Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (44 page)

           
I tried to remain dispassionate, to
study my face without emotion. But I could not. All I saw was the lidless,
empty socket and the livid purple weals.

           
All I saw was disfigurement; the
ruination of a man. I let the silver fall out of my hand.

           
Taliesin picked it up with his
gnarled claws. "Caro will make a patch."

           
"Patch," I echoed blankly.
Oh gods, lir, what will the others think? What will the others see?

           
What they have always seen, those
who know how to look.

           
Gently, I touched the puckered talon
scars. They divided my right brow in half, stretched diagonally across the
bridge of my nose to touch the lid of the other eye, reached downward out of
the empty socket to cut into my cheekbone. There was no question the hawk had known
precisely what he was meant to do. But for Serri, he might have done it.

           
"They will fade, soften ... in
time they will not be so bold." Taliesin told me. Gently, with compassion.
With endless empathy.

           
Lir, they will heal.

           
The bard and my lir took such care
to reassure me.

           
But I knew the scars would heal. Of
course. I knew that.

           
One day I would grow used to the
disfigurement; would hardly notice the scars.

           
But what they would look like in
five or ten years had nothing to do with now.

           
"Maimed," I said hollowly.

           
"Niail, you have another eye.
Once you are accustomed, you will find the loss of one hardly interferes,"

           
Taliesin said quietly. "Even as
I—"

           
"Maimed," I repeated.
"Do you know what it means to a Cheysuli?"

           
He frowned a little. "Is it—does
it mean a thing apart from other races?" He shrugged a little.
"Forgive me, but I fear I do not comprehend your fear."

           
"A maimed warrior is
useless," I told him steadily, defying myself to break. "He cannot
hunt food, protect his clan, his kin."

           
Taliesin's raised hand stopped me.
"No more," he said. “No more. Forgive me for speaking openly, but I
say that is foolishness. What is to stop you from lifting a sword? From loosing
an arrow? From slaying deer and others for food? What, Niall? Do you mean to
tell me you will give up because you have lost an eye?"

           
I tried to frown and discovered it
hurt too much. "You do not understand. In the clans—"

           
"You do not live only in the
clan," he told me quietly.

           
"You will be Mujhai of Homana
one day; do you give up the service of your realm and your race because you
lack an eye?" He lifted his twisted hands. "I can no longer play my
harp. But I can do other things. Not well, perhaps, but enough to keep me
alive. With Caro, it is easier. But as for you—" he shook his head
"—you are young, strong, dedicated . . . there is no reason in the world
you cannot overcome a minor disability such as the loss of an eye."

           
"Minor disability?" I
stared at him. "I lost an eye!"

           
"And have another."
Taliesin looked at Caro. "He has no voice. He hears nothing. And yet he
does not give up. Why should you?"

           
I lost an eye. But I did not say it
aloud. I edged back down on the pallet and lay flat, staring one-eyed at the
uneven roof of the little hut. But I saw nothing at all.

           
"It will be difficult,"
Taliesin told me. "You need time, Niall, more time than you have allowed
yourself. The loss of an eye requires adjustment. Your perceptions will be
different."

           
That I had already learned by simply
moving about the hut. But I had no more time to spend on myself, not even for
needed healing. I had to reach my sons. I had to slay the wolf.

           
We stood just outside the crooked
door. Sunlight spilled through limbs and leaves to make fretwork shadows on the
slushy snow. Caro and I were bookends to Taliesin in the middle. Serri stood a
little apart, twisting to lick a shoulder into order.

           
"I have to go. I
have—responsibilities." I smiled a little; too well I recalled his gentle
diatribe about Cheysuli intransigence and unshakable dedication.

           
"The gods go with you, Niall.
Cheysuli i'halla shansu."

           
"Ru'shalla-tu." I
resettled the shoulder pouch the bard had given me, filled with rations for
when I was not in fir-shape. I set a hand on Taliesin's shoulder.
"Leijhana tu'sai. Not enough, I know . . . but for now the words will have
to do." I looked at Caro. "You will protect him, Taliesin? Let no one
use him falsely."

           
"That I promise you."

           
Briefly Caro and I clasped arms. He
opened his mouth as if he meant to speak, closed it reluctantly. Regret bared
his teeth a moment, an eloquent moment, until I pulled him into an embrace.
"It does not matter," I told him clearly, when he could see my face
again. "I know what you mean to say."

           
He smiled. My smile.

           
Serri?

           
Here, he answered. Time to go, lir.
The white wolf will not wait.

           
Then let us go at once. And I
blurred myself into lir-shape. Shoulder to shoulder we sped through Solindish
forests toward the
Molon
Pass
and the border of Homana.

           
I lost lir-shape as we approached
the northern bank of the Bluetooth. Pain lived in my skull, centering in the empty
socket, and I could not summon the concentration required for the shapechange.
I felt it supping, tried to rekindle the magic, stumbled even in wolf-shape,
lost the shape entirely. On one knee I knelt in the snow, bracing myself
against a stiff arm, and waited for the pain to die away.

