Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (37 page)

 
          
Crying
out, Aidan awoke abruptly, thrusting himself upright into the dawn. For a long
moment he did not know where he was, only that he was
somewhere
… and then he realized he was not in the Great Hall of
Homana-Mujhar, trying to touch a chain in the lap of the Lion; nor was he in
Lestra, staring in shock at a hand sliced nearly in two by poisoned Ihlini
steel.

 
          
"Agh,"
he said aloud, "they
are
starting again!"

 
          
Teel,
in a tree, fluttered.
What are starting
again
?

 
          
"The
dreams." Aidan rubbed his face, stripping dew-dampened hair out of gritty
eyes and being glad all over again he could use both hands for the motion. He
lowered his recovered hand and examined it critically again, as he had every
morning since meeting the Cripple. Five days, now. The relief had not passed.

 
          
Neither
had the dreams.

 
          
He
wore three links at his belt, rather than two. They chimed as he rode,
reminding him constantly of dreams and gods and tasks. He slept poorly and woke
too often during the night, trying to banish the dream-chain long enough to get
a proper night's sleep. He could not recall a time when he had felt so
confused, so disoriented. At least before the gods had come to him, he had
believed himself merely fanciful. Now he believed himself mad.

 
          
Sighing,
Aidan peeled back blankets and kicked legs free. "Time to go,
lir
. Erinn gets no closer while I lie
here in skins and wool, thinking about dreams."

 
          
It gets no farther, either.

 
          
Aidan
forbore to answer and commenced packing his horse. He had long since learned
commenting on Teel's remarks made no difference. The raven was cleverer than
he; his best wager was to ignore him altogether, because then there was no
clear-cut victory.

 
          
Of
course, it meant the contest continued.

 
          
But
it was better than nothing at all.

 
          
When
he came across the wagon with its bright-painted canvas canopy, Aidan gave it a
wide berth. He was ready to pass it by and forget about it, as travelers
usually did on the road; often, it was safest. But the woman on the seat was so
vivid she caught his eye and turned his head quite literally; Aidan nearly
stared.

 
          
Her
answering smile was so warm and guileless he could not simply ignore it—not if
he desired to name himself a man for he rest of his life. He slowed his horse
at once and waited for her team to catch up, then fell in beside her. His
greeting was in accented Solindish; hers in the same tongue, though flawless.
Much as he had expected.

 
          
Black
hair fell in tight, tangled ringlets all the way to a narrow waist. She wore a
chaplet of bright gilt dangling with false pearls that framed a heart-shaped
face, and copper hoops in both ears. Black eyes were bold but also shy, as if
she longed to be a bawd but had not yet learned how to do it properly. She was
not truly beautiful, not as Ilsa was, but she had a burning liveliness of
spirit that put Aidan in mind of his mother and Deirdre.

 
          
He
glanced beyond her shoulder to the closed canvas canopy. "You should not
be traveling the road alone."

 
          
"No,"
she agreed gravely, though her eyes were bright with mirth. "It would be a
very bad thing. And it is why I do not do it." Her hand parted the bright
canopy, baring the face of a young man so remarkably beautiful Aidan thought it
might do better on a woman.

 
          
"A
very bad thing," the young man said, crawling through the canopy to take
his place on the seat beside the woman. "But then we know better than to
allow Ashra to go anywhere alone… there are men who would stoop to stealing her
to share more than she might care to."

 
          
And men who would steal
you… But Aidan's
manners would not allow him to say it.

 
          
Like
Ashra, the young man had black hair, though he lacked her length or ringlets.
The bones of his face were truly beautiful, and the skin smooth and dark and
unblemished. Something in his expression and the assemblage of bones reminded
Aidan of his own race, though he had never seen a Cheysuli with such
magnificent purity of features, or green eyes. And yet there was something else
as well. He was most like Ilsa, Aidan decided finally, though dark instead of
light. His suppleness bespoke exceptional grace, and his speaking voice was
firm, yet melodious.

 
          
Green
eyes assessed Aidan. "I am Tye, singer by trade. Ashra dances. And the old
man, Siglyn, is a magician." He gestured toward the canopy. "Travel
is harsh on old bones; he will be well enough, but he requires rest."
Briefly he eyed Aidan's saddle-packs, the travel-stained brown cloak drawn over
both shoulders. "Where are you bound?"

 
          
"Westward
to Andemir."

 
          
Ashra
laughed. Her voice was low and, to Aidan, attractive. "Andemir for us,
also. Perhaps we shall be road-partners."

 
          
"Ashra,"
Tye said quietly, with a quick warning gesture from one hand.

 
          
She
laughed again, tossing back ringlets and shrugged a supple shoulder. "Your
turn to drive, Tye. I will question this stranger, since you are so
mistrustful."

 
          
"With
reason," Tye said grimly, as she handed over the reins. "Which you
know as well as I."

 
          
Obligingly,
Aidan gave them his name, though omitting his rank. He had learned if a man
truly wanted to know what others thought, he would do well to keep quiet about
heritage and titles. People spoke more freely if they believed themselves of a
kind.

