The Song of Homana (28 page)

I felt the prickle in my scalp. “Make
me
one?” I asked with elaborate distinctness, “or another?”

“Come with me and find out.”

I put on breeches and shirt, the first things I could find. And boots, snugged up to my knees. Then I followed him, even as he bid Cai remain, and went with him as he led me through my palace.

He walked with utter confidence, as a man does who knows a place well. And yet I knew Duncan had never spent excess time in Homana-Mujhar. Hale had, I knew, brought him to the palace at least once, but he had been a child, too young to know the mazes of hallways and chambers. And yet he went on through such places as if he had been born here.

He took me, of course, to the Great Hall. And there he took down a second torch from its bracket on the wall, lighted it with his own and handed them both to me. “Where we are going,” he said, “it is dark. But there will be air to breathe.”

I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck. But I refrained from asking him where. And so I watched in silence and astonishment as he knelt by the firepit rim.

He began to pull aside the unlighted logs. Ash floated up to settle on his hair. Suddenly he was an old man without the wrinkles, gray hair instead of black, while the gold glowed on his arms. I coughed as the ash rose high enough to clog my nose, and then I sneezed. But Duncan was done rearranging my firepit quickly enough; he reached down and caught a ring of iron I had never seen.

I scowled, wondering what other secrets Duncan knew of Homana-Mujhar. And then I watched, setting myself to be patient, and saw him frown with concentration. It took both hands and all of his strength, but he jerked the ring upward.

It was fastened to a hinged iron plate that covered a hole. Slowly he dragged up the plate until the hole lay open. He leaned the cover, spilling its coating of ash, against the firepit rim, then grimaced as he surveyed the ruin of his leathers.

I leaned forward to peer into the hole. Stairs. I frowned. “Where—?”

“Come and see.” Duncan took back his torch and stepped down into the hole. He disappeared, step by step. Uneasily, I followed.

There was air, as he had promised. Stale and musty, but air. Both torches continued to burn without guttering, so I knew we would be safe. And so I went down with Duncan, wondering how it was he knew of such a place.

The staircase was quite narrow, the steps shallow. I had to duck to keep from scraping my head. Duncan, nearly as tall, did as well, but I thought Finn would fit. And then I wished, with the familiar frisson of unease, that he was with me as well. But no. I had sent him to my sister, and left myself to his brother’s intentions.

“Here.” Duncan descended two more steps to the end of the staircase into a shallow stone closet. He put his fingers to the stone, and I saw the runes, old and green with dampness and decay. Duncan’s brown fingers, now gray with ash, left smudges on the wall. He traced out the
runes, saying something beneath his breath, and then he nodded. “Here.”

“What do—” I did not bother to finish. He pressed one of the stones and then leaned against the wall. A portion of it grated and turned on edge, falling inward.

Another stairway—? No. A room. A vault. I grimaced. Something like a crypt.

Duncan thrust his torch within and looked. Then he withdrew it and gestured me to go first.

I regarded him with distinct apprehension that increased with every moment.

“Choose,” Duncan said. “Go in a prince and come out a Mujhar…or leave now, and forever know yourself lacking.”

“I lack nothing!” I said in rising alarm. “Am I not the link you speak about?”

“A link must be properly forged.” He looked past me to the rising staircase. “There lies your escape, Carillon. But I think you will not seek it. My
rujholli
would never serve a coward or a fool.”

I bared my teeth in a grin that held little of humor. “Such words will not work with me, shapechanger. I am willing enough to name myself
both
, does it give me a chance to survive. And unless you slay me, as you have said you would not do, I will come out of here a Mujhar even if I do
not
go into that room.” I squinted as my torch sputtered and danced. “You are not Finn, you see, and for all I know I should trust you—we have never been easy with each other.”

“No,” he agreed. “But what kept us from that was a woman, and even Alix has no place here. This is for you to do.”

“You left Cai behind.” Somehow it incriminated him.

“Only because here, in this place, he would be a superfluous
lir
.”

I stared at him, almost gaping. Superfluous
lir
? Had
Duncan
said this? By the gods, if he indicated such a willingness to dispense with the other half of his soul, surely I could trust him.

