The Song of Homana (16 page)

“What do you call yourself?” I asked the leader.

“Zared,” he said calmly. “And you?”

I grinned. “Mercenary. And Finn, with Storr the wolf.” I shifted in the saddle and saw hands move to hilts. “Put up your weapons, for I am Homanan-born and wish only to go to war. I am impressed by your competence, but enough of it for now.” I paused. “I am Carillon.”

Zared’s green eyes narrowed. “Come down from that horse.”

I did so and stood before the man while he looked closely at my face.

“I fought with Prince Fergus, Carillon’s father,” he said abruptly. “I saw the son taken. Do you tell me you are that boy?”

His tone was dubious, but there was no humor in that moment. I put out both hands and pushed back the sleeves from my wrists. In the dim firelight the scars were nearly black; ridged bracelets in my flesh. Zared’s eyes were on them, then rose to my face again. They narrowed once more. “Stories have it you were slain in exile.”

“No. I am as you see me.” I put my arms down again. “Is there more proof you would see?”

“Many men have been chained.” An odd argument, but I understood him.

“Take the sword from my saddle.”

He flicked a finger. One man stepped to the far side of my horse and unhooked the scabbard, then brought it to Zared. He pulled the blade partway free of the sheath so the runes writhed upon the metal, but the hilt, wrapped again in taut leather, looked an unmade thing.

“Cut it free,” I said, yet again.

He did so with his knife, freeing the gold at last. The rampant lion clawed upon the metal as the shadows shifted upon it. The lion of Homana. And in the pommel glowed the ruby.

“That I know,” he said in satisfaction. And he gave the sword to me.

“If you thought I was dead, why did you join the army?” I asked curiously.

“I am a soldier,” he said simply. “I serve Homana. Even without a Mujhar to follow—a
Homanan
Mujhar—I will fight to defend my land. But I could not do it alone, and before now few were willing to risk themselves.” He smiled a little, and it put lines in his rough-worked face. “Now we have more than a thousand men, my lord, and at last a prince to lead them.”

I saw the others staring at me. They had just heard their leader admit I was their lord. It is sometimes an awesome thing for men to see who rules, when often he is only a name.

I turned back to my horse and hooked my scabbarded blade to it again. “Direct me to Rowan.”

“Rowan?” Zared sounded surprised. “You wish to speak to
him?
”

“Why should I not? It was he who began this army.” I swung up into the saddle again. “Would you have it said another has done it, when it was Rowan?”

Dull color flushed his face. “My lord—it is said he is Cheysuli…Cheysuli do not lead Homanans.” The tone was harsh, the words clipped off; he did not look at Finn.

The nakedness of it stunned me. Zared I judged a fair man, a good soldier, worthy of any rank I chose for him.
And he, even knowing the skill of the Cheysuli, could continue to resent their presence.

I drew in a steadying breath and spoke exceedingly calmly. “We will dismiss any man who chooses to hate the Cheysuli.
Any
man. We will not argue with what my uncle’s purge has put into your mind—he worked hard enough to do it—but we do not have to tolerate it in our army. Those of you who wish to continue Shaine’s policy of Cheysuli extermination may leave now. We will have none of you with us.”

Zared stared, openly stunned. “
My lord
—”

“We want none of you,” I repeated. “Fight Bellam and Tynstar, but no other. Not Cheysuli. They serve us too well.” I gathered in my reins. “Direct us to Rowan at once.”

Zared pointed toward a distant flicker. “There, my lord. There.”

“Think on what I have said,” I told him. “When we have won this war the Cheysuli will know freedom again. We will begin
that
policy now.”

“My lord—”

I heard nothing more of his comment, for I left his fire as fast as the horse would take me.

Rowan sat alone by his tiny firecairn. He was surrounded by clustered trees, as if he had gathered about himself a royal guard, stolid and silent. And yet within his guard he was a man alone, untouched by all save his grief. He had been found out, and no more was the secret kept.

The firecairn was not enough to warm him, I knew; probably not enough to warm the leathern cup of wine he held in rigid fingers. But the tiny light threw illumination over his face in the thick darkness, and I saw the gaunt expression of loss.