 
          
He
meant to ask them more about themselves, but Teel interrupted by alighting on
Aidan's left shoulder. Ashra cried out in delight. "A tame raven!"

 
          
Aidan
grinned. "Only sometimes."

 
          
"And
other times?" she challenged.

 
          
Tye
flicked her a warning glance, which she did not see. Aidan frowned. "For a
troupe of players making a living off the road, you seem uncommonly wary."

 
          
Tye's
austere expression—far too restrictive for the fluid lines of his face—relaxed,
but only slightly. "With good reason, stranger—we were accosted three days
back by a band of brigands who took what little coin we had. The old man was
injured—struck on the head—and I have since learned to be suspicious of
everyone." He looked at the raven. "But none of
them
had a bird, or the likelihood of wanting one, so I doubt you
are one of them. Forgive my bad manners."

 
          
A
line knitted Ashra's black brows. They were heavy and oddly straight, but Aidan
found the look exotically attractive. "If the raven is tame only
some
of the time, as you say, what of
the other times?"

 
          
"The
other times he is most annoying," Aidan answered truthfully. "But to
be fair, he is not tame… Teel is a
lir
."

 
          
Black
eyes widened. "
Lir
are blessed
of the gods…" She looked more sharply at Aidan. "But you are not
Cheysuli. What are you doing with one?"

 
          
He
felt a brief flicker of surprise that she should know anything about who did
and did not consort with the
lir
, but
answered her question easily enough by throwing the cloak back from his
shoulders to display the gold weighting bare arms. A hooking of hair behind
left ear brought the raven-shaped ornament into daylight.

 
          
Even
Tye frowned. "A red-haired Cheysuli?"

 
          
Aidan
smiled. "My mother is Erinnish. This is her legacy… left to my own
devices, I might have preferred black." He affected a negligent shrug.
"But I do have my father's eyes."

 
          
For
confirmation, Tye looked. And nodded, patently unimpressed. "Yellow as a
beast's—" He grinned. "Aye, aye… no insult intended. I only tease,
shapechanger."

 
          
Ashra
raised level brows. "He would make a most handsome beast."

 
          
Tye
grunted. "You are a woman. Women are often overly imaginative."

 
          
She
stroked back a ringlet, retucking it under the chaplet. "Solinde is ruled
by a Cheysuli."

 
          
"The
usurper," Tye agreed, then laughed as Aidan stiffened. "Have you no
sense of humor? I
tease
, shapechanger…
does the animal in your blood keep you from enjoying the quips and jests of
others?"

 
          
"When
they are at my expense." Aidan smiled blandly. "Too often such words
are meant, Solindish… do you mean yours?"

 
          
Tye
sighed. "If I meant them, I would not now allow you to ride with us to
Andemir." He paused. "If you desire to ride with us."

 
          
"He
might if you sang," Ashra suggested.

 
          
Tye
flicked her a quelling glance. Aidan began to wonder if they were brother and
sister, or husband and wife. He hoped it was the former.

 
          
"When
do we stop?" called a querulous voice from within the canopy. "Or
will you rattle my bones into dust?"

 
          
Teel
departed Aidan's shoulder, slapping his face with one wing. Aidan, muttering,
rubbed at a stinging eye as Ashra laughed.

 
          
Tye
nodded. "We stop, old man. Soon." He shot a quick glance at Aidan.
"Will you share our food?"

 
          
He
blinked the sting away and nodded. "My thanks. I have wine."

 
          
Ashsra's
boldly charming smile flashed out again. "So have
we
."

 
          
Camp
was established off the road in a cluster of sheltering trees. The sun, sliding
down the line of horizon, painted slats of light and shadow across the canvas
canopy. Aidan thought it much like the pavilions at Clankeep, bright blue
painted with equally vivid figures: a dancer dressed in red and green and gold;
a singer with wooden lute; a magician conjuring smoke and fire from the air.
The wagon itself was of dark wood, but its wheels were painted red, lined with
yellow on inner rims and spokes. Altogether it provided a most tempting—and
visible—target to brigands.

 
          
Tye
tended the horses as Ashra assisted the old magician from the wagon and
escorted him to the patchwork cushion by the fire Aidan had laid. He was a very
old man dressed in gray wool robe over time-faded indigo linen draperies. A
plain leather belt with tarnished silver buckle snugged a narrow waist. The
robe hung loosely, swirling a half-torn hem about swollen ankles. His feet were
shod in crushed leather slippers. He scuffed through turf and fallen leaves as
if movement were very painful.

 
          
Aidan
went to him at once, offering a second arm. A pair of rheumy blue eyes fixed
themselves on his face, weighing him against some inner measurement. But they
were proud eyes, and freely disdained Aidan's arm. The thin mouth tightened as
his grip on Ashra increased.

 
          
Aidan
relinquished his offer at once, stepping away with a slight inclination of his
head. Ashra helped the old man sit down on the cushion, then pulled his robe
closed.

 
          
"Siglyn,"
she said softly, "his name is Aidan. He is bound for Andemir, as we
are."

 
          
"What
is that on his arms?" the old man asked harshly. "He carries enough
wealth to bribe all the brigands in the world away from us."