Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (69 page)

 
          
He convulsed, head slamming back into the
pillow on a rigid, arcing neck. Arms and legs contracted. His teeth bit bloody
gashes in his tongue until someone forced a piece of padded wood into his
clenched jaw. His teeth ground until gums bled, shredding the padding.
Splintering the wood.

 
          
The seizures passed at last. He lay spent
against the mattress, quivering in his weakness. No one spoke to him now.
Perhaps they understood he had no means with which to answer.

 
          
Memory. It ran around inside his head like a
ball set to spinning; spinning and spinning and spinning until at last the
momentum ended; then bouncing and rattling and rolling against the inside of his
skull.

 
          
Memory: Flames. Screams. Stench.

 
          
Oil and paint and flesh.

 
          
Blood hissing in ash.

 
          
His jaws snapped open. His throat disgorged
sound. But nothing was emitted, save the rasp of a dying breath.

 
          
Memory
: Death.

 
          
Each day someone held a candle near his
eyes. He could see it, but could not blink. Could not tell them it hurt. The
words were garbled nonsense. When he tried to put up a hand to block the
candle's light, the arm spasmed and jumped. They held it down for him. Some
days the spasm passed. Others it spread and worsened. Then they held
him
down, pinning arms and legs
.

 
          
Someone had cracked his head, like an egg
against a rock.

 
          
He dreamed. Not of a golden chain. Not of a
living Lion. Of a man. A young, magnificent man, strong and full of life. His
vibrancy was tangible; his power as yet untapped.

 
          
A tall, lithe young man, striding like a
mountain cat through the webwork of Aidan's dreams. His eyes were cool and
gray, with a gaze so compelling it could stop a hardened assassin from unsheathing
sword or knife. The hair was thick and black, framing a youthful face of
austere, yet flawless beauty, bearing the stamp of authority far surpassing any
monarch's. It was not a womanish face, even in all its beauty; a trace of
ruthlessless in the mouth maintained its masculine line. Only rarely did it
smile. When it did, power flickered; he could rule or seduce man and woman with
equal facility.

 
          
Dreaming, Aidan twitched.

 
          
The man was not Cheysuli. The man was not
Ihlini. The man was of all blood, forged from the heart of war, tempered on the
anvil of peace. And his gifts were such that they surpassed all others.

 
          
Aidan whispered
: Firstborn.

 
          
And knew what it meant.

 
          
Rebirth.

 
          
And death.

 
          
The ending of what he knew; the beginning of
what he did not.

 
          
He cried out in fear, recoiling from the
truth; from the man who prowled his dreams.

 
          
Deep inside, something roused. Something
woke.

 
          
He spoke. He heard himself. Saw their
frightened faces as they heard him. Saw the horror in their eyes; the comprehension
of madness: surely he was mad? What else would make him so?

 
          
He spoke. He raved. He chanted. The
convulsions came again. And passed.

 
          
Lips were bitten. Tongue and gums lacerated.
Muscles shrieked with each dying spasm.

 
          
The broken head mended.

 
          
He thought perhaps
he
might, until the child of the prophecy
strode through his dreams again
.

 
          
He woke. He knelt on the floor. Shouting.
They all came running, all of them, and this time he heard himself. This time
he understood. The words of his dream spewed out.

 
          
"I am the sword!" he cried.
"I am the sword and the bow and the knife. I am darkness and light. I am
good and evil. I am the child and the elder; the girl and the boy; the wolf and
the lamb."

 
          
He wavered on his knees, but none dared to
touch him. Words poured forth. "Bom of one prophecy, I am come to make
another. To bind four realms into one; to bind eight into four. I am the child
of the prophecy; child of darkness and light; of like breeding with like."

 
          
He sucked in a quivering breath. "I am
Cynric. I am Cynric. I am the sword
—
and
the bow
—
and the knife. I am the child
of prophecy: the Firstborn come again
."

 
          
He stopped. The words were gone. He was
empty, and hollow, and purged.

 
          
Aidan tumbled downward, welcoming the
darkness. But hands raised him up again, showing him the light.

 
          
The
door was ajar, as they always left it now. Deirdre, who had ordered old hinges
oiled so as not to disturb Aidan, slipped into the chamber. It smelled of herbs
and an odd pungency. Aidan's wounds had been healed; even so, the smell was not
of blood or body.

 
          
She
frowned, pausing to draw air deep into her lungs. Exhaling abruptly, she knew.
It was a thing she had not smelled since leaving Erinn.

 
          
She
looked to the high-backed chair set so closely beside the bed. "By the
gods, Aileen—are you summoning the
cileann
?"

