The Song of Homana

by Jennifer Roberson

  Duncan shut his eyes. I saw his right hand make the eloquent sign. “Tahlmorra lujhalla mei wiccan, cheysu.” All the helplessness was in his voice, and I knew it chafed his soul. Duncan was not a man who suffered helplessness with any degree of decorum.

  I sighed and mimicked the gesture, including the Cheysuli phrase for wishing him peace: Cheysuli i’halla shansu.

  “Peace!” It was bitterly said, from Duncan, a revelation. “My son will know none of that.”

  I felt the dampness in my bones and pulled the heavy robe more tightly around my shoulders. “I think I have known little of it. Have you?”

  “Oh, aye,” he returned at once, with all the force of his bitterness. “More than you, Carillon. It was to me that Alix came.”

  The bolt went home. I grimaced, thinking of Electra, and knew I would have to deal with it before more time went by. The gods knew Tynstar had stolen enough.

  “I will send for Alix,” I said at last, hunching against the chill he did not seem to feel. “And Donal. I will explain things to them both. I would have you send Cai, but there is a task I have for you.” I expected a refusal, but Duncan said nothing at all. I saw the weariness in his posture and the knowledge in his eyes. He was ever a step before me. “Duncan—I am sorry. I did not mean to usurp your son.”

  “Be not sorry for what the gods intend.” He gestured the hawk to his arm. How he held him, I cannot say; Cai is a heavy bird. “As for your task, I will do it. It will get me free of these walls.” For a moment his shoulders hunched in, mirroring my own, but for a different reason. “They chafe,” he said at last. “How they chafe…how they bind a Cheysuli soul.”

  “But the Cheysuli built these walls.” I was surprised at the vehemence in his tone.

  “We built them and we left them.” He shook his head. “I leave them. It is my son who will have to learn what it is to know himself well-caged. I am too old, too set in my ways to change.”

  “As I am,” I said bitterly. “Tynstar has made me so.”

  “Tynstar altered the body, not the mind,” Duncan said. “Let not the body affect the heart.” He smiled a moment, albeit faintly, and then he left the room.

  I went into Electra’s chambers and found her seated by a casement. The sunlight set her hair to glowing and made her blind to me. It was only when the door thumped closed that she turned her head and saw me.

  She did not rise. She sat upon the bench with the black cloak wrapped around her like a shroud of Tynstar’s making. The hood was draped across her shoulders, freeing her hair, and I saw the twin braids bound with silver. It glittered against the cloak.

  Tynstar’s child swelled her belly. Mine had done it before. It made me angry, but not so angry as to show it. I merely stood in the room and faced her, letting her see what the sorcery had wrought; to know it had been her doing that changed me so.

  Her chin lifted a little. She had not lost a whit of her pride and defiance, even knowing she was caught.

  “He left you behind,” I said. “Was that a measure of his regard?”

  I saw the minute twitch of her mouth. I had put salt in the open wound. “Unless you slay me, he will have me still.”

  “But you do not think I will slay you.”

  She smiled. “I am Aislinn’s mother and the Queen of Homana. There is nothing you can do.”

  “And if I said you were a witch?”

  “Say it,” she countered. “Have me executed, then, and see how Solinde responds.”

  “As I recall, it was Solinde you wanted freed.” I moved a trifle closer. “You wanted no vassal to Homana.”

  “Tynstar will prevent it.” Her eyes did not shift from mine. “You have seen what he could do. You have felt it.”

  “Aye,” I said softly, approaching again. “I have felt it and so have you, though the results were somewhat reversed. It seems I have all the years you shed, Electra, and like to keep them, I think. A pity, no doubt, but it does not strip me of my throne. I am still Mujhar of Homana—and Solinde a vassal to me.”

  “How long will you live?” she retorted. “You are forty-five, now. No more the young Mujhar. In five years, ten, you will be old. Old. In war, old men die quickly. And you will know war, Carillon; that I promise you.”

  “But you will never see it.” I bent down and caught one of her wrists, pulling her to her feet. She was heavy with Tynstar’s child. Her free arm went down to cradle her belly protectively beneath the heavy cloak. “I exile you, Electra. For the years that remain to you.”

