Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (25 page)

           
"My lord, of course." He
bowed just enough to emphasize his subservience. "But with you I feel I
must be completely frank." Smiling, he said, "'If Gisella ceases to
please you, I can show you another way."

           
In distaste, I frowned at him.
"Do I hear you aright? On the day of my wedding you offer other women to me?"

           
"Not—entirely." The smile
did not fade. "My lord, let us say I have admired you greatly since first
we met. Admired, respected—desired, my lord."

           
My fingers slipped on the cup; I
nearly dropped it. But I recovered my grasp and clenched it tightly, so tightly
my hand shook, and wine slopped over the rim to splatter against the floor.
"What did you say?"

           
"I said I desired you, my
lord." He made no indication of shame, regret, embarrassment. His tone was
perfectly controlled, as if every day he said such to a man.

           
As perhaps he does. Incredulously, I
stared at him. I was too shocked to be angry.

           
Varien sipped wine and smiled,
infinitely patient.

           
I became aware that a hand had
reached out and caught Varien's wrist in a crushing grasp. The hand dragged the
silver wine cup away from Varien's smiling mouth.

           
Sharply. So sharply it caused the
cup to fall; falling, it rang, silver on stone; spilled blood-red wine across
rose-red floor.

           
And I realized the hand was mine.

           
Around us, there was silence. A
falling wine cup, even spilling its contents, is not so uncommon as to silence
so many people. But the sight of the Prince of Homana confronting an Atvian
envoy as eyes watched avidly, Sweat beaded on Varien's upper lip. His face was
pale from the pain. But still, he managed to smile.

           
I wanted to shout at him that what
he offered was worthy of execution, but I did not. Not before so many people;
before Gisella, my father, my mother. I wanted to tell him that what he offered
was worth his ostracism; at the very least I could send him home. But something
held me back. Something shut up my mouth and chased the words back down my
throat to my belly, where they twisted and tangled and bound up my guts with
bile.

           
And still Varien smiled.

           
I let go of his wrist. "You are
here at Alaric's behest."

           
"Alaric's—and Lillith's."

           
I frowned a little. My toe touched
the cup; it rolled.

           
"Lillith's?"

           
"Of course, my lord."
Varien fingered the collar of his indigo doublet. I saw a hint of silver: a
chain. He drew it forth, and from the links dangled a single curving tooth,
capped with shining silver, "Lillith."

           
Lillith's gift. My hand went at once
to my own collar.

           
Beneath the wedding finery was a
matching tooth, hanging from its thong. I had nearly forgotten.

           
Varien bowed, "Forgive me, my
lord; I intended no offense."

           
I stared after him, bewildered by
the sudden upsurge of emotions. Sorrow, anguish, emptiness ... a horrible
emptiness, as if someone had stolen from me a thing I bad always desired,
demanded, needed—before I could say what it was.

           
I was lost. Amid the throng of
guests who had witnessed my marriage to Gisella, I was lost: an eye of
emptiness in the middle of the maelstrom.

           
A shadow of a man.

           
And when the servant filled my cup,
I drank.

           
I drank.

           
I drank—

           
—and when I could stand the
confinement no more, I went out of the hall and out of the palace proper,
climbing narrow stairs to the sentry-walks along the curtain wall. Night had
fallen with the sunset, but Homana-Mujhar is never in total darkness. There are
torches along the walls and tripod braziers in the baileys. There is always a
pall of yellow light, flickering in fickle winds.

           
Preying on the shadows

           
Now I sought the shadows, seeking
escape from the light, the noise, the emptiness. Except even here, atop the
narrow sentry-walk along the parapet, I found solace in nothing; no answer to
emptiness. Only redoubled sorrow, and an anguish born of nothing I could name.

           
In my hand was a cup of wine. A deep
cup, and filled to brimming; tipping it slightly, albeit unintentionally, I
heard the wine spill out to splatter against the stone.

           
Even as I righted the cup I did not
care; I had drunk so much already that stopping now would serve nothing at all.

