Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (33 page)

 
          
An
elegant shrug. "Now, very little. But it is important to me that no seed survive.
Asar-Suti has made it quite clear that if the Ihlini are to regain dominion
over the world, we must first destroy the Cheysuli and anyone who serves
them."

 
          
"How?"
Aidan asked. "You were with
us
.
How could we not know? How could you touch this child from afar?"

 
          
Tevis
displayed the sapphire. "A token from your father, my lord of Homana…
something he gave my aunt many years ago. It has served us very well in the
meantime. Anything once worn by man or woman contains an essence of that person—combined
with Ihlini arts, we make a shield, so we may walk freely among you and the
lir
. As for touching him from afar, a
simple thing to do with an infant. I merely thought on a tiny heart, quite
still, and wished it into truth." He smiled. "A fortunate thing, this
ring—Brennan should have known better than to give it to Rhiannon."

 
          
"Your
aunt," Hart echoed. "
Rhiannon
?"

 
          
The
smooth, urbane expression of a Solindish nobleman faded. Aidan heard Blythe's
stifled denial; saw the draining of Hart's face. Tevis was no longer precisely
Tevis
. His features were much the same,
but more refined, more feral. In his mind's eye, Aidan made the eyes a lighter
brown, almost yellow; the hair a shade darker, now black.

 
          
"Oh,
gods," Aidan blurted. "Strahan had a
son
."

 
          
Blythe's
voice was a travesty. "Where is Tevis, then? Was there a Tevis?"

 
          
"Most
certainly," Strahan's son agreed. "I killed him." He displayed
the black ring on his other hand. "I killed Tevis and his father in High
Crags, when I knew he was coming here. The father's body I left—there was no
need of it—but Tevis' I required in order to arrange the proper glamour."
He smiled. "Those who knew Tevis,
saw
Tevis when they looked at me. Those who did not, saw me. So, aye,
meijhana
, it was also Tevis you lay down
with… at least, as much Tevis as remains of him, in this ring."

 
          
Blythe,
trembling, pressed both hand against her mouth. Her face was ashen with
comprehension.

 
          
Ilsa
took a single step, then stopped. Against her breast she still cradled the
murdered child. "I curse you," she said simply. "I am of the
oldest House in this realm, Ihlini. With all that I was, I am, and will be—I
curse you."

 
          
Tevis
smiled at her, gently inclining his head. Then he looked at Hart. "I have
killed the son," he said. "Now I must kill the father."

 
          
Something
glittered in his hand. Silver, not purple; the
godfire
was gone. Not a knife, but its edge as deadly. Aidan had
heard of the slender silver wafers with curving, elegant spikes. He had also
heard the name: Sorcerer's Tooth. It flashed from the man they had known as
Tevis and sliced across the room.

 
          
"Lochiel,"
he said softly, "so you will know me as you die."

 
          
Without
thought, Aidan moved. He meant to knock down the Tooth; to block Hart from the
lethal wafer. But he knew, even as he thrust out the hand to catch it, he had
made a deadly mistake.

 
          
The
entry was painless. It sliced into his palm, then through it, severing muscle,
bone and vessel as the spikes rotated through the fine bones of his hand and
exited the other side. Fingers closed once, spasming, and then vision turned
inside out.

 
          
Hart
caught him as he fell. And as he fell, he recalled the Ihlini forged their
Teeth in poison.

 
          
Blythe
screamed. And then she stopped.

 
          
Or
he did.

 
          
«
^
»

 
          
Where
he was, it was cold. So cold he ached with it. He could not move; could not
see; could not hear or speak, but his awareness flickered with something akin
to life even though he knew he was dead.

 
          
Someone
had placed him on a barge. He lay on a bier, covered with a silken shroud, and
his flesh was dead on his bones.

 
          
He
floated in perfect silence on a lake of glass so clear he could see the
darkness of the depths. He was alone. No one steered the barge. No one held the
vigil at his side. No one wailed or keened or grieved, as if his death made
absolutely no difference at all to anyone, even to his
lir
.

 
          
Teel.

 
          
He
was alone. He felt a vague distress that his life could have so little meaning
that his death would hold even less. He was prince, warrior, child of the
prophecy, in line for the Lion; it was as if he had never been. The barge
floated silently upon the waters of the glass-black lake, and he was still
alone.

 
          
Teel.

 
          
He
heard the ripple in the water. It was faint, so faint he believed it
imagination, but the rippling slowly increased until he became convinced it was
real. Someone—or something—approached him through the water.

 
          
Teel
?

 
          
He
struggled to open dead eyes. And again, this time to move an arm; neither
answered. His flesh was still and cold and heavy, so heavy; Aidan began to
understand death, and to know the futility and helplessness of a live spirit
trapped within dead flesh.

