Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 (10 page)

           
Urchin bowed quick acquiesence, then
followed Kellin from the chamber.

           
"Wait." Kellin stepped
rapidly aside to the wall beside the still-open door, catching Urchin's arm to
halt him. "Listen," he whispered.

           
Urchin's expression was dubious;
blue eyes flicked in alarm toward the door. "But—"

           
Kellin mashed a silencing hand into
his friend's mouth. He barely moved his lips. "There is something he wants
to tell her . . . something I am not to hear—"

           
Kellin bit off his sentence as his
grandmother began speaking, " ‘Tis Aidan, isn't it?" she asked
tensely in the room beyond, "You've heard."

           
"A message." The Mujhar's
tone was curiously flat, squashed all out of shape. Without seeing his
grandsire, Kellin heard the layered emotions: resignation, impatience, a raw
desperation. "Aidan says, “Not yet.' "

           
His granddame was not nearly so
self-controlled.

           
"Didn't ye tell him,
then?"

           
"I did. In the strongest terms
possible. 'Send for your son,' I said, 'Kellin needs his father.' "

           
"And?"

           
"And he says, 'Not yet."
"

           
Urchin's breath hissed. Kellin waved
him into silence.

           
"Gods," Aileen breathed.
"Has he gone mad, as they say?"

           
"I—want to think not. I want to
disbelieve the rumors. I want very much to believe there is a reason for what
he does."

           
"To keep himself isolate—"

           
"He is a shar tahl, Aileen.
They are unlike other Cheysuli—"

           
Her tone was rough, as if she
suppressed tears.

           
"There's Erinnish in him, too,
my braw boyo—or are you forgetting that?"

           
"No." The Mujhar sighed.
"He shapes others, Aidan says, to understand the old ways must be altered
by the new."

           
"But to deny his own son a
father—"

           
"He will send for Kellin, he
says, when the time is right."

           
For a long moment there was silence.
Then the Queen of Homana muttered an oath more appropriate to a soldier.
"And when will it be right? When his son is a grown man, seated upon the
Lion Throne Aidan himself should hold?"

           
The Mujhar answered merely, with
great weariness, "I do not know."

           
Tension filled the silence. Then
Kellin heard a long, breathy sigh cut off awkwardly.

           
"Aileen, no—"

           
"Why not?" The voice was
thick, but fierce. "He is my son, Brennan—I'm permitted, I'm thinking, to
cry if I wish to cry."

           
"Aileen—"

           
"I miss him," she said.
"Gods, but I miss him! So many years—"

           
"Shansu, meijhana—"

           
"There is no peace!" she
cried. "I bore him in my body. You're not knowing what it is."

           
"I am bonded in my own
way—"

           
"With a cat1." she said.
" 'Tisn't the same, Brennan. And even if it were, you have Sleeta here. I have
nothing. Nothing but memories of the child I bore, and the boy I raised. ..
." Her voice thickened again. " 'Tisn't fair to any of us. Not to
you, to me; and certainly not to Kellin." Her voice paused. "Is there
no way to make him come? To compel him?"

           
"No," Brennan said.
"He is more than our son, more than a jehan. He is also a shar tahl. I
will not compel a man blessed by gods to serve a mortal desire. Not for me, nor
for you—"

           
"For his son?"

           
"No. I will not
interfere."

           
Taut silence, as Kellin spun tightly
away. Urchin hesitated only a moment, then hastened to catch up.
"Kellin—"

           
"You heard." It took
effort not to shout. "You heard what he said. About my father—" It
filled his throat, swelling tightly, until he wanted to choke, or scream, or
cry. "He doesn't want me."

           
"That's not what the Mujhar
said. He said your father would send when the time was right."

           
Kellin strode on stiffly. "The
time will never be right!"

           
"But you don't know th—"

           
"I do." Venomously.
"He renounced the throne, and renounced me. He renounced everything"

           
"But he's a priest. Don't
priests do those things?"

           
"Not shar tahls. Not most of
them. They have sons, and they love them." Kellin's tone thinned, then
wavered. He clamped down on self-possession with every bit of strength he had.
"Someday I will see him, whether he wants me or no, and I will tell him to
his face that he is not a man."

           
"Kellin—"

           
"I will." Kellin stopped
and stared fiercely at Urchin. "And you will come with me."

           
He dreamed of gods, and fathers, and
islands; of demanding, impatient gods; of Lions who ate humans. He awoke with a
cry as the door swung open, and moved to catch up the knife he kept on a bench
beside his bed, with which he might slay lions.

