Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (8 page)

 
          
Ian
shrugged a single shoulder. "I have no answer for you. But Aidan still
dreams… fear or no fear,
something
is
real to him."

 
          
"And
I gave it no credence, ever." Brennan collapsed against the wall, mouth
pulled awry. "I am not and have never been the most discerning of
men."

 
          
Ian
watched him closely. Quietly, he suggested, "I think Aileen might
understand what you feel. She has as much stake in Aidan's future as you."

 
          
Brennan's
expression was bleak. "She says nothing of it to me."

 
          
Ian
did not smile. "Have you ever thought to ask her?"

 
          
Brennan
shrugged. "She is too quick to defend him. She hears nothing of my
concern, gives no weight to what I say." He grimaced. "He is her only
child; she will hear no wrong of him."

 
          
Ian
shook his head. "Aileen is neither blind nor deaf. She defends him to
others;
is there need to do that with
you?"

 
          
The
stallion, now turned, thrust his head over the door, blocking their view of one
another. Brennan cupped a hand over the bone of the nose and pulled the black
head down so he could see his uncle. "I have the right to worry."

 
          
Ian
stroked the silken neck. "No one will take that from you. But Aileen might
help you bear it."

 
          
Brennan's
expression was odd. "He needs to sire a son."

 
          
Ian's
motion was arrested. "Why? Do you think it might be best if you replaced
your son with a grandson? Just
in case
—"

 
          
"No!"
The response came too quickly. "But he is twenty-three,
su'fali
… I had a son by then. My
jehan
had three of his own, as well as
two daughters."

 
          
Ian
said nothing a moment. Then, in precise, staccato, tones, "Have you never
thought that, given more time, you and Aileen might have made a true match? One
much like Niall's and Deirdre's?"

 
          
"There
was Corin—"

 
          
"That
was very nearly twenty-five years ago!"

 
          
Muscles
clenched in Brennan's jaw. "You are saying I should give Aidan time."

 
          
"There
is enough of it yet; aye. You know the price you and Aileen have paid… why ask
him
to pay it?"

 
          
Brennan's
tone was as clipped. "Kings must beget sons."

 
          
Ian
lost his patience. "The present king is living. His own heir is perfectly
healthy, and
he
has an heir. I think
the Lion, just this moment, requires no more than that."

 
          
Brennan
shut his eyes. When he opened them, Ian saw bleak despair. "And if my son
is mad? How do I get another? Aileen can give me no more… and I will not set
her aside. I
need
a son from
Aidan."

 
          
Ian
shook his head. "Aidan is not mad. Aidan is only—different."

 
          
Brennan
cupped Bane's black muzzle. "Kings cannot be different. It makes the
Homanans afraid."

 
          
His
uncle's expression was compassionate. "No more afraid than you."

 
          
The
day was gray, growing grayer. Aidan, who had ridden out of Mujhara not long
after a mid-morning meal, scowled irritably at the pewter-hued sky. Teel was in
it somewhere, riding out the wind; Aidan looked, found him, sent his feelings
through the link.

 
          
As
if to spite the wind, Teel's tone was undiminished.
Some things are worth discomfort
.

 
          
"But
it is
summer
," Aidan protested.
"Summer rain I understand—
this
feels more like winter!"

 
          
Only yesterday you complained of the heat… I
think you are merely perverse.

 
          
He
could be, Aidan admitted. But now was not one of those times. Yesterday, it
had
been hot; now it was much too cold.
Not so cold as to make him shiver, but enough to make him wish he had brought
at least a fall cloak. Arms left bare by Cheysuli jerkin protested the chill.
Lir
-bands felt icy.

 
          
Wind
changed direction and blew ruddy hair into pale eyes. Aidan stripped it back,
peeling strands free of lashes, then forgot about hair altogether as his horse
shied violently sideways to make his own discomfort known. The dun gelding did
not bolt, but only because Aidan was ready for him.

 
          
"No,"
he said calmly, speaking also through the reins. "I think it would be best
for both of us if you let me do the choosing of whether we walk or run."

 
          
Lir
. Teel's voice.
The storm is growing worse
.

 
          
Aidan,
who could feel the blast of the wind as well as the raven, offered no comment.
He was too busy with the horse, who threatened to run again. Aidan did not
really blame him. If he himself were a horse, he might run as well. The wind
was full of urging, wailing down hilly croftlands. Its song was one of winter;
of hearthfires and steaming wine. Or, if he were a horse, of windtight stable
and warm bedding straw, with grain for the asking.

 
          
"Summer,"
Aidan muttered. "What will winter be like, I wonder?"

 
          
There
was nothing for it but to ride on, to reach the fringes of the wood that would
provide some protection. The track, warded by trees and foliage, would be free
of much of the wind, and he could go on to Clankeep screened from the worst of
the weather.

