The Song of Homana

by Jennifer Roberson

  Another stairway—? No. A room. A vault. I grimaced. Something like a crypt.

  Duncan thrust his torch within and looked. Then he withdrew it and gestured me to go first.

  I regarded him with distinct apprehension that increased with every moment.

  “Choose,” Duncan said. “Go in a prince and come out a Mujhar…or leave now, and forever know yourself lacking.”

  “I lack nothing!” I said in rising alarm. “Am I not the link you speak about?”

  “A link must be properly forged.” He looked past me to the rising staircase. “There lies your escape, Carillon. But I think you will not seek it. My rujholli would never serve a coward or a fool.”

  I bared my teeth in a grin that held little of humor. “Such words will not work with me, shapechanger. I am willing enough to name myself both, does it give me a chance to survive. And unless you slay me, as you have said you would not do, I will come out of here a Mujhar even if I do not go into that room.” I squinted as my torch sputtered and danced. “You are not Finn, you see, and for all I know I should trust you—we have never been easy with each other.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But what kept us from that was a woman, and even Alix has no place here. This is for you to do.”

  “You left Cai behind.” Somehow it incriminated him.

  “Only because here, in this place, he would be a superfluous lir.”

  I stared at him, almost gaping. Superfluous lir? Had Duncan said this? By the gods, if he indicated such a willingness to dispense with the other half of his soul, surely I could trust him.

  I sighed. I swallowed against the tightness in my throat, thrust the torch ahead of me, and went in.

  Superfluous. Aye, he would have been. For here were all the lir of the world, and no need for even one more.

  It was not a crypt. It was a memorial of sorts, or perhaps a chapel. Something to do with Cheysuli and lir, and their gods. For the walls were made of lir, lir upon lir, carved into the pale cream marble.

  Torchlight ran over the walls like water, tracking the veining of gold. From out of the smooth, supple stone burst an eagle, beak agape and talons striking. A bear, hump-backed and upright, one paw reaching out to buffet. A fox, quick and brush-tailed, head turned over its shoulder. And the boar, tusks agleam, with a malevolent, tiny eye.

  More. So many more. I felt my breath catch in my throat as I turned in a single slow circle, staring at all the walls. Such wealth, such skill, such incomparable beauty, and buried so deeply within the ground.

  A hawk, touching wingtips with a falcon. A mountain cat, so lovely, leaping in the stone. And the wolf; of course, the wolf, Storr-like with gold in its eyes. Every inch, from ceiling to floor, was covered with the lir.

  Superfluous. Aye. But so was I.

  I felt tears burn in my eyes. Pain, unexpected, was in my chest. How futile it was, suddenly, to be Homanan instead of Cheysuli; to lack the blessings of the gods and the magic of the lir. How utterly insignificant was Carillon of Homana.

  “Ja’hai,” Duncan said. “Ja’hai, cheysu, Mujhar.”

  I snapped my head around to stare at him. He stood inside the vault, torch raised, looking at the lir with an expression of wonder in his face. “What are those words?” I demanded. “Finn said those words when he talked to the gods, and even you said he should not have done it.”

  “That was Finn.” The sibilants whispered in the shadows of the lir. “This is a clan-leader who says them, and a man who might have been Mujhar.” He smiled as my mouth flew open to make an instant protest. “I do not want it, Carillon. If I did, I would not have brought you down here. It is here, within the Jehana’s Womb, that you will be born again. Made a true Mujhar.”

  “The words,” I repeated steadfastly. “What do they mean?”

  “You have learned enough of the Old Tongue from Finn to know it is not directly translatable. There are nuances, unspoken words, meanings requiring no speech. Like gestures—” He made the sign of tahlmorra. “Ja’hai, cheysu, Mujhar is, in essence, a prayer to the gods. A petition. A Homanan might say: Accept this man; this Mujhar.”

  I frowned. “It does not sound like a prayer.”

  “A petition—or prayer—such as the one Finn made—and now I make—requires a specific response. The gods will always answer. With life…or with death.”

  Alarm rose again. “Then I might die down here—?”

  “You might. And this time you will face that risk alone.”

  “You knew about it,” I said suddenly. “Was it Hale who told you?”

