Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (5 page)

 
          
Teel
pecked his thumb.
I have ridden faster
rocks
.

 
          
"Then
get off my hand and go sit on one."

 
          
Obligingly,
the raven lifted and flew the length of the hall. But he did not sit on a rock.
He sat on the head of the Lion.

 
          
Aidan,
ruddy brows lifted, stopped at the foot of the dais. "Surely sacrilegious—you
profane the Mujhar's throne."

 
          
Teel
fluffed a wing.
Considering the Mujhar is
only the Mujhar because of lir like myself, I think it is allowed
.

 
          
Steadfastly,
Aidan stared at the raven. Then, drawing a breath, he made himself look down at
the cushion on which his grandsire sat when he inhabited the throne.

 
          
So
, Teel observed,
the dream remains constant
.

 
          
Aidan
shut his eyes. The painfully familiar sense of loss and oppression rushed in
from out of the shadows.

 
          
Stiffly,
he knelt. He waited. Felt the coldness of glossy marble through the leather of
his leggings. Smelled ash, old wood, oil; the scent of ancient history,
intangible yet oddly vivid.

 
          
Let me touch it
, he begged.
Let me know the chain is real
.

 
          
But
when he put out a hesitant hand, the links dissolved to dust.

 
          
Breath
spilled raggedly. "Oh, gods… oh,
gods
—why
do this to me? What have I done to deserve it? What do you want from me?"

 
          
But
even as he asked, futility overwhelmed him, much as it had the very first time.
And, like that time, what he wanted was to cry. But he was twenty-three: a man
fully grown. An acknowledged Cheysuli warrior with a
lir
to call his own… if Teel condescended to let him.

 
          
Aidan
did not cry. He was no longer six years old.

 
          
Though there are times I wish I were, so I
could begin again.

 
          
Teel's
tone was cool.
What use in that
? he
asked.
The gods made the child. Now the
rest is up to the
man.

 
          
"Stop,"
Aidan declared.

 
          
When
you
do
.

 
          
"I
swear, you will drive me mad, hag-riding me to death."

 
          
Teel's
irony slipped, replaced with an odd kindness.
I will keep you sane when you hag-ride
yourself
to death
.

 
          
Aidan
let it go. He was too weary, too worn. There was something he had come for. The
ritual to perform.

 
          
He
sighed, cursing himself out of habit. He knew what he would find, but Aidan put
hand to cushion. Touched the worn nap of the velvet. Felt nothing but the
fabric. Not even the grit of dust.

 
          
Futility
was overpowering. "
Why
?"
The shout filled the hall. "Why do I always come back when I know what
will happen?"

 
          
"Because
the gods, when they are playful, are sometimes cruel instead of kind."

 
          
Aidan
lurched to his feet and spun around, catching himself against the Lion. He had
heard nothing, nothing at all; no scrape of silver on marble, no steps the
length of the hall. He stared hard like a wolf at bay, thinking of how he
looked; of what appearance he presented—hair in disarray, half dressed,
haranguing a wooden beast. Heat flooded him. Humiliation stung his armpits. He
wanted to shout aloud, to send the man from the hall, away from his royal—but
embarrassed—presence; he did not. Because he looked at the man who faced him
and recognition shamed him.

 
          
His
grandfather smiled. "I know what you are thinking; it is written on your
face. But it is unworthy of you, Aidan… you have as much right to be here, no
matter what the hour, as I do myself."

 
          
On
the headpiece of the Lion, the bright-eyed raven preened.
I have told you that, myself
.

 
          
Aidan
ignored his
lir
. Embarrassment had
not receded; if anything, he felt worse. What he wanted most was to apologize
and flee—
this man is the Mujhar
!—but
he managed to stand his ground.

 
          
After
a moment's hesitation, he wet his lips and spoke quietly. "I may have the
right to be here, but not to disturb your rest."

 
          
"The
rest of an old man?" Niall's tone was amused. "Ah, well… when you are
as old as I you will understand that sleep does not always come when you want
it to."

 
          
He
began to feel a little better; the Mujhar was now his grandsire. Wryly, Aidan
smiled. "I know that already."

 
          
"So."
Niall advanced, holding a fat candle in its cup of gleaming gold. "Why
have you said nothing to me of these dreams? Do you think I have no time for my
grandson?"

 
          
Aidan
stared at the man who, by right of gods and men, held the Lion Throne of
Homana. He, like Deirdre, was past sixty, yet as undiminished by age. Still
tall, still fit, still unmistakably regal, though no longer youthful. Tawny
hair had silvered, fading like tarnished gilt; Homanan-fair skin had creased,
displaying a delicately drawn fretwork born of years of responsibility; of the
eyes, one was blue and bright as ever, the other, an empty socket couched in
talon scars, was hidden behind a patch.

 
          
Aidan
drew in a breath, answering his grandfather's question with one of his own.
"How can you have the time? You are the Mujhar."