 
          
Debris
littered the air: leaves, dirt, torn petals of wind-tattered flowers. Aidan
ducked his head, squinted, spat, urged the gelding a little faster. And then
faster still.

 
          
"Go
ahead," he agreed, giving the dun his head. "A bit of a run will do
no harm, and will get us there the faster."

 
          
The
gelding required no urging. By the time they reached the trees, Aidan was
almost sorry. A gallop through the wind blew away the dull dregs of a troubled
night's sleep, leaving him refreshed and in good spirits. He gloried in the
sensation of horse against the storm, himself bent over the neck so as to give
the wind no purchase. But he did not give into the impulse that told him to run
again; the gelding deserved a rest, and the track was littered with stormwrack,
providing treacherous footing for a horse already spooked.

 
          
"
Shansu
," he said, patting the
gelding's neck. "Another time, I promise—for now we will walk."

 
          
The
dun was ordinarily a well-mannered, settled horse, neither young nor old, and
not given to coltish antics. But clearly the storm had set him on edge; now, as
Aidan attempted to calm him, he pawed and swished his tail, indicating
displeasure.

 
          
Aidan
lifted an arm and pointed. "That way," he suggested.

 
          
The
dun backed in a circle, eyeing the way they had come.

 
          
"No,
I said
that
way—" Aidan turned
him forcibly. "We have been to Clankeep uncountable times before… there is
no reason for this. If there were danger, Teel would say so; I trust him more
than you."

 
          
The
gelding protested, snorting nosily. Dark eyes rolled.

 
          
Frowning,
Aidan went into the link.
Lir
—
is there danger
?

 
          
So much for trust
, Teel answered.
No, there is no danger… nothing but the
storm
.

 
          
Relieved,
Aidan aimed the dun yet again toward the east. "If this is a show of will,
I could choose a better time… shall we discuss this a bit later?"

 
          
The
gelding stood still and quivered.

 
          
Aidan
stroked the ocher-brown neck again. "
Shansu
,
my lad, my boy—'tis naught but a bit of a blow… d'ye think I'd be wanting you
harmed?"

 
          
Erinnish,
many held, was a tongue made for horses, but the gelding was Homanan. He chose
to misunderstand.

 
          
Wind
roared through the trees. The dun bolted and ran.

 
          
It
was, Aidan thought grimly, an entirely horselike flight. After refusing to go
east, fright had forced the gelding. If the storm had not worsened matters,
Aidan might have let him run on since he was heading toward their destination.
But he dared not in the wind. The track was fouled with debris. If the gelding
tripped and went down—

 
          
"Never
mind
," Aidan muttered, cursing
imagination.

 
          
He
drew the reins in tautly and attempted to apply force of will to the restraint.
He had gentled many a colt and won many a horse's trust, sharing much of his
father's skill. But the gelding was having none of it.

 
          
Concern
instantly deepened. Aidan knew the feel of it: the bit had been rolled forward,
free of tender bars, and now was lodged in teeth. The horse was in control. The
man on his back was nothing more than a minor inconvenience not worth the
trouble of throwing off.

 
          
Aidan,
amused by the all-too-accurate vision, grinned, then wished he had not as dirt
fouled his teeth. He spat.
I could simply
take lir-shape and let this fool of a boy run on
without
me
—

 
          
But
the thought of risking the gelding made him reconsider. His father had trained
him too well; when it came to welfare, he thought of the horse's in place of
his own.

 
          
Or, I could—

 
          
But
what else he could—or could not—do, went unthought. Without altering his pace,
the gelding dodged off the track and crashed into deadfall and foliage, neatly
avoiding a tree trunk. Aidan also avoided the trunk, but did not miss the limp
sweeping down from the rack of low boughs.

 
          
In
reflex, he thrust out a warding forearm, knowing it much too late.
Lir
—

 
          
It
was all Aidan managed as the tree limb embraced his ribs and swept him out of
the saddle.

 
          
«
^
»

 
          
He
dreamed. He dreamed he was made of smoke and fire in place of flesh and blood.
His heart was a white flame and his soul whiter still, so brilliant it was
blinding. Out of the white flame of his heart and the whiter brilliance of his
soul came the music that poured through his veins like quicksilver, burning
what it touched with a pain exquisitely sweet. He wanted to cry with its
beauty, but knew he dared not.

 
          
Water extinguishes flame. Extinguished, I
will die.

 
          
He
saw himself, but it was not himself. The Aidan he saw was another man,
insubstantial, incorporeal, substantive as smoke. He drifted this way, that
way, shredding himself as he moved, then forming himself again. And then the
man of smoke congealed into anther shape, taking the form of a raven, also made
of smoke, and the raven flew swiftly skyward in a bid for needed freedom.