Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (36 page)

 
          
The
stranger moved out of the sheltering trees. His gait was awkward, ungainly; he
leaned upon a crutch thrust under an arm. His right leg was missing from below
the knee, yet he moved almost noiselessly. He sounded nothing like a man.

 
          
Aidan
took his hand away from the knife. "I have enough for two."

 
          
"You
see? Being crippled is not so bad… it softens another man's soul."

 
          
Aidan
stared as the stranger made his way out of darkness. He was old, though not
truly ancient, with a fringe of white hair curling around his ears. The top of
his head was bald. The rest of it was a face comprising the map of Homana;
Aidan cut off the impulse of looking for landmarks he knew. The stranger
deserved better, and
he
was better
mannered.

 
          
Dark
brown eyes glinted from under bushy white brows. "A fine young man,"
he said. "Well-mannered… and well-born?" He nodded to himself before
Aidan could give him an answer. "There is the look of a fox about you: red
hair and yellow eyes… would a fox be your
lir
?"

 
          
Only
a flicker of surprise; Cheysuli were no longer strangers. "No," he
said, "a raven." He thought of his other uncle. "Though a
kinsman claims a vixen."

 
          
"Oh,
aye; of course." He wore rough woolen homespun tunic belted over equally
rough-made trews, and a single brogan shoe. The half-trew on his right leg was
knotted beneath the stump.

 
          
Uneasily,
Aidan thought of Tevis who was not Tevis at all, but Lochiel in disguise, using
subterfuge to bring down a king. This was Solinde, after all; the homeland of
the Ihlini. But his
kivarna
told him
nothing, and neither did his
lir
.

 
          
The
stranger levered himself down and sat beside the fire that was not, yet, a
fire. He smiled up at Aidan. "You did say food, did you not?"

 
          
"Aye,"
Aidan knelt to resume his work. When the ring was built and kindling laid, he
drew out flint and steel.

 
          
And
realized almost at once it would take two hands to light.

 
          
The
heat of shame set his face ablaze. He gritted his teeth tightly and refused to
look at the man. He thought briefly of asking him—the stranger had two hands—but
then realized it was folly. He would not always have someone to help. He needed
to learn what to do.

 
          
Eventually,
he managed. A twist of useless hand, pressure from new sources, careful
concentration. The fire was lighted at last. Sighing, Aidan turned, wiping
dampness from his forehead, and saw the stranger nodding.

 
          
"The
patience will come," he said gently. "So will the acceptance."
He gestured to his stump.

 
          
Helplessness
spasmed. "When?" Aidan blurted. "All I can think of now is what
I was before!"

 
          
"Natural,
that. I have done it, myself." The old man slapped the palm of his hand
against one thigh. "The bitterness will fade, along with the helplessness.
There are worse things in this world than lacking a bit of flesh."

 
          
Aidan's
grunt was politely noncommittal as he added fuel to the fire.

 
          
Dark
eyes glittered. "Do you count yourself less than a man?"

 
          
Aidan,
piling on wood, wanted not to answer. There was no way he could fully explain
what it was to a man like himself, warrior-born and bred. But a glance at the
stranger told him the man wanted an answer.

 
          
Do not blame him… do not punish him, either
.
Aidan sighed and schooled his tone into patience and tolerance. "You are
not Cheysuli… it is difficult to explain, but our law forbids a maimed man from
remaining part of the clan. The warrior is expelled, cast out… in Old Tongue,
he is
kin-wrecked
."

 
          
"Why?"
the stranger rasped. "Why throw away a warrior because he lacks a useful
hand?"

 
          
Aye
, Aidan agreed. But retreated from
bitterness into an explanation. "In the old days, when we were hunted, it
was necessary that each warrior be able to fight. If he could not, he could not
protect his kin, or his clan… he ate food better given to someone who
could."

 
          
The
stranger scratched at his stump. "A harsh law, that. But there are times
in a man's life—or in the life of his people—that hard decisions must be made.
When it comes to survival…" Again he gestured at the stump.

 
          
Aidan's
mouth twisted. "I am less sanguine than you. This is but two weeks
old."

 
          
"Then
I will ask it again: do you count yourself less than a man?"

 
          
He
was, at first, angry: who was this old man, this stranger, to ask him such a
thing? But then anger spilled away. He knew he spoke the truth, though part of
him tried to deny it. "No.
This
is not me. Not a hand. Not a leg. What I am comes from somewhere else…
somewhere in here." Aidan touched his breast.

 
          
The
stranger nodded. "But you would rather have it back."

 
          
Aidan
thought of Hart, and quailed. "Who would not want it back?"

