The Song of Homana

by Jennifer Roberson

  “Tahlmorra lujhalla mei wiccan, cheysu,” he said quietly, making the gesture with his right hand. “Now, my lord, come and sup with me. Wars are lost on empty bellies.”

  I pushed myself off the rock with a single thrust of my hand. The fate of a man rests always within the hands of the gods.

  My gods? I wondered. Or Bellam’s?

  ELEVEN

  Cai sat upon a polished wooden perch sunk into the ground next to Duncan’s slate-gray tent. His massive wings were folded with perfect precision; not a single feather was out of place. The great hooked beak shone in the dim firelight and the red glow of the setting sun: dark and sharp and deadly. And his eyes, so bright and watchful, missed not a single movement within the Keep.

  I stood outside the tent. Duncan, Finn and the boy remained within, finishing what supper there was: hot stew, fresh bread, cheese and Cheysuli honey brew. And Alix, who had come up from Torrin’s croft with the bread, had gone off to another tent.

  I had put on a Cheysuli cloak, wrapping myself in the harsh woollen folds to ward off the chill of dusk. The fabric was so deep a green I melted into the surrounding darkness, even with the light from the firecairns on me. No longer did I wonder how the Cheysuli achieved their secrecy; a man, standing still, can hide himself easily enough. He need only affect the proper coloration and wait, and the enemy will come to him.

  Cai turned his head. The great hawk looked directly at me, dark eyes glittering in the dying light. He had the attentiveness of a man in his gaze, and yet more, for he was a lir and a lir is better than a man, or so the Cheysuli claim. I had no reason to dispute it. I had known Storr long enough to acknowledge his virtues, and be thankful for his service.

  I shivered, though it was not from the evening chill. It was from the pervasive sense of destiny within the Cheysuli Keep, for a Keep is where a man is, with his lir, and here sat a lir beside me. Cai, the great dark hawk with the wisdom of the ages, and the knowledge of what was to come. Divulging it never, to no man, not even Duncan, who served his gods better than any I had known. Such a harsh service, I thought, requiring death and sacrifice. What the Cheysuli bore in their bones was a weight I could not carry. The shapechange was magic indeed, but I would not pay its price.

  I turned away and pulled aside the doorflap. The dim light from the small iron brazier filled the tent with shadows, and I saw three pairs of yellow eyes fixed upon my face.

  Beast eyes.…

  Even friendship does not dampen the residual fear engendered by such eyes.

  “I will go up to the army encampment. I have spent enough time away from my men.”

  Finn rose at once, handing his cup to Duncan. The light glittered off the Steppes knife in his belt, and suddenly I recalled I had none to wear at my own. The bone-hilted Caledonese weapon lay in the snowfields near Joyenne.

  Finn caught up a night-black cloak and hung it over his shoulders. It hid the gold on his arms entirely, turning him black from brown in the dim glow of light. His hair swung forward to hide his earring, and all I saw was the yellow of his eyes. Suddenly, in the presence of three Cheysuli, I found myself lacking, and I the Prince of Homana.

  Finn smiled. “Do we go?”

  I needed no weapon, with him. He was knife and bow and sword.

  “We go.” I looked past him to Duncan with his son by his side. “I will think well on what you have said. I will speak to Rowan and see what pain is in his part, so I may have a man beside me free of such cares.”

  He smiled. In the dim light he seemed older, but the boy by his side made him young again. The future of his race. “Perhaps it will be enough for Homana to know her Mujhar again.”

  I stepped aside and Finn came out. Together we walked through the darkness to our horses, still saddled at the picket line. The Cheysuli trust no one this close to Mujhara; nor do I.

  “The army will not be far.” Finn ducked a low branch. “I think even Homanans know the value in three hundred Cheysuli.”

  “They will when we are done with them.”

  He laughed softly, nearly invisible in the deepening night.

  I untied and mounted my dark Ihlini horse. Finn was up on his mount a moment later, heading through the trees, and I followed. Storr slipped along behind me, guarding my back as Finn preceded his lord. It is an exacting service, and one they perform with ease.

