The Song of Homana

by Jennifer Roberson

  He knew dismissal when he heard it. More often than not we played at lord and liege man, being better friends than most men of such rank, but this time he heard the command. I had not meant it to come out so baldly, but there was nothing for it. There was no room for Finn in this.

  He smiled grimly. “Beware your weapon, my lord Mujhar.”

  The euphemism brought crimson flags to her face as he left and I wondered how much she knew of men. No doubt Bellam claimed his daughter a virgin, but I thought it unlikely. She did not look at me with any of the virgin’s fear or curiosity. She was angry still, and defiant, but there was also the look of a woman who knows she is wanted by a man.

  The tent was of thin, pale fabric. Though the doorflap hung closed, enough light crept through the gap to lend a dusky daylight to the interior. The roof draped down from the ridgepole, nearly brushing my head, and the breeze billowed the side panels. She stood very still in the center, head raised and arms at her sides, keen-edged as any blade. It reminded me that I bore a sword, unsheathed, and no doubt she took it as a threat.

  I moved past her to the table and set the blade upon it. I turned back, watching as she turned, and saw the seductiveness in her movements. She knew well enough what she did: she watched me as well as I watched her.

  “Electra.” Her eyes narrowed as I spoke. “Do you know what men call you?”

  Her head, on her pale, slender neck, lifted. Gold glimmered in her ears and at her throat. She smiled back at me slowly, untouched by the insinuation in my tone. “I know.”

  I poured a cup of wine and deliberately kept it for myself, offering her none. She made no indication she cared, and suddenly I felt ludicrous. I set down the cup so hard the wine slopped over the rim and spilled, crawling across the parchment map upon the table like a crimson serpent seeking its lair.

  “Tynstar’s light woman,” I said. “An Ihlini’s whore.”

  Her pale eyes were still and cool in her flawless face. She appraised me from head to toe, even as I assessed her, and I felt the heat creep up from my belly to engulf my face. It was all I could do to keep my hands from her.

  “You are a princess of Solinde,” I reminded her, perhaps unnecessarily. “I know it, even if you have forgotten. Or is it that Bellam does not care what men say about his daughter?”

  Electra smiled. Slowly she reached out and took up the forgotten wine cup, lifting it to her mouth. She held my eyes with her own and drank three sips, then threw down the cup with a gesture of condescension. The red wine colored her lips and made me all the more aware of her, when I needed no reminding.

  “What else have they said, my lord?” Her tone was husky and slow. “Have they said I am more witch than woman?”

  “You are a woman. Do you require more witchcraft than that?” I had not meant to say it. It had given her a weapon, though perhaps she had held it all along.

  She laughed deep in her throat. Her accent was exquisite. “Aye, pretender-prince, perhaps it is. But I will tell you anyway.” One slender, fine-boned hand smoothed a pale strand of hair away from her face. “How old am I, Carillon?”

  The Solindish accent made the syllables of my name sing. Suddenly I wanted her to say it again, in my arms, in my bed, as she assuaged the knot in my belly. “How old?” I asked, distracted.

  “Surely you can give me an age.”

  The vanity of women. “Perhaps twenty.”

  Electra laughed. “When Lindir of Homana—your cousin, I believe?—was promised to my brother, I was ten years old.” She paused. “In case you cannot count, my lord—that was thirty years ago.”

  The grue slid down my spine. “No.”

  “Aye, Carillon.” Two fingers traced the gold around her throat. It was a twisted piece of wire, simple and yet elegantly suitable. “Are not Tynstar’s arts impressive?”

  My desire began to spill away like so much unwanted seed. Tynstar’s arts—Tynstar’s light woman. Gods. “Electra.” I paused. “I think you have a facile tongue. But you undervalue my intelligence.”

  “Do I? Do you disbelieve me?” The velvet on her shoulders wrinkled in a shrug. “Ah well, believe as you will. Men do, for all they claim themselves an intelligent race.” She smiled. “So—this is what you face: this poor little tent, in your desire to seek my father’s throne.”

  “My throne, lady.”

  “Bellam took it from Shaine,” she said calmly. “It belongs to the House of Solinde.”

