The Song of Homana (15 page)

“It will do, until I have another,” I said lightly.

Duncan bent and pulled a single stalk of wild wheat from the soggy ground. He studied the lime-green plant as if it consumed his every interest. It was unlike Duncan to equivocate, I thought; unless I had merely gotten old enough to prefer the point made at once.

“You will have trouble reconciling the Homanas with Cheysuli.”

“Not with all.” I understood him at once. “Some, perhaps; it is to be expected. But I will have no man who does not serve willingly, whether it be next to a Cheysuli or myself.” I sat forward on my dais of moss and granite. So different from the Lion Throne. “Duncan, I would have this
qu’mahlin
ended as soon as may be. I will begin with my army.”

He did not smile. “There is talk of our sorcery.”

“There will ever be talk of your sorcery. It is what made them afraid in the first place.” I recalled my uncle’s rantings when I was young; how he had said all of Homana feared the Cheysuli, because he had made them feared. How the shapechangers sought to throw down the House of Homana to replace it with their own.

Their own. In Cheysuli legend, their own House had built Homana herself, and gave her over to mine.

“There is Rowan,” he said quietly.

I did not immediately take his meaning. “Rowan serves me well. I could not ask for a better lieutenant.”

“Rowan is a man caught between two worlds.” Duncan looked at me directly. “You have seen him, Carillon. Can you not see his pain?”

I frowned. “I do not understand.…”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “He is Cheysuli. And now the Homanas know it.”

“He has ever denied—” I halted the unfinished comment at once. It was true he had always denied he was Cheysuli. And I had ever wondered if he were regardless, with his Cheysuli coloring.

“Cai has confirmed it,” Duncan said. “I called Rowan here and told him, but he denies it still. He claims himself Homanan. How a man could do that—” He broke it off at once, as if knowing it had nothing to do with the subject. “I bring Rowan up because he illustrates the troubles within your army, Carillon. You have Homanas and Cheysuli, and you expect them to fight together. After
thirty years
of Shaine’s
qu’mahlin
.”

“What else can I do?” I demanded. “I need men—
any
men—and I must have you both! How else can I win this war? Bellam cares little who is Cheysuli and who is Homanan—he will slay
everyone
, do we give him the chance! I cannot afford to divide my army because of my uncle’s madness.”

“It has infected most of Homana.” Duncan shook his head, his mouth a flat, hard line. “I do not say
all
of them hate us. Does Torrin? But it remains that you must fight your own men before Bellam, do you let this hostility flourish. Look to your army first, Carillon, before you count your host.”

“I do what I can.” I felt old suddenly, and very tired. My face ached from its bruising. “Gods—I do what I can…what else is there
to
do?”

“I know.” He studied his stalk of wheat. “I know. But I have put my faith in you.”

I sighed and clumped down against my mossy throne, feeling the weight of my intentions. “We could lose.”

“We could. But the gods are on our side.”

I laughed shortly, with little humor in the sound. “Ever so solemn, Duncan. Is there no laughter in you? And do you not fear the Ihlini gods are stronger than your own?”

He did not smile. His eyes appraised me in their quiet, competent way, and I knew again the chafing of youth before an older, wiser man. “I will laugh again when I do not fear to lose my son because his eyes are yellow.”

I flinched beneath the bolt as it went cleanly home in my soul. In his place, I might be like him. But in
my
place, what would he do?

“Were you Mujhar—” I began, and stopped when I saw the flicker in his eyes. “Duncan?”

“I am not.” No more than that, and the flicker was gone.

I frowned at him, sitting upright again on my rock. “I will have an answer from you: were you Mujhar, what would you do?”

He smiled with perfect calm. “Win back my throne. We are in accord, my lord—you have no need to fear your throne is coveted. You are welcome to the Lion.”

I thought of the throne. The Lion Throne, ensconced within Homana-Mujhar. In the Great Hall itself, crouched down upon the marble dais, dark and heavy and brooding. With its crimson cushion and gilt scrollwork, set so deeply in the old, dark wood. How old? I could not say. Ancient. And older still.

“Cheysuli,” I said, without meaning to.

Duncan smiled more warmly. The smile set creases around his eyes and chased away the gravity, stripping his face of its age. “So is Homana, my lord. But we welcomed the unblessed, so long ago. Will you not welcome us?”