  The moon rose full above us, above the stark black, skeletal trees: a silver plate in the dark night sky. I looked through the screen of trees that arched over my head. Beyond the screen were the white eyes of the stars, staring down. I heard the snap of twigs and branches broken by the hooves and the soft thunk of iron shoe against turf track. The forest sang with scent and the nightsounds I had so long taken for granted. Crickets called out our passage: a moth fluttered by my face on its journey toward the light. But there was no light. Not here, so deep among the trees.

  And then such joy at being in Homana again rose up in my chest that I could hardly breathe. It did not last, and for a moment I was taken aback, but then I gave myself over to it. Finn was welcome to his lir-bond and the magic of his race, I longed only for Homana. Even an exiled Mujhar can find joy in such exile, does it bring him home again.

  We rode along the crest of a hill, rising upward through the trees, and then down it, like water down a cobbled spillway. Finn took me down into a tiny bowl of a valley, skirting the edges so the trees gave cover. Clustered amid the night and darker shadows were pinpoints of flickering light. Tiny lights, little more than the luminance shed by the flame moths. Like the Cheysuli, my army kept itself to subtle warmth and illumination. One would have to look hard to see it; expecting it, it was not so hard for me to discover. A pinpoint here and there, lost within the shadows, screened by trees and brush.

  A circlet of light rimmed the bowl-like valley. It crowned the crests like a king’s fillet crusted with glowing gem-stones, glittering against the darkness. We rode closer, still clinging to the trees, and then I learned how well-guarded was the army.

  “Hold!” shouted a voice. I heard the rustling in the leaves and placed each man; a semi-circle of five, I thought. “Say who is your lord.” The order was clipped off, lacking the smoothness of aristocratic speech, but Homanan all the same.

  “Carillon the Mujhar,” I said quietly, knowing Finn’s accent would give away his race. In the darkness, the men might slay him out of hand.

  “How many?” came the voice.

  “Three.” I smiled. “One Homana, one Cheysuli…and one lir.”

  I felt the indrawn breath in five throats, though I heard nothing. Good men. I was grateful for that much, even though I grew cold upon my horse.

  “You are Homanan?”

  “I am. Would you have me speak more for you, to discern my accent?” I thought it a worthwhile test; the Solindish speech does not mimic ours and would give away an enemy.

  “You have said enough. What weapons do you bring?”

  “A sword and a bow, and a Cheysuli warrior. Weapons enough, I think.”

  A grunt. “Come ahead, with escort.”

  We went on, Finn first, surrounded by the men. Not enough to gainsay Finn did he seek to slay them all; I could account for at least two myself, possibly three. And Storr a few more. It would take ten to stop us, perhaps more. I found I liked such odds.

  More rustles in the bushes and the crunching of night-crisped snow. At last we halted near the outer rim of a firecairn’s light, and I saw the glint of weapons. Silent, shadowed men, grave-faced and wary-eyed, watching. Storr they watched the most, as any man will, knowing only a wolf. And Finn, cloaked in black with raven hair, dark-faced and yellow-eyed. Me they hardly marked at all, save perhaps to note my size.

  The leader stepped forward into the firelight. He wore a long-knife in his belt and a sword upon a baldric. He was squat, well-proportioned, with close-cropped, graying red hair and bright green eyes. His body cried out for a soldier’s leather and mail, though he wore only wool. He had the calm authority of a
born leader; I knew at once he was a veteran of my uncle’s wars against Solinde.

  Other men had gathered around the tiny firecairn. There was not enough light to see them all clearly, merely arms and legs and faces, shadowed in the darkness. Silence and waiting and wariness, the mark of hunted men. Bellam had made them so.

  “What do you call yourself?” I asked the leader.

  “Zared,” he said calmly. “And you?”

  I grinned. “Mercenary. And Finn, with Storr the wolf.” I shifted in the saddle and saw hands move to hilts. “Put up your weapons, for I am Homanan-born and wish only to go to war. I am impressed by your competence, but enough of it for now.” I paused. “I am Carillon.”

  Zared’s green eyes narrowed. “Come down from that horse.”

  I did so and stood before the man while he looked closely at my face.

