubt, Am I?
The chambers were deeply shadowed. He lay in his own bed, cushioned by pillows and bolsters. But leather was firmly knotted around wrists and ankles, then fastened to the bedframe.
Aidan spasmed. Gods—they have tied me—
He stilled. Am I mad?
From the corner of an eye, he saw movement. Spasming, he looked, and saw his mother present. Propped in a chair, the Queen of Homana slept. He knew by looking at her she had known too little of it. The truth was in her face.
Memory rolled back: Screaming. Fire. Dying.
Aidan went very still.
The reek of burning pavilions, the stench of burning bodies. And blood hissing in ash as Lochiel cut the child free.
At wrists and ankles, leather tautened. "No!" Aidan shouted. "No—no—NO—"
Aileen came awake at once, lunging out of the chair. Her hands came down on his shoulders—had he not been wounded in one?—and pressed him back again, aiding the leather straps that bound him to the bed.
"No!" he shouted. "NO!"
Aileen's green eyes were wide. "Aidan, stop!" she cried. "No more of this—no more—"
"He killed her!" he shouted. "He killed her and cut her open—"
"Aidan! Listen to me!" Aileen shot a frightened glance over her shoulder toward the door standing ajar and shouted for her husband. Then, turning back, she pressed against his writhing flesh. "Stay still. You must remain still. Your poor head can stand no more of this battering."
The pain came in waves. "Shona," he whispered.
Brennan came in, shoving the door open so hard it thudded against the wall and echoed down the corridor. His face was gaunt and strained.
"Awake," Aileen told him, "and remembering everything."
Brennan moved to the bed. The straps bound arms and legs; hissing, Aidan fought them. "No," Brennan said. "No, let them be. We put them there for a reason…" His voice trailed off as he looked down on his son. "How much do you remember?"
Aidan wanted to answer. But he felt the ripple in his flesh that presaged another seizure. No matter how hard he tried to retain it, he was losing control of his limbs. His head arched back, thrusting into the pillow.
Brennan forcibly set Aileen aside. He leaned over his son and held him down against the mattress, pinning him tightly. "No," he hissed. "No—you will not—"
Aidan's vision flickered. The light in his room changed. Something buzzed in his ears, distorting his father's voice.
"No," Brennan repeated. "Come back to us, Aidan—all of you, and whole—not this crazed prophet—"
Jaws locked into place. He tried to say her name. Only the sibilant escaped, like the scrape of broom on stone.
Brennan's hands tightened. "I want you back!" he shouted.
"Do you hear me, Aidan?—you. For everyone who needs you. For everyone who loves you."
Aidan forced it between his teeth. "Shh—shh-ona—"
Brennan's fingers tightened. The look in his eyes altered. "No," he said gently. "Aidan—I am sorry."
It was confirmation. Strength spilled out of him. With it went the spasms.
"Shona," Aidan whispered. In silence, Aileen cried.
Brennan unsheathed his knife. With precise care, he cut the leather straps binding his son. Mutely he peeled away the linen cuffs made to protect the flesh, then discarded everything. As Aidan lay slack on the bed, Brennan massaged his wrists.
"Clankeep?" Aidan croaked.
"Mostly destroyed," Brennan answered. "Much of the wall still stands, but little inside. And even outside…" He shrugged. "Had it not rained two days after, only the gods can say how much damage might have been done to the surrounding forest."
"How many people?"
Brennan's expression was grim. "The count is one hundred and four. Women and children, mostly."
"Lochiel," Aidan murmured.
"He sent a message. A written message, also; Clankeep was the first. That one in blood."
Distracted, Aidan frowned. "What message?"
"That he intends to do as his father—and his father—failed to do before him. Destroy the prophecy. Destroy us."
"Strahan's son," Aidan murmured. "He was killing women and children. I heard them dying." Attention wandered. He frowned, remembering. "I had a sword wound."
"Healed with the earth magic," Aileen told him. "And the bones of your head—" She broke off, glancing at Brennan.
"But not the wits inside?" Aidan's lips twitched once. "Have I been so very odd?"
"Do you recall none of it?" Brennan asked.
"Nothing but Shona. Nothing but her…" Aidan stirred restlessly, ruthlessly pushing away the memory of Locheil's butchery. "He preys on children. First he kills Hart's son, then he turns to my child before it is even born."
"Lie still," Aileen chided. "You have been very ill. It would be best if you slept."
He rolled his head slightly in denial. He was afraid of sleep. He was afraid of what might come, sliding out of darkness into the light where he could see. And where he could be afraid.
His head ached unremittingly. The memory would not go. "He wanted it," he murmured. "He wanted it for a purpose."
Aileen's voice, so gentle. "Sleep, Aidan. Rest."
The pain was increasing. "Lochiel took my child."
"Butcher," Brennan murmured. "Even Strahan did not stoop to that."
"He took it," Aidan repeated. "He stole it from her body."
"Aidan, rest." His mother again, smoothing a pain-wracked brow.
He realized they did not understand. He needed them to. He required them to. "He took it. Lochiel took the child. He cut Shona open and took the child from her."