I swung off my horse and moved toward the cairn so that he had to acknowledge me. His head came up. For a moment he stared, still lost in his reverie, and then slowly he moved forward onto his knees. It was an old man’s ungainly movement.

I saw past the shock. I saw past the outer shell of loss to the resignation beneath.

He had known.

“How long?” I asked. “And why did you hide it from me?”

“All my life,” he said dully, still kneeling on the ground. “As for hiding it from you—what choice did I have? Few Homanans are like you, my lord…I thought they would revile me. And they
have
.”

I dropped the reins and moved closer yet, motioning him up from his knees. Slowly he sat again upon the campstool. The cup in his hands shook. “Tell me,” I said calmly.

He shut his eyes a moment. In the stark light he was the image of a childhood demon.
Cheysuli
.

“I was five,” he said quietly. “I saw the Mujhar’s men murder, my kin. All save me.” A quiver passed over his young face. “They came on us in the trees, shouting they had found a nest of demons. I ran. My
jehan
and
jehana
—and my
rujholla
—could not run in time. They were slain.”

The Cheysuli words from Rowan’s mouth were a shock to me. He had always spoken with the accent of Homana, lacking the Old Tongue entirely—and now I knew he had more claim to it than most.

I heard Finn come up beside my horse. I did not look at him, but Rowan did. They were as much alike, as two leaves from the same vine; like enough to be father and son. Perhaps they were even kin.

“I had no choice,” Rowan said. “I was found by a couple who had no children. They were Ellasian, but they had come to live in Homana. The valley was distant, insular, and there were none there who had seen Cheysuli. I was safe. And I kept myself so, until I came here.”

“You must have known you would be discovered.”

He shrugged. “I knew there was the chance. In Mujhara, I was careful. But the men interested in fighting Bellam were young, like myself, and they had never seen a Cheysuli shapechanger. So I named myself Homanan, and they believed it. It has been so long since the Cheysuli were free to go where they choose—much of Homana does not know her ancient race.” Briefly he looked at me. “Aye. I have known what I am. And what I am not.” He turned his face to the fire. “I have no
lir
.”

I did not fully understand. And then I thought of Finn’s link with Storr and the price it carried, and I knew what Rowan meant. “You cannot mean you will seek out your death!”

“There is no need for that,” Finn said. He swung down from his horse and came into the firelight with Storr pacing at his side. “He never had a
lir
, which is somewhat different from losing one. Where there is no loss, a man is not constrained to the death-ritual.”

Rowan’s face was leached of color, painted bleak by the firelight. “The ritual is already done, though it be a Homanan one. I am named shapechanger, and stripped of what honor once I had.”

I thought of the men in the tavern where Lachlan and I had found Rowan. Those men had followed him willingly. It was Rowan who had gathered most of those who were here. Word of mouth had gathered the others and still did, but Rowan had begun it all.

“Not all of them,” I told him, ignoring Zared’s attitude. “Those who are men, know men. They do not judge by eyes and gold.” I realized, too, he wore no
lir
-gold. He had not earned the right.

“The gods are blind to you,” Finn said quietly.

I stared at him in shock. “Do you seek to destroy what is
left
of him?”

“No. I tell him what he knows. You have only to ask him.” Finn’s voice and eyes were implacable. “He is
lirless
. Unwhole. Half a man, and lacking a soul. Unblessed, like you, though he be Cheysuli instead of Homanan.” He went on, ignoring the beginnings of my protest. “He is not a warrior of the clan, lacking a
lir.
He will have no passage to the old gods.”

My hand was on his arm. I felt the hard sinews beneath his flesh as my fingers clamped down. I had never before put my hand on him in anger.

He stopped speaking. He waited. And when I took my hand away he explained the words to me. “He gave it up willingly, Carillon. Now he must suffer for it.”

“Suffer!”

“Aye.” His eyes flicked down to Rowan’s hunched figure.
“Had it been me with the choice, I would have taken the risk.”

“And
died
,” I returned angrily.

“Oh, aye,” he said matter-of-factly, “but I could not have lived with it, else.”

“Do not listen,” I told Rowan wearily. “Finn sometimes speaks when he would do better to hide his sentiments.”