  Duncan’s face was calm. “Hale told me what it was. But most Cheysuli know of its existence.” A faint smile appeared. “Not so horrifying, Carillon. It is only the Womb of the Earth.”

  The grue ran down my spine. “What womb? What earth? Duncan—”

  He pointed. Before, I had looked at the walls, ignoring the floor entirely. But this time I looked, and I saw the pit in the precise center of the vault.

  Oubliette. A man could die in one of those.

  I took an instinctive step back, nearly brushing against Duncan just inside the door, but he merely reached out and took the torch from my hand. I turned swiftly, reaching for a knife I did not have, but he set each torch in a bracket near the door so the vault was filled with light. Light? It spilled into the oubliette and was swallowed utterly.

  “You will go into the Womb,” he said calmly, “and when you come out, you will have been born a Mujhar.”

  I cursed beneath my breath. Short of breaking his neck—and I was not at all certain even I could accomplish that—I had no choice but to stay in the vault. But the Womb was something else. “Just—go in? How? Is there a rope? Hand holes?” I paused, knowing the thing was futile. Oubliettes are built to keep people in. This one would offer no aid in getting out.

  “You must jump.”

  “Jump.” My hands shut up into fists that drove my nails into my palms. “Duncan—”

  “Sooner in, sooner out.” He did not smile, but I saw the glint of amusement in his eyes. “The earth is like most jehanas, Carillon: she is harsh and quick to anger and sometimes impatient, but she ever gives of her heart. She gives her child life. In this case, it is a Mujhar we seek to bring into the world.”

  “I am in the world,” I reminded him. “I have already been born once, birthed by Gwynneth of Homana. Once is more than enough—at least that one I cannot remember. Let us quit this mummery and go elsewhere; I have no taste for wombs.”

  His hand was on my shoulder. “You will stay. We will finish this. If I have to, I will make you.”

  I turned my back on him and paced to the farthest corner, avoiding the edge of the pit. There I waited, leaning against the stone, and felt the fluted wings of a falcon caress my neck. It made me stand up again.

  “You are not Cheysuli,” Duncan said. “You cannot be Cheysuli. But you can be made to better understand what it is to think and feel like a Cheysuli.”

  “And this will make me a man?” I could not entirely hide my resentment.

  “It will make you, however briefly, one of us.” His face was solemn in the torchlight. “It will not last. But you will know, for a moment, what it is to be Cheysuli. A child of the gods.” He made the gesture of tahlmorra. “And it will make you a better Mujhar.”

  My throat was dry. “Mujhar is a Cheysuli word, is it not? And Homana?”

  “Mujhar means king,” he said quietly. “Homana is a phrase: of all blood.”

  “King of all blood.” I felt the tension in my belly. “So, since you cannot put a Cheysuli on the throne—yet—you will do what else you can to make me into one.”

  “Ja’hai, cheysu,” he answered. “Ja’hai, cheysu, Mujhar.”

  “No!” I shouted. “Will you condemn me to the gods? Duncan—I am afraid—”

  The word echoed in the vault. Duncan merely waited.

  It nearly mastered me. I felt the sweat break out and run from my armpits, the stench of fear coated my body. A shudde
r wracked my bones and set my flesh to rising. I wanted to relieve myself, and my bowels had turned to water.

  “A man goes naked before the gods.”

  So, he would have me strip as well. Grimly, knowing he would see the shrinking of my genitals, I pulled off my boots, my shirt, and lastly the snug dark breeches. And there was no pity in Duncan’s eyes, or anything of amusement. Merely compassion, and perfect comprehension.

  He moved to the torches. He took each from the brackets and carried them out into the stairway closet. The door to the vault stood open, but I knew it was not an exit.

  “When I shut up the wall, you must jump.”

  He shut up the wall.

  And I jumped—

  NINETEEN

  Ja’hai, cheysu, Mujhar—

  The words echoed in my head.

  Ja’hai, cheysu, Mujhar—

  I fell. And I fell. So far.…Into blackness; into a perfect emptiness. So far.…

  I screamed.

  The sound bounced off the walls of the oubliette; the round, sheer walls I could not see. Redoubled, the scream came back and vibrated in my bones.

