Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (51 page)

 
          
"You
are lying to me now."

 
          
"No."
Aidan sighed. "Granddame, I have a task, and a
tahlmorra
. Repeating lies Lillith told you will not turn me away
from what I have to do."

 
          
"The
throne will never be yours."

 
          
It
stopped him in his tracks.

 
          
Gisella
smiled, tilting her head to one side. "Never."

 
          
"Granddame—"

 
          
"It
denies you." She saw his shock, his recoil. "The Lion. I
know
, Aidan" She gathered the
coverlet in thin, sharp fingers and leaned forward. Her voice was very soft; in
its quietude, Aidan heard conviction, and the cant of prophecy.
"Throneless Mujhar. Uncrowned king. A
child
,
buffeted by fates he cannot understand…" She slumped back against the
bolsters. "Touched by the gods, but ignorant… a man so touched, so claimed
as one of their own, can never know peace as a king." Gisella smiled
warmly, yellow eyes slight. "You will never rule Homana."

 
          
Aidan
blurted the first thing that came into his head. "Are you saying I will
die? Granddame? Am I to
die
?"

 
          
In
a tiny, girlish voice, Gisella began to sing.

 
          
«
^
»

 
          
He
awoke near dawn, haggard and shaking and frightened. His chambers were cold
with the light of false dawn, but even yanking the covers up in a convulsive
gesture did not warm him. Aidan sat upright and cursed, rubbing viciously at
grainy, burning eyes.

 
          
Teel?

 
          
But
almost at once he recalled the raven was not with him. Teel waited for him in
Erinn, near Shona; a sick, uneasy loneliness curled deeply in Aidan's belly. He
was quite alone,
too
alone, even
though his own kinsman slept within the fortress.

 
          
So
did his grandmother.

 
          
"Another
dream," he muttered in disgust, but this one had been much different.

 
          
He
recalled only bits and pieces: himself, seated on the Lion Throne in the Great
Hall of Homana-Mujhar; himself, dead in the Lion, with blood running from mouth
and throat; himself, mourned as a throneless Mujhar, an uncrowned king. No
proper monarch, Aidan of Homana; merely a nameless prince all too soon
forgotten.

 
          
He
stripped tangled hair back from his face, purposely pulling too hard, as if the
discomfort might alter his memories. It did not. "A witch," he
muttered. "An Atvian witch, trained to treachery by an Ihlini…"

 
          
He
was empty. Unwhole. Teel was too far even for the
lir
-link.

 
          
And
Shona too far for the
kivarna
.

 
          
He
needed one or both of them. He knew it with perfect clarity as she sat huddled
in bed, shivering. Teel for the
lir-
link
and all its gifts; Shona for the physical, the spiritual, the emotional. They
were each of them tied into his
tahlmorra
,
into his life; if he neglected either, or dismissed either, he destroyed a part
of himself.

 
          
Into
his head came Gisella's declaration. He heard it again so clearly as if she
stood beside his bed, bending over him as a mother over a child; as a
grandmother over a grandson badly frightened by nightmares.

 
          
But
Gisella offered no comfort. Gisella offered fear and self-doubt. "
You will never rule Homana
."

 
          
Aidan
tore back the covers and climbed out of bed hastily, finding and pulling on
fresh leathers, boots, his belt, a dark blue cloak. Then he paused by the
saddle-pouches, reaching into one to draw out the chain of gold. The links were
massive, perfect, heavy. Six of them he could name: Shaine, Carillon, Donal,
Niall, Brennan, himself. But the others he could not. Undoubtedly one belonged
to his son, and the others to the Mujhars after him.

 
          
Aidan
put a finger on the sixth link, his own, and wondered what sort of king he
would be.

 
          
And
then wondered if he would be a king at all.

 
          
Almost
viciously, Aidan whipped off his belt. He threaded the leather through the
links and put it on again. He could feel the weight and curvature of each link.
A man would kill for such a fortune; Aidan pulled his cloak over the belt and
left the chamber, pausing in the corridor just long enough to tell a servant he
was well, but required air. He had sat up late with Corin the night before,
trading news, drinking wine. No one would question a morning ride; likely he
needed one.

 
          
Without
Teel, he was half a man, a shadow. He felt his spirit cut free from his body
like a boat loosed from its moorings. It made him snappish and impatient; the
horseboy, startled out of sleep, hastened to ready a mount even as Aidan
apologized. When the horses were ready, he swung up quickly and rode clattering
out of the bailey, intent on shedding the residual unease and bad temper as
soon as possible. It was the dream, of course; he knew it. Since the chain had
been made whole in Solinde, he had suffered none, sleeping soundly each night.
But the nightmare he had experienced but a half hour before filled him with a
nameless, increasing dread.

 
          
Aidan
left the city as soon as possible and rode up into the hills, skirting the
headlands overlooking the Dragon's Tail. Below him the city was quiet. Smoke
threaded its way from chimneys and spread a thin haze over the rooftops, but he
could see little other activity. Just before dawn, he was truly alone atop the
ramparts of the city, riding the back-bone of Atvia. The castle itself perched
atop a jagged, upthrust stone formation. The knobby dome was called the
Dragon's Skull.