  “I fought with Prince Fergus, Carillon’s father,” he said abruptly. “I saw the son taken. Do you tell me you are that boy?”

  His tone was dubious, but there was no humor in that moment. I put out both hands and pushed back the sleeves from my wrists. In the dim firelight the scars were nearly black; ridged bracelets in my flesh. Zared’s eyes were on them, then rose to my face again. They narrowed once more. “Stories have it you were slain in exile.”

  “No. I am as you see me.” I put my arms down again. “Is there more proof you would see?”

  “Many men have been chained.” An odd argument, but I understood him.

  “Take the sword from my saddle.”

  He flicked a finger. One man stepped to the far side of my horse and unhooked the scabbard, then brought it to Zared. He pulled the blade partway free of the sheath so the runes writhed upon the metal, but the hilt, wrapped again in taut leather, looked an unmade thing.

  “Cut it free,” I said, yet again.

  He did so with his knife, freeing the gold at last. The rampant lion clawed upon the metal as the shadows shifted upon it. The lion of Homana. And in the pommel glowed the ruby.

  “That I know,” he said in satisfaction. And he gave the sword to me.

  “If you thought I was dead, why did you join the army?” I asked curiously.

  “I am a soldier,” he said simply. “I serve Homana. Even without a Mujhar to follow—a Homanan Mujhar—I will fight to defend my land. But I could not do it alone, and before now few were willing to risk themselves.” He smiled a little, and it put lines in his rough-worked face. “Now we have more than a thousand men, my lord, and at last a prince to lead them.”

  I saw the others staring at me. They had just heard their leader admit I was their lord. It is sometimes an awesome thing for men to see who rules, when often he is only a name.

  I turned back to my horse and hooked my scabbarded blade to it again. “Direct me to Rowan.”

  “Rowan?” Zared sounded surprised. “You wish to speak to him?”

  “Why should I not? It was he who began this army.” I swung up into the saddle again. “Would you have it said another has done it, when it was Rowan?”

  Dull color flushed his face. “My lord—it is said he is Cheysuli…Cheysuli do not lead Homanans.” The tone was harsh, the words clipped off; he did not look at Finn.

  The nakedness of it stunned me. Zared I judged a fair man, a good soldier, worthy of any rank I chose for him. And he, even knowing the skill of the Cheysuli, could continue to resent their presence.

  I drew in a steadying breath and spoke exceedingly calmly. “We will dismiss any man who chooses to hate the Cheysuli. Any man. We will not argue with what my uncle’s purge has put into your mind—he worked hard enough to do it—but we do not have to tolerate it in our army. Those of you who wish to continue Shaine’s policy of Cheysuli extermination may leave now. We will have none of you with us.”

  Zared stared, openly stunned. “My lord—”

  “We want none of you,” I repeated. “Fight Bellam and Tynstar, but no other. Not Cheysuli. They serve us too well.” I gathered in my reins. “Direct us to Rowan at once.”

  Zared pointed toward a distant flicker. “There, my lord. There.”

  “Think on what I have said,” I told him. “When we have won this war the Cheysuli will know freedom again. We will begin that policy now.”

  “My lord—”

  I heard nothing more of his comment, for I left his fire as fast as the horse would take me.

  Rowan sat alone by his tiny firecairn. He was surrounded by clustered trees, as if he had gathered about himself a royal guard, stolid and silent. And yet within his guard he was a man alone, untouched by all save his grief. He had been found out, and no more was the secret kept.

  The firecairn was not enough to warm him, I knew; probably not enough to warm the leathern cup of wine he held in rigid fingers. But the tiny light threw illumination over his face in the thick darkness, and I saw the gaunt expression of loss.

  I swung off my horse and moved toward the cairn so that he had to acknowledge me. His head came up. For a moment he stared, still lost in his reverie, and then slowly he moved forward onto his knees. It was an old man’s ungainly movement.

  I saw past the shock. I saw past the outer shell of loss to the resignation beneath.

  He had known.

  “How long?” I asked. “And why did you hide it from me?”

  “All my life,” he said dully, still kneeling on the ground. “As for hiding it from you—what choice did I have? Few Homanans are like you, my lord…I thought they would revile me. And they have.”