 
          
Aileen
started, crumpling the dried herbs she clutched in her hands. The pungency
increased, then faded as she rose, scattering broken stems and leaves. As she
saw her aunt, she dropped back into the chair. Color tinged her face.
Defiantly, she raised her chin even as she brushed bits of herbs from her
skirts. "Neither Homanan nor Cheysuli gods have answered all our
petitions. I thought perhaps the
cileann
—"

 
          
"This
is Homana," Deirdre said quietly. "The
cileann
have no dominion here. 'Tis too far from their halls."

 
          
Aileen's
face crumpled. "I wanted to try
something
!
Nothing else has worked!"

 
          
Deirdre
crossed the room. A glance at Aidan's bruised, too-pale face told her his
condition was unchanged. He had roused but three times since the attack, and
only long enough to babble nonsense in three languages: Homanan, Cheysuli,
Erinnish.

 
          
But
now she turned her attention back to her niece. Aileen's red hair was unkempt,
twisted into a haphazard plait. She had eaten little since Aidan had been
brought to Homana-Mujhar, nor had she slept but an hour here and there.

 
          
Deirdre
put a soothing hand on Aileen's head, stroking dull hair gently. What she said
was inconsequential, much as the words a horseman uses to quiet a fretful colt,
but at last it began to work. Aileen wiped away tears and managed to smile at
her aunt. "My thanks, for that. But it has been so
hard—"

 
          
"I
know, Aileen, I know… and may be harder yet. But you cannot be squandering your
strength now, when it does no good. He will need you when he wakes. You must
eat, and sleep, so he'll be knowing you when he rouses. He will be expecting
his
jehana
, not a hag-witch with
greasy hair and ditches beneath her eyes."

 
          
As
Deirdre had intended, Aileen pressed hands against her face. Vanity, in this
case, would decoy her thoughts, even if only briefly.

 
          
It
passed too quickly. Aileen took her hands away and stared steadfastly at her
son. "What if he never wakes?"

 
          
"He
may not," Deirdre said steadily. "I have heard of such things: men
and women who, struck in the head, never rouse entirely. They sleep until they
die. But Aidan is very strong, and very stubborn. I think if the gods meant him
to die, he would not be alive now."

 
          
"Brennan
says—" She checked..

 
          
Deirdre
sighed quietly. "Brennan does not know everything. He is upset, as you
are. And worried, as you are. And, like you, he has known too little of rest
and food. Do you blame him for speaking nonsense?"

 
          
Aileen's
tone was dull. "Is it nonsense to concern yourself with the succession of
Homana? He must, Deirdre… he is Mujhar now, and cannot afford to set aside such
things. If Aidan dies, or is mad, what is Homana to do? There must be an heir
for the Lion."

 
          
"There
will be an heir for the Lion."

 
          
Aileen's
tone, abruptly, was filled with self-loathing. "But not from the Queen of
Homana."

 
          
"There
is no need," Deirdre declared. "She has already borne a son. The Lion
is satisfied."

 
          
The
fire died out of green eyes. Aileen looked at her son. "If he lives,"
she whispered.

 
          
He
lived. He came awake with a throttled cry and this time remained awake.

 
          
The
link thrummed within him.
Lir
, Teel
said.
Lir, I am well. I sit above you on
the bedframe
.

 
          
He
did. Relief was all-consuming. Aidan, released, trembled. And wondered, as he
trembled, if he would lose himself again. If the convulsions would steal his
body and twist it into knots.

 
          
It
hurt to breathe. His body, wracked too often, ached from residual pain; from
cramps now passed, but remembered with vivid intensity. With exquisite clarity.

 
          
His
lips were swollen and bitten. His tongue much the same. But his wits were
perfectly clear.

 
          
I am not mad
, he declared. Then, in
doubt,
Am I
?

 
          
The
chambers were deeply shadowed. He lay in his own bed, cushioned by pillows and
bolsters. But leather was firmly knotted around wrists and ankles, then
fastened to the bedframe.

 
          
Aidan
spasmed.
Gods
—
they have
tied
me
—

 
          
He
stilled.
Am I mad
?

 
          
From
the corner of an eye, he saw movement. Spasming, he looked, and saw his mother
present. Propped in a chair, the Queen of Homana slept. He knew by looking at
her she had known too little of it. The truth was in her face.

 
          
Memory
rolled back:
Screaming. Fire. Dying
.

 
          
Aidan
went very still.

 
          
The reek of burning pavilions, the stench of
burning bodies. And blood hissing in ash as Lochiel cut the child free.

 
          
At
wrists and ankles, leather tautened. "No!" Aidan shouted. "No—
no
—
NO
—"

 
          
Aileen
came awake at once, lunging out of the chair. Her hands came down on his
shoulders—had he not been wounded in one?—and pressed him back again, aiding
the leather straps that bound him to the bed.