Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (71 page)

 
          
"
Harani
." Ian's tone was gentle.
"I know what you want to do. I know how much you need it. But you cannot
go alone. You must take someone with you."

 
          
"You?"

 
          
Ian
shook his head. "I am too old now. But there is your
jehan
."

 
          
"He
is Mujhar. He has no time."

 
          
"A
man who has no time for his grandchild is not worthy of kingship." Ian shook
his head. "You judge him too harshly. Do you think you were the only one
hurt by Shona's death? Do you believe you are the only one who has
suffered?"

 
          
Anger
flared. "You were not there.
None
of you was there. None of you can know—"

 
          
"She
is dead, Aidan." Ian's tone was level. "Guilt, rage, and
recrimination will not bring her back."

 
          
Aidan
gripped the knife. "You do not know—"

 
          
"I
do
!" Ian's eyes were alive with
grief. "I watched Niall die, knowing there was nothing I could do. I
watched my
jehana
die, able to do
nothing as she cut open her own wrists. I watched my
jehan
walk out of Homana-Mujhar, knowing he left his kin to die a
lirless
warrior's death, alone and
bereft in the forest." He drew in a shaking breath. "I know, Aidan.
Better than you think."

 
          
Ian
did. Aidan's
kivarna
told him that.

 
          
He
turned away stiffly, shamed by his selfishness, yet feeling the painful uprush
of anguish and helplessness as strongly as before.

 
          
And
then came the odd little snap in his head that dropped him to his knees. The
knife fell from his hands.

 
          
"Aidan!"
Ian moved swiftly, kneeling to catch both rigid wrists in an attempt to shut
off the spasms. "Aidan—fight it—"

 
          
"I
am the sword," Aidan whispered. "The sword and the bow and the knife—"

 
          
"Aidan,
fight
it—"

 
          
"I
am no one; I am everyone—"

 
          
"Aidan!"

 
          
"I
am Cynric, I am Cynric—"

 
          
"Stop
this, Aidan. Shut it away. Use the earth magic. Use compulsion.
Shut it away
—"

 
          
"Eight
into four and four into one. I am the Firstborn come again, and from me will
come the others—"

 
          
"
Aidan—
"

 
          
"I
am Cynric. I am Cynric. The sword and the bow and the knife—"

 
          
"Stop
this madness
now
!"

 
          
The
spasming passed. Fingers uncurled. Distantly, he asked, "How can I be mad?
I am the voice of the gods."

 
          
Ian
released his wrists. He was ashen-faced, staring. "What have you
become?"

 
          
Aidan,
hanging yet on his knees, knew. He had survived the first sacrifice. He had
undertaken the task.

 
          
"Their
servant," he said softly. "Chosen among all others. Knowing no other
master. Not even a
tahlmorra
."

 
          
"Aidan!"

 
          
"They
want me," he told him simply. "They want all of me. There is no room
for a wife. Or a child. Or a Lion—"

 
          
Ian
caught an arm, jerking Aidan to his feet. "Come with me. I will take you
to your chambers."

 
          
He
went with his great-uncle willingly, too numb to do otherwise. As always after
a fit, he had a headache, and yet his wits were exquisitely lucid. He knew what
he had done, what he had said, and what he was meant to do.

 
          
Ian
pushed open Aidan's door. "Go to bed. I will send Aileen."

 
          
Aidan
winced. "No."

 
          
"Then
go to bed."

 
          
Mutely,
Aidan nodded. Ian put a hand on his shoulder and urged him through the door.

 
          
It
thumped closed behind him. Irresolute, Aidan stood in his bedchamber. And at
last, recalling what Ian had suggested, he went to the polished silver plate
hanging on the wall.

 
          
His
face was unchanged, save for an unusual pallor. But a wondering hand went to
his left temple, fingering the thick new growth of hair that had come back at
last after being cut away. At the corner of his eyebrow was a purplish line, a
straight slash of a line that stretched across his temple. The end of it was
hidden in his hair. Thick new hair. A wing of purest white.

 
          
Aidan
smiled. It was a cold, deadly smile. "
Leijhana
tu'sai
, Ihlini. Now I can never forget."

 
          
He
shivered. He felt ill, weary, old. He went to bed, as advised.

 
          
And
dreamed of a chain that shattered beneath his touch.

 
          
«
^
»

 
          
The
chamber lay mostly in shadow, save for a single fat candle in a stand near the
bed. It cast a sickly light; the wick was half-drowned in wax, sputtering its
death. But no one moved to tend it.