  Color splotched her face, but she showed no fear. “Where do you send me, then?”

  “To the Crystal Isle.” I smiled. “I see you know it. Aye, a formidable place when you are the enemy of Homana. It is the birthplace of the Cheysuli and claims the protection of the gods. Tynstar could never touch you there. Not ever, Electra. The island will be your prison.” I still held her wrist in one hand. The other I put out to catch one braid and threaded my fingers into it. “You will be treated as befits your rank. You will have servants and fine clothing, good food and wine, proper accoutrements. Everything except freedom. And there—with his child—you will grow old and die.” My smile grew wider as I felt the silk of her hair. “For such as you, I think, that will be punishment enough.”

  “I will bear that child in less than one month.” Her lips were pale and flat. “A journey now may make me lose it.”

  “If the gods will it,” I agreed blandly. “I send you in the morning with Duncan and an escort of Cheysuli. Try your arts on them, if you seek to waste your time. They, unlike myself, are invulnerable.”

  I saw the movement deep in her eyes and felt the touch of her power. Color returned to her face. She smiled faintly, knowing what I knew, and the long-lidded eyes drew me in. As ever. She would always be my bane.

  I let go of her wrist, her braid, and cupped her head with both hands. I kissed her as a drowning man clings to wood. Gods, but she could move me still…she could still reach into my soul—

  —and twist it.

  I set her away from me with careful deliberation and saw the shock of realization in her face. “It is done, Electra. You must pay the price of your folly.”

  The sunlight glittered off the silver cording in her braids. But also off something else: tears. They stood in her great gray eyes, threatening to spill.

  But I knew her. Too well. They were tears of anger, not of fear, and I went out of the room with the taste of defeat in my mouth.

  SIX

  The arms-master stepped back, lowering his sword. “My lord Mujhar, let this stop. It is a travesty.”

  My breath hissed between my teeth. “It will remain a travesty until I learn to overcome it.” I gripped the hilt of my Cheysuli sword and lifted the blade yet again. “Come against me, Cormac.”

  “My lord—” He stepped away again, shaking his crop-haired head. “There is no sense in it.”

  I swore at him. I had spent nearly an hour trying to regain a portion of my skill, and now he denied me the chance. I lowered my sword and stood there, clad in breeches and practice tunic while the sweat ran down my arms. I shut my eyes a moment, trying to deal with the pain; when I opened them I saw the pity in Cormac’s dark brown eyes.

  “Ku’reshtin!” I snapped. “Save your pity for someone else! I have no need of such—” I went in against him then, raising the sword yet again, and nearly got through his belated guard.

  He danced back, danced again, then ducked my swinging sword. His own came up to parry my blow; I got under it and thrust toward his belly. He sucked it in, leaped aside, then twisted and came toward my side. I blocked, tied up his slash and pushed his blade aside.

  The rhythm began to come back. It was fitful and very slow, but I had lost little of my strength. The stamina was blunted, but it might return in time. I had only to learn what it was to deal with the stiffness of my joints and forget about the pain.

  Cormac caught his lip between his teeth. I saw the light in his eyes. His soft-booted feet his
sed against the floor as he slid and slid again, ducking the blows I lowered. We did not fight for blood, sparring only, but he knew I meant to beat him. He would allow me no quarter, not even if I were to ask it.

  It was my hands that failed me finally, my big-knuckled, aching hands. In the weeks that followed since I had regained my senses, I learned how weakened they were. My knees hurt all the time, as if some demon chewed upon them from the inside moving outward. But when I was moving I forgot them. Mostly. It was when I stopped that I was reminded of the ache in my bones. But my hands, in swordplay, were the most important, and I had found them the largest barrier to regaining my banished skill.

  My wrists held firm, locked against his blow, but the fingers lost their grip. They twisted, shooting pain up through my forearms. The sword went flying from my hands, clanging against the stone, and I cursed myself for being such a fool as to let it go. But when Cormac bent to retrieve it I set my foot upon it. “Let it go. Enough of this. We will continue another time.”

