Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 (39 page)

           
The chapel was built of standing
stones set into a tight circle. Most of them still leaned a little, like teeth
settling badly in a diseased jaw, but someone had taken the time—probably
years—to see that many of the stones had been pushed back into proper
alignment. The circle was whole again, with a carved lintel stone set over the
darkened entrance, and a heel stone put up in front. Kellin went slowly to it,
drawn by its singular splendor.

           
The side facing him was unnaturally
flat, chipped and rubbed smooth. Across the dark gray face ran runic symbols he
had seen but once before, in his Ceremony of Honors. He recognized most of
them, but he was not perhaps as conversant in the Old Tongue as he should be. I
have lived too long among Homanans.

           
Kellin was transfixed by the shapes
carved into the stone. The runes were incised deeply; he thought the carvings
no more than fifteen or twenty years old. The heel stone was older yet, but not
so ancient as the circle itself. An infant standing within the shade of his
fathers.

           
Standing, the heel stone reached
Kellin's chest. As he knelt, the runes became clearer. He put a finger upon
their shapes to trace them out. "One day - . . blood . . . magic."

           
"One day a man of all blood
shall unite, in peace, four warring realms and two magical races," said
the voice. "And if those few words you mouthed are all you know of the Old
Tongue, it is well you come to me for instruction."

           
Kellin did not move. His fingers
remained extended to touch the runes. Only the tips trembled.

           
Not what I expected a Jehan to say
to his son as he sees him for the first time. It served to fuel his anger.

           
Aidan stood in the chapel doorway.
The sunlight was full on his face, glinting off the gold freighting arms and
ear. It struck Kellin as incongruity; oddly, he had expected a simple man, not
a warrior. But Aidan was that, and more; best Kellin remember it.

           
He wanted very badly to say all
manner of things, but he desired more to find just the right challenge. Let
Aidan lead him, then; he would await the proper moment.

           
"Get up from there," Aidan
said. "I am not the sort of man to require homage."

           
He does not know me. It shook him;
he had expected Aidan to know. It altered his intent. "You gave that
up," Kellin said, forgoing patience. "Homage."

           
Aidan smiled. "That, as well as
other unnecessary things." He hesitated. "Well, will you rise? Or
have you come with broken legs to have them made whole again?"

           
Kellin wanted to laugh but
suppressed the sound. He was not certain he could control it.

           
"No," he said only.

           
"Good. I am not a god; I do not
perform miracles."

           
Delicate contempt. "Surely you
can heal. You are Cheysuli."

           
"Oh, aye—I have recourse to the
earth magic. But you are too healthy to require it." Aidan gestured.
"Rise."

           
Kellin rose. He found no words in
his mouth, only an awkward, wary patience inhabiting his spirit.

           
Aidan's ruddy brows arched.
"Taller than I believed . .. are you certain the clan desires to lose
you?"

           
It was perplexing. "Why should
you believe the clan might lose me?"

           
"Have you not come for the
teaching?" It was Aidan's turn to frown. "The clans send to me those
men—and women—who wish to learn what it is a shar tahl must do. I serve the
gods by interpreting and teaching divine intentions . . ." He shrugged. "I
make no differentiation between a man who is physically more suited to war than
to study, but the clans often do. I am persuaded they would labor most
assiduously to talk you out of coming here." The glint in his eyes was
fleeting. "Surely the women would."

           
It was disarming, but Kellin would
not permit it to vanquish his irritation. He used the reminder that his
appearance was considered by most, especially women, as pleasing to look for
himself in Aidan. He saw little. Aidan's hair was a rich, deep auburn, almost
black in dim light, save for the vivid white wing over his left ear. His eyes
were what a Cheysuli would describe as ordinary, though their uncompromising
yellowness Homanans yet found unsettling. His flesh was not so dark as a
clan-bred warrior, but then neither was Kellin's.

           
There we match; in the color of our
flesh. But not, I am moved to say, in the color of our hearts.

           
Aidan's tone was polite- "Have
you come to learn?"

           
It nearly moved him to a wild,
keening laughter; what he wanted to learn had nothing to do with gods. In
subtle derision, he said, "If you can teach me."

           
Aidan smiled. "I will do what I
can, certainly. It is up to the gods to make you a shar tahl."

           
"Is that—?" Kellin blurted
a sharp sound of disbelief. "Is that what you think I want?"

           
"What else? It is what I do
here: prepare those who desire to serve the gods more closely than others
do."

           
Kellin moved around the heel stone.
He marked that the sun had been in Aidan's eyes; that what his father saw of
him was little but silhouette, or the pale shadow of three dimensions.

           
He sees a warrior, somewhat taller
than expected, but nonetheless kneeling in communion with the gods. Well, I
will have to see to it he knows me for what I am, not what he presupposes. He
moved to the front of the stone, permitting Aidan to see him clearly. Now what
do you say?

           
Aidan's skin turned a peculiar
grayish-white.

           
His flesh was a chalk cliff in the
sun, showing the damage done by rain and damp and age. Even the lips, carved of
granite, were pale as alabaster.

           
"Echoes—" Aidan blurted,
"—but Shona. The kivama—" He was trembling visibly.

