Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (38 page)

           
She said nothing. I moved past her
to the edge of the bed. "Does jehan know?"

           
"I had a message sent. But I
doubt Donal can come. Not in time. The plague waits for no one."

           
Indeed, it did not. Rowan's face was
gray and very gaunt. Even his lips were gray, but they were also swollen and
cracked. His breathing was distinctly labored.

           
I looked at my mother sharply.
"Is there no one we can call?"

           
"Nothing is left," she
told me gently. "What can be done has already been done twice over."

           
"Is there no kin to share his
passing?"

           
"He is quite alone," my
mother said. "His family was all of us."

           
Bleakly, I shook my head.
"Gods," I said, "what sterility. No wife, no children, no clan .
. . not even a lir to grieve."

           
Rowan began to cough. It was a
harsh, backing cough, coming from deep in the lungs. Spittle soiled his chin;
his cracked lips split again and bled.

           
I bent over him instantly, smoothing
his coverlet in a futile bid to soothe his pain, though I knew there was nothing
for it. The silvering hair was dull and lacking life.

           
Pushed back from his face, it bared
the fragility of his skull, showing the bones beneath the drying flesh. There
was so little of Rowan left.

           
And then he opened his eyes; there
was more left than I had expected. "My lord," he said, and smiled.
"My lord—you have been away so long."

           
The voice had been ruined by his
coughing. He sounded nothing like himself. "Aye," I said, "but
home now. And will stay here, for a while."

           
The lids drifted closed, then opened
once again. "My lord—" He drew a rattling breath. "Carillon—

           
I froze.

           
"Carillon, I beg you—take Finn
back into your service—“

           
I shut my eyes. "Rowan."

           
"I know what constitutes an
oath ... I know you made one, broke one, according to Cheysuli tradition . . .
but make a new tradition. You both need one another."

           
Looking at him, I saw how it hurt to
speak the words.

           
And yet he continued to try to speak
them. "Rowan, do not trouble yourself—" But in the end I did not
finish. It was not for me to tell this man what to do.

           
His hand was on my wrist. The
fingers were so dry, so hot, so oddly insubstantial. Even the calluses were
losing their customary toughness. "Oh, my lord," he whispered. "Oh,
my lord, it has been an easy service. I could not have asked for a better
lord—"

           
I shut his limp hand up in both of
mine. "Nor could I have asked for a better friend."

           
Rowan's smile was blinding. Tears
were in his eyes.

           
"Do you recall, my lord? Do you
recall the day we met?"

           
I opened my mouth to urge him into
silence; said nothing. I let him tell me how he and my grandsire had met.

           
"You were in chains," he
said. "Thorne of Atvia had slain your father and taken you prisoner—and
me, the same day, but I did not count. I was nothing—you were the Prince of
Homana." He smiled a little; blood welled into the cracks in his lips.
"And you spoke to me—to a boy made wretched by captivity—and you called us
kinspirits." A tear rolled down one temple to stain the pillow beneath his
head. "But Thorne took you away to his father. Keough, and I thought they
would slay you.

           
And then later, when I was taken, I thought
they meant to slay me—“

           
He coughed. His hand tightened in
mine. I felt my mother next to me. "Rowan," she began, but he went on
when the spasm had passed, and she did not try to dissuade him.

           
"It was Keough—it was Keough
who would have had me slain—when I spilled the wine . . . Thorne would have
slain me, but you begged for my life. You begged for it, my lord—you offered to
take my place. . . ."

           
Again, he coughed. His hand clutched
mine. "But—they did not listen. And I was flogged ... for spilling wine.

           
And when Alix rescued me, I swore
then I would serve you all my life—even when you went into exile." The
smile brought fresh blood to his swollen lips. "How I wished I could have
been Finn . . . when I heard a Cheysuli had gone with you, I wished it could
have been me—"

           
Breath rattled in his chest. I
thought he could not go on.