  He bowed quickly and took his leave, taking his sword with him. My own still lay upon the floor, as if to mock me, while I tried to regain my breath. I set my teeth against the pain in my swollen hands. In a moment I bent down, grimacing against the sudden cramp in my back, and scooped up the blade with one hand.

  The sweat ran into my eyes. I scrubbed one forearm across my face and cleared my burning vision. And then, giving it up, I sat down on the nearest bench. I stretched out my legs carefully and gave into the pain for a moment, feeling the fire in my knees. I set back and head against the wall and tried to shut it all out.

  “You are better, my lord, since the last time.”

  When I could, I rolled my head to one side and saw Rowan. “Am I? Or do you merely let me think so?”

  “I would not go up against you,” he said flatly, coming closer. “But you should not hope for it all, not so soon. It will take time, my lord.”

  “I have no time. Tynstar has stolen it from me.” I scraped my spine against the wall and sat up straight again, suppressing a grimace, and drew in my feet. Even my ankles hurt. “Have you come on business, or merely to tell me what you think I want to hear?”

  “There is a visitor.” He held out a silver signet ring set with a plain black stone.

  I took it and rolled it in my hand. “Who is it, then? Do I know him?”

  “He names himself Alaric of Atvia, my lord. Crown Prince, to be precise.”

  I looked up from the ring sharply. “Thorne is slain. If this boy is his son, he is now Lord of Atvia in Thorne’s place. Why does he humble himself?”

  “Alaric is not the heir. Osric, his older brother, sits on the Atvian throne.” He paused. “In Atvia, my lord.”

  I scowled. “Osric is not come, then.”

  “No, my lord.”

  I gritted my teeth a moment, swearing within my mind. I was in no mood for diplomacy, especially not with a child. “Where is this Atvian infant?”

  Rowan smiled. “In an antechamber off the Great Hall, where I have put him. Would you prefer him somewhere else?”

  “No. I will save the Great Hall for his brother.” I stood up, using the wall for a brace. For a moment I waited, allowing the worst of the pain to die, and then I gave Rowan my sword. I shut up the ring in my fist and went out of the practice chamber.

  The boy, I discovered, was utterly dwarfed by his surroundings. The Great Hall would have overtaken him completely, and I was in no mood for such ploys. Alaric looked no older than six or seven and would hardly comprehend the politics of the situation.

  He rose stiffly as I came into the chamber, having dressed in fresh clothing. He bowed in a brief, exceedingly slight gesture of homage that just missed condescension. The expression in his brown eyes was one of sullen hostility, and his face was coldly set.

  I walked to a cushioned mahogany chair and sat down, allowing no hint of the pain to show in my face. I was stiffening after the sparring. “So…Atvia comes to Homana.”

  “No, my lord.” Alaric spoke quietly. “My brother, Lord Osric of Atvia, sends me to say Atvia does not come to Homana. Nor ever will, except to conquer this land.”

  I contemplated Alaric in some surprise. He was dressed as befitted his rank, and his dark brown hair was combed smooth. A closer look revealed him older than I had thought. He was perhaps a year or two older than Donal, but the knowledge in his eyes seemed to surpass that of a grown man.

  I permitted myself a smile, though it held nothing of amusement. “I have slain your father, my lord Alaric, because he sought to pull down my House and replace it with his own. I could do the same to your own, beginning with you.” I paused. “Has your brother a response to that?”

  Alaric’s slender body was rigid. “He does, my lord. I am to say we do not acknowledge your sovereignty.”

  I rested my chin in one hand, elbow propped against the arm rest. “Osric sends you into danger with such words in your mouth, my young Atvian eagle. What say you to remaining here a hostage?”

  Angry color flared in Alaric’s face, but he did not waver a bit. “My brother said I must prepare myself for that.”

  I frowned. “How old is Osric?”

  “Sixteen.”

  I sighed. “So young—so willing to risk his brother and his realm.”

  “My father said you had ever been Atvia’s enemy, and must be gainsaid.” Grief washed through the brown eyes and the mouth wavered a little, but he covered it almost at once. “My brother and I will serve our father’s memory by fighting you in his place. In the end, we will win. If nothing else, we will outlive you. You are an old man, my lord…Osric and I are young.”