 
          
Aileen
stood in the doorway, staring in consternation at her son. "You can't mean
to
keep
them here!"

 
          
Aidan
did not answer. He linked his hands behind his back and gazed steadfastly at
his mother.

 
          
"But—you
can't," she insisted. "Not so many. Aidan, they are too big—there are
too
many
…" Aileen's brow
creased. "The kennels are kept very clean. They will do well enough
there."

 
          
Undoubtedly
they would. But that was not where he wanted them.

 
          
Quietly,
he said, "Forgive me,
jehana
. I
want to be alone."

 
          
She
started to gesture, to remonstrate gently, but with authority. "Aidan,
those dogs…" But she let it trail off. The hand fell lax at her side. He
was so
still
…

 
          
She
glanced around the chamber—Shona's chamber, Shona's bed, Shona's belongings—marking
the chests as yet unpacked. Aidan and his new
cheysula
had gone too quickly to Clankeep for all of her things to
have been arranged. Now they mocked her absence.

 
          
Aileen
looked back at her son: at the still, white face. "Very well," she
murmured, and left him alone once more.

 
          
He
waited. For a moment longer he stood in the precise center of the chamber,
staring fixedly at the now-empty doorway. Then, abruptly, he strode decisively
through the throng of gathered wolfhounds and quickly shut the door, dropping
the latch with a firm click.

 
          
Behind
him, dogs whined.

 
          
He
turned to face them. The big dark male. The bitches. The half-grown adolescents
and the gangly, colt-legged puppies. Bright eyes stared back at him, tails
poised to wave. But they sensed his tension and turmoil, the cessation of his
breathing. Uncertainty dominated.

 
          
Ears
flattened slowly. Heads sank lower. One puppy soiled himself; another began to
whimper.

 
          
Breath
rushed out of lungs. "
Gods
—"
Aidan choked. Grief stole everything else.

 
          
Trembling,
he walked into the huddle of hounds and began to touch their heads. It hurt to
breathe, but he managed; in gasps, and sobs, and spasms. Touching all the
heads. Assuaging their confusion. Seeking his own release in contact with her
hounds.

 
          
Tentative
tails waved, then quickened as he spoke. The voice he did not himself
recognize, but they comprehended the tone. He was naming all their names: that
they understood.

 
          
One
by one by one: Shona's litany. She believed each dog was born with a specific
name, and it was a person's task to discover the proper one, not just tack on
anything; they had spent days on the voyage from Erinn trying out names on the
two litters, collecting and discarding, until each of the puppies was named.
Aidan recalled them all clearly, and Shona's lilting, ritual recital each time
she greeted the dogs.

 
          
He
sat down on the floor and let them gather around him. The puppies climbed over
his legs, staging mock battles to claim his lap. The adolescents, too big for
such play, snuffled his ears insistently, tending the human hound. The bitches
came to his hand and bestowed a lick or two.

 
          
Only
the male held back, promising Aidan nothing.

 
          
It
hurt. It was unanticipated, and it
hurt
.
Aidan understood the male's reticence well enough—the hound had bonded to Shona
in puppyhood, offering no one else anything more than cursory courtesy—but
Aidan had believed the dog would be starved for attention, eagerly coming
forward to any familiar scent in response to Shona's now-permanent absence.

 
          
But
he did not. And
would
not, Aidan knew
now, on any terms but his own.

 
          
The
puppies, growing cramped in his lap and weary of dominance struggles, deserted.
The others settled quietly, finding places on the floor. Aidan got up slowly
and climbed into the bed. It was not night. He was not tired. But it seemed the
best place to be.

 
          
He
lay very still. He stared at the canopy. He remembered what Sean had said:
"
There are more ways to geld a man
than with a knife
."

 
          
Shona.

 
          
—striding
along the headlands at the edge of chalky cliffs—

 
          
—nocking
and sighting a warbow with a small, towheaded brother—

 
          
—gathering
a storm of hounds—

 
          
—climbing
into his bed—

 
          
—gripping
locks of his hair—

 
          
—winding
her own around him—

 
          
—tracing
the line of hips—

 
          
—taking
him into her—

 
          
The
sound escaped his mouth. A throttled desperation.

 
          
—other
women—too many women—now none of them enough—

 
          
"Stop,"
Aidan gasped.

 
          
—none
of them enough—none of them
ever
enough—

 
          
The
sound was repeated: "Stop!"

 
          
—the
first girl; the woman—