  I fell.

  I wondered if Duncan heard me. I wondered—I wondered—I did not. I simply fell.

  Ja’hai, cheysu, Mujhar—

  It swallowed me whole, the oubliette; I fell back into the Womb. And could not say whether it would give me up again—

  Duncan, oh Duncan, you did not give me proper warning…But is there a proper way? Or is it only to fall and, in falling, learn the proper way?

  Down.

  I was stopped. I was caught. I was halted in mid-fall. Something looped out around my ankles and wrists. Hands? No. Something else; something else that licked out from the blackness and caught me tightly at wrists and ankles, chest and hips. And I hung, belly-down, suspended in total darkness.

  I vomited. The bile spewed out of my mouth from the depths of my belly and fell downward into the pit. My bladder and bowels emptied, so that I was nothing but a shell of quivering flesh. I hung in perfect stillness, not daring to move, to breathe; praying to stay caught by whatever had caught me.

  Gods—do not let me fall again—not again—

  Netting? Taut, thin netting, perhaps, hung from some unseen protrusions in the roundness of the oubliette. I had seen nothing at the lip of the pit, merely the pit itself, yet it was possible the oubliette was not entirely smooth. Perhaps there was even a way out.

  The ropes did not tear my flesh. They simply held me immobile, so that my body touched nothing but air. I did not sag from arms and legs because of the ropes at chest and hips. I was supported, in a manner of speaking, and yet remained without it.

  A cradle. And the child held face-down to float within the Womb.

  “Duncan?” I whispered it, fearing my voice would upset the balance. “Is it supposed to be this way?”

  But Duncan was gone, leaving me completely alone, and I knew why he had done it. Finn had said little of Cheysuli manhood rites, since most warriors were judged fully grown by the bonding of the lir, but I thought there might be more. And I would remain ignorant of it, being Homanan and therefore unblessed, unless this was the way to discover what made the Cheysuli, Cheysuli.

  Tonight I will make you a king.

  A king? I wondered. Or a madman? Fear can crush a soul.

  I did not move. I hung. I listened. I wondered if Duncan would return to see how I fared. I would hear him. I would hear the grate of stone upon stone, even the subtle silence of his movements. I would hear him because I listened so well, with the desperation of a man wishing to keep his mind. And if he came back, I would shout for him to let me out.

  Probably I would beg.

  Go in a prince and come out a Mujhar.

  Gods, would it be worth it?

  Air. I breathed. There was no flavor to it, no stench to make it foul. Just air. From somewhere trickled the air that kept me alive; perhaps there were holes I could use to escape.

  I hung in total silence. When I turned my head, slowly, I heard the grating pop of spinal knots untying. I heard my hair rasp against my shoulders. Hardly sounds. Mostly whispers. And yet I heard them.

  I heard also the beating begin: pa-thump, pa-thump, pa-thump.

  Footsteps? No. Duncan? No.

  Pa-thump, pa-thump, pa-thump.

  I heard the wind inside my head, the raucous hissing roar. Noise, so much noise, hissing inside my head. I shut my eyes and tried to shut off my ears.

  Pa-thump, pa-thump, pa-thump.

  I hung. Naked and quite alone, lost within the darkness.

  The Womb of the Earth. A child again, I was; an unborn soul caught within the Womb. It was the beating of my own heart I heard, the noise of silence inside my head. A child again, was I, waiting to be born.

  “Duncannnn—!”

  I shut my eyes. I hung. The chill of fear began to fade. I lost my sense of touch, the knowledge I was held.

  I floated.

  Silence.

  Floating—

  No warmth. No cold. Nothingness. I floated in the absence of light, of sound, of touch, taste and smell. I did not exist.

  I waited with endless patience.

  Ringing. Like sword upon sword. Ringing. Noise—

  It filled my head until I could taste it. I could smell it. It sat on my tongue with the acrid tang of blood. Had I bitten myself? No. I had no blood. Only flesh, depending from the ropes.

  My eyes, I knew, were open. They stared. But I was blind. I saw only darkness, the absolute absence of light. And then it came up and struck me in the face, and the light of the world fell upon me.

  I cried out. Too much, too much—will you blind me with the light?

