Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (25 page)

 
          
This woman could not be old enough to have
borne Blythe
or
the twins
.

 
          
Her
Homanan was flavored with the delicate Solindish accent he had first heard in
Blythe. He had liked it in Blythe, finding it attractive. Now he heard the same
in the mother. "Wasted years, the worry. The crop stands tall in the
field."

 
          
He
understood her then. "But the harvest not yet begun." He smiled,
inclined his ruddy head, gave her the honor rank and beauty were due. "
Cheysuli i'halla shansu
."

 
          
"
Resh'ta-ni
," she answered, though
the accent was bad. Ilsa laughed at his expression, much as he sought to hide
it. "Hart taught me some of the Old Tongue, but nothing of the accent.
Forgive my poor attempt."

 
          
He
would, as any man, forgive her anything. He very nearly said so, then swallowed
it back. It was, he assumed, something she had heard all too often. He wished
for once he had a gift for eloquent phrases, the ability to flatter with a
smile, a gesture, a word. But he was not a courtier, disliking much of the
game. His
kivarna
made him wary of
false words when he understood most of the feelings.

 
          
Ilsa,
still smiling, stroked back a stray wisp of hair from the winged arch of one
brow. Her hair, he knew, had always been white-blonde, because they told
stories about it. The pearlescent sheen was unchanged, and likely would remain
that way. No one would be able to tell the difference, once she dulled into
true white. It was a boon others would kill for; she accepted it gracefully.
She wore it in two heavy braids bound with thin gold wire. It glistened in the
daylight.

 
          
That
she was abed, he had known; this close to labor, Ilsa took no chances. Hart had
said her delivery of Dulcie was not easy, and she was no longer young enough to
carry easily. No one wanted to risk the child who might yet be an heir, or the
woman who was queen.

 
          
The
chamber was flooded with daylight. No shuttered casements for Ilsa; she
welcomed in the
midday
sun
and granted it the freedom to go where it would. The curtains on the bed were
drawn back and tied to testers, looped with gold cord.

 
          
Ilsa
eyed him critically. "He kept you up all night."

 
          
Aidan
laughed, smoothing fingers across his jaw. The bath had worked its miracle, as
had a shave and food. But Ilsa was too discerning; she had had years of
practice. "Aye. But I slept earlier." He did not tell her a lifetime
of troubling dreams had accustomed him to less sleep.

 
          
Slender,
elegant hands stroked the pearl-studded blue coverlet mounded over her belly.
Padded bolsters sheathed in satin braced
her
upright. "I have told him, time and time again, not everyone is as suited
to days without sleep," she said, sighing resignation. "Even
he
is not… but I have given up
remonstrating with him. He does what he will do. I should have known better
than to think he would ever change."

 
          
There
was no-bitterness in tone or words. Not even faint resentment. No matter what
she said, he knew what she thought. Even without the
kivarna
, Aidan understood very well how strong was the bond that made
Hart and Ilsa one.

 
          
"But
you have," he countered. "I have heard how bad he was as a young man…
how he refused all responsibility to lose himself in the game. I have seen him
with his daughters. I have heard him speak of duty. Regardless of the cause, he
is not the same man."

 
          
Ilsa
smiled. Delicate color crept into her face. "In many ways, he is. And I
would have it that way. Why banish what you love?"

 
          
He
thought of his grandsire and Deirdre. What they shared was as strong, in
different ways, as the thing between Hart and Ilsa. As a child he had been
nebulously aware of something intangible linking Niall and Deirdre. Once older,
having lain with a woman, he understood more of it. Lust was one thing, love
another; the warmth and underlying respect Niall and Deirdre shared made the
relationship invulnerable to outside influences. He sensed the same thing in
Ilsa and Hart. But never between his parents. That they cared for each other,
he knew. And were afraid to admit it.

 
          
"Why
indeed?" he agreed, thinking of himself.
Who will share my life? Will it be as good as this
?

 
          
Ilsa's
skin was translucent, pale as a lily. The eyes were luminous. In her he saw the
twins, fair-haired Jennet and Cluna; and Blythe, who lacked the fairness, but
had the slender, tensile strength with its powerful allure. How had Hart felt
the first time he had seen her?

 
          
How did I feel the first time I saw Blythe?

 
          
One
day before. Inwardly, he grimaced; a lifebond took more time. He had grown too
accustomed to winning a bedpartner with a warm smile or a gesture. The women of
Homana-Mujhar and the city responded readily to the title as well as himself,
hoping for various rewards. Before coming to Solinde he had thought of women as
pleasant diversions, or an escape from harrowing dreams. This circumstance was
different. It was foolish to expect anything more than the first stirrings of
attraction.

 
          
Although those I admit to freely. Blythe is
magnificent… but I think Tevis' presence will make things difficult.

 
          
Ilsa
gestured. "Will you sit?"

 
          
Aidan
glanced at the indicated chair near the bed, then shook his head. "My
regrets, but no. I have no wish to tire you."

 
          
She
waved a gently dismissive hand. "They have kept me in bed a month.
Listening to you speak will not prove onerous."

