The Song of Homana

by Jennifer Roberson

  His fingers slowed. The tune fell away until only an echo hung in the air. And then that, too, was gone, and silence built a wall between us.

  “No,” he said quietly. “No man gainsays the truth.”

  “You do not ensorcel me!”

  “I do not,” he agreed. “What power there is comes of Lodhi, not His servant. And do you seek to injure my Lady, she will injure you.” He did not smile. “I mean you no harm, my lord, nor my harp; yet harm may come to the man who means me harm.”

  I felt the upsurge of anger in my chest until it filled my throat. “I meant you no harm,” I said thickly. “I merely wanted it to stop—”

  “My Lady takes where she will,” he said gently. “It is your sister who lives within you now, because of Bellam’s power. I merely wished to show it to you, so you would know what I can do.”

  Finn was at my side. “What would you do?” he asked. “Free his sister from Bellam?”

  Lachlan shook his head. “I could not do so much, not even with all of Lodhi’s aid. But I can take her any word you might wish to give her, as well as learn what I can of Bellam’s and Tynstar’s plans.”

  “Gods!” The word hissed between my teeth. “Could I but trust you…”

  “Do, my lord,” he said gently. “Trust your liege man, if not me. Has he not questioned my intent?”

  I let out my breath all at once, until my chest felt hollow and thin. I looked at Finn and saw the solemnity in his face. So much like Duncan, I thought, and at such odd times.

  He looked directly at Lachlan. The sunlight set his lir-gold to shining like the strings in the harper’s Lady. Neither man said a word, as if they judged one another; I found my own judgment sorely lacking, as if I had not the mind to discern what should be done. I was weary and hungry and overcome, suddenly, with the knowledge of what I must do.

  “Trust him,” Finn said finally, as if disliking the taste. “What is the worst he could do—tell Bellam where we are?” His smile held little humor. “Does he do that, and Bellam sends soldiers, we will simply slay them all.”

  No doubt he could do it, with three hundred Cheysuli warriors. And no doubt Lachlan knew it.

  He stood up from the beech with his Lady clasped in his arms. Slowly he went down on one knee, still hugging the harp, and bowed his head a little. A proud man, Lachlan; the homage was unexpected. It did not suit him, as if he were meant to receive it instead of offer. “I will serve you in this as I would have you serve me, were the roles reversed.” His face was grimly set, and yet I saw the accustomed serenity in his eyes. That certainty of his fate.

  Like Finn and his tahlmorra.

  I nodded. “Well enough. Go you to Homana-Mujhar, and tend my service well.”

  “My lord.” He knelt a moment longer, supplicant to a king instead of a god, and then he rose. He was gone almost at once, hidden by the shrubbery, with no word of parting in his mouth. But the harpsong, oddly, lingered on, as if he had called it from the air.

  “Come,” Finn said finally, “Duncan waits.”

  After a moment I looked at him. “Duncan? How does he know I have come?”

  Finn grinned. “You are forgetting, my lord—we are in a Keep, of sorts. There are lir. And gossiping women, I do not doubt.” The grin came again. “Blame me, or Storr, or even Cai, whom Storr tells me is the one who told Duncan you had come. He waits, does my rujho, somewhat impatiently.”

  “Duncan has never been impatient in his life.” In irritation I turned back to my horse and swung up into the saddle. “Do you come? Or do I go without you?”

  “Now who is impatient?” He did not wait for an answer, which I did not intend to give; he mounted and led the way.

  I saw Duncan before he saw me, for he was intent upon his son. I thought it was his son, the boy was small enough for a five-year-old, and his solemnity matched that I had seen so often on his father’s face. He was a small Cheysuli warrior, in leathers and boots but lacking the gold, for he was not a man as yet and had no lir. That would come in time.

  The boy listened well. Black hair, curly as was common in Cheysuli childhood, framed his dark face with its inquisitive yellow eyes. There was little of Alix in the boy, I thought, and then he smiled, and I saw her, and realized how much it hurt that Donal was Duncan’s son instead of mine.