  I smiled with a confidence I did not entirely feel, facing her. “And I will take it back.”

  “Will you? How? By selling me?” Her cool eyes narrowed. The expression did not suit their long-lidded, somnolent slant. “What will you do with me, my lord?”

  “I have not decided.”

  “Ransom me? Slay me?”

  I frowned. “Slay you—I? Why should I desire your death?”

  “Why not? I am your enemy’s daughter.”

  I laughed. “And a woman such as I have never seen. Slay you? Never. Not when there is so much I would rather do.”

  I saw the subtle change in her mouth; in the shape of her jaw. She had me, not I her, and she knew it. She smiled. It was a faint, slow, seductive smile, and went straight to the knot in my belly. The long-lidded eyes took their measure of me, and I wondered if she found me lacking somehow.

  Electra moved swiftly, diving for the Cheysuli sword on the table next to me. I spun and caught her waist as she slipped by; she clawed for the sword even as my hands closed on her. She had it in her hands; both hands, jerking it from the table. The blade flashed in the pale, muted light and I caught her wrist, knocking her arm against my upraised leg. She hissed in pain and lost the sword, dropping it to the hard-packed earth.

  The white-blond hair was a curtain across her face, hiding it from me as the fine strands snagged on the leather of my jerkin. I released one of her arms and smoothed away the hair from her angry face, drawing her inexorably closer. And then, even as she caught my neck in her arms, I ground my mouth onto hers.

  She was like the finest wine, subtle and heady and powerful. She went straight to my head, blurring my senses and addling my wits. I could do nothing but drown, drinking more even as I drowned, wanting only to take her with me. I could not think of letting her go. And she did not insist upon it, reaching up to catch my damp hair in two doubled fists. But her teeth sank into my bottom lip, tearing, and I cursed and jerked my face free.

  “Rape?” she demanded.

  “Who rapes?” I asked. “You or I? I think you have as much interest in this as I.”

  I had not let her go. I did not, even as I set the back of one hand against my bleeding lip. The other hand was caught in the fabric of her gown, one arm locked around her spine. I could feel every line of her body set so hard against mine. Gods, but it would be easy to simply bear her down and take her here—

  “Electra,” I said hoarsely, “are you Tynstar’s light woman?”

  “Does it matter?” Her breasts rose against my chest. “Does it matter so much, pretender-prince?”

  My lip still bled. And yet I cared little enough for the pain. I wanted to share it with her. “Oh aye, it matters. For he will pay dearly for you.”

  She stiffened at once. “Then you will seek ransom—”

  “I seek what I can get,” I told her bluntly. “By the gods, woman, what do you seek to do? Ensorcel me?”

  She smiled. “I do what I can.” She touched my lip with a gentle finger. “Shall I take the pain away?”

  “Witch,” I accused.

  “Woman.” This time she was the aggressor as much as I, and she did as she had offered. She took the pain from my mouth and centered it much deeper, where I could not control myself.

  “How much will you ask for me?” she whispered against my mouth.

  “My sister.”

  Her head rose. “Tourmaline?”

  “Aye. I care little enough for gold. It is my sister I want.”

  “My father will never pay it.”


  “He will. I would.” And I knew as I said it, she had had the truth from me.

  Electra laughed. “Carillon, oh Carillon—such words from you already? Do you give in to my witchcraft so soon?”

  I set her away with effort. I felt unsteady, as if sickening from some fever. I was hot and cold and ringing with the tension as well as the demand.

  I realized, with a sense of astonishment, that the sword still lay on the ground between us. I had not recovered it. It had lain there, blade bare, as if in promise of what might lie between us in the future.

  Electra stood by the table. Her mouth was still red from the wine and stained by my blood. The long-lidded eyes regarded me calmly, assessively, as if she judged me within her mind. I dared not ask what she saw; I had not the courage.

  I bent and picked up the sword. Slowly I slid it home in the scabbard and set it on the table. Within reach. She had only to pick it up again.

  Electra laughed. “You are too quick for me, my lord, and far too strong. You are a man, you see, and I merely a woman.”

