Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 (14 page)

           
The Mujhar did not so much as twitch
an eyelid.

           
The mildness of his tone was
deceptive, but Kellin knew it well: Brennan wanted very badly to know the
precise truth, without embellishments or sup-positions. "You are certain
it was he?"

           
"Aye." Kellin suppressed
with effort the emotions to which he longed to surrender. He would be all
Cheysuli in this. "He said he would take me to my jehan. That you knew we
were to go, just the three of us, but that we meant to go to Clankeep. He said
he would send true word to you where we were, but only after we were on our way
to Hondarth."

           
Brennan's face grayed. "Such a
simple plan, and certain to work. I was a fool. Lochiel has ways of suborning
even those I most value."

           
"Not money," Kellin said.
"So he could have his wife back. Only—" He checked himself, recalling
all too clearly the tiny dancing woman and Rogan's horrible ending.
"Corwyth killed him first. With sorcery. And then Urchin." Pain
formed a knot in chest and throat. "Urchin's dead, too."

           
After a moment the Mujhar touched
Kellin's head briefly. Gently, he said, "You must tell me everything you
remember about how this was done, and the Ihlini himself. Everything, Kellin,
so we may prepare for another attack."

           
"Another—?" Kellin stared
hard at the Mujhar, turning over the words. Realization made him breathless.
"They want to catch me. Corwyth said so. He said he was taking me to
Lochiel, in Valgaard."

           
Brennan's expression was grim, but
he did not avoid candor. "You are important to the Ihlini, Kellin, because
of who you are, and the blood in your veins. You know about that."

           
He did. Very well. Too well; it was
all anyone spoke of. "They won't stop, then." It seemed obvious.

           
"No."

           
Kellin nodded, understanding more
with each moment. "That's why you set the dogs to guarding me."

           
"Dogs? Ah." Brennan smiled
faintly. "We dared not allow you to go anywhere alone. Not in Mujhara, not
even to Clankeep." His jaw tightened.

           
"Do you recall how you sickened
after your Naming Day feast?"

           
Kellin nodded, recalling with vivid
clarity how ill he had been after eating his meal. He had not wanted fish for a
sixth-month, after.

           
"Lochiel had no recourse to
sorcery in order to harm you, not so long as you remained in Homana-Mujhar, or
at Clankeep, but coin buys people. He bribed a cook to poison the meal. We were
forced to take serious steps to safeguard Homana's prince, and his freedom
suffered for it."

           
Brennan's words were stated with
careful precision. "Rogan understood. Rogan knew why. He comprehended
fully how you were to be protected."

           
That is why they were all so upset
when I ran away from the fortune-teller. Guilt flickered. "It was after I
heard you speaking with granddame. About how my jehan would not have me see
him." Kellin swallowed heavily. "Rogan came and said he would take me
to my jehan."

           
Brennan's expression was bleak as he
exchanged a glance with Blais. "I have learned from this, too, though I
believed myself wise in such matters."

           
He sighed heavily. "Nearly
every man has his price. Most will deny it, claiming themselves in-corruptible,
but there is always something that will lure them into betrayal- If they
disbelieve it, it is because they have not been offered that which they most
desire."

           
Rogan was offered his wife. Kellin
wanted to protest it. It hurt him deeply that Rogan had betrayed him, but he
understood his grandfather's words.

           
Hadn't he been bought by the promise
of his father?

           
"I would never submit to an
Ihlini," he muttered. "Never."

           
"And that is why you are
here." Brennan smiled faintly, tension easing from his features.
"Tell us everything."

           
Kellin did. By the time he was done
he felt tears in his eyes, and hated himself for them.

           
Blais shook his head. "There is
no shame in honest grief."

           
Brennan's tone was gentle.
"Rogan was everything to you for two years, and Urchin was your best
friend. We think no less of you because you loved them."

           
Kellin let that go, thinking now of
something else. "You said something about me. To Blais, earlier. That I
offer the greatest threat to the Ihlini."