 
          
He
saw the crumbled headland tower in the distance. It stood alone at the edge of
a cliff, sentinel to the sea. Morning mist wrapped itself around damp gray
stone, but the rising sun changed silver beading to saffron, altering the
pitted, grainy texture to smooth ocher-gold.

 
          
Aidan
contemplated it, then shrugged.
I have
nothing better to do
…

 
          
He
thought it a shell, until he rode closer; then saw the bench by the low door
and the windows shutters latched back to let light into the tower. It was a
curious dwelling. Once it had served as a vanguard against the Erinnish enemy's
approach; now it was little more than a crofter's incongruous hut. Aidan,
hungry, dismounted and threw reins over his mount's head. He left the horse to
graze and went across the hummocky turf to the tower, hoping its inhabitant
would share his morning meal.

 
          
The
door stood open, much as the shutters did. Aidan called out but received no
answer; after an indecisive moment he ducked beneath the low lintel stone and
went in. He had coin. He did not know a crofter alive who spurned good money,
even from a stranger too hungry and impatient to wait for an invitation.

 
          
The
tower was round. So was the room. The walls were bare of tapestries, but whitewashed.
Kindling had been laid in the rude fireplace, but the fire had gone out. Aidan,
with flint and steel in his belt-pouch, knelt to tend it properly.

 
          
In
the gray light of dawn there was an air of desertion in the tower, and yet
signs of habitation belied the feeling. A narrow cot was pushed against the
curving wall. A table with only the merest slant to its legs stood in the
center of the room. A stool was tucked under it. A rickety bench leaned against
the wall by the door; on the other side was a twist of stairway, leading toward
the upper floor, and the roof.

 
          
Aidan
heard a step in the doorway. Still kneeling, he turned. He thought the posture
less threatening to the man who lived in the tower, especially with flint and
steel in his hands rather than knife or sword. But the anticipated man resolved
himself into a woman, Aidan rose anyway, hastily, and tucked the implements
away.

 
          
Mist
was behind her, and sunlight. It clung to her roughspun gray cloak, shredding
as she moved, dissipating as she smiled. Her unbound hair, snugged beneath the
cloak, was black and glossy as a raven's wing. Something about her reminded
Aidan of someone—black hair, wide black eyes; a vivid, alluring beauty.

 
          
The
thought came unbidden, shredding the residue of his fear.
She could give me escape. She could give me release
.

 
          
So
many women had. And this one expected it. He had learned to judge the eyes, the
subtleties of movement.

 
          
She can give me ease…

 
          
He
smiled as she came into the tower, and took the bucket of water from her hands.
Their fingers touched briefly.

 
          
Kivarna
—and other things—told him the
truth.
She wants it as much as I
.

 
          
He
set the bucket on the table, hoping the weight did not prove too much. The
table held. So did her gaze, locked on his face. Her own was enigmatic. She did
not question his presence in her tower; she did not appear frightened or
dismayed by finding a stranger in her dwelling. She merely dropped the cloak
from her shoulders and tossed it across the table, next to the bucket, and smiled.

 
          
Her
gown, incongrously, was crimson, bright as new-spilled blood. It was cut loose
at the shoulders, loose at narrow waist. He saw that her hair, now freed of
cloak, was completely unbound, falling nearly to ankles. Loose gown, loose
hair; moist, smiling mouth. Aidan, drawing a difficult breath, felt the
powerful response deep in his belly.

 
          
He
thought of Shona. Of Ashra. Of Blythe. Of women he had bedded, and women he had
wanted to. Before
this
woman, all of
them paled to insignificance.

 
          
She will give me heart's ease, and banish
Gisella's words.

 
          
Black
lashes were long, and eloquent. She knew how to use her eyes, her face, her
body. Her tone was languorous. "Were you sent?" She paused, stroking
back a strand of hair with a negligent, silver-tipped nail. "Or did you
come?"

 
          
"I—came."

 
          
"Ah."
She moved past him to the fire, loose grown swirling, loose hair swinging, and
put out elegant hands. A curtain of silken hair fell forward across her right
shoulder and hid her face from him. "My thanks for the fire, my
lord."

 
          
The
earring was hidden by hair, the
lir
-bands
by his cloak, as was his belt. There was nothing about him, he thought, worthy
of attaching rank to him. "Why do you call me that?"

 
          
Still
her face was hidden. "You wear it like a crown." She turned, black
eyes alight. "Do you know who I am?"

 
          
Mutely,
he shook his head. He did not really care.

 
          
She
laughed softly: a husky, seductive sound. "I am a woman and you a man.
Perhaps that is all you need to know." Her smile was enigmatic. "I am
a whore, my lord—or so
they
would
have you believe."

 
          
His
voice was rusty. " 'They'?"

 
          
"The
castle folk." She waved a graceful hand, indicating the distances beyond
the door, the mist, the morning. "Your kind, my lord."