 
          
The
rippling became a splashing. Aidan, blind still, heard something grasp the edge
of the barge. He felt no fear—he was
dead
—but
curiosity overrode helplessness. With all the power remaining to him, he
snapped open his eyes and looked.

 
          
A
man. A warrior: Cheysuli. He wore leather and gold, clan-worked all, and his
coloring was true. In his planed, feral face was a strange, eloquent sorrow.
Softly he pulled himself out of water he did not displace, and then stood upon
the barge. Aidan saw he was dry.

 
          
Lips
and throat answered him. "Did you not swim?"

 
          
The
other smiled. "I swam. But where I am, water cannot touch me."

 
          
Aidan,
staring, saw the sword in his left hand. A true, two-handed broadsword of steel
and gold, with a massive hilt bearing the rampant lion of Homana. In its heavy
pommel, to balance the heavy blade, was a blood-red ruby. Down the length of
the blade walked runes.

 
          
Two
links Aidan possessed. Two Mujhars: Shaine, and Carillon. And now the third
before him.

 
          
"Donal,"
he breathed.

 
          
The
warrior smiled. "Aye."

 
          
Aidan
looked again at the ruby. Huge and brilliant and
red;
the Mujhar's Eye, he knew… and no longer in existence.

 
          
Donal
saw his expression. "Niall returned it to me."

 
          
"But—you
were dead. And he threw the sword away… he went into the Womb of the Earth and
threw it down the oubliette."

 
          
The
voice was very gentle. "The sword was made for me, by Hale, my grandsire.
When I have need of it, it answers."

 
          
Aidan
wet dry lips; a thing he had believed impossible, on a dead man. With great
deliberation he pushed himself into a sitting position. Silken shroud—crimson
and black, the colors of Homana—slid down to his hips. He shivered, for he was
naked beneath the fine silk. "There was no chain," he said. "I
did not dream of a chain. Always before it has been the chain first, and then
the Mujhar."

 
          
Donal's
austere face softened. "Are you so certain?"

 
          
Aidan
looked. Gold glittered in silk. At his feet, upon the bier, lay the chain. The
links, as always, were solid, perfect… deadly.

 
          
He
very nearly laughed. He knew the pattern now. "What have
you
come to tell me?"

 
          
"Do
I have to tell you something?" Donal gazed across the lake into the
setting sun. "No. I will let the others speak for me. The gods have set me
a different task."

 
          
Aidan
shivered, though he was not cold. "What task?"

 
          
"You
may call me a steersman, for now." Donal moved to one end of the barge and
lifted the sword as a man would hold a staff. Long brown fingers closed on
steel; by rights, it should cut.

 
          
Astonished,
Aidan saw the sword reshape itself. The steel and gold flowed in either
direction until it stretched, lengthening, and when it stopped he saw it was no
longer a sword, but a golden pole, a steersman's pole, and as Donal slid it
into the water Aidan saw the ruby send forth a starburst of brilliant light.

 
          
"To
ward off the Darkness," Donal explained.

 
          
Aidan
looked at the setting sun. He believed, in that moment, that his life or death
would be decided by what he agreed—or refused—to do.

 
          
Quietly,
Donal steered. "Your journey has been interrupted. I am here to put you
back on the proper path."

 
          
"Then—I
am not yet dead."

 
          
"Not
as I know death. But neither are you alive, as the living know it. It is best
to simply say you are
elsewhere
for
the moment."

 
          
Aidan
said nothing.

 
          
"Men
die," Donal said. "Even Cheysuli die. But occasionally the gods see
to it that a certain man—or woman—does not, because they have a use for
him."

 
          
"Use,"
Aidan echoed. "A weighty word, I'm thinking."

 
          
"Most
words are." Water splashed softly. "They sent me; therefore I am
assuming they have some use for you."

 
          
Aidan
thought about it. He recalled the things he had been told by the Hunter, by the
Weaver, and by the two Mujhars. "And have they given you leave to tell me
what this use is, or am I to guess?"

 
          
Donal
looked at him. The setting sun illuminated his face. It was a face similar to
his own, Aidan realized, though the color was much darker and all the angles
sharper. The Erinnish in him had softened hue and hardness, redefining the
wildness into something more civilized. It was easy to see why the Homanans,
seeing a clan-born Cheysuli, had been so willing to name them alien.

 
          
This is what I might have been, instead of
what I am. Had my line not looked to outmarriage…

 
          
He
touched a strand of ruddy hair. The eyes in his head were right, but certainly
not the hair. He did not know whether to be grateful or sorry for it.

 
          
Donal's
tone was muted. "It would do little good for me to tell you all the
answers, Aidan. Men are men, not gods; they often shun the knowledge of a
better way. Men are willful, but the willfulness is what the gods gave them.
And so the gods bide their time, waiting to see if the man will follow his
proper
tahlmorra
, or turn away from
it." Yellow eyes were strangely calm. "What of you, kinsman? Which
path do you choose?"