           
He looked first at Blais, then at
the Mujhar. "What harm can I do them?"

           
"You can bring down their
House," Brennan said quietly, "merely by siring a son."

           
It was incomprehensible.
"Me?"

           
The Mujhar laughed. "You are
young yet to think of such things as sons, Kellin, but the day will come when
you are a man. Lochiel knows this. With each passing year you become more
dangerous."

           
"Because of my blood."
Kellin looked at the scar ringing his ankle, recalling the warm wetness running
down between his toes. "That blood."

           
Brennan took Kellin's wrist into his
hand and raised it, spreading the fingers with the pressure of his thumb.
"All the blood in here," he said. "In this hand, in this arm, in
this body. And the seed in your loins, provided it quickens within the body of
a particular woman. Lochiel cannot risk allowing you to sire that son."

           
"The prophecy," Kellin
murmured, staring at his hand. He tried to look beneath the flesh to bone and
muscle, and the blood that was so special.

           
"The Firstborn reborn,"
Blais said- "The bane of the Ihlini. The end of Asar-Suti."

           
Kellin looked at his grandfather.
"They died because of me. Rogan. Urchin. The fortune-teller. Didn't
they?"

           
Brennan closed the small hand inside
his own adult one. "It is the heaviest burden a man can know. Men who are
kings—and boys who are princes—carry more of them than most."

           
His chest was full of pain.
"Will more die, grandsire? Just because of me?"

           
Brennan did not lie. He did not look
away. "Almost certainly."

           
Kellin felt important and adult:
Brennan had said he might have a small cup of honey brew, the powerful Cheysuli
liquor. He knew it was his grandfather's way of making him feel safe and loved
after his encounter with tragedy, so he sipped slowly, savoring the liquor and
the intent, not wanting the moment to end because he felt for the first time as
if they believed him grown, or nearly so. Nearly was better than not; he
grinned into the clay cup.

           
The Mujhar was not present. When
Brennan returned to the pavilion, he, Kellin, and Blais would depart for
Homana-Mujhar, but for the moment Kellin was required to stay with his cousin.
Brennan met with the clan-leader to discuss the kinds of things kings and
clan-leaders discuss; Kellin had heard some of it before and found it
tedious-He was much more interested in his kinsman, who was fascinating as a complex
mixture of familiar and exotic.

           
An Erinnish Cheysuli with Homanan in
his blood, Blais did not look anything but Cheysuli, yet his accent and
attitude were different. The latter was most striking to Kellin. Blais seemed
less concerned with excessive personal dignity than with being content within
his spirit; if that spirit were more buoyant than most, he gave it free rein
regardless.

           
At this moment Blais was working on
a bow, replacing the worn leather handgrip with new. His head was bent over his
work and a lock of thick black hair obscured part of his face. Lir-gold
gleamed. Next to him sprawled sleeping Tanni, toes twitching in wolf dreams.

           
"It could be you," Kellin
blurted. "Couldn't it?"

           
Blais did not look up from his
handiwork.

           
"What could, lad?"

           
"You," Kellin repeated.
"The man in the prophecy. The man whose blood can do the things everyone
wants it to do."

           
Now Blais raised his head. "My
blood?"

           
"Aye. You are Cheysuli,
Erinnish, and Homanan. You are halfway there."

           
"Ah, but you are all the way
there, my lad. I've no Solindish or Atvian blood bubbling in my veins."
Blais' face creased in a smile. "You've no fear of me usurping your
place."

           
"But you're older. You are a
warrior." Kellin looked at Tanni. "You have a lir."

           
"And so will you, in but a
handful of years."

           
Strong fingers moved skillfully as
Blais rewrapped the leather.

           
"But I heard you," Kellin
said quietly, grappling with new ideas. "You talked to grandsire about the
a'saii."

           
The hands stilled abruptly. This
time Blais' gaze was sharp. "I said something of it, aye. You see, lad—I
have more cause to concern myself with a'saii than any warrior alive."