           
Lir. Serri pressed against me, but
gently, resting his jaw on the top of my shoulder. Lir, we must go on. The wolf—

           
"I know," I gasped aloud.
"I know, Serri, but—" I sat down awkwardly, sliding over onto one
hip, and pressed fingers against my skull. Oh gods, take the pain away—

           
Lir, we must go. I feel him—he is
near the ferryman's cottage.

           
Caro's patch warded my empty socket
against the bite of cold weather and the brilliance of the sun. I fingered it
gently, resettling it; too new, it was uncomfortable. It cut diagonally across
my forehead, above my right ear, tied at the back of my head. And though Caro
had knotted it gently, at the moment it felt like an iron manacle pressing in
against tender flesh.

           
Lir—Serri again.

           
"I know ... a moment." I
gathered my knee under me, waited, carefully thrust myself to my feet. It was
all I could do not to vomit.

           
Lir. the wolf has crossed the
Bluetooth.

           
"Then so will we ... but I
think I shall have to walk."

           
Lir, it is your rujholli he seeks.

           
"Ian!" I stared at my lir.
"Finally you can reach Tasha? Ian is alive?

           
Alive. But endangered. The wolf is
seeking him.

           
Oh—gods— "Serri—let us
go!"

           
The river was still frozen, but the
first signs of thaw had begun. I heard mutters in the ice and the occasional
snap of cracking floes. Serri ran back and forth along the bank, trying to find
the safest way across; at last he plunged ahead. He slipped, slid, fell, got up
and ran again. But he had four legs to my two and was unhampered by a missing
eye. Carefully I followed his lead, but my progress was slowed by uncertainty of
footing as well as the pain in my head.

           
Slick—so slick ... no matter how
careful and deliberate I was, my bootsoles slid on the ice. My arms flailed out
as I tried to maintain my balance; I bit my lip and cursed.

           
Lir . . . come—

           
Slipping, sliding, jerking
uncontrollably. Patches of crusted snow hastened my progress, but treacherous
ice often lay beneath.

           
Lir . . . the wolf.

           
Halfway. Halfway. I set my teeth and
refused to look at the southern bank for fear I would lose my fragile balance.
One step at a time. . . .

           
And then I heard the howl of a
stalking wolf.

           
My head jerked up. I saw the
bank—the smudge of smoke along the treeline—Serri on the other side. And then
my balance was lost.

           
I fell. Landed on shoulder and hip,
cracked forehead against the ice. Slumped down and moaned as the pain erupted
inside my skull.

           
Lir—you must come!

           
My cheek was pressed against the
snow-crusted ice.

           
My breath rasped and blew smoke into
the air. It tickled my only eye.

           
Lir.

           
I moaned. Curled. Rocked a little,
back and forth, hugging arms against my belly.

           
Lir—

           
I heard the sound again: the song of
a wolf on the trail of prey.

           
Ion. Ice and sky exchanged places as
I tried to regain my senses. The wolf is after Ian.

           
Up. I pushed myself up, up again,
until I was on hands and knees. My empty socket throbbed; I thought my head
might burst.

           
Lir— Back and forth along the bank:
silver-gray wolf with green-gold eyes.

           
Ian. Up. Up again. Standing.
Wavered. Stared blindly at my frenzied lir.

           
Ian.

           
I heard the howl of the wolf.

           
I shut my eye, I blocked out all the
sounds, the sights, the cold and pain and weakness. All of it, gone, swallowed
by concentration. I was aware of the great void waiting to take me away, to
clasp me against its breast.

           
Calmly I welcomed it, even as I was
welcomed.

           
Lir-shape, I told it. I need it.

           
It examined me. Tasted me. Spat me
out again.

           
I went on in the guise of a wolf.

           
Serri hardly waited. As I scrambled
up the icy bank he went on ahead, streaking through the trees. I followed his
lead, on the track of Strahan's wolf.

           
The hut. It was mostly a blur as I
ran: a smudge of gray stone and the weave of careful thatching. And Ian,
standing in front of the door.

           
He turned. Frowned; he had heard the
wolf. From out of the trees the wolf exploded: a streak of purest white.

           
Heading for my brother.

           
Serri—warn Tasha—

           
Already done— Ahead of me, Serri
ran.

           
Ian saw all of us: two white wolves
and one of silver-gray, each running directly at him. He fell back a step toward
the hut. Stopped. Half-drew his knife, but did not finish. His confusion was
obvious.

           
"Niall?" I heard him ask.

           
Gods, he cannot know which one of us
is me!

           
One-eyed, even in wolf-shape, it was
difficult to differentiate shadows, angles, splashes of sunlight across the
brilliance of blinding snow. I had not yet learned to decipher all the signals.
It would take time, too much time—and I had none of it now. So I ran.