  I felt a fist clench in my belly. Old, was I? Aye, to his eyes. “Too young to die,” I said grimly. “Shall I have you slain, Alaric?”

  Color receded from his face. He was suddenly a small boy again. “Do what you wish, my lord—I am prepared.” The voice shook a little.

  “No,” I said abruptly, “you are not. You only think it. You have yet to look death in the face and know him; had you done it, you would not accept him so blithely.” I pushed myself up and bit off the oath I wished to spit out between my teeth. “Serve your lord, boy…serve him as well as you may. But do it at home in Atvia; I do not slay or imprison young boys.”

  Alaric caught the heavy ring as I threw it at him. Shock was manifest in his face. “I may go home?”

  “You may go home. Tell your brother I give him back his heir, though I doubt not he will have another one soon enough, when he takes himself a wife.”

  “He is already wed, my lord.”

  I studied the boy again. “Tell him also that twice a year Homanan ships shall call at Rondule. Upon those ships Osric shall place tribute to Homana. If you wish continued freedom from Homana, my young lordling, you will pay the tribute.” I paused. “You may tell him also that should he ever come against me in the field, I will slay him.”

  The small face looked pinched. “I will tell him, my lord. But—as to this tribute—”

  “You will pay it,” I said. “I will send a message for your brother back with you in the morning, and it will include all the details of this tribute. You must pay the cost of the folly in trying to take Homana.” I signalled to one of the waiting servants. “See he is fed and lodged as befits his rank. In the morning, he may go home.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  I put a hand on Alaric’s shoulder and turned him toward the man. “Go with Breman, my proud young prince. You will not know harm in Homana-Mujhar.” I gave him a push from my swollen hand and saw him start toward Breman. In a moment they both were gone.

  Rowan cleared his throat. “Is he not a valuable hostage?”

  “Aye. But he is a boy.”

  “I thought it was often done. Are not princes fostered on friendly Houses? What would be the difference?”

  “I will not take his childhood from him.” I shivered in the cold dampness of the chamber. “Osric is already wed. He will get himself sons soon en
ough; Alaric will lose his value. Since I doubt Osric has any intention of coming so soon against Homana, I lose nothing by letting Alaric go.”

  “And when, in manhood, he comes to fight?”

  “I will deal with it then.”

  Rowan sighed. “And what of Osric? Sixteen is neither child nor man.”

  “Had it been Osric, I would have thrown him into chains.” I paused. “To humble that arrogant mouth.”

  Rowan smiled. “You may yet be able to, my lord.”

  “Perhaps.” I looked at Rowan squarely. “But if he is anything like his father—or even Keough, his grandsire—Osric and I shall meet in battle. And one of us will die.”

  “My lord.” It was a servant in the doorway, bowing with politeness. “My lord Mujhar, there is a boy.”

  “Breman has taken Alaric,” I said. “He is to be treated with all respect.”

  “No, my lord—another boy. This one is Cheysuli.”

  I frowned. “Say on.”

  “He claims himself kin to you, my lord—he has a wolf and a falcon.”

  I laughed then. “Donal! Aye, he is kin to me. But he should have his mother with him in addition to his lir.”

  “No, my lord.” The man looked worried. “He is alone but for the animals, and he appears to have been treated harshly.”

  I went past him at once and to the entry chamber. There I saw a falcon perched upon a candlerack with all the wicks unlighted. The wolf stood close to Donal, shoring up one leg. Donal’s black hair was disheveled and his face was pinched with deprivation. Bruises ringed his throat.

  He saw me and stared, his eyes going wide, and I realized what he saw. Not the man he had known. “Donal,” I said, and then he knew me, and came running across the floor.

  “They have taken my jehana—” His voice shook badly. He shut his eyes a moment, blocking out the tears, and tried to speak again. “They have taken her…and slain Torrin in the croft!”

  I swore, though I kept it to myself. Donal pressed himself against me, hanging onto my doublet, and I wanted nothing more than to lift him into my arms. But I did not. I know something of Cheysuli pride, even in the young.