           
"They were traitors,"
Kellin declared. "Rogan told me—" He cut it off abruptly.
"Grandsire said they wanted to overthrow the proper succession and replace
it with another."

           
"So they did." Blais' tone
was noncommittal. "They were Cheysuli who feared the completion of the
prophecy would end their way of life."

           
"Will it?"

           
Blais shrugged. "Things will
change, aye .. . but perhaps not so much as the a'saii fear."

           
"Do you?" Kellin needed to
know. "Do you fear it, Blais?"

           
An odd expression crossed Blais'
smooth, dark face. For only a moment, black brows pulled together. Then he
smiled crookedly. "I fear losing what I have only just found," he
admitted evenly. "I was born here, Kellin. Keep-born, but reared in Erinn
a very long way away. Customs are different in Erinn. I was a part of them, but
also longed for others. My jehana taught me what she could of the language and
customs of Cheysuli, but she was half Erinnish herself, and now wed to an
Erinnish-man. It was Keely who taught me more, who showed me what earth magic
was, and what it could bring me." His smile was warmly reminiscent.
"She suggested I come here, to find out who I was."

           
Kellin was fascinated. "Did
you?"

           
"Oh, aye. Enough to know I
belong here." Blais grinned, caressing Tanni's head. "I may not sound
all Cheysuli, but in spirit I am."

           
"Why," Kellin began,
"do you have more cause to concern yourself with a'saii than any warrior
alive?"

           
Blais' brows arched. "You've a
good ear to recall that so perfectly."

           
Kellin shrugged, dismissing it.
"The a'saii are disbanded. Grandsire said so."

           
"Formally, aye. But convictions
are hard to kill. There are those who still keep themselves apart from other
clans."

           
"But you stay here."

           
"Clankeep is my home. I serve
the prophecy as much as any warrior. As much as you will, once you are
grown."

           
Kellin nodded absently. "But
why do you have cause?"

           
Blais sighed, hands tightening on
the bow. "Because it was my grandsire who began the a'saii, Kellin. Ceinn
wanted to replace Niall's son—your grandsire, Brennan—with his own son, Teiman.
There was justification, Ceinn claimed, because Teiman was the son of the Mujhar's
sister."

           
"Isolde," Kellin put in;
he recalled the names from lessons.

           
"Aye. Isolde. Niall's rujholla."

           
"And Ian's."

           
Blais grinned. "And Ian's."

           
"But why you'?"

           
Blais' grin faded. "Teiman was
my father. When I came here from Erinn, those who were a'saii thought I should
be named Prince of Homana when your father renounced his title."

           
Kellin was astonished. "In my
place?"

           
Blais nodded.

           
"In my place." It was
incomprehensible to Kellin, who could not imagine anyone else in his own place.
He had been Prince of Homana all his life.

           
"But—I was named."

           
"Aye. As the Mujhar
desired."

           
Something occurred. "What about
you?" Kellin asked. "Did you want the title?"

           
Blais laughed aloud. "I was
reared by a man who is the Lord of Erinn's bastard brother. I spent many years
at Kilore—I know enough of royalty and the responsibilities of rank to want no
part of it." He leaned forward slightly, placing the tip of his forefinger
on Kellin's brow. "You, my young lad, will be the one to hold the
Lion."

           
"Oh, no," Kellin blurted.
"I have to kill it, first."

           
Blais stilled. "Kill it?"

           
Kellin was matter-of-fact.
"Before it kills all of us."

           
When Kellin—with grandfather,
cousin, and numerous liveried and armored guardsmen—entered the inner bailey of
Homana-Mujhar, he discovered it clogged to bursting with strange horses and
servants. Horse-boys ran this way and that, grasping at baggage-train horses
even as they gathered in the mounts of dismounting riders; servants shouted at
one another regarding the unloading; while the bailey garrison, clad in
Mujharan scarlet, did its best to sort things out.