           
"Kellin?" It was Rogan,
bringing with him a cupped candle. "Are you awake?"

           
Kellin always woke easily, prepared
for lions.

           
"Aye." He scooched up in
bed. "What is it?" His heart seized. Not the Lion—"

           
There was tension in Rogan's tone as
he came into the chamber, swinging shut the door behind him. He did not chide
his charge for speaking of the Lion. "Kellin ..." He came forward to
the bed, bringing the light with him. It scribed deep lines in a haggard face.
"There is something we must discuss."

           
"In the middle of the
night?"

           
"I can think of no better
time." A slight dryness altered the tension. Rogan put the candle cup on
the bench beside the knife, then sat down on the edge of the huge tester bed.
"My lord, I know you are troubled. I have known for some time. Urchin came
to me earlier, but do not blame him; he cares for you, and wants you
content."

           
"Urchin?" Kellin was
confused.

           
"He told me what you both
overheard today, when you eavesdropped on the Mujhar."

           
"Oh." Only the faintest
flicker of remorse pinched, then was consumed by remembered bitterness.

           
"Did he tell you—"

           
Rogan overrode. "Aye. And after
much thought, I have decided to do what no one else will do."

           
The tutor's eyes were blackened by
shadows, caved in unreadable darkness. "I offer you the opportunity to go
to your father."

           
"To—" Kellin sat bolt
upright. "You?"

           
Rogan nodded. His mouth was tight.
"I make no attempt to explain or excuse him, my lord .. . I merely offer
to escort you to the Crystal Isle, where you may ask him yourself why he has
done as he has."

           
"My father," Kellin
whispered. "Jehan—" He stared hard into darkness. "When?"

           
"In the morning."

           
"How?"

           
"We will say we are going to
Clankeep. You wish to take Urchin there, do you not?"

           
"Aye, but—"

           
"I shall tell the Mujhar you
wish to introduce Urchin to Clankeep and the Cheysuli. He will not refuse you
that. Only we shall go to Hondarth instead."

           
"But—the Mujharan Guard.
They'll know."

           
"I have prevailed upon the
Mujhar to allow us to go without guards. You are Cheysuli, after all—and I know
how much close confinement chafes the Mujhar. He understands the need to allow
you more freedom . .. and there has been no trouble for quite some time. If
Clankeep were not so close, it would be different."

           
"But won't he know? Won't he
find out? It is two weeks' ride to Hondarth."

           
"It is not unusual for a
Cheysuli boy, regardless of rank, to desire to spend some time among his
people."

           
Kellin understood at once. "But
we will go to the Crystal Isle while he believes we are at Clankeep!"

           
The tutor's silence was eloquent.

           
Kellin drew in a breath. "You
will have to send word."

           
"From Hondarth. By then it will
be too late for the Mujhar to stop us."

           
Kellin looked into the beloved face.
"Why?"

           
Rogan's smile was ghastly.
"Because it is time."

           
They left early, very early, with
only a loaf of bread and a flagon of cider serving as breakfast.

           
Kellin, Urchin, and Rogan made a
very small party as they exited Homana-Mujhar before the Mujhar and the queen
were even awake.

           
"Where is Clankeep?"
Urchin asked.

           
Kellin flicked a glance at Rogan,
then grinned at his Homanan friend. "We aren't going to Clankeep. We are
going to the Crystal Isle. To my jehan."

           
Urchin absorbed the new information.
"How far is the Crystal Isle?"

           
"Two weeks of riding,"
Kellin answered promptly. Then, evoking his Erinnish granddame, "And but a
bit of a sail across the bay to the island." Inwardly, he said, And to my
Jehan.

           
"Two weeks?" Urchin scratched
at his nose. "I didn't know Homana was so big."

           
"Aye." Kellin grinned.
"One day all of it will be mine, and you will help me rule it."

           
Urchin was dubious. "I'm only a
spit-boy."

           
"For now." Kellin looked
at his tutor. "Once, Rogan was only a man who gambled too much."

           
Rogan's face grayed. Even his lips
went pale.

           
"Who told you that?"

           
Kellin stiffened, alarmed. "Was
I not to know?"

           
The tutor was plainly discomfited.
"You know what you know, my lord, but it is not a past of which to be proud.
I thought it well behind me.When I married—" He broke it off, abruptly,
nostrils pinched and white.

           
Alerted, Kellin answered the scent.
"You are married?"