           
I caught hold of the wall and leaned
between the merlons of the parapet to hang over a crenel, pressing my belly
against it. Lights from the city flared and danced and melted together, until I
blinked away the dazzle from my eyes. My fingers dug into the stone. Digging,
digging; I felt the protest of abraded flesh. But still I dug, as if the pain
might give me surcease from the demon in my soul.

           
"An easy target, for an
enemy."

           
I pushed myself up raggedly, still
hanging onto the merlon. The torchlight from below set his gold to gleaming-
All his gold; suddenly, I found I hated him for it. "I came out here to be
alone."

           
"I know." lan's tone was
even, unperturbed even by the belligerence in my own. "That is why I
followed."

           
"Why? Did you think I would
throw myself from the wall?"

           
"You look as though the thought
has crossed your mind." Like me, he bore a cup of wine. But he did not
drink from his. "Niall, what did Varien say to you?"

           
I tasted something in my mouth that
made me want to spit. Instead, I gulped more wine. "He said he desired
me," I said flatly, when all the wine was gone. "Perhaps he thinks I
will share his bed when I cannot share Gisella's."

           
The torchlight polished lan's
angular face. He was so much like Isolde. So much like our father. "There
was a time I could have told you the truth of Varien. I grew to know him well
in Atvia because I had no choice." He paused. "Not in the way he
wishes to share with you, but because we spent time together. But as for
telling you, I was not certain you would listen. I was not certain you could."
He looked straight at me. "Can you, rujho? Can you hear the truth?"

           
"What truth?" I demanded.
"I think I have heard it all."

           
He took the empty cup from my hand.
"No. You have heard nothing." Smoothly, he threw the cup over the
crenel. I saw a flash of silver in the torchlight; it was gone. "Do you
hear it?" he asked, and I heard the dull clang of the cup striking stones
below.

           
"Ian—"

           
"Gisella has addled your mind
as much as her own is addled," he said plainly. "I know you cannot
see it, but I can; I can see precisely what she has done to you, and I do not
like it. It is time something was done to destroy the taint."

           
"I'toshaa-nil" I asked
rudely. "Or does that lie solely within your province?"

           
"It lies within the province of
every Cheysuli warrior," he answered quietly. "Even within that of a
lirless Cheysuli."

           
He might as well have taken a knife
and thrust it into my belly. I felt the invisible blade go home, twisting,
twisting, until I nearly cried out with the pain. As it was, I clutched at the
merlon. Sweat broke out on my face.

           
"Ku'reshtin—" I cursed him
raggedly. "Look to yourself when you speak of taint. It was you Lillith
kept."

           
"Aye. You she gave away."
The silver cup glittered against the darkness of his hands. "You she gave
to Gisella."

           
I swore again, very softly; I was nearly
doubled over from the pain. "Gisella is my wife."

           
"Giselia is your bane . . , and
will be, until we do something to prevent it."

           
"We?" I asked bitterly,
leaning against the merlon.

           
"Do you speak of the a'saii?"
I laughed in the face of his sudden shock. "Perhaps you do desire the
Lion; perhaps Ceinn and the others have found a willing substitute for
me."

           
"The gods forgive you for
that," he whispered. "How can you think it of me? I am your liege
man—"

           
"You leave out brother," I
said harshly. "Is it because we only share a father that you discount the
kinship? Is it because I am Homanan and Solindish that you brush aside the
other blood between us?" I laughed. "Why not? Ceinn is willing to let
that be reason enough to drag me out of a throne I cannot yet claim as my own.
Do you abet him? Do you abet the a'saii?”

           
"No," he said softly, when
he could speak again. "I abet only the gods."

           
"In what? Your march to the
throne?" I thrust out a rigid arm and pointed toward the massive palace
proper. "It waits. Ian. In the Great Hall. All crouched down upon its
wooden haunches with its wooden eyes gleaming even as the mouth spills out its
wooden tongue. The Lion waits, Ian—why not claim it for yourself?"

           
His posture was so rigid I thought
he might break.

