Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (43 page)

           
I dug rigid fingers more deeply into
Serri's pelt. "How better to overcome the enemy than by removing his reason
for living?" I asked bitterly. "Is this what you try to do?"

           
"I ask you to make no
judgments. I do not intend to shake your faith. I only explain bow it was that
one Ihlini chose to deny his god, his lord . . . and renounce the gifts the
Firstborn gave us."

           
"Gave you?"

           
"Aye," he said gently.
"Not all of us are evil. Not all of us serve Asar-Suti. And when we do
not, when we have not drunk of the Seker's blood, we remain only men and women
who have a little magic. A little magic, Niall... the sort you would claim if
Serri left you."

           
Serri? Serri? But my lir did not
answer. It frightened me. "I would die if Serri left me!"

           
"No. If Serri left you of his
own volition, you would not die because of it. You would lack the shapechange,
the healing—the things the lir-bond gives you. But you would not die."

           
"There is the
death-ritual."

           
"Because suicide is taboo. It
does not matter, Niall. The ritual is in force only if the lir is slain—not if
the lir deserts you."

           
"Serri would never desert me!
No lir would desert a warrior!"

           
I expected Serri's immediate
agreement; he remained oddly silent.

           
Serri—you promised you would not
leave me!

           
"Not in your lifetime,"
Taliesin said calmly. "Perhaps it will not happen even while your sons
rule the realms you give them. But some day—one day—when the child of the
prophecy is born ... the lir will know a new master."

           
No.

           
“ ‘One day a man of all blood will
unite, in peace, four waring realms and two magic races,' " Taliesin
quoted. "What happens then, Niall? What becomes of the Ihlini? What
becomes of the Cheysuli?"

           
No.

           
“The races, merged, form a new one.
The one that lived before. The one with all the power."

           
Serri, say it is not true.

           
"It is what the gods intend. It
is what the Ihlini must stop—those who serve Asar-Suti. Because when the Firstborn
emerge again, the Seker will be defeated. The Gate will be sealed shut; the
netherworld locked away. The Firstborn shall rule the world in the names of
other gods."

           
"And you renounced Tynstar
because of that?" I asked. "Because you support the merging of the
races?"

           
"It means life, my lord, for
all of us. I want the Cheysuli destroyed no more than the Ihlini. And the only
means for settling our feud forever is to change the face of hatred."

           
In darkness, I could not see it. But
I doubted anyone could.

           
Serri? Serri?

           
Nothing.

           
Gods, I thought, I am afraid—afraid
he tells me lies.

           
But more afraid because he may be
telling the truth.

           
"There is someone here!" I
said sharply. I levered myself up on one elbow next to Serri; the pain was
mostly bearable now. "Taliesin."

           
"Your ears are keener,"
the Ihlini told me. "Aye, there is someone here, but Caro has always been
here."

           
"Caro?"

           
"My guest. My friend. My
hands."

           
"Hands?" I pressed fingers
against the bandages and gently scratched the itching flesh beneath.
"Gods, could you use your hands to rid me of these bindings? I am going
mad."

           
"Aye, I think it is time. But
Caro will unwrap you."

           
In a moment I felt hands on the
knots of my bandages, loosening, untying, unwrapping. Light crept in, then blazed
as my left eye was freed. The right one saw nothing at all.

           
I shut my left eye. "It
hurts—the light hurts me—"

           
"Because it has known darkness
for too long. Be patient. The eye is unharmed. You will see clearly
again."

           
Tears ran out from under my
shielding lid. I could not stop the watering. "And my right eye?"

           
"Gone," Taliesin told me
gently. "You will need a patch; I will have Caro make you one. I could,
but he will do it better."

           
Caro's big hands were gentle and
familiar. All along it had been he who tended me, not Taliesin. Not physically.
But with his voice, oh, aye—his beguiling, beautiful voice.

           
With a cloth Caro sponged the tears
away, then rubbed tender flesh with an herbal salve. Now that I knew he was
here, I wondered how I had not known it all along.

           
"Leijhww tu'sai/' I told him.
"My thanks, Caro."

           
"He cannot hear you,"
Taliesin said quietly. "Caro is deaf and dumb."