           
The Mujhar himself, trapped in the
center of the bailey as his horse restively rang shod hoofs off cobbles,
finally ran out of patience. "By the blood of the Lion—" Brennan
began, and then broke off abruptly as a tall man came out of the palace doorway
to stand at the top of the steps.

           
"Have I made a mess of all your
Mujharish majesty?" the man called over the din. "Well, doubtless you
are in dire need of humbling anyway."

           
"Hart!" Brennan cried.
"By the gods—Hart!”

           
Kellin watched in surprise as his
grandsire hastily threw himself down from his mount and joined the throng,
pushing through toward the steps.

           
Brennan mounted them three at a
time, then enfolded the other man in a huge, hard hug.

           
"Su'fali," Kellin
murmured, then grinned at Blais. "Su'fali to both of us. Hart, come from
Solinde!"

           
"So I see," Blais squinted
over the crowd. "They are two blooms from the same bush."

           
"But Hart has blue eyes. And
only one hand; an enemy had the other one cut off." Kellin followed
Brennan's lead, climbing down with less skill than his longer-legged
grandfather, and then he, too, was swallowed up by the crowd. Kellin could see
nothing, neither grandfather, great-uncle, nor steps.

           
He considered ducking under the
bellies of all the horses, but reconsidered when he thought about the kicks he
risked. Like Brennan before him, if with less success, Kellin shoved his way
through the milling throng of baggage train and household attendants.
Solindish, all of them; he recognized the accent.

           
His path was more difficult, but at
last Kellin reached the steps and climbed to the top- His grandsire and
great-uncle had left off hugging, but the warm glints in their eyes—one pair
blue, the other yellow—were identical.

           
So is everything else, except for
Hart's missing hand. Kellin looked at the leather-cuffed stump, wondering what
it was like to be restricted to a single hand. And Hart had lost more than a
hand; the old Cheysuli custom of kin-wrecking still held.

           
He was, because of his maiming, no
longer considered in the clans to be a warrior despite his blood and his
Ur
, the great hawk known as Rael.

           
Kellin glanced up. Spiraling in a
lazy circle over the palace rooftops was the massive raptor, black edging on
each feather delineating wings against the blue of the sky. I may have a hawk
when I am a warrior—

           
"Kellin!" Brennan's hand
closed over a shoulder. "Kellin, here is your kinsman. You have never seen
him, I know, but to know who Hart is a man need only look at me."

           
"But you are different,"
Kellin said after a brief inspection. "You seem older, grandsire."

           
It brought a shout of delighted
laughter from Hart, who struck his twin-born rujholli a sharp blow with his
only hand. "There. You see? I have said it myself—"

           
"Nonsense." Brennan arched
a single brow.

           
"You surely count more gray in
your hair than I."

           
"No," Kellin said
doubtfully, which moved Hart to laughter again.

           
"Well, we are very like,"
the Mujhar's twin said.

           
"If there are differences, it
is because the Lion is a far more difficult taskmaster than my own
Solinde."

           
"Has Solinde thrown you
out?" Kellin asked. "Is that why you have come?"

           
Hart grinned. "And lose the
best lord she ever had? No, I am not banished, nor am I toppled as Bellam was
toppled by Carillon. The Solindish love me, now—or, if not love, they tolerate
me well enough." He tapped the cuffed stump on top of Kellin's head.
"Erinnish eyes, Kellin. Where is the Cheysuli in you?"

           
"You have Homanan eyes,"
Kellin retorted, "And now your hair is gray; mine is all over black."

           
"Sharp eyes, and a sharper
wit," Brennan said dryly. "The Erinnish side, I think."

           
Hart nodded, smiling, as he assessed
his young kinsman, "You are small for twelve, but your growth may come
late. Corin's did."

           
"I am ten," Kellin
corrected. "Tall enough for ten; grandsire says so."

           
"Ten." Hart shot a glance
at Brennan. "I miscounted, then."

           
"Aging, are you?"
Brennan's eyes were alight. "Forgetting things already?"