 
          
"I
am also a man who sired five children, and who now reaps the benefits of my
children's fertility." Briefly, Niall eyed the raven perched upon his
throne. "You I know better than the others, since you live here in Homana,
but there are times I fully believe I
know
you least of all."

 
          
Aidan
smiled. "It is nothing, grandsire."

 
          
Niall
arched a brow.

 
          
"Nothing,"
Aidan repeated.

 
          
"Ah."
Niall smiled faintly. "Then it pains me to know my grandson feels he
cannot confide in me."

 
          
Guilt
flickered deep inside. "No grandsire—'Tisn't that. 'Tis only…" Aidan
shrugged. "There is nothing to speak about."

 
          
Niall's
gaze was steady. "I am neither a fool, nor blind—though I have but one eye
I still see."

 
          
Heat
coursed through Aidan's flesh. The sweat of shame dotted a thin line above his
lips. He made a futile gesture. "They are just—dreams. Nothing more."

 
          
"Then
I must assume the servants are embroidering the truth." The tone was very
quiet, but compelling nonetheless. "I think it is time you spoke. If not
to Aileen or to Brennan, then to me. I have some stake in this."

 
          
Aidan
clenched his teeth briefly. "
Dreams
,
nothing more—as anyone dreams. Fragments of sleep. Thoughts all twisted up,
born of many things."

 
          
The
Mujhar of Homana forbore to sit in his throne, usurped by a black-eyed raven
who, as a
lir
, had more claim than
any human, Cheysuli-bred or not. Or so Teel told them. Instead, Niall sat down
upon the dais, setting down the candle cup with its wax and smoking flame.
"Tell me about them."

 
          
Aidan
rubbed damp fingertips against soft leather.
Tell him. Tell him? Just like that
?

 
          
Niall's
tone was kind. "Locking things away only adds to the problem. Believe me,
I know; I spent far too many years denying myself peace because I believed
myself unworthy of this creature looming behind me."

 
          
Aidan
glanced only briefly at the Lion. Then sat down on the dais next to Niall,
putting his back to the beast. He felt a vast impatience—how could he share what
no one would believe?—but attempted to honor his grandsire by fulfilling part
of the request. "This has nothing at all to do with unworthiness. I
promise, grandsire, I know who I am and the task I am meant for: to rule as
Mujhar of Homana." Easily, he made the palm-up Cheysuli gesture denoting
tahlmorra
, and his acceptance of it.
"I think I will do as well as the next man when my time comes—you and my
jehan
have taught me very well; how
could I
not
be worthy?" He
flicked fingers dismissively, thinking it enough.

 
          
Niall
waited in silence.

 
          
Discomfited,
Aidan stirred. "No one can understand. Why
should
I speak of it? When I was a child, I tried to tell them
about it. But neither of them believed me."

 
          
"Who
did not?"

 
          
"
Jehan
and
jehana
. They both said I was a child, and that what I dreamed was
not real. That I would
outgrow
it…"
Bitterness underscored the tone; Aidan pushed it away with effort. "Would
you speak of a thing people would ridicule you for?"

 
          
"Aileen
and Brennan would never ridicule you."

 
          
Aidan
grimaced. "Not
them
, perhaps…
not so obviously. But what is a child to feel when his parents call him a
liar?"

 
          
Niall's
brows knit. "I have never known you to be that. I doubt they have, either;
nor would ever say such a thing."

 
          
"There
is such a thing as
implying
—"

 
          
"They
would not even do that."

 
          
It
was definitive. Aidan shifted his buttocks and stared gloomily into the hall.
"I wish there were a way I
could
explain what I feel. What
I fear
."

 
          
"Try,"
Niall suggested. "Tell me the truth, as you know it. Tell me what disturbs
your sleep."

 
          
Aidan
rubbed gritty eyes. What he needed most
was
sleep.

 
          
No.
What he needed most was
the chain
.

 
          
He
sighed and let it go. "What I fear is the meaning behind my dream. The
same one over and over." Now it was begun. Tension began to ease. With it
went strength. Slumping, he braced elbows on his knees and leaned his chin into
cupped hands. "For as long as I can recall, the
same
dream over and over. I think it will drive me mad."

 
          
Niall
said nothing. His patience was manifest.

 
          
Aidan
sighed heavily and sat upright, scraping hair back from his face. In the poor
light his thick auburn hair was an odd reddish black, falling across bare
shoulders too fair for a Cheysuli. A man, looking at him, would name him all
Homanan, or call him Erinnish-born. Until he saw the eyes.

 
          
"There
is a chain," Aidan began. "A chain made of gold. It is in the lap of
the Lion."

 
          
The
Mujhar did not give in to the urge to turn and look. Mutely, Niall waited.

 
          
Aidan,
abruptly restless, thrust himself upright and paced away from dais, Lion,
Mujhar. Away from his
lir
,
uncharacteristically silent. He stared in disgust at the firepit, letting the
coals dazzle his eyes, then swung back to face his grandsire.