           
"I was." Rogan's face was
stiff, and his spine, "She is dead. Long dead." He guided his mount with
abrupt motions, which caused the gelding to A protest the bit. "Before I
married Tassia, I gambled away all my coin. She broke me of the habit, and made
me use my wits for something other t than wagering."

           
"And so you came to Homana-Mujhar."
Kellin nodded approvingly. "I recall the day."

           
"So do I, my lord."
Rogan's smile was twisted. "She was one month dead. You were all of eight,
and grieving for your great-uncle."

           
"The Lion bit him," Kellin
muttered. "He bit him, and Ian -died,"

           
"How far do we go today?"
Urchin asked, oblivious to dead kinsmen and dead wives’

           
"There is a roadhouse some way
out of Mujhara, on the Hondarth road," Rogan answered. "We will stay
the night there."

           
The common room was dim, lighted
only by a handful of greasy tallow candles set in clay cups.

           
The room stank of spilled wine,
skunky ale, burned meat, and unwashed humanity. It crossed Kellin's mind
briefly, who was accustomed to better, that the roadhouse was unworthy of them,
but he closed his mouth on a question. They were bound for the Crystal Isle in
absolute secrecy, and for a boy to complain of his surroundings would draw the
wrong sort of attention. Instead, he breathed through his mouth until the
stench was bearable and kept a sharp eye on the purse hanging at Rogan's belt.
He had learned that much from Urchin who had grown up in the streets-

           
"Look." Kellin leaned
close to Urchin and nudged him with an elbow as they slipped into the room
behind Rogan- "See the one-eyed man?"

           
Urchin nodded. "I see
him."

           
"You've been places I have
not—what is he doing?"

           
Urchin grinned. "Dicing. See
the cubes? He'll toss them out of the leather cup onto the table.

           
The highest number wins."

           
Rogan halted at a table near the
center of the room and glanced at his two young charges. His face was arranged
in a curiously blank expression.

           
"We will sit here."

           
Kellin nodded, paying little
attention; he watched the one-eyed man as he shook the leather cup and rolled
the dice out onto the table. The man shouted, laughed, then scooped up the few
coins glinting dully in wan light.

           
"Look at the loser,” Urchin
whispered as he slipped onto a stool. "D'ye see the look? He's
angry."

           
Kellin slid a glance at the other
man. The loser made no physical motion that gave away his anger, but Kellin
marked the tautness of his mouth, the bunched muscles along his jaw.
Deliberately the loser tossed two more coins onto the table, matched by the
one-eyed man. Each man tossed dice again.

           
A knife appeared, glinting dully in
bad light.

           
The one-eyed man, wary of the weapon
displayed specifically for his benefit, did not immediately reach to gather up
his winnings.

           
Urchin leaned close. "He thinks
the one-eyed man is cheating."

           
It fascinated Kellin, who had never
been so close to violence other than the Lion. "Will he kill him?"

           
Urchin shrugged. "I've seen men
killed for less reason than a dice game."

           
Rogan's lips compressed. "I
should not have brought you in here. We should go upstairs to our room and have
a meal sent up."

           
"No!" Kellin said quickly.
Then, as Rogan's brows arched, "I mean—should not the future Mujhar see
all kinds of those he will rule?"

           
The taut mouth loosened a little.
"Perhaps. And an astute one will recognize that to some Homanans, the man
on the Lion Throne means less than nothing."

           
It was incomprehensible to Kellin
who had been reared in a household steeped in honor and respect. "But how
can they—"

           
A shadow fell across their table,
distracting Kellin at once. A slender, well-formed hand—unlike the broad-palmed,
spatulate hands of the one-eyed man and his angry companion—placed a wooden
casket on the table. A subtle, muted rattle from the contents was loud in the
sudden silence.

           
Kellin glanced up at once. The man
smiled slightly, glancing at the two boys before turning his attention to
Rogan. He was young, neatly dressed in good gray tunic and trews, and his blue
eyes lacked the dull hostility Kellin had marked in the dicers. Shining russet
hair fell in waves to his shoulders. "Will you play, sir?"

           
Rogan wet his lips. He moved his
hands from the table top to his lap. "I—do not play."

           
"Ah, but it will take no time
at all ... and you may leave this table with good gold in your purse." An
easy, mellifluous tone; a calm and beguiling smile.

           
Kellin glanced sharply at Rogan. He
would not—would he? After all his dead wife had done?