           
"Because I
do—not—want—it." He thrust the words out between clenched teeth. "And
one day, you will understand why. One day, I think you will beg me to take the
Lion from you." He put his cup into my hand. "But even when you beg,
I will not take it. Because I am the Lion's shadow . . . not the Lion himself.
I leave that title to you."

           
"Ian—" But he had turned,
going back into the shadows until I could not see him, only the glinting of his
gold. All his Cheysuli gold.

           
Gods, why can I not have my own—
"Ian! Ian, wait!” Unsteadily I ran along the narrow sentry-walk, still
clutching the cup in my hand. Wine slopped over the rim and splashed against
thigh, boot, stone. "Ian—come back! I need you, rujho. I need you ... I
need you to take away the pain—"

           
But he was gone. He did not hear, or
else he did not care to answer.

           
I stopped running. I fell against
the parapet and gasped for breath, trying to still the roiling in my belly. I
wanted to spew all the wine over the crenel onto the stones below. I wanted to
start over again, to tear up the spoiled parchment and begin again with a fresh
one. I wanted to shout and scream and cry, Because I was so empty, so
gods-cursed empty.

           
And a man cannot live when he is
made up of emptiness.

           
The cup in my hand was also empty.
And so I threw it over the crenel to join its fellow far below, wishing I could
be rid of myself as easily.

           
How can a man be rid of himself when
he has no wish to die?

           
He leaves. He leaves.

           
I fled Homana-Mujhar on fleet horse
and fleeter need to escape the blackness in my soul. That I had a demon in me I
did not doubt; could feel it within me, clawing, gnawing, shredding the
interior of my belly. I shouted orders to the guard and clattered out of the
cobbled outer bailey and through the wide front gates even as they were shoved
open. Free of the outer curtain wall, I spurred through winding alleys and
streets, ignoring the shouts of passers-by. Never an indifferent horseman, I
took negligent care to avoid trampling anyone, and therefore no one went down
beneath my stallion's iron-shod hooves.

           
Sparks flew; I bent low in the
saddle and urged the horse on faster, past the watch and through the massive
barbican gate, portcullis raised: the East Gate of Mujhara.

           
Onward through the clustered
spillage of outer dwellings; I recalled the night I had met Strahan. So long
ago—had he really warned me not to wed Gisella?

           
Aye, he had. As well as promising to
take my sons.

           
Now the promise was more dangerous
than ever; Gisella could bear me my first son soon, and set Strahan's plans
into motion.

           
Through the winding footpaths of the
outskirts; out of dirt onto heath, digging divots of tight-packed turf and
clods of soil. I shut my eyes and trusted my horsemanship to keep me in the
saddle as I battled the emptiness, It is difficult to describe how overwhelming
emptiness can be, how utterly encompassing, until even the thought of death
becomes less important than the driving need to be filled. It is worse than
melancholy; worse than the depths of despair. It is a complete cessation of
functioning. A man simply ceases to be, and yet he knows that physically he
still exists. It is only his spirit that has been torn asunder.

           
The need burned away the liquor in
my blood. I was not drunk, though a part of me longed to be. Nor was I made ill
by the poison I had poured so liberally into my body. I was simply empty.

           
Under the quarter moon the horse and
I went on, galloping across the open plains until we could gallop no more, and
then we slowed. I heard the whistle in the stallion's wind and knew I had come
close to slaying him outright; I might even have ruined him permanently. He
carried his head very low, dangling on the end of his shaven neck. His ears
lolled back loosely, flopping as he walked. He staggered, stumbling repeatedly;
at last I dismounted and led him. But I did not turn back. I led him ever
eastward, into the deepwood that swallowed the eastern plains.

           
Spittle from the stallion had soiled
my velvet doublet.

           
It was past midsummer, moving into
fall, but the night was not cold, only cool.

           
Ahead of me, hidden by leagues of
deepwood, lay

           
Clankeep. But I did not intend to go
there; could not, in my need. I knew Ceinn and the other a'saii would mock me,
denigrating me before the clan, using my emptiness and lirlessness to turn
other warriors against me. And then there would be more than just a few; more,
even, than twenty or thirty. There would be enough to pull me out of the Lion's
presence and put lan in my place.