  Abruptly Duncan bent down and caught the boy in his arms, sweeping him up to perch upon one shoulder. He turned, smiling a wry, familiar smile—Finn’s smile—and I realized there was much of Duncan I did not know. What I had seen was a rival, a man who sought the woman I sought; the man who had won her, when I could not. The man who had led an exiled race back from the edge of death to the promise of life again. I had given him little thought past what he had been to me. Now I thought about what he was to the Cheysuli…and to the boy he carried on his shoulder.

  The boy laughed. It was a pure soprano tone, girlish in its youth, unabashed and without the fear of discovery. No doubt Donal knew what it was to hide, having hidden for all of his short life, but he had not lost his spirit with it. Duncan and Alix had seen to it he had his small freedoms.

  The Keep suddenly receded. The humming of voices and the laughter of other children became an underscore to the moment. I knew, as I looked at Duncan and his son, I looked upon the future of Homana. From the man had come the son, who would no doubt rule in his father’s place when Duncan’s time was done. And would my son rule alongside him? Homanan Mujhar and Cheysuli clan-leader. Under them would a nation reborn from war purge into life again. Better, stronger than ever.

  I laughed. It rang out, bass rather than Donal’s soprano, and for just a moment the voices mingled. I saw the momentary surprise on Duncan’s face and then the recognition, and finally the acknowledgment. He swung his son down from his shoulder and waited, while I got off my horse.

  It was Donal I went to, not his father. The boy, so small beside the man, and so wary of me suddenly. He knew enough of strangers to know they sometimes brought danger with them.

  I dwarfed him, taller even than Duncan. At once I went down on one knee so as not to loom over him like a hungry demon. It put us on a level: tall prince, small boy; warriors both, past, present and future.

  “I am Carillon,” I told him, “and I thank the gods you are here to give me aid.”

  The wariness faded, replaced by recognition. I saw wonder and confusion and uncertainty, but I also saw pride. Donal detached his hand from his father’s and stood before me, frowningly intent, with color in his sun-bronzed cheeks. He was a pretty boy; he would make a handsome man. But then the Cheysuli are not an ugly race.

  “My jehan serves you,” he said softly.

  “Aye.”

  “And my su’fali.”

  I thought of Finn, knowing he was behind me. “Aye. Very well.”

  Donal’s gaze did not waver. There was little of indecision in him, or hesitation. I saw the comprehension in his face and knew he understood what he said, even as he said it. “Then I will serve you also.”

  Such a small oath, from so small a boy. And yet I doubted none of its integrity, or his honor. Such things are in all of the Cheysuli, burning in their blood. Donal was years from being a warrior, and yet I did not doubt his resolve.

  I put both hands on his slender shoulders. I felt suddenly overlarge, as I had with my mother, for there was little of gentleness about me. And nothing at all of fatherhood.

  But honor and pride I know, and I treasured it from him. “Could I have but one Cheysuli by my side, it would be you,” I told him, meaning it.

  He grinned. “You already have my su’fali!”

  I laughed. “Aye, I do, and I am grateful for him. I doubt not I will have him for a long time. But should I need another, I know to whom I will come.”

  Shyness overcame him. He was still a boy, and still quite young. The intimacy had faded; I was a prince again, and he merely Duncan’s son, and the time for such oaths was done.

  “Donal,” Finn said from behind me, “do you wi
sh to serve your lord as I do, you might see to his mount. Come and tend it for him.”

  The boy was gone at once. I turned, rising, and saw the light in his face as he ran to do Finn’s bidding. My horse’s reins were taken up and the gelding led away with great care toward the picket-string in the forest. Finn, like Donal, walked, and I saw the calm happiness in his face as he accompanied the boy. Indeed, he needed a son.

  “You honor me with that,” Duncan said.

  I looked at him. His voice held an odd tone; a mixture, I thought, of surprise, humility and pride. What had he expected of me? A dismissal of the boy? But I could do nothing so cruel, not to Alix’s son.

  And then I realized what he meant. He had forgotten none of what lay between us; perhaps he had even dreaded our first meeting. No, not dreaded; not Duncan, who knew me too well for that. Perhaps he had merely anticipated antipathy.

  Well, there was that. Or would be. There was still Alix between us.