 
          
"And
what would you give up to have it?"

 
          
Aidan
looked into the eyes. They were expressionless in the darkness, but oddly
purposeful. He no longer doubted the stranger was more than merely a stranger,
come upon him by coincidence.

 
          
Not here. Not in Solinde. Not where Lochiel
yet roams.

 
          
His
hand went to his knife. He thought again of Hart, offered reattachment of his
still-whole hand at the Gate of Asar-Suti, in the depths of Strahan's fortress.
He had heard the story. The cost was service to Strahan. The cost was the
weight of his soul.

 
          
Resentment
faded. So did bitterness. Certainty replaced both, and an unexpected resolve.
"It is only a hand," he said clearly. "Not worth the price you
want."

 
          
"But
to be whole again… a true warrior… not to be
kin-wrecked
—"

 
          
Aidan
laughed at the man. "Not for any price will I risk my
tahlmorra
."

 
          
Firelight
made the old man young. His eyes were dark as pits. He sat upon his rock with
his good leg stretched before him and the crutch at his side. He rubbed the
knotted stump. "Think again," he suggested. "Think twice, or
thrice, or more."

 
          
Aidan
shook his head.

 
          
The
old man smiled. Once more he touched his stump, save now the leg was whole.
"Come here," he said.

 
          
Aidan
knelt down before him.

 
          
"Give
me your ruined hand."

 
          
Aidan
offered the god his hand. "What are you called?"

 
          
"In
this guise, I am the Cripple." He studied Aidan's hand, examining curled
fingers, the two-sided scar. "He struck well, the Ihlini. But it was not
at you he struck."

 
          
"No."

 
          
"You
took what was meant for someone else."

 
          
"He
was a kinsman. And a king."

 
          
"Kings
are men, too. Men die; kings die. How do you know it was not his
tahlmorra
to die?"

 
          
He
had not thought of that. "But—I had to. I could not let him be struck
down. I
had
to. There was no
choice."

 
          
"Perhaps
it was
tahlmorra
. Perhaps it was
yours
, Aidan."

 
          
He
dared a glance at pit-black eyes. "Was it you who sent Donal?"

 
          
"I
sent him. I could not allow you to die just yet, even as you could not allow
your kinsman to be struck down. And so you live." He shrugged. "For
now."

 
          
Aidan
shivered. He tried to suppress it; could not. "Can you tell me what you
intend for me? Am I always to travel blind? I will serve you willingly, if you
only give me the chance."

 
          
"No."
The Cripple's tone was cold. "No man accepts everything willingly.
Sacrifices must be made. Too often a man
knowing
the sacrifice would never be willing to make it, just as you were unwilling to
let the Ihlini kill your kinsman."

 
          
"But—"

 
          
"You
will know what you must when the time is come. Now, as for this…"

 
          
Aidan
looked down. The twisted hand was still cradled in the hands of the god, but
liquid spilled out. At first he feared it was blood, but it was rich and gold
and heavy.

 
          
"Open
your hand, Aidan."

 
          
A
part of him wanted to laugh. But he knew better, now. He no longer thought to
question.

 
          
The
fingers, tendons reknitted, answered his bidding. The liquid congealed, then
formed itself into a shape. Across his unscarred palm lay a heavy rune-worked
link perfectly matched to the other two.

 
          
The
god smiled on him. "You sacrificed no portion of your
tahlmorra
. The price for your hand was honesty; that, you gave
tenfold."

 
          
"Donal,"
Aidan said, staring at the link.

 
          
The
god did not answer. The Cripple, with his crutch, was gone.

 
          
Aidan
laughed. He wanted to cry. But he thought the laughter best. When he was done,
he looked at the link. Then he looked at his hand, perfect and whole and
unblemished.

 
          
"Why?"
he asked of Teel.

 
          
The
shadow that was his
lir
fluttered
feathers briefly.
He asked you questions.
You answered them. I think you might be wise to assume you said what he wanted
to hear
.

 
          
"But
what do they
want
from me?"

 
          
They are gods. Who can say?

 
          
Futility
possessed him. "Teel—please—help—"

 
          
When
at last the raven spoke, his tone was more gentle than Aidan had ever heard
from him.
I do what I can. It is all a
lir can do, certainly all I can do… the gods made us, too. And even the lir
cannot predict or explain a tahlmorra that is still on the loom
.

 
          
Aidan
gripped the link. "Why me, Teel? What do they see in me? Why do they come
to
me
?"

 
          
Through
the
lir-link
he heard a sigh.
I cannot say
, Teel answered.
No one has told
me,
either
.

 
          
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