           
At last, weary as the stallion, I
stopped stumbling eastward and searched for shelter. In a copse of close-grown
beeches I unsaddled the stallion, unpacked the few things I had brought with
me—bow, full quiver, waterskin, a pouch of dried meat, one of grain, cloak—and
made a bed of leaves. I threw myself upon it and rolled up in my cloak once I
had tethered and grained the horse. I knew he would not try to break the rein
and wander. Like me, he wanted nothing more than the forgetfulness of sleep.

           
I burrowed into the leaves,
reflecting the Homanans would not believe it of their prince, and let the
darkness overwhelm me- I heard the night sounds; smelled the sap, the soil, the
fragrance of the forest. I stared up at the arching fretwork of limbs against
stars and thought of the gods who had decreed there be a people put onto the
land, and so they had put the Firstborn upon the Crystal Isle. I thought of the
Firstborn who had watched their children become so blood-bred their very
existence was threatened; until even the Firstborn knew they themselves could
not recover. And I thought of the prophecy that bound the Cheysuli so tightly;
that bound me so tightly, like the pillory that imprisons thief and liar.

           
The stallion grunted. I turned to
look and saw him go down, shifting sideways, until he lay on his side; until,
on his back, he twisted and hunched, flailing long legs as he rolled against
deadfall and dirt. He shed dried sweat and discomfort in the age-old equine
rite; I wished I could do the same.

           
He lay still a moment, blinking; the
quarter moon set his eye afire with light. And then he was up, awkward in the
attempt as horses always are; he stood, shook violently—shedding hair and
debris—then locked his knees and shut his eyes. He would sleep standing,
perfectly comfortable, while I tried to sleep lying down in leaves against a
ground that would be damp by morning.

           
The night was colder than I had
expected. When dawn chased away the morning mists I awoke shivering with a
bone-deep chill. I tried to wrap the cloak more tightly, but it was only a
summer cloak of fine-combed wool, not a heavier winter cloak lined with fur.
And so I gave up on sleep altogether and rose, aware of a sourness in my throat
that bespoke a belly gone bad on too much wine. I had thought the effects
purged by the flight from Mujhara; they were not. The condition of my head told
me that.

           
I drank water sparingly, ate dried
meat, sat hunched on a cold log wishing myself a man who did not imbibe;
knowing one day, and probably too soon, I would do the same again.

           
Finally I rose and went to the
horse. With both hands I brushed his back free of the debris remaining from the
night before, placed blankets across his spine and prepared to hoist the saddle
up and settle it on top of the blankets. I had every intention of going back to
Homana-Mujhar. Every intention: no doubt my brother and father worried—I knew
my mother worried—and I had left Gisella as well. Poor, sad Gisella, deprived
of the ordering in her wits that would have made her worthy of any man.

           
And yet, I thought she was worthy of
me.

           
Grimly I reached for the Homanan
saddle. But even as I caught hold and hoisted it, I realized the emptiness was
not gone. Only a bit laggard in renewing itself in my soul.

           
Gods, what am I to do? Tell me what
I am to do!

           
But the only answer was the snort of
my chestnut stallion and the chatter of a jay in the tree.

           
Do I go back? Has anything changed
from last night, except the condition of head and belly? No. I am still empty,
still naked, still bound up in the need for the thing I need so badly.

           
And so I did not go back. I tended
the stallion more carefully than the night before, pulling the blankets from
his back, once again, and found him mostly recovered from my irresponsibility.
I grained him, watered him as best I could by tucking the skin beneath an arm
and pressing water into cupped palms. He drank, but I did not doubt he would
prefer a stream or river.

           
"Later. First, we—I—need fresh
meat. This pouch will not last long." I patted him, left him rein enough
to graze around the tree, took bow and quiver and set out to hunt on foot.

           
After half a day spent tracking, I
slew a roebuck and carried it back to the campsite slung over my shoulders.