           
But he did. "All those
years—all those years I envied him his position as liege man to Carillon . . .
and yet by denying my race as a boy—by denying my lir—I also denied any chance
I might have been the warrior you trusted so readily. And when he was gone—when
you sent him from your service—I thought I would rejoice . . . but I did not. I
was not Finn . . . and you needed him. You needed us both. . . ." He
sighed. "Oh my lord, take him back into your service. Homana has need of
all her children.”

           
His voice stopped. I swallowed
heavily. "Rowan—Cheysuli i'halla shansu."

           
He laughed only a little; his voice
was nearly gone.

           
"Cheysuli peace, for me? But I
am a lirless man- . . ."

           
"Cheysuli i'halla shansu."

           
He lifted his head from the pillow.
"Carillon—" And then it fell back, and I knew he would not speak
again.

           
I sat there for countless moments,
trying to master myself. And when I could, I detached his hand from mine and
set it carefully on the coverlet. It was hard to believe he was dead. Hard to
believe the hand would never again lift a sword in the name of Homana's
Mujhars.

           
Impossible to believe.

           
"I am sorry." My mother
touched my shoulder. "But surely you understand."

           
"Why he mistook me? Oh, aye . .
. and I do not care. If it gave him peace to believe I was Carillon, it is a
gift I would gladly bestow." I rose. I saw the tears on her face.

           
"I will see to it arrangements
are made."

           
"Niall." Her hand closed
on my wrist and held me back. "It is for others to do."

           
I snapped my wrist free of her hand.
"If you think I will delegate the responsibility for this man's disposal
to someone else merely because of rank—"

           
"No," she said clearly.
"It has nothing to do with rank. If I thought it would bring me peace, I
would dig the grave myself. But they would never allow me the honor."

           
"They?" I frowned.
"Who would not?"

           
She looked past me to the dead man
in the bed. "There is no choice. It is a time of plague ... a time of
new—and ugly—traditions. A time requiring measures ordinarily we could refuse.
But not even those of the House of Homana may ask to be excused."

           
"Jehana—"

           
"They will take him away,"
she said plainly, "to a common grave outside the walls. And there he and
the others will be put to the torch so the plague will be consumed."

           
"Not Rowan. He deserves so much
more than that—"

           
"And if it were you," my
mother told me, "they would do precisely the same. There are no titles in
death."

           
No. No titles. Nothing but an
obscene absence from the world.

           
I looked at Rowan a final time. And
then I drew my mother into my arms even as she locked hers around me.

           
Together we grieved in silence.
Together we offered comfort even as it was asked.

           
Ja'hai, I said to the gods. Accept
this Cheysuli warrior.

           
I labored over the letter as I never
had done before, trying to find precisely the proper words. It would be easy to
simply say: Jehan, Rowan is dead, but the man was worth more than that. So, I
thought, was my father.

           
I had thought of having a scribe do
the work, saying aloud what had happened and letting the other write it down,
but that lacked privacy. It gave me no chance to say what I really felt. So I
sat at my father's table and wrote it out myself.

           
And as I signed my name, my brother
came into the room.

           
"Ian." Quickly, I sanded
the parchment, shook it, set it carefully aside. "How does 'Solde fare?
How bad is the plague in Clankeep?"

           
"I had forgotten," he
said. "I had forgotten she was to bear a child."

           
I sat back in my chair. "By the
gods—so had I!”

           
"Well, it was a boy. Four
months ago. 'Solde named him Tieman."

           
I would have smiled, but there was a
question I had to ask before I expressed my pleasure. "A healthy child? And
‘Solde?"

           
"Healthy child? Aye." He
nodded. He shrugged. Cienn said the birth was easy. But the plague has taken
'Solde."

           
I did not move. I could not. I sat
in my chair and stared at the stranger who stood before me.

           
"Last night," he said
listlessly. "Last night, as Tiernan cried for the breast she could not
give him—the plague had dried her milk."

           
Shock was a buffer between
comprehension and grief.

           
"Not 'Solde—" I said; I
begged. "Ian—not Isolde"

           
I waited. I watched. I knew he would
deny it. Ian had to deny it. This was all part of the same obscene jest fostered
by Strahan upon us. I waited. I waited for Ian to admit it; to say Isolde
lived.