I sighed. I swallowed against the tightness in my throat, thrust the torch ahead of me, and went in.

Superfluous. Aye, he would have been. For here were all the
lir
of the world, and no need for even one more.

It was not a crypt. It was a memorial of sorts, or perhaps a chapel. Something to do with Cheysuli and
lir
, and their gods. For the walls were made of
lir, lir
upon
lir
, carved into the pale cream marble.

Torchlight ran over the walls like water, tracking the veining of gold. From out of the smooth, supple stone burst an eagle, beak agape and talons striking. A bear, hump-backed and upright, one paw reaching out to buffet. A fox, quick and brush-tailed, head turned over its shoulder. And the boar, tusks agleam, with a malevolent, tiny eye.

More. So many more. I felt my breath catch in my throat as I turned in a single slow circle, staring at all the walls. Such wealth, such skill, such incomparable beauty, and buried so deeply within the ground.

A hawk, touching wingtips with a falcon. A mountain cat, so lovely, leaping in the stone. And the wolf; of course, the wolf, Storr-like with gold in its eyes. Every inch, from ceiling to floor, was covered with the
lir
.

Superfluous. Aye. But so was I.

I felt tears burn in my eyes. Pain, unexpected, was in my chest. How futile it was, suddenly, to be Homanan instead of Cheysuli; to lack the blessings of the gods and the magic of the
lir
. How utterly insignificant was Carillon of Homana.

“Ja’hai,”
Duncan said.
“Ja’hai, cheysu, Mujhar.”

I snapped my head around to stare at him. He stood inside the vault, torch raised, looking at the
lir
with an expression of wonder in his face. “What are those words?” I demanded. “Finn said those words when he talked to the gods, and even you said he should not have done it.”

“That was Finn.” The sibilants whispered in the shadows of the
lir
. “This is a clan-leader who says them, and a man who might have been Mujhar.” He smiled as my mouth flew open to make an instant protest. “I do not want it, Carillon. If I did, I would not have brought you down here. It is here, within the
Jehana’s
Womb, that you will be born again. Made a true Mujhar.”

“The words,” I repeated steadfastly. “What do they mean?”

“You have learned enough of the Old Tongue from Finn to know it is not directly translatable. There are nuances, unspoken words, meanings requiring no speech. Like gestures—” He made the sign of
tahlmorra. “Ja’hai, cheysu, Mujhar
is, in essence, a prayer to the gods. A petition. A Homanan might say:
Accept this man; this Mujhar.
”

I frowned. “It does not sound like a prayer.”

“A petition—or prayer—such as the one Finn made—and now
I
make—requires a specific response. The gods will always answer. With life…or with death.”

Alarm rose again. “Then I might
die
down here—?”

“You might. And this time you will face that risk alone.”

“You knew about it,” I said suddenly. “Was it Hale who told you?”

Duncan’s face was calm. “Hale told me what it was. But most Cheysuli know of its existence.” A faint smile appeared. “Not so horrifying, Carillon. It is only the Womb of the Earth.”

The grue ran down my spine. “What womb? What earth? Duncan—”

He pointed. Before, I had looked at the walls, ignoring the floor entirely. But this time I looked, and I saw the pit in the precise center of the vault.

Oubliette. A man could die in one of those.

I took an instinctive step back, nearly brushing against Duncan just inside the door, but he merely reached out and took the torch from my hand. I turned swiftly, reaching for a knife I did not have, but he set each torch in a bracket near the door so the vault was filled with light. Light? It spilled into the oubliette and was swallowed utterly.

“You will go into the Womb,” he said calmly, “and when you come out, you will have been born a Mujhar.”

I cursed beneath my breath. Short of breaking his neck—and I was not at all certain even I could accomplish that—I had no choice but to stay in the vault. But the Womb was something else. “Just—go in? How? Is there a rope? Hand holes?” I paused, knowing the thing was futile. Oubliettes are built to keep people in. This one would offer no aid in getting out.

“You must jump.”

“
Jump
.” My hands shut up into fists that drove my nails into my palms. “Duncan—”

“Sooner in, sooner out.” He did not smile, but I saw the glint of amusement in his eyes. “The earth is like most
jehanas
, Carillon: she is harsh and quick to anger and sometimes impatient, but she ever gives of her heart. She gives her child life. In this case, it is a Mujhar we seek to bring into the world.”