           
But he could see the expression in
the tutor's eyes: Rogan desired very badly to play. The older man's mouth
parted slightly, then compressed again. Rogan's gaze met the stranger's.
"Very well."

           
"But—" Kellin began.

           
The stranger overrode the protest
easily, sliding onto a stool before Kellin could finish. "I am Corwyth,
from Ellas. It is my good fortune that we are chance-met." He cast a brief
glance around the room. "The others do not interest me, but you are
obviously a man of good breeding." He spared a smile for Kellin and Urchin
as he addressed Rogan. "Your sons?"

           
"Aye," Rogan said briefly;
he did not so much as glance at Corwyth, but stared transfixed at the casket.

           
It fascinated Kellin also. A passing
glance marked nothing more than plain dark wood polished smooth by time and
handling, but a second glance—and a more intense examination—revealed the wood
not smooth at all, b'ut carved with a shallow frieze of intricate runes.
Inside—? Kellin leaned forward to peer into the mouth of the casket and saw
only blackness. "Where are the dice?"

           
Corwyth laughed softly. "Be
certain they are there." He sat at Rogan's right hand. with Urchin on his
right; Kellin's stool was directly across the table. "Have you played
before?"

           
The Ellasian addressed him, not
Rogan; he seemed to know all about Rogan. Kellin shook his head quickly,
slanting a glance at his tutor, "My—father—does not allow it."

           
"Ah, well . , . when you are older,
then." Corwyth ignored Urchin utterly as he turned his attention to Rogan.
"Will you throw first, or shall I?"

           
Rogan's taut throat moved in a heavy
swallow.

           
"I must know the stakes
first."

           
Corwyth's smile came easily,
lighting his mobile face. "Those you know already."

           
A sheen of dampness filmed Rogan's
brow. "Will I lose, then? Or do you play the game as if there might be a
chance for me?"

           
The odd bitterness in the older
man's tone snared Kellin's attention instantly. But Rogan said nothing more to
explain himself, and Corwyth answered before Kellin could think of a proper
question.

           
The Ellasian indicated the
rune-carved casket with a flick of a fingernail. "A man makes his own
fortune, regardless of the game."

           
Rogan scrubbed his face with a
sleeve-sheathed forearm, then swore raggedly and caught up the casket. He
upended it with a practiced twitch of his wrist. Six ivory cubes fell out, and
six slender black sticks.

           
All of them were blank.

           
Urchin blurted surprise. Rogan
stiffened on his bench, transfixed by the sticks and cubes. Breath rasped in
his throat.

           
"Did you lose?" Kellin
asked, alarmed by Rogan's glazed eyes.

           
Corwyth's tone was odd. "How
would you like them to read?" he asked Rogan. "Tell me. and I shall
do it."

           
Rogan's fingers gripped the edge of
the table.

           
"And if—if I requested the
winning gambit?"

           
"Why, then I should lose."
Corwyth grinned and glanced at Kellin and Urchin. "But, after all, it is
my game, and I think I should still find a way to win." His gaze returned
to Rogan's face. "Do you not agree?"

           
"Kellin—" Rogan's tone was
abruptly harsh.

           
"Kellin, you and Urchin are to
go upstairs at once."

           
"No," Corwyth said softly.
A slender finger touched each of the blank ivory cubes and set them all to
glowing with a livid purple flame.

           
"Magic—" Urchin whispered:
dreadful fascination.

           
Kellin did not look at the cubes or
the black sticks. He stared instead at Corwyth's face, into his eyes, and saw
no soul.

           
He put out his small hand instantly
and swept the cubes from the table, unheeding of the flame, then scattered all
the sticks. "No," Kellin declared. "No."

           
Corwyth's smile was undiminished; if
anything, it increased to one of immense satisfaction. "Perceptive, my
lord. My master has indeed done well to send me for you now, while you are yet
lirless and therefore without power. But I think for all your perception you
fail to recognize the extent of his power, or mine—" his tone altered from
conversational, "—and that the game we initiated has already been played
through." Smoothly he caught Rogan's arm in one hand. and the wristbones
snapped,

           
Rogan cried out. Sweat ran from his
face. His shattered wrist remained trapped in Corwyth's hand, who appeared to
exert no pressure whatsoever with anything but his will.

           
Kellin leapt to his feet, thinking
only that somehow he must get Rogan free; he must stop Rogan's pain. But the
instinct was abruptly blunted, the attempt aborted, as Corwyth shook his head.
He will injure Rogan worse. Kellin knew it at once.