Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (9 page)

 
          
South:
to an island: away from Homana-Mujhar and all the Cheysuli Keeps; away from the
world everyone else called home, until the raven found a new home among the
standing stones now fallen, cold and green and gray, where he perched upon a
shattered, rune-scribed altar as if he wished to speak of gods.

 
          
The
altar was overturned. From beneath it, something glinted with the
dull-brilliance of muddied gold. The raven, knowing need, left his perch and
descended.

 
          
A
chain. Coiled beneath the altar, perfect and unblemished. Its beauty was so
compelling that even the raven was moved to desire it. But a raven has no
hands; he shapechanged himself to a man and knelt down to pick up the chain.

 
          
He
touched it. It was whole. He lifted it. It was whole. He took it from the
shadows, unable to breathe, and held it in the light.

 
          
The
links were the size of a man's forearm. Seamless, flawless gold, filled with
twisted runes too intertwined to decipher.

 
          
He
dared to breathe on it. One of the links broke.

 
          
Grief
swallowed him.
Why do I destroy when all
I want is to make things whole
?

 
          
He
still held half of the chain. The other half had fallen, spilled on leaf-molded
floor.

 
          
A
sound. He turned, still kneeling, still grasping his half of the chain, and saw
the shadowed figure in the tumbled doorway of lichen-clad stones.

 
          
The
voice was firm and commanding. "You hold me in your hand. What do you want
from me?"

 
          
Aidan
tried not to gape. Where had the stranger come from?

 
          
For
that matter, where was
he
?

 
          
"Who
are you?" he blurted.

 
          
Disbelief
was manifest: black brows arched up, then snapped together over a
blade-straight nose. "The Mujhar," he said. Clearly the stranger
believed Aidan could surely name him; only a fool could not, or a man with no
eyes to see.

 
          
Aidan
heard the undertone of expectation couched in blatant arrogance. But he
heard
it, he did not feel it; something
was not right. Something was not
real
.

 
          
The Mujhar
—? he echoed blankly.

 
          
Certainly
the man looked it. He wore black velvet and leather of exquisite quality and
cut; a scarlet rampant lion clawed its way across the black silken overtunic
belted with heavy gold. Hands, hooked into the belt, were strong,
long-fingered, callused, the hands of a soldier; no Cheysuli, he. The eyes were
a clear, piercing gray. Black hair was frosted silver.

 
          
Neither
young nor old. Aidan thought him fifty. But something he could not name
whispered of agelessness.

 
          
It
would do no good to wonder when he knew the man lied. "Who are you?"
he repeated.

 
          
Gray
eyes narrowed. "I have said: the Mujhar."

 
          
It
was too much. Aidan, frowning, glanced around the ruins, trying briefly to
place himself. And then the arrogance of the tone—and the claim—restored his
attention to the stranger.

 
          
Who is
he
to say such a thing
? And then he nearly laughed.
And to
me,
when it comes to that; I know the truth
.

 
          
"Mujhar,
you say?" Aidan sat back on his heels. "And
I
say you are lying."

 
          
Well-cut
lips tightened. "That is punishable by death."

 
          
"Oh?"
Aidan smiled. "Then kill me, Mujhar… kill the man who
will
hold the Lion when the proper time is come."

 
          
"You?"
Black brows swept up again. "
You
will hold the Lion?"

 
          
Aidan
spoke lightly. "So I have been told. It has to do with my birth—I am
Brennan's son, and grandson to Niall."

 
          
"Ah."
It was succinct, yet brimming with comprehension. "Where I am, there is no
time… and I did not realize so much had already passed." He smiled
consideringly. "Are we to Niall already?"

 
          
This man is mad. And
I
am mad for listening
.

 
          
He
adopted a coolly condescending tone. "You will forgive me, I hope, if I
fail to display the deference due a Mujhar—I show it to my grandsire, who is
deserving of it. You I do not know."

 
          
"Oh,
I think you do." The gray eyes were oddly lambent. "The history of
the Cheysuli is full of my name and title."

 
          
Aidan
held on to his patience. "Then why not give me both."

 
          
"You
have the title: Mujhar. The name I am called is Shaine."

 
          
Shaine.
Shaine?
Shaine
?

 
          
He
wanted to laugh, but could not. This man touched his pride, as well as
heritage. "I will thank you to keep your mouth from the name of my
ancestor."

 
          
Gray
eyes glinted. "But it is
my
name."

 
          
"Shaine
is dead," he said flatly.

 
          
The
stranger merely nodded. "A long time ago. Would you like to hear
how?"

 
          
"I
know how. I was taught. All of us were taught." Aidan did not smile.
"Shaine killed himself when he voided Ihlini wards set to keep Cheysuli
from Homana-Mujhar."

 
          