"Aidan." Brennan leaned down, hands pressing a warning against Aidan's shoulders. "Let it go. Shona is dead—and surely the child, after that. It has been weeks… the clan gave her a Ceremony of Passing along with all the others—" Briefly, Brennan broke off. "And I have written Keely."
"No—" He twitched away from the pain. "He took the child from Shona. Alive. He wanted it for some purpose."
Aileen was horrified, hands covering her mouth. Frowning, Brennan shook his head. "No child could survive that."
Aidan did not listen. "He wanted it. For himself. He said—he said—" Aidan squinted. "He said he would make the seed of the prophecy his."
"Aidan, no—"
Consciousness receded. "Lochiel took my child. I will have to get it back."
Chapter Ten
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His recovery was slow, impeded by weakness and fits. The wounds themselves had been healed, but only outwardly. Inwardly Aidan was still very much aware of the edge he walked. If he lost his balance once, he would be tipped off into the void. It was very like the balance required in lir-shape; he chose to think of it as that, since he was accustomed to it, and tried to regain the man he had been before Lochiel.
Winter. Time had passed, too much time; the Cheysuli in Clankeep worked to rebuild what they had lost, but most of the effort would have to wait until spring. And Aidan, walled up in Homana-Mujhar, chafed at the weather and weakness that kept him indoors, prisoner of unpredictability.
Blinding headaches stole the wits from his head and sense from his tongue. From time to time he came out of a seizure to the echoes of a language he did not know, even though he spoke it. No longer bound to his bed by straps or debilitation, Aidan moved freely within Homana-Mujhar—but often found himself in odd portions of the vast palace without knowing how he got there. He dreamed when he was awake, losing himself even in the midst of conversation. The servants began discreetly eyeing him with pity or wariness, depending on his behavior of the particular moment, and Aidan found himself loathing them as well as himself.
At last he talked Ian into practicing the knife with him in a private chamber. He needed by spring to regain quickness and ability if he was to hunt Lochiel for his child, and only Ian would agree. But Aidan quickly discovered his reflexes had been destroyed. He was slow and awkward with a knife; what would it be like with a sword? And his vision was slightly askew; how would that affect his prowess with the warbow?
Finally, furious, he threw the bitter truth in Ian's austere face. "I will never be the same!"
Ian lowered the knife and regarded him in perfect stillness. "No," he said finally. "It is folly to harbor that hope."
It shocked him. Even knowing, it shocked. Aloud, the truth was so harsh.
His grip on the knife loosened. He shook, as he so often did, no matter how hard he fought it. "Then what am I, su'fali?"
Ian sheathed his knife. "A man who has been sorely hurt," he said gently, "in spirit as well as body. Aidan—you cannot expect to be what you once were. Not after that. Do not even hope for it."
Aidan clutched his knife. It shook. "At least you are honest," he rasped. "Everyone else tells me to give myself time; that of course all will be well. All will be as it was before." He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. "It will never be the same."
"No." Ian's eyes were kind. "They lie because they love you, a
nd because they want to lessen the pain. They know no other way, harani… honesty is difficult for people to deal with when it offers only sorrow. You want so badly to go after Lochiel, and yet they wonder how you can. You are not—what you were."
The word was ash. "No."
Ian smiled. "No one knows what to expect of you anymore, and it makes them nervous. There is someone else inside of you, someone else who speaks, someone who prophesies—" He sighed. "You always were different. Now it is worse."
Mutely, Aidan nodded.
Something moved in Ian's eyes. "Have you looked at yourself since the attack?"
Aidan shrugged. "My hand is not yet steady enough to shave myself. Jehana fears I will cut my throat…" Frustration tightened. "Someone shaves me, and I do not require a polished plate to dress."
"Then perhaps you should go and look." Ian smiled as Aidan tensed, eyes widening in horror. "No, no—it is not so bad as that. I promise. Save for one detail, you are much as you were. But it is the sort of thing others will remark on, particularly when they know the contents of your life."
Aidan shrugged again. "I will look." He scowled down at the knife in his hand. There were good days and bad days.
On the good ones he dropped things only occasionally. On the bad, he would do well to touch nothing at all.
"Harani." Ian's tone was gentle. "I know what you want to do. I know how much you need it. But you cannot go alone. You must take someone with you."
"You?"
Ian shook his head. "I am too old now. But there is your jehan."
"He is Mujhar. He has no time."
"A man who has no time for his grandchild is not worthy of kingship." Ian shook his head. "You judge him too harshly. Do you think you were the only one hurt by Shona's death? Do you believe you are the only one who has suffered?"
Anger flared. "You were not there. None of you was there. None of you can know—"
"She is dead, Aidan." Ian's tone was level. "Guilt, rage, and recrimination will not bring her back."
Aidan gripped the knife. "You do not know—"
"I do!" Ian's eyes were alive with grief. "I watched Niall die, knowing there was nothing I could do. I watched my jehana die, able to do nothing as she cut open her own wrists. I watched my jehan walk out of Homana-Mujhar, knowing he left his kin to die a lirless warrior's death, alone and bereft in the forest." He drew in a shaking breath. "I know, Aidan. Better than you think."
Cheysuli 7 - Flight of the Raven Page 39