           
My eyelid jerked open. I squinted as
tears welled up again; my empty socket throbbed. But I ignored it. I looked at
Caro. Wide-eyed, I stared, trying to see him clearly. And when I could, I began
to laugh.

           
It hurt. But I laughed. I cried. I
could not help myself.

           
Because Caro was myself.

           
Gods, how I laughed.

           
"Did you know?" I asked
Taliesin, when the laughter and tears had faded. "Did you know?"

           
He did not answer at once. For the
first time I looked upon him as he sat in a lopsided chair. His hair was white,
bound back by a thin silver circlet, but his face was smooth, unaged; the face
of a man eternally young.

           
His clear eyes were very blue.

           
I looked at his hands. Twisted,
gnarled things, once whole, now not; someone had purposely destroyed them, for
nothing else could do such tremendous damage-Gods—who would do that to a man
like Taliesin?

           
I looked again at Caro, who knelt in
silence beside my pallet. "Did you know?" I repeated to Taliesin.

           
Did you know? I asked my lir.

           
You were ill, in pain—what profit in
telling you before you needed to know?

           
"They told me his name,"
Taliesin said. "Carollan. They asked me to keep him safe."

           
Carollan/Carillon. Not quite the
same, but close enough.

           
Like father, like son—except the son
was deaf and dumb.

           
"Safe," I echoed, looking
at my kinsman; at Carillon's bastard son. “They believed my father would slay
him?"

           
"They were convinced of it.
There was nowhere in Homana he would be safe, they said, and so they brought
him nearly two years ago to Solinde. To Taliesin the bard, who once sang in the
halls of Solindish kings; in the halls of Ihlini strongholds. They knew. They
knew I could never harm him. And they knew no one would look for him here. When
they need him, they borrow him. But they always bring him back." He
paused. "It was how I knew you, Niall. This close to the border even I
hear news of how the Prince of Homana resembles his grandsire; how the bastard
resembles his father."

           
I looked at Caro in fascination. He
was me. But not, quite. He was thirty-six, nearly sixteen years older than I.
His face was older, as was to be expected; wind-chafed, with traceries of
sunlines at the outer corners of his eyes. His beard was more mature. But
everything else was the same: tawny, sunstreaked hair, darker beard, blue eyes,
almost identical shape of facial bones. Carillon had well and truly stamped his
progeny.

           
I laughed once. But this time it was
little more than an expulsion of ironic comprehension. "And so the
Homanans who wish to replace Niall with Carillon's bastard want nothing more
than a puppet. An empty vessel upon the Lion, so they can rule Homana."

           
"Aye, I believe they do."

           
I thought of Elek. I thought of
Same, who had so eloquently campaigned for her disabled son. Gods, but how
steadfastly she had insisted Carillon had promised his son a place in the
succession. And I thought of the people who had rallied to Caro's standard.
Gods, now ludicrous it all seemed now.

           
I shook my head. "Surely they
understand once the truth is known, the petition will be denied."

           
"Surely they do," Taliesin
agreed. "But I am sure they feel the truth will never be discovered, or—if
it is—it will be too late; the lion will already be theirs. Look at what they
have already accomplished, even with him hidden."

           
He shook his white-haired head.
"Do not forget, Niall, many people never see their king. Many people know
only his name, not what or who he is. They toil to pay his taxes, they die in
his armies, they celebrate his name-day and the birth of sons and heirs ... but
only rarely do they set eyes upon the man. He is a name. And it is possible for
a realm to be governed for years by only a name."

           
Frowning, I shook my head pensively,
carefully. "But they were all so willing to follow him, to put him on the
throne. So willing to slay Carillon's grandson to make way for the bastard son.”

           
Taliesin nodded. "He is legend,
now, as you should know so well. How better to recapture the man himself?

           
By elevating his son. A son is a
son, and closer than the grandson. And there are those who desire to keep the
throne Homanan, to use it for themselves. But mostly I think there are those
who desire only to serve the man they believe to be the rightful heir; it is
not so impossible to believe Caro is that man. He is Carillon's son. Can you
blame them? They know only that, nothing more; that he is a son, not a
grandson—Homanan, not Cheysuli."