 
          
He
glanced at the mound of bedclothes over her belly. She had borne six children,
though only four survived. And now bore another to give her lord an heir.

 
          
It
came out unexpectedly. "What if it is a girl?"

 
          
He
had not meant it. He had barely even
thought
it. Embarrassment burned his face.

 
          
Ilsa's
laughter cut off the beginnings of an apology. "No, no—do you think you
are the first to ask it? You are only the most recent… just last evening one of
my ladies asked the same."

 
          
"It
is none of my concern—"

 
          
"It
is everyone's concern," she corrected gently. "It has been from the
beginning… this will be my last child."

 
          
He
opened his mouth. Then shut it.

 
          
"Hart's
decision," she said. "And perhaps a little of mine. It was difficult
with Dulcie, though I was in no danger. The physicians suggest precautions, so
I have taken myself to bed." She spread eloquent hands, then let them rest
again on the bedclothes. "Boy or no: the last. And perhaps it is
time." Ilsa tilted her head and smiled. "Instead of having children I
would rather have grandchildren."

 
          
His
answering smile was vague. "Blythe."

 
          
"And
the others, eventually." The light in her eyes faded. "Hart spoke to
me earlier. I am sorry, Aidan… I wish we had known a half-year ago. Then we
might have looked to Homana instead of northern Solinde."

 
          
Aidan
shrugged. "Hart explained it all."

 
          
"But
if I do
not
bear a son…"A turn
of her hand was eloquent. "A grandson could inherit."

 
          
Aidan
thought of Dar, looking to marry Ilsa to put his son on the throne. Now that son
could be born to Hart instead. And the nephew of Dar of High Crags would rule
in place of Cheysuli.

 
          
He
shifted weight self-consciously. "Lady, I will go. I have been asked to
stay until the child is born, to bestow the kinsman's blessing. After that, I
am for Erinn." There was no sense in staying. Here, Blythe was the only
option; now there was none at all unless he looked to Erinn.

 
          
Ilsa's
smile was kind. "Keely's girl is older than my two fair-haired halflings.
And undoubtedly more polite. I think you will do well."

 
          
He
sensed relief in her, that he did not protest the marriage between Tevis and
Blythe. He knew very well a match between Homana and Solinde would solidify the
two realms and undoubtedly please the Homanans, while displeasing the Solindish.
Hart had been Prince of Solinde in truth as well as title for more than twenty
years, and yet it was all too obvious he was not fully certain Solinde wanted
him. Ilsa was their queen. For her, they suffered Hart.

 
          
Her son they would accept, for her sake. He
will have acceptable blood, if tainted with Cheysuli. I wonder if they

 
          
think to get the throne back someday, when
Hart is in the ground and his son
—Ilsa's
son
—
sits in the father's
place
?

 
          
Ilsa
was Solindish. He did not really blame her for wanting a Solindishman for
Blythe—he might desire the same for
his
daughter, were he a Solindishman—but he wished blood might play a less
important role. His own life was ruled by merging the proper bloodlines, and
now it also entangled Blythe, who should be free of it. Solinde was
Solinde
—and yet now they made it
Cheysuli.

 
          
He
closed his hand on the two links dangling from his belt.
Perhaps that is the reason for this service. By merging the blood and
begetting the Firstborn again, there no longer is any need for dividing up the
realms. Four realms become one; six races the same
. Something cold stroked
his spine.
And the lir for none of us
?

 
          
"Aidan—?"
Ilsa began, but the opening of the door cut off the rest of her words.

 
          
Cluna
and Jennet, of course. Crowding into the room to plead for their mother's
attention. Behind them came Hart with a small girl in his arms: black-haired,
yellow-eyed Dulcie, Cheysuli to the bone.

 
          
Aidan
smiled at the girl. Something in him answered the fey look in her eyes.
Blood calling to blood
? He took a step
closer. "A lovely girl,
su'fali
."

 
          
"My
little Cheysuli," Hart declared, pausing a moment to let Aidan look at
her, then moving past to Ilsa. "The gods finally condescended to let
one
of us look the part."

 
          
Cluna
and Jennet were chattering at their mother, both mindful not to press too
close. Pale hair, as before, straggled; Ilsa was gently chiding. Hart too stood
close, then sat to bring Dulcie down where Ilsa could touch her, stroking fine
black hair into neatness.

 
          
Aidan
found the chamber crowded. He was not accustomed to children, and as
unaccustomed to kin. A twitch from deep inside told him what he wanted: the
freedom to fly the skies.

 
          
Hart,
he knew, would understand, requiring no explanation. The others mostly ignored
him, but something was due Ilsa.

 
          
Aidan
paused at the door and looked back at her. Her bed was full of daughters,
except for her oldest one. The one he most wanted to see. "May the gods
grant you a son."

 
          
Ilsa
glanced up from her crowded bedside. Her lovely face was alight. "
Leijhana tu'sai
, kinsman. May your words
carry weight with the gods."

 
          
As
Aidan stepped into the hall, he wondered if they could.