  It will make you, however briefly, one of us.

  “Duncan?”

  The whisper I mouthed was a shout. I recoiled in my ropes and recalled I had a body. A body. With two arms, two legs, a head. Human. Male. Carillon of Homana.

  You will know, for a moment, what it is to be Cheysuli.

  But I did not.

  I knew nothing.

  I thought only of being born.

  I heard the rustling of wings. The scrape of talons. Cai? No. Duncan had left him behind.

  Soughing of wings spread, stretching, folding, Preening. The pipping chirp of a falcon; the fierce shriek of a hunting hawk. The scream of an angry eagle.

  Birds. All around me birds. I felt the breath of their wings against my face, the caress of many feathers. How I wanted to join them, to feel the wind against my wings and know the freedom of the skies. To dance. Oh, to dance upon the wind—

  I felt the subtle seduction. I opened my mouth and shouted: “I am man, not bird! Man, not beast! Man, not shapechanger!”

  Silence soothed me. Pa-thump, pa-thump, pa-thump.

  Whispering.

  DemonDemonDemon—

  I floated.

  DemonDemonDemon—

  I stirred. No.

  SHAPEchangerSHAPEchangerSHAPEchanger—

  NoNoNo. I smiled. ManManMan.

  YouShiftYouShiftYouShift—

  Gods’ blessing, I pointed out. Cannot be denied.

  BeastBeastBeast—

  No!No!No!

  I floated. And I became a beast.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  I ran. Four-legged, I ran. With a tail slashing behind me, I ran. And knew the glory of such freedom.

  The warm earth beneath my paws, catching in the curving nails. The smells of trees and sky and grass and brush. The joyousness of playful flight; to leap across the creeks. The hot red meat of prey taken down; the taste of flesh in my mouth. But most of all the freedom, the utter, perfect freedom, to cast off cares and think only of the day. The moment. Not yesterday, not tomorrow; the day. The moment. Now.

  And to know myself a lir.

  Lir? I stopped. I stood in the shadow of a wide-boled beech. The glittering of sunlight through the leaves spattered gems across my path.

  Lir?

  Wolf. Like Storr:
silver-coated, amber-eyed. With such grace as a man could never know.

  How? I asked. How is it done?

  Finn had never been able to tell me in words I could understand. Lir and warrior and lir, he had said, knowing no other way. To part them was to give them over to death, be it quick or slow. The great yawning emptiness would lead directly into madness, and sooner death than such an end.

  For the first time I knew the shapechange. I felt it in my bones, be they wolf’s or man’s. I felt the essence of myself run out into the soil until the magic could be tapped.

  The void. The odd, distorted image of a man as he exchanged his shape for another. He changed his shape at will, by giving over the human form to the earth. It spilled out of him, sloughing off his bones, even as the bones themselves altered. What was not needed in lir-shape, such as clothing, weapons and too much human weight, went into storage in the earth, protected by the magic. An exchange. Give over excess and receive the smaller form.

  Magic. Powerful magic, rooted in the earth. I felt the heavy hair rise upon my hackles, so that I saw the transformation. Of soul as well as flesh.

  I knew the void for what it was. I understood why it existed. The gods had made it as a ward against the dazzled eyes of humans who saw the change. For to see flesh and bone before you melt into the ground, to be remade into another shape, might be too much for even the strongest to bear. And so mystery surrounded the change, and magic, and the hint of sorcery. No man, seeing the change for what it was, would ever name the Cheysuli men.

  And now, neither could I.

  The fear came down to swallow me whole and I recoiled against my ropes.

  Ropes. I hung in the pit. A man, not a wolf; not a beast. But until I acknowledged what the Cheysuli were, I would never be Mujhar.

  Homana was Cheysuli.

  I felt the madness come out of my mouth. “Accept!” I shouted. “Accept this man, this Mujhar!”

  Silence.

  “Ja’hai!” I shouted. “Ja’hai, cheysu, ja’hai—Ja’hai, cheysu, Mujhar!”

  “Carillon.”

  “Ja’hai,” I panted. “Ja’hai!” O gods, accept. O gods, acceptAcceptAccept—

  “Carillon.”

  If they did not—if they did not—

  “Carillon.”