  “Merely,” I said in disgust, and saw her contented smile. “No rape,” I told her, “though I doubt—judging by what I have tasted—you would be so unwilling. But no rape.” I smiled. “I do not rape what I will have in marriage.”

  “Marriage!” she shouted, and I knew I had broken through her guard at last.

  “Aye,” I agreed calmly. “When I have slain your father—and Tynstar—and once again hold my throne…I will make you Queen of Homana.”

  “No!” she shouted. “I will not allow it!”

  “Do you think I care what you will allow?” I asked her gently. “I will take you to wife, Electra. None can gainsay me, now.”

  “I will gainsay you!” She was so vividly angry I could scare draw breath. “You puling fool. I will gainsay you!”

  I merely smiled at her, and offered more wine.

  Finn, seated on a stool within my tent, nearly dropped his cup of wine. “You will do what?”

  “Wed her.” I sat on the edge of my army cot, boots kicked off and wine in my wooden cup. “Would you have a better idea?”

  “Bed her,” he said curtly. “Use her, but do not wed her. The Mujhar of Homana wed to Bellam’s daughter?”

  “Aye,” I agreed. “That is how alliances are made.”

  “Alliance!” he lashed. “You are here to take back the throne from the man who usurped it, not win his approval as a husband for his daughter. By the gods, what has put this foolishness in your head?”

  I scowled at him. “You name me a fool? Are you blind? This is not just a thing between a man and a woman, but between realms and people as well.” I shifted on the cot. “We cannot force war on Homana forever. When I have slain Bellam and won back the Lion, there will still be Solinde. The realm is large and strong, and I would prefer not to fight it forever. Do I wed Electra to cap my victory, I may well settle a lasting peace.”

  It was Finn’s turn to scowl. His wine was untouched. “Do you recall, my lord, how it was the qu’mahlin was begun?”

  “I recall it well enough,” I snapped impatiently. “And I do not doubt Electra will also refuse to wed with me, as Lindir refused to wed with Ellic, but she will have no choice when the throne is mine.”

  Finn said something in a tone of deep disgust, but it was in the Old Tongue and I could not understand it. He reached down and tugged at one of Storr’s ears as if seeking guidance. I wondered what the wolf told him.

  “I know what I am doing,” I said quietly.

  “Do you? How do you know she is not Tynstar’s minion? How do you know she will not slay you in your wedding bed?”

  It was my turn to swear, though I did it in Homanan. “When I am done with this war, Tynstar will be dead.”

  “What will you do with her now?”

  “Keep her here. Bellam will send word concerning Torry’s release, and then we shall see to returning his daughter to him.” I smiled. “If he is not dead by then himself.”

  Finn shook his head. “Keeping her I can see, for it is a tool to use against your rujholla’s captivity. But wedding her? No. Seek your cheysula elsewhere.”

  “Would you have me wed a Cheysuli, then?” I scoffed. “The Homanans would never allow it.”

  “Cheysuli women wed Cheysuli men,” he said flatly. “No woman would look outside her clan.”

  “What of the men?” I asked. “I have not seen the warriors keeping to their clan. Not even you.” I smiled at his wary expression. “There was Alix, only half Cheysuli, and not knowing it at all.” I paused. “And now, perhaps, Electra?”

  He sat upright so quickly wine slopped over the rim of his cup and splashed across Storr’s head. The wolf sat up as quickly as Finn, shaking his head to send droplets flying in all directions. The look he flashed Finn was one of such grave indignation I could not help but laugh, though Finn found little humor in it.

  He rose and set the cup down on the table, still scowling. “I want none of Electra.”

  “You forget, I know you. I have seen you with women before. She touched you, Finn, as much as she touched me.”

  “I want none of her,” he repeated.

  I laughed at him. And then the laughter died, and I frowned. “Why is it we are attracted by the same women? There was Alix first, and the red-haired girl in Caledon, and now—”

  “A liege man knows his place.” The comment overrode me. “Do you truly think he seeks what woman his lord will make his queen?”

  “Finn.” I rose as he turned away. “Finn, I know you better than that.”

  “Do you?” His face was uncommonly grave. “I think not. I think not at all.”