           
There I hung it up and butchered it,
enjoying the messy task not because I enjoyed butchering, but because I took
satisfaction in doing the thing myself. So often there were others to do it for
me. Even Ian. And I thought of the red king stag.

           
I built a fire and roasted the meat,
knowing most of it would spoil before I could eat it all. The stallion cropped
contentedly at forest grasses and the grain I gave him, untroubled by his
sojourn away from luxury into the depths of the shadowed forest. And even
though I was empty still, I began to know a little peace.

           
We moved on, the horse and I, after
another day. He had stripped the copse bare of grazing and I wanted to find a
proper stream. So I saddled him, packed him, mounted him, intending to head
back.

           
But instead, we went deeper into the
woods. And, as the days passed, more deeply still, until I left behind all
thoughts of Homana-Mujhar and contented myself with doing for myself, as I had
never done before.

           
I let my beard grow, since I had
only a knife with which to shave it, and no polished plate at all. I slew a
deer and fashioned a set of boots, since my others—intended only for ceremonial
wear—were nearly destroyed.

           
The fur was lush against my legs.
The remaining pelt I made into a rough jerkin—hair-in, hide-out, no sleeves—and
belted it with a strip of leather. Beneath it all I still wore the soiled silks
and velvets of my wedding finery, as well as the garnets and gold.

           
The horse began to grow his winter
coat, losing the sheen of summertime and gaining the blurry outline of colder
months. His mane, no longer shaved, grew straight up to a height the width of
my hand before it began to fall. At Homana-Mujhar, he was stabled, closely
tended, knowing shelter against the seasons. Here he knew only the honesty of
the forest,.

           
We moved on twice more, because the
emptiness increased. Each day I awoke prepared to go back, to go home, and yet
each day I felt myself emptier than ever.

           
The only surcease I knew was to busy
myself with living as I had never lived, learning the forest as I had never
really known it. I thought of Gisella, growing larger with my child. I thought
of Ian, whom I had sent from me with cruel temper and cruder tongue. I thought
also of my father, deprived yet again of his legitimate son and heir so soon
after he had finally gotten him back; needing him more than ever. And, of
course, my mother, who no doubt worried every hour of every day and night.

           
But this was my time, my freedom ...
my final chance to learn precisely who I was before I must become the man they
desired me to be, and not the man I might have become on my own.

           
I did not go back. Because I could
not, yet.

           
*
* *

           
And then early one morning, just
before dawn, a bear came into camp. I knew it at once by the smell, even as the
stallion awakened me with the noise of his fear; his attempts to break free of
the rein tying him to the sapling. He broke it, but as he spun to run the bear
was on him, and in the bright light of a full moon I saw the hunter clearly: a
cinnamon-colored rock bear.

           
There was nothing to do for the
horse. By the time I caught up my bow, the bear had slain him. And so I took
what I could reach of my belongings, silently, and left at once, not wishing to
contest anything so deadly as a rock bear for campsite or gear.

           
I went away as far as I could and
slept the rest of the night beneath the spreading limbs of a huge old oak,
rolled in my summer cloak. And when at dawn I awakened, I found the rock bear
sitting beside me.

           
I was up before I could speak,
running before I could walk, caught before I could pray. I felt the spread paw
slap at my ankle, catch, jerk, and then I was down, rolling, trying to yank my
knife free of its sheath even as the bear slapped my hand. The knife went
flying- With unexpected precision, the bear used only one claw against the back
of my hand. The stripe turned white, pink, red; opening, it spilled blood down
through my fingers.

           
I sprawled on my buttocks, braced
against one rigid elbow even as my booted feet scraped rotting leaves,
searching for purchase in drifting debris. The bear sat back on his haunches. I
saw the yellow eyes; the eyes of a Cheysuli.

           
And then, of course, I knew.

           
"Ku'reshtin!” I shouted
hoarsely. "Is this how you mean to do it?"

           
The bear blurred before me. I
squinted as the void swallowed the bear and spat out a man, a Cheysuli: Ceinn.
Still he squatted before me, close enough to touch; I did not move. I knew
better than to move.