           
But he did not. He wandered
aimlessly into my father's private chamber. Tasha, following, flopped down beside
a storage trunk even as Ian sat down on the lid. "I watched it, rujho. I
just watched. There was nothing I could do."

           
No—not Isolde—

           
"I thought perhaps the earth
magic might help to turn the plague away. But nothing answered. Nothing came at
my call." He sounded weary, confused, remote, as if the death had taken
away more than just Isolde, "I watched—and knew there was nothing I could
do."

           
"No." I saw Rowan's face
before me, his gaunt gray face clad in the somber flesh of death. "No,
there is nothing."

           
"The baby cried. Ceinn cried.
But Isolde slipped away."

           
And then suddenly his listlessness
was banished and I saw the ragged blossoming of his grief. “Wait—she did not
slip away! She was taken from us! Like a lamb caught in a bear-trap."

           
I shoved my chair back and, crossed
the chamber to him. But even as I reached out, intending to grasp his shoulder,
Ian rose and pushed my hand away. He brushed by me almost roughly; I watched
him stalk to the fireplace and stare into the flames. The line of his shoulders
was incredibly rigid.

           
It is not a Cheysuli custom to
openly acknowledge grief.

           
But I had seen him acknowledge other
things without a qualm, flouting Cheysuli custom.

           
He and Isolde had always been close.
Closer than 'Solde and I; they had shared jehan and jehana. And I wondered:
Perhaps it is an indication of how deeply he feels this grief, that he cannot
share it with me.

           
"Ceinn is inconsolable."

           
I saw 'Solde before me, in the rain,
clad in crimson wool and the brightness of her spirit. How she had loved the
rain. How she had loved the children. How she had loved Ceinn.

           
Still his back was to me. But I knew
better than to go to him. "And you?"

           
Slowly he turned, but not before I
saw the telltale gesture of hand pressing tears away from flesh. "Forgive
me. I have no right to be selfish, rujho ... she was your rujholla, too.”

           
"Aye." I drew in a
steadying breath. "Rowan is dead as well."

           
"Oh—" he said, when he
could, "—oh, gods, but how keenly Strahan strikes!" Like me, he
sucked in an uneven breath. "Niall—it is worse. Much worse than we
imagined. The plague has slain half our numbers."

           
"Half?" All the flesh
stood up on my bones. "Half of us are dead?"

           
"At least. They have not
counted properly, but they tally what they can. Each day, there are no less
than three new deaths. And that is not counting the lir."

           
It was my turn to sit down on the
trunk lid. Half. Half of our clan only? Or of the Cheysuli as a whole?

           
I asked him. His eyes were bleak.
"Our clan has lost half. But the others send word of additional deaths. I
think we can say half of all clans are dead. Strahan begins his own
qu'mahlin."

           
Half of all the Cheysuli.

           
I thought of Shaine, our ancestor,
who had nearly destroyed a race. I thought of. Carillon, who had come home from
exile to end a tyrant's reign and end the qu'mahlin as well. I thought of how
the clans had increased until they had divided, living in freedom again,
building Keeps where they wished to build them, raising children in
tranquility.

           
Half of all the Cheysuli.

           
Taken by Strahan's plague.

           
Gods, deliver us from the Ihlini.
"The old woman," I said suddenly. "The old Ihlini woman. She had
the right of it. This thing is born of evil. Born of Asar-Suti."

           
"There was another thing she
said." His tone was hard as iron. "There was a thing she said we must
do."

           
I looked at him. "We will go to
Strahan's fortress."

           
In silence, Ian nodded.

           
"His lifestone," I said
intently. "That, or slay the white wolf." I looked over at the table.
The parchment lacked my seal. But I knew now I would not send it. I would have
to send another. "Ian—it is late, I know . . . but will you ask for the council
to be summoned?—those members who are here. If we are to go in the morning, I
must name my heir.”

           
"Without jehan?”

           
I shook my head. "We cannot wait
for him. And even if he did come, he would say we could not go." I
shrugged. "An informal council, perhaps, and a more informal acclamation,
but one that must be made. The Lion must remain secure."