           
His voice was very quiet. "They
believe in what they are doing."

           
I stroked Serri's coat. As so many
of us believe . . .

           
Cheysuli, Ihlini, Homanan.

           
As so many of you must believe.

           
Aye—must. I thought of Strahan and
Lillith, serving their noxious god while they also served themselves, desiring
to save their race. I thought of Alaric of Atvia, opportunistic Alaric, who no
doubt realized he alone could not defeat Homana but that he might come out the
victor if he aided the" Ihlini by giving his daughter to Lillith. And I
thought of the a'saii, who sought the purest blood of all and were willing
spill mine in order to get it.

           
Oh, aye, all of us, doing what we
had to in order to make certain we survived; to secure the best possible of
places in this world and the next.

           
Serri's tone was warm and wise.
Because, wrong or right, you believe in what you do.

           
Aye. Every one of us.

           
Aloud, I said: "Nothing excuses
bloodshed. Nothing excuses the annihilation of a race."

           
Taliesin's smile was incredibly
sweet. This one was also compassionate. "And do you refer to the Ihlini?
Or do you speak of the Cheysuli?"

           
Bitterly, I glared at him from out
of my single eye.

           
"Both. Both. What else can I
believe?"

           
He sighed. His ruined hands twitched
in his blue-robed lap, as if he longed to clasp them in victory; knowing he could
not.

           
Caro leaned down to rub more salve
into my flesh. But I stopped him. I caught his wrist, sat up slowly, confronted
him face to face.

           
I looked for some indication, some
sign he knew who he was; what he was, and what he might have become.

           
But there was only patient curiosity
as he waited for an explanation.

           
I let go of him. "They told him
nothing."

           
"No. I think they believe him a
lackwit, unable to comprehend. He is not, of course. But neither is he fit to
be Mujhar."

           
Slowly I shook my head. "And so
the great plan is undone. I have only to announce his disabilities, and the
Homanan rebellion is over."

           
"So it is."

           
Said too sadly; I looked at the Ihlini
in sudden consternation. "Would they slay him?—the Homanans? Would they
destroy the useless puppet?"

           
"I think it more likely they
would simply cut the strings. But I will pick them up." He lifted his
ruined hands. "There is some movement left, I think I can work those
strings. Better yet, I will cut them off entirely and let him go without."

           
I looked at Caro. I could not tell
what he thought. But I knew he was not the enemy, intentionally or no.

           
I reached out, clasped his arm,
nodded to him a little.

           
"My thanks. Caro." I told
him clearly. "In the Old Tongue—Uijhana tu'sed."

           
His eyes watched the movement of my
mouth; the emotions in my face. I could not be certain he understood. But be
smiled. He smiled my smile, returned my clasp, and went to sit upon a stool.

           
I looked at Taliesin. "Who did
that to your hands?"

           
"Not Tynstar." The blue
eyes were clouded with memories. "No, for many years I pleased him with my
skill. Instead of remaining an itinerant Ihlini bard, I gained a permanent
patron . . . until I asked him why he wanted to destroy the Cheysuli; why he
wanted to steal Homana."

           
The mouth tightened a little.
"But he did not ruin my hands. No. His punishment was of a different sort
entirely. He gave me the 'gift' of eternal life. He said that if I was truly a
man who did not believe in what he and others sought to achieve, he would make
absolutely certain I was alive to see it when he achieved it. So I could make
songs about the fall of Homana and the rise of the Ihlini."

           
"Then who did destroy your
hands?"

           
"Strahan did this. He felt I
was deserving of graver punishment. Once his father was slain by Carillon.
Strahan showed his grief by punishing those who would not serve him. And so he
destroyed my hands; that I would live forever without the magic of the
harp."

           
Strahan did this. Aye, Strahan did
much to ruin the flesh of others. Retribution for the ear he had lost to Finn?

           
"I must go," I said
finally. "I cannot remain here longer. I fear for the safety of my sons,
and there is a wolf I have to slay."

           
Taliesin rose. He went to a trunk,
lifted the lid, drew out a piece of polished silver. He brought it to me and
put it into my hands. "So you will know," he said.

           
When I found the courage, I looked.
And saw the price of Strahan's humor.