I set my face against my hands. My eyes were gritty; I scrubbed at them and at my skin, so taut with worry and tension. So much to do—and so little time in which to do it. Unite two warring races and take a realm; a realm held by sorcery so strong I could not imagine the power of it.

“You are not alone,” Duncan said quietly. “Never that. There is myself, and Finn…and Alix.”

I sat hunched, eyes shut tightly against the heels of my hands as if the pressure might carry me past all the pain, past all the battles, past all the necessities of war to the throne itself. Could it be done, I would not have to face the risks and the losses and the fears.

But it could not be done so easily, and a man learns by what he survives, not by passing o’er it.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned my face away from my hands and looked into Duncan’s eyes, so wise and sad and compassionate. Compassion, from him; for a man who wished to be his king. It made me small again.

“Tahlmorra lujhalla mei wiccan, cheysu,”
he said quietly, making the gesture with his right hand. “Now, my lord, come and sup with me. Wars are lost on empty bellies.”

I pushed myself off the rock with a single thrust of my hand.
The fate of a man rests always within the hands of the gods
.

My gods? I wondered. Or Bellam’s?

Cai sat upon a polished wooden perch sunk into the ground next to Duncan’s slate-gray tent. His massive wings were folded with perfect precision; not a single feather was out of place. The great hooked beak shone in the dim firelight and the red glow of the setting sun: dark and sharp and deadly. And his eyes, so bright and watchful, missed not a single movement within the Keep.

I stood outside the tent. Duncan, Finn and the boy remained within, finishing what supper there was: hot stew, fresh bread, cheese and Cheysuli honey brew. And Alix, who had come up from Torrin’s croft with the bread, had gone off to another tent.

I had put on a Cheysuli cloak, wrapping myself in the harsh woollen folds to ward off the chill of dusk. The fabric was so deep a green I melted into the surrounding darkness, even with the light from the firecairns on me. No longer did I wonder how the Cheysuli achieved their secrecy; a man, standing still, can hide himself easily enough. He need only affect the proper coloration and wait, and the enemy will come to him.

Cai turned his head. The great hawk looked directly at me, dark eyes glittering in the dying light. He had the attentiveness of a man in his gaze, and yet more, for he was a
lir
and a
lir
is better than a man, or so the Cheysuli claim. I had no reason to dispute it. I had known Storr
long enough to acknowledge his virtues, and be thankful for his service.

I shivered, though it was not from the evening chill. It was from the pervasive sense of destiny within the Cheysuli Keep, for a Keep is where a man is, with his
lir
, and here sat a
lir
beside me. Cai, the great dark hawk with the wisdom of the ages, and the knowledge of what was to come. Divulging it never, to no man, not even Duncan, who served his gods better than any I had known. Such a harsh service, I thought, requiring death and sacrifice. What the Cheysuli bore in their bones was a weight I could not carry. The shapechange was magic indeed, but I would not pay its price.

I turned away and pulled aside the doorflap. The dim light from the small iron brazier filled the tent with shadows, and I saw three pairs of yellow eyes fixed upon my face.

Beast eyes.
…

Even friendship does not dampen the residual fear engendered by such eyes.

“I will go up to the army encampment. I have spent enough time away from my men.”

Finn rose at once, handing his cup to Duncan. The light glittered off the Steppes knife in his belt, and suddenly I recalled I had none to wear at my own. The bone-hilted Caledonese weapon lay in the snowfields near Joyenne.

Finn caught up a night-black cloak and hung it over his shoulders. It hid the gold on his arms entirely, turning him black from brown in the dim glow of light. His hair swung forward to hide his earring, and all I saw was the yellow of his eyes. Suddenly, in the presence of three Cheysuli, I found myself lacking, and I the Prince of Homana.

Finn smiled. “Do we go?”

I needed no weapon, with him. He was knife and bow and sword.

“We go.” I looked past him to Duncan with his son by his side. “I will think well on what you have said. I will speak to Rowan and see what pain is in his part, so I may have a man beside me free of such cares.”

He smiled. In the dim light he seemed older, but the
boy by his side made him young again. The future of his race. “Perhaps it will be enough for Homana to know her Mujhar again.”