“I am
in
the world,” I reminded him. “I have already been born once, birthed by Gwynneth of Homana. Once is more than enough—at least
that
one I cannot remember. Let us quit this mummery and go elsewhere; I have no taste for wombs.”

His hand was on my shoulder. “You will stay. We will finish this. If I have to, I will
make
you.”

I turned my back on him and paced to the farthest corner, avoiding the edge of the pit. There I waited, leaning against the stone, and felt the fluted wings of a falcon caress my neck. It made me stand up again.

“You are not Cheysuli,” Duncan said. “You cannot
be
Cheysuli. But you can be made to better understand what it is to think and feel like a Cheysuli.”

“And this will make me a man?” I could not entirely hide my resentment.

“It will make you, however briefly, one of us.” His face was solemn in the torchlight. “It will not last. But you will know, for a moment, what it is to be Cheysuli. A child of the gods.” He made the gesture of
tahlmorra
. “And it will make you a better Mujhar.”

My throat was dry. “Mujhar is a Cheysuli word, is it not? And Homana?”

“Mujhar means
king
,” he said quietly. “Homana is a phrase:
of all blood
.”

“King of all blood.”
I felt the tension in my belly. “So, since you cannot put a Cheysuli on the throne—yet—you will do what else you can to make me into one.”

“Ja’hai, cheysu,”
he answered.
“Ja’hai, cheysu, Mujhar.”

“No!” I shouted. “Will you condemn me to the gods? Duncan—I am
afraid
—”

The word echoed in the vault. Duncan merely waited.

It nearly mastered me. I felt the sweat break out and
run from my armpits, the stench of fear coated my body. A shudder wracked my bones and set my flesh to rising. I wanted to relieve myself, and my bowels had turned to water.

“A man goes naked before the gods.”

So, he would have me strip as well. Grimly, knowing he would see the shrinking of my genitals, I pulled off my boots, my shirt, and lastly the snug dark breeches. And there was no pity in Duncan’s eyes, or anything of amusement. Merely compassion, and perfect comprehension.

He moved to the torches. He took each from the brackets and carried them out into the stairway closet. The door to the vault stood open, but I knew it was not an exit.

“When I shut up the wall, you must jump.”

He shut up the wall.

And I jumped—

Ja’hai, cheysu, Mujhar
—

The words echoed in my head.

Ja’hai, cheysu, Mujhar
—

I fell. And I fell.
So far.
…Into blackness; into a perfect emptiness.
So far.
…

I screamed.

The sound bounced off the walls of the oubliette; the round, sheer walls I could not see. Redoubled, the scream came back and vibrated in my bones.

I fell.

I wondered if Duncan heard me. I wondered—I wondered—I did not. I simply fell.

Ja’hai, cheysu, Mujhar
—

It swallowed me whole, the oubliette; I fell back into the Womb. And could not say whether it would give me up again—

Duncan, oh Duncan, you did not give me proper warning
…But is there a proper way? Or is it only to fall and, in falling, learn the proper way?

Down
.

I was stopped. I was caught. I was halted in mid-fall. Something looped out around my ankles and wrists. Hands? No. Something else; something else that licked out from the blackness and caught me tightly at wrists and ankles, chest and hips. And I hung, belly-down, suspended in total darkness.

I vomited. The bile spewed out of my mouth from the depths of my belly and fell downward into the pit. My bladder and bowels emptied, so that I was nothing but a shell of quivering flesh. I hung in perfect stillness, not daring to move, to breathe; praying to stay caught by whatever had caught me.

Gods—do not let me fall again—not again—

Netting? Taut, thin netting, perhaps, hung from some unseen protrusions in the roundness of the oubliette. I had seen nothing at the lip of the pit, merely the pit itself, yet it was possible the oubliette was not entirely smooth. Perhaps there was even a way out.

The ropes did not tear my flesh. They simply held me immobile, so that my body touched nothing but air. I did not sag from arms and legs because of the ropes at chest and hips. I was supported, in a manner of speaking, and yet remained without it.