           
"Aye.” He turned to go. And
then he paused. "What win you say to the Queen?”

           
What would I say to my mother? I
sighed. "I will think of something.

           
In the end, I simply said I was
going. I told her when. I told her why. I told her what must be done. And I
waited.

           
For refusals, anger, tears. But she
gave me none of those things.

           
"Go," she said. "Do
what you must do.”

           
I waited. But she said nothing more.
In the end, it was up to me. "Jehana?" I shrugged a little beneath
her calm gray gaze. "I—thought you would forbid it.”

           
She sat in a cushioned chair,
swathed in a bronze-colored robe. She had prepared herself for bed; the
glorious hair, unbound, spilled about her shoulders and gathered in her tap.

           
"No," she said. “The realm
is near to ruin. There will be nothing left for Donal—nothing left for you.
Something must be done. Strahan must be stopped."

           
Still, I waited. Anticipating all
manner of remonstrations, I had come prepared. My verbal quiver was full of arrows.
But she had stolen my bow.

           
"Ian, too?” she asked.

           
"Of course."

           
"And the lir." She nodded.
"I can think of no two warriors better equipped for this confrontation.”

           
I smiled a little. "Such
faith."

           
"You are both of you Donal's
sons. I think it is not misplaced.”

           
After a moment, I drew in a quiet
breath. "Ian has called the council. Before I go, I must name Brennan as
my heir. And Hart as Brennan's heir."

           
My mother nodded. Her face was oddly
serene. "You are a wealthy man. Two sons to guard the Lion."

           
I knew she had always regretted her
barrenness. One son. Not enough, not nearly enough, when war lives on your
doorstep. But the House of Homana had nearly always been poor in sons; she
should hardly blame herself.

           
Two sons. Aye, I was a wealthy man.
Perhaps now the tradition changed. I claimed two heirs already, and Gisella was
nearly due to deliver another child.

           
I went to my mother. I bent, cupped
her head in my hands, kissed her smooth, fair brow. "Tahlmorra," I
told her gently.

           
She smiled. Squeezed my hands, then
let them go.

           
"Cheysuli i'halla shansu."

           
I smiled. I wanted to laugh out
loud; to tell her how accented was her Old Tongue, but I did not. I think she
knew. And so, in silence, I went to open the door. And at the door, briefly, I
turned back, to wish her a final goodbye; to thank her for her strength.

           
But I said nothing at all, watching
the tears run down her face. And then I went out of the room.

           
Gisella stared at me.
"Strahan?" she said. "You are going to find the Ihlini?"

           
"Find him. Slay him, if I can.
He must be destroyed."

           
Her yellow eyes were very wide and
startled; she was a child, I thought, afraid of losing something. "You are
leaving me."

           
I sighed. "No," I told
her. "No. Not permanently. I will be back, if the gods are willing."

           
She sat in the center of her big
tester bed, crumpling the coverlet into ruin with rigid, clawlike fingers.
"You are leaving me. Because I am not like Deirdre of Erinn."

           
Gods, how she knew to provoke the
pain. "I am going to stop this plague," I told her harshly. "It
has nothing to do with you. Nothing to do with Deirdre. How can it, Gisella?
Deirdre of Erinn is dead!"

           
"And if you go, you will be
dead." Awkwardly, she scrambled forward to grab my hand. She pressed it
against the mound of her swollen belly. "Stay here. Stay here. Stay
here."

           
"Gisella—I cannot. It is a
thing I have sworn to do."

           
"Stay here. Stay here. Stay
here."

           
I tried to detach my hand, but she
hung on with all her strength.

           
"—stay here—stay here—stay
here—"

           
"No," I told her.
"No."

           
But I knew she could not bear me.
The chanting had grown too loud.

           
Beneath my hand, the child moved.

           
"—stay here—stay here—stay
here—"

           
Gods, my child moves—

           
"—stay here—stay here—"

           
Child or no, I broke her grip.
Because I had to.

           
I stood up. Moved away from the bed.

           
The chanting abruptly broke off.

           
Gisella began to rock. Gisella began
to sing.

           
I closed the door on her song.