  “I honor you with that,” I agreed, “but also the boy himself. I have not spent five years with Finn without learning a little of your customs, and how you raise your children. I will not dishonor Donal by dismissing him as a child, when he is merely a warrior who is not fully grown.”

  Duncan sighed. I saw a rueful expression leach his face of its customary solemnity. He shook his head. “Forgive me, Carillon, for undervaluing you.”

  I laughed, suddenly lighthearted. “You have your brother to thank for that. Finn has made me what I am.”

  “Not in his image, I hope.”

  “Could you not stand two?”

  “Gods,” he said in horror, “two of Finn? One is too much!” But I heard the ring of affection in his tone and saw the pleasure in his face; I realized, belatedly, he had undoubtedly missed Finn as much as Finn had missed him. No matter how much they disagreed when they were together.

  I put out my hand to clasp his arm in the familiar Cheysuli greeting. “I thank you for him, Duncan. Through him, you have saved my life many times.”

  His hand closed around my upper arm. “What Finn knows, he learned elsewhere,” he retorted. “Little enough of me is in him. Though the gods know I tried—” He grinned, forgoing the complaint. “He did not lie. He said you had come home a man.”

  That got me laughing. “He would not say that within my hearing.”

  “Perhaps not,” Duncan conceded, “but he said it within mine, and now I have told it to you.”

  Men judge men by handclasps. We held ours a moment, remembering the past, and there was no failing in his grasp, nor none in mine. There was much between us, and neither of us would forget.

  We broke the clasp at last, two different men, I thought, than we had been before. Some unknown communication had passed between us: his recognition of me as someone other than I had been, when he had first known me, and my recognition of what he was. Not a rival, but a friend, and a man I could trust with my life. That is not so easy a thing to claim when a king has set gold on your head.

  “My tent is too small for Mujhars,” he said quietly, and when I looked harder I saw the glint of humor in his eyes. “My tent is particularly too small for you, now. Come with me, and I will give you a throne better suited, perhaps, than another. At least until you have slain the man who makes it his.”

  I said nothing. I had heard the grim tone in his voice and realized, for the first time, Duncan probably hated as well as I did. I had not thought of it before, so caught up in my own personal—and sometimes selfish—quest. I wanted the throne for myself as well as Homana. Duncan wanted me to have it for his own reasons.

  He took me away from the tents to a pile of huge granite boulders, gray and green and velveted with moss. The sunlight turned the moss into an emerald cloak, thick and rich and glowing, like the stone in Lachlan’s Lady. The throne was one rump-sized stone resting against another that formed a backrest. The moss offered me a cushion. Gods-made, Finn would say; I sat down upon it and smiled.

  “Little enough to offer the rightful Mujhar.” Duncan perched himself upon a companion rock. The veil of tree limbs hanging over us shifted in a breeze so that the sunlight and shadow played across his face, limning the planes and hollows and habitual solemnity. Duncan had always been less prone to gaiety than Finn; steadier, more serious, almost dour. Seeming old though he was still young by most men’s reckoning. Young for a clan-leader, I knew, ruling because his elders were already dead in Shaine’s qu’mahlin.

  “It will do, until I have another,” I said lightly.

  Duncan bent and pulled a single stalk of wild wheat from the soggy ground. He studied the lime-green plant as if it consumed his every interest. It was unlike Duncan to equivocate, I thought; unless I had merely gotten old enough to prefer the point made at once.

  “You will have trouble reconciling the Homanas with Cheysuli.”

  “Not with all.” I understood him at once. “Some, perhaps; it is to be expected. But I will have no man who does not serve willingly, whether it be next to a Cheysuli or myself.” I sat forward on my dais of moss and granite. So different from the Lion Throne. “Duncan, I would have this qu’mahlin ended as soon as may be. I will begin with my army.”

  He did not smile. “There is talk of our sorcery.”

  “There will ever be talk of your sorcery. It is what made them afraid in the first place.” I recalled my uncle’s rantings when I was young; how he had said all of Homana feared the Cheysuli, because he had made them feared. How the shapechangers sought to throw down the House of Homana to replace it with their own.