           
Kellin had not believed he much
resembled his dead mother; they said she was fair, and her eyes brown. But
obviously there was something; Aidan had seen it too quickly. Or perhaps only
feels it because of his kivama.

           
Contempt welled up. He wanted badly
to hurt the man. "She did bear me," he said. "There should be
something of her in me."

           
Aidan's face was peeled to the bone
so the shape of his skull was visible. The eyes. so calm before, had acquired a
brittle intensity that mocked his former self-possession. His mouth was
unmoving, as if something had sealed it closed.

           
Is this what I wanted, all those
years? Or do I want more yet?

           
Aidan drew in a breath, then
released it slowly.

           
He smiled a sad, weary smile. The
chalk cliff of his face had lost another layer to the onslaught of exposure; in
this case, to knowledge. "I knew you would hate me. But it was a risk I
had to take."

           
Kellin wanted to shout. "Was
it?" he managed tightly. "And was it worth it?" He paused, then
framed the single word upon years of bitterness.

           
"Jehan."

           
In Aidan's eyes was reflected as
many years of conviction. "Come inside," he said. "What I have
to say is best said there."

           
He did not want to—he felt to do as
asked would weaken his position—but Kellin followed. The chapel was not large
inside, nor did it boast substantial illumination; a tight latticework roof
closed out the sun, Kellin allowed his eyes to adjust, then glanced briefly
around the interior. A rune-carved alter stood in the center. Set against the
tilted walls were stone benches. Torch brackets pegged into seams in the
stonework were empty.

           
"Where is your lir?" Aidan
asked.

           
"She led me here, then
disappeared."

           
"Ah." Aidan nodded.
"Teel disappeared this morning as well, so that all I had were the dogs;
it was a conspiracy, then, that we should meet without benefit of lir."

           
Kellin did not care overmuch about
what the lir conspired to do. He was wholly fixed on the acknowledgment that
the man who stood before him had planted the seed which had grown in Shona's
belly, only to be torn free on a night filled with flames. He loved her, they
say. Could he not have loved her son as well?

           
Aidan sat down on one of the
benches. Kellin, pointedly, remained standing. Bitterly he said,

           
"Surely with your kivama—aye, I
know about it—you must have known I was coming."

           
Color had returned to Aidan's face.
It was no longer stretched so taut, no longer empty of a tranquillity that
annoyed one who lacked it. "I do not question your right to bitterness and
hatred, but this is not the place for it."

           
Kellin barked a harsh laugh.
"Is that why you brought me in here? To tame my tongue and render me less
than a man?" He wanted to jeer. "You forget, jehan—I have none of
your reverence, nor your humility. If I choose to honor the gods, I do it in my
own fashion. And, I might add, with less elaboration," He cast a scornful
glance over the chapel. "I did not know a man would exchange the flesh of
his own son for the confines of stone."

           
Aidan waited him out. "I would
not expect you to offer reverence or humility. You are not the man for
it."

           
It was veiled insult, if Kellin
chose to take it so.

           
Another might acknowledge it as
simple statement of fact. "Do you believe me too weak to be as you are?
No, jehan: too strong. I am not a coward. I do not turn my face from its proper
place to hide upon an island with a mouth full of prophecies."

           
"Indeed, you are not weak. Nor
are you a coward." Aidan shrugged. "Nor am I, but I give you the
freedom to believe as you will—just now, there is more. What you are is a
confused, angry young man who only now confronts his heritage—and knows his
ultimate fate lies in other hands." He overrode the beginnings of Kellin's
protest. "You mentioned my kivama first—shall we let the gift guide me in
the examination of your soul?" He smiled without intending offense,
reminding quietly that what he could do was what few others could. "You
will do as I did when the time has come: acknowledge and fully accept what the
gods have designed for you in the ordering of your life."

           
"If you know it, then tell
me!" Kellin cried."You claim communion with the gods. Tell me now and
save me time wasted in discovering it for myself!"

           
"And deny you the chance to grow
into the man the gods intend you to be?" Aidan smiled. "A warrior
cannot circumvent a tahlmorra so easily ... he is charged to become what he is
meant to become in the husbandry of his soul. Were I to tell you what becomes
of you, I might well alter what is meant to happen."

           
"Obscurity," Kellin
charged. "That is what you teach here: how to speak in riddles so no man
can understand."

           
"A man learns," Aidan
countered, "and then he understands."

           
Kellin laughed. "Tell me,"
he challenged. "If indeed you can. Prophesy for me. For your only
son."

           
Aidan did not move upon the bench.
His hands lay in his lap. "Do you forget who I am?"

           
"Who you are? How could I? You
are the man I have sought all my life—even when I denied it—and now that I have
found you I am at last able to tell you precisely what I think of you and your
foolish claims!"

           
"I am the mouthpiece of the
gods."

           
Kellin laughed at him.

           
And then his laughter died, for
Aidan began to speak. "The Lion shall lie with the witch. Out of darkness shall
come light; out of death: life; out of the old: the new."

           
"Words," Kellin began,
meaning to defame the man who said them, to leech them of their power, but his
challenge died away.