I stepped aside and Finn came out. Together we walked through the darkness to our horses, still saddled at the picket line. The Cheysuli trust no one this close to Mujhara; nor do I.

“The army will not be far.” Finn ducked a low branch. “I think even Homanans know the value in three hundred Cheysuli.”

“They will when we are done with them.”

He laughed softly, nearly invisible in the deepening night.

I untied and mounted my dark Ihlini horse. Finn was up on his mount a moment later, heading through the trees, and I followed. Storr slipped along behind me, guarding my back as Finn preceded his lord. It is an exacting service, and one they perform with ease.

The moon rose full above us, above the stark black, skeletal trees: a silver plate in the dark night sky. I looked through the screen of trees that arched over my head. Beyond the screen were the white eyes of the stars, staring down. I heard the snap of twigs and branches broken by the hooves and the soft thunk of iron shoe against turf track. The forest sang with scent and the nightsounds I had so long taken for granted. Crickets called out our passage: a moth fluttered by my face on its journey toward the light. But there was no light. Not here, so deep among the trees.

And then such joy at being in Homana again rose up in my chest that I could hardly breathe. It did not last, and for a moment I was taken aback, but then I gave myself over to it. Finn was welcome to his
lir
-bond and the magic of his race, I longed only for Homana. Even an exiled Mujhar can find joy in such exile, does it bring him home again.

We rode along the crest of a hill, rising upward through the trees, and then down it, like water down a cobbled spillway. Finn took me down into a tiny bowl of a valley, skirting the edges so the trees gave cover. Clustered amid the night and darker shadows were pinpoints of flickering
light. Tiny lights, little more than the luminance shed by the flame moths. Like the Cheysuli, my army kept itself to subtle warmth and illumination. One would have to look hard to see it; expecting it, it was not so hard for me to discover. A pinpoint here and there, lost within the shadows, screened by trees and brush.

A circlet of light rimmed the bowl-like valley. It crowned the crests like a king’s fillet crusted with glowing gem-stones, glittering against the darkness. We rode closer, still clinging to the trees, and then I learned how well-guarded was the army.

“Hold!” shouted a voice. I heard the rustling in the leaves and placed each man; a semi-circle of five, I thought. “Say who is your lord.” The order was clipped off, lacking the smoothness of aristocratic speech, but Homanan all the same.

“Carillon the Mujhar,” I said quietly, knowing Finn’s accent would give away his race. In the darkness, the men might slay him out of hand.

“How many?” came the voice.

“Three.” I smiled. “One Homana, one Cheysuli…and one
lir
.”

I felt the indrawn breath in five throats, though I heard nothing. Good men. I was grateful for that much, even though I grew cold upon my horse.

“You are Homanan?”

“I am. Would you have me speak more for you, to discern my accent?” I thought it a worthwhile test; the Solindish speech does not mimic ours and would give away an enemy.

“You have said enough. What weapons do you bring?”

“A sword and a bow, and a Cheysuli warrior. Weapons enough, I think.”

A grunt. “Come ahead, with escort.”

We went on, Finn first, surrounded by the men. Not enough to gainsay Finn did he seek to slay them all; I could account for at least two myself, possibly three. And Storr a few more. It would take ten to stop us, perhaps more. I found I liked such odds.

More rustles in the bushes and the crunching of night-crisped snow. At last we halted near the outer rim of a
firecairn’s light, and I saw the glint of weapons. Silent, shadowed men, grave-faced and wary-eyed, watching. Storr they watched the most, as any man will, knowing only a wolf. And Finn, cloaked in black with raven hair, dark-faced and yellow-eyed. Me they hardly marked at all, save perhaps to note my size.

The leader stepped forward into the firelight. He wore a long-knife in his belt and a sword upon a baldric. He was squat, well-proportioned, with close-cropped, graying red hair and bright green eyes. His body cried out for a soldier’s leather and mail, though he wore only wool. He had the calm authority of a born leader; I knew at once he was a veteran of my uncle’s wars against Solinde.

Other men had gathered around the tiny firecairn. There was not enough light to see them all clearly, merely arms and legs and faces, shadowed in the darkness. Silence and waiting and wariness, the mark of hunted men. Bellam had made them so.