  Their own. In Cheysuli legend, their own House had built Homana herself, and gave her over to mine.

  “There is Rowan,” he said quietly.

  I did not immediately take his meaning. “Rowan serves me well. I could not ask for a better lieutenant.”

  “Rowan is a man caught between two worlds.” Duncan looked at me directly. “You have seen him, Carillon. Can you not see his pain?”

  I frowned. “I do not understand.…”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “He is Cheysuli. And now the Homanas know it.”

  “He has ever denied—” I halted the unfinished comment at once. It was true he had always denied he was Cheysuli. And I had ever wondered if he were regardless, with his Cheysuli coloring.

  “Cai has confirmed it,” Duncan said. “I called Rowan here and told him, but he denies it still. He claims himself Homanan. How a man could do that—” He broke it off at once, as if knowing it had nothing to do with the subject. “I bring Rowan up because he illustrates the troubles within your army, Carillon. You have Homanas and Cheysuli, and you expect them to fight together. After thirty years of Shaine’s qu’mahlin.”

  “What else can I do?” I demanded. “I need men—any men—and I must have you both! How else can I win this war? Bellam cares little who is Cheysuli and who is Homanan—he will slay everyone, do we give him the chance! I cannot afford to divide my army because of my uncle’s madness.”

  “It has infected most of Homana.” Duncan shook his head, his mouth a flat, hard line. “I do not say all of them hate us. Does Torrin? But it remains that you must fight your own men before Bellam, do you let this hostility flourish. Look to your army first, Carillon, before you count your host.”

  “I do what I can.” I felt old suddenly, and very tired. My face ached from its bruising. “Gods—I do what I can…what else is there to do?”

  “I know.” He studied his stalk of wheat. “I know. But I have put my faith in you.”

  I sighed and clumped down against my mossy throne, feeling the weight of my intentions. “We could lose.”

  “We could. But the gods are on our side.”

  I laughed shortly, with little humor in the sound. “Ever so solemn, Duncan. Is there no laughter in you? And do you not fear the Ihlini gods are stronger than your own?”

  He did not smile. His eyes appraised me in their quiet, competent way, and I knew again the chafing of youth before an older, wiser man.
“I will laugh again when I do not fear to lose my son because his eyes are yellow.”

  I flinched beneath the bolt as it went cleanly home in my soul. In his place, I might be like him. But in my place, what would he do?

  “Were you Mujhar—” I began, and stopped when I saw the flicker in his eyes. “Duncan?”

  “I am not.” No more than that, and the flicker was gone.

  I frowned at him, sitting upright again on my rock. “I will have an answer from you: were you Mujhar, what would you do?”

  He smiled with perfect calm. “Win back my throne. We are in accord, my lord—you have no need to fear your throne is coveted. You are welcome to the Lion.”

  I thought of the throne. The Lion Throne, ensconced within Homana-Mujhar. In the Great Hall itself, crouched down upon the marble dais, dark and heavy and brooding. With its crimson cushion and gilt scrollwork, set so deeply in the old, dark wood. How old? I could not say. Ancient. And older still.

  “Cheysuli,” I said, without meaning to.

  Duncan smiled more warmly. The smile set creases around his eyes and chased away the gravity, stripping his face of its age. “So is Homana, my lord. But we welcomed the unblessed, so long ago. Will you not welcome us?”

  I set my face against my hands. My eyes were gritty; I scrubbed at them and at my skin, so taut with worry and tension. So much to do—and so little time in which to do it. Unite two warring races and take a realm; a realm held by sorcery so strong I could not imagine the power of it.

  “You are not alone,” Duncan said quietly. “Never that. There is myself, and Finn…and Alix.”

  I sat hunched, eyes shut tightly against the heels of my hands as if the pressure might carry me past all the pain, past all the battles, past all the necessities of war to the throne itself. Could it be done, I would not have to face the risks and the losses and the fears.

  But it could not be done so easily, and a man learns by what he survives, not by passing o’er it.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned my face away from my hands and looked into Duncan’s eyes, so wise and sad and compassionate. Compassion, from him; for a man who wished to be his king. It made me small again.