           
I altered my route, moving to
dissect the white wolfs path. Even as he prepared to leap, Serri hit Ian,
knocked him down, turned to protect him. By then I was on the wolf.

           
Jaws closed on pelt and muscle,
locking on his throat.

           
We tumbled, rolled, were up—

           
Like me he went for the jugular,
trying to tear out my throat. It was an obscene dance of death, a ritualistic
courtship. We tore, shook, growled, tried to throw one another down. One-eyed,
I was hampered; two-eyed, he was not.

           
Ian was up, gone, back. His bow was
in his hands; an arrow was nocked and prepared.

           
But I saw his indecision. He could
not tell which wolf was brother and which was not.

           
Hind claws scored my belly—teeth
locked in my flesh—I smelled the stench of rotting meat—the stink of the charnelhouse—the
ordure of the netherworld.

           
Jaws closed, chewed, tried to tear.
I lunged backward, then sideways, trying to throw him down. Paws scrabbled, claws
ripping into the winter-hard turf... he growled and gasped and choked.

           
Backward again, again, again—then I
lunged forward and took even more of his throat into my jaws.

           
I shook him, I shredded, I ripped. I
felt the tearing in his flesh. I heard the rattle in his chest and tasted the
salt-copper flavor of blood.

           
He tore loose. Stumbled backward.
Staggered, bleeding profusely. His tongue lolled, dragged, dangled. He fell.

           
Scrabbled briefly. Died.

           
My head hung low. Blood was a mask
on my muzzle, painting me up to my eye. My tail drooped. I turned, saw Ian's
arrow aimed at me, realized he could not know which wolf had won. And then I
lost the lir-shape.

           
"Niall! Oh—gods—rujho—" He
threw down the bow and leaped, catching my shoulders as I wavered on my feet.
"Niall!"

           
He broke off so abruptly, staring at
me in such horror, that at first I could not comprehend what had happened to
him to cause it. And then I remembered my face.

           
I hung onto his arms.
"Alive," I gasped. "Thank the gods—you are alive—"

           
"Niall—what happened? Gods,
rujho, what has happened to you?"

           
I could not believe I could touch
him and know he was alive. "I feared the plague was always deadly. Gods,
but I thought you were dead! Serri could no longer reach Tasha in the
link."

           
The cat was next to Ian, leaning
against one knee. "I was not nearly as sick as the others.
But—Mart-—"

           
I put a trembling hand to my head.
It hurt. It hurt so badly. "Strahan," I said briefly through gritted
teeth.

           
"Strahan sent a hawk."

           
"Niall, come in and sit down.
At once"

           
"No. No—first there is
something—" I pulled away from him and turned to the wolf. There was no
doubting he was dead; his throat was completely gone. I could still taste the
tang of blood in my mouth. "Burn it," I said hoarsely. "He is
the last of the plague-wolves; Homana will be free."

           
"I will," he said after a
moment. "I will. But come inside. You look near to collapse."

           
I was. My head pounded unmercifully;
I thought if perhaps I carried it rigidly on my shoulders, I would not stir
further pain, Ian took me into Padgett's dwelling and made me sit down in one
of the crooked chairs. The hut was empty.

           
"Gone for supplies." Ian
told me as he moved to pour refreshment. Usca, again; I took the cup he gave
me, drank, shut my eye. "He should be back soon. I had planned to leave
today."

           
"Leave?" I opened my eye
as Serri sat down between my knees. "For Mujhara?"

           
"No." lan frowned.
"No, Niall, of course not. I meant to come after you."

           
I wanted no more of the Steppes
liquor and gave it back to him. "I thought surely you were dead. And you
might have been yet—Strahan sent that wolf to carry plague to those Cheysuli
who were left."

           
Ian squatted before my chair. He
looked a little older; the plague had scuffed the edges off his youth.
"Niall—"

           
"We have to go home at once.
The enemy is harbored in the halls of Homana-Mujhar." I rubbed at my right
temple, trying to massage away the pain. "Gisella serves Strahan. And
Varien is Ihlini. They mean to steal my sons."

           
"Your sons?"

           
"He means to use them. To twist
them, then place them on the thrones of Homana and Solinde. And he could
succeed, if Gisella takes them to him." I grimaced then shut my teeth on
the moan I longed to make. "We have to go now."

           
"No. In the morning, perhaps.
You can go nowhere, now." He rose, put the cups and usca away, asked me if
I was hungry."

           
"If I eat anything right now,
it will only come up again." I leaned back a little and shut my eye.
"Ian—do you recall what the old woman said to us? The old Ihlini
woman?"

           
"Aye." He moved around the
hut behind me; I could not see what he did.

           
"Well, I begin to think what
she said was true. About Ihlini and Cheysuli being brother races. . . both
children of the Firstborn. Taliesin said it also."

           
"Taliesin?"

           
"Ihlini," I answered.
"Once a bard for Tynstar himself. No more." I told him then how
Taliesin had tended me. But I said nothing of Caro, not yet; another time,
perhaps.