  I dropped the reins and moved closer yet, motioning him up from his knees. Slowly he sat again upon the campstool. The cup in his hands shook. “Tell me,” I said calmly.

  He shut his eyes a moment. In the stark light he was the image of a childhood demon. Cheysuli.

  “I was five,” he said quietly. “I saw the Mujhar’s men murder, my kin. All save me.” A quiver passed over his young face. “They came on us in the trees, shouting they had found a nest of demons. I ran. My jehan and jehana—and my rujholla—could not run in time. They were slain.”

  The Cheysuli words from Rowan’s mouth were a shock to me. He had always spoken with the accent of Homana, lacking the Old Tongue entirely—and now I knew he had more claim to it than most.

  I heard Finn come up beside my horse. I did not look at him, but Rowan did. They were as much alike, as two leaves from the same vine; like enough to be father and son. Perhaps they were even kin.

  “I had no choice,” Rowan said. “I was found by a couple who had no children. They were Ellasian, but they had come to live in Homana. The valley was distant, insular, and there were none there who had seen Cheysuli. I was safe. And I kept myself so, until I came here.”

  “You must have known you would be discovered.”

  He shrugged. “I knew there was the chance. In Mujhara, I was careful. But the men interested in fighting Bellam were young, like myself, and they had never seen a Cheysuli shapechanger. So I named myself Homanan, and they believed it. It has been so long since the Cheysuli were free to go where they choose—much of Homana does not know her ancient race.” Briefly he looked at me. “Aye. I have known what I am. And what I am not.” He turned his face to the fire. “I have no lir.”

  I did not fully understand. And then I thought of Finn’s link with Storr and the price it carried, and I knew what Rowan meant. “You cannot mean you will seek out your death!”

  “There is no need for that,” Finn said. He swung down from his horse and came into the firelight with Storr pacing at his side. “He never had a lir, which is somewhat different from losing one. Where there is no loss, a man is not constrained to the death-ritual.”

  Rowan’s face was leached of color, painted bleak by the firelight. “The ritual is already done, though it be a Homanan one. I am named shapechanger, and stripped of what honor once I had.”

  I thought of the men in the tavern where Lachlan and I had found Rowan. Those men had followed him willingly. It was Rowan who had gathered
most of those who were here. Word of mouth had gathered the others and still did, but Rowan had begun it all.

  “Not all of them,” I told him, ignoring Zared’s attitude. “Those who are men, know men. They do not judge by eyes and gold.” I realized, too, he wore no lir-gold. He had not earned the right.

  “The gods are blind to you,” Finn said quietly.

  I stared at him in shock. “Do you seek to destroy what is left of him?”

  “No. I tell him what he knows. You have only to ask him.” Finn’s voice and eyes were implacable. “He is lirless. Unwhole. Half a man, and lacking a soul. Unblessed, like you, though he be Cheysuli instead of Homanan.” He went on, ignoring the beginnings of my protest. “He is not a warrior of the clan, lacking a lir. He will have no passage to the old gods.”

  My hand was on his arm. I felt the hard sinews beneath his flesh as my fingers clamped down. I had never before put my hand on him in anger.

  He stopped speaking. He waited. And when I took my hand away he explained the words to me. “He gave it up willingly, Carillon. Now he must suffer for it.”

  “Suffer!”

  “Aye.” His eyes flicked down to Rowan’s hunched figure. “Had it been me with the choice, I would have taken the risk.”

  “And died,” I returned angrily.

  “Oh, aye,” he said matter-of-factly, “but I could not have lived with it, else.”

  “Do not listen,” I told Rowan wearily. “Finn sometimes speaks when he would do better to hide his sentiments.”

  “Let him speak,” Rowan said wearily. “He says what I have expected all my life. My lord—there is much of the Cheysuli you do not know. Much I do not know, having given up my soul.” A bitter, faint smile twisted his mouth into a travesty of the expression. “Oh aye, I know what I am. Soulless and lirless, unwhole. But it was the choice I made, too frightened to seek my death. And I thought I would die, when the time for the lir-bond came.”

  “You knew?” I stared at him. “You knew when the time had come?”