  I put down my cup of wine. “I take her to wife because she is worthy of that much. I will not get her another way.”

  “Put out your hand and take her,” Finn said. “She will come to you like a cat to milk.”

  The wall went up between us, brick by brick. Where once its name had been Alix, now it was Electra. And, though I thought what he felt for Electra was closer to dislike than anything akin to love, I could not see the way of tearing it down again. Kingdoms take precedence even over friendships.

  “There are things a king must do,” I said quietly.

  “Aye, my lord Mujhar.” This time he did leave, and the wolf went with him.

  THIRTEEN

  I jerked aside the doorflap and went out, buckling on my swordbelt with its weight of Cheysuli gold. No longer did I wrap the hilt in leather to hide the crest and ruby. All men knew I had come at last—including Bellam—and no longer did I wish to hide my presence or my identity.

  Finn stood waiting with the horses. He, like myself, wore his warbow slung across one shoulder. But he wore no ringmail or boiled leather, trusting instead to his skill to keep him free of harm. No Cheysuli wore armor. But perhaps I too would leave it off, did I have the chance to wear an animal’s form.

  I took the reins from him and turned to mount. But I stopped the motion and turned back as Rowan called to me.

  “My lord—wait you!” He hastened toward me in a rattle of mail and sword. Like us, he prepared to lead an attack against one of Bellam’s patrols. “My lord, the lady is asking for you.” He arrived at last, urgency in face and voice.

  “Electra asks for nothing,” I told him mildly. “Surely you mean she has sent.”

  Color rose in his face. “Aye,” he said, “she has sent.” He sighed. “For you.”

  I nodded. Electra sent for me often, usually two or more times in a single day. Always to complain about her captivity and to demand her immediate release. It had become a game between us—Electra knew well enough what she did to me when I saw her. And she played upon that effect.

  In the six weeks since Finn had captured her, nothing had been settled between us except out mutual attraction. She knew it as well as I. Ostensibly enemies, we were also eventual bedmates. It was simply a matter of time and circumstance. Did I wish to, I could have her before her internment was done. But
I gambled for higher stakes—permanency, in reign and domesticity—and she knew it. She used it. And so the courtship rite went on, bizarre though it was.

  “She waits,” Rowan reminded me.

  I smiled. “Let her.” I swung up on my horse and gathered the reins, marking how my men waited. And then I was gone before Rowan could speak again.

  Finn caught up to me not far from the camp. Behind us rode our contingent of soldiers: thirty Homanans armed to the teeth and ready for battle once more. Scouts had already brought reports of three Solindish patrols; I would take one, Rowan another, Duncan the third. Such warfare had worked well in the past months; Bellam already shouted impotent threats from his stolen throne.

  “How much longer do we keep her?” Finn asked.

  No reference was necessary. “Until I have Torry back.” I squinted against the sun. “Bellam’s last message said he would send Torry out of Mujhara with an escort—and Lachlan also. Electra will be back with her father soon enough.”

  “Will you let her go?”

  “Aye,” I said calmly. “It will be no hardship to let her go when I will have her back so soon.”

  He smiled. “No more hedging, from you. No more modesty.”

  “No,” I agreed, grinning. “I have come home to take my uncle’s throne, and I have every intention of doing it. As for Bellam, we have harried him long enough. In a month, or two or three, he will come out of Mujhara to fight. This thing will be settled then.”

  “And his daughter?”

  I looked directly at him, tasting the dust of warfare in my mouth as we moved toward our battle. “She is Tynstar’s light woman, by all accounts—including her own. For that alone, I will make her mine.”

  “Revenge.” He did not smile. “I understand that well enough, Carillon, having tasted it myself—but I think it is more than that.”

  “Political expediency,” I assured him blandly. “She is a valuable tool.”

  A scowl pulled his face into grim lines. “In the clans, it is not the same.”

  “No,” I agreed quietly. “In the clans you take women as you will and care little enough for the politics of the move.” I glanced back at my soldiers. They followed in a tight unit, bristling with swords and knives and ringmail. “Men have need of such things as wives and children,” I told him quietly. “Kings have need of more.”