“Let him speak,” Rowan said wearily. “He says what I have expected all my life. My lord—there is much of the Cheysuli you do not know. Much
I
do not know, having given up my soul.” A bitter, faint smile twisted his mouth into a travesty of the expression. “Oh aye, I know what I am. Soulless and
lirless
, unwhole. But it was the choice I made, too frightened to seek my death. And I thought I
would
die, when the time for the
lir
-bond came.”

“You knew?” I stared at him. “You knew when the time had come?”

“How could I not? I was sick for days, until my foster parents feared I would die. The longing, the need, the emptiness within me.” A terrible grimace twisted his face. “The pain in the denial—”

“You had only to answer that need,” Finn said harshly. “The gods fashioned a
lir
for you, and you gave it over into death.
Ku’reshtin!
You should have died for what you did.”

“Enough!” I shouted at him. “Finn—by the gods!—I want support from you! Not condemnation for a man I need.”

Finn’s hand stabbed out to point at Rowan’s lowered head. “He lived, while the
lir
died. Can you not see what it makes him? A murderer, Carillon—and what he slew was a gift of the gods themselves—”

“Enough,” I repeated. “No more.”

“Look at Storr,” Finn snapped. “Think how your life would have been had
I
ignored my chance to link with him. He would have died, for a
lir
who does not link when the need is upon him gives himself over to death. It is the price
they
pay, as a warrior does when his
lir
is slain.” His teeth showed briefly in a feral baring, like a wolf prepared to leap.

A wolf—Finn.

“Leave Rowan be,” I said at last. “You have said more than was required.”

“I would say it all again, and more, did I think it would make him see what he has done.”

“I
know
what I have done!” Rowan was on his feet at last, his arms coming up as if to ward off the words Finn said. “By the gods, do you think I have not suffered? Do you think I have not cursed myself? I live with it each day,
shapechanger!
The knowledge will never go away.”

I saw then that each suffered. Rowan, for what he never had; Finn, for what he could not comprehend: that a Cheysuli could give up his birthright and continue to survive. It was not Rowan who was left out, but myself. Carillon. The Homanan, who could not possibly know what it was to have a
lir
, or what it was to give one up.

“I need you both,” I told them finally as they faced one another across the firelight. “I will have no disharmony among my men. Neither Cheysuli-Homanan conflict, nor that between men of a single race, blessed or not.” I sighed, suddenly disgusted. “By the gods, do I know anything at all of the Cheysuli? I begin to think I
cannot
.”

“
This
much I know,” Rowan said, still looking at Finn. “No man, unblessed, can ever know the grace of the gods or understand the prophecy.”

Finn laughed, though it had a harsh sound. “Not so soulless after all, are you? You have enough blood in you for that much.”

The tension lessened at once. They still faced one another like predatory beasts: one a wise wolf, the other a man who lacked the gifts of the
lir
-bond, and yet claimed all the eerie charisma of the race.

“Unblessed,” I growled. “By the gods, now there are
two
of you prating this nonsense.…” I turned away to my horse, my Ihlini horse, who was as much a stranger as I to the world of the Cheysuli.

I mustered my forces in the valley the following day, Cheysuli and Homanan alike. I watched them come, silent upon my horse, and waited until they filled the bowl-shaped valley. It was a small place and made my army
look smaller still, I had so few men beneath my standard. And yet more came each day, trickling in with the thaw.

I thought of haranguing them with all the arguments and commands until all went away with the taste of Carillon in their mouths. I was angry enough that my Homanans could disregard the Cheysuli when we needed every man; did they wish to lose this war? And yet I understood, for I too had been raised to hate and fear the race. I had learned my lesson, and well, but only in adversity. Many of the Homanans I faced had lacked the teacher I had.

Instead of haranguing, I talked. Shouted, rather, since I could not reach them all by merely speaking, but I left my anger behind. I told them what we faced; told them how badly we were outnumbered. I would have none of them saying later I had led them unknowing into war. Did a man go to his death, I wanted him to know the risks.

I broke them into individual units, explaining my strategy to them. We could not afford the pitched battles we had ever known before, there being too few of us, and none I could spare in such futile attacks. Instead we would go in bit by bit, piece by piece, harrying Bellam’s patrols. They would be fewer now, with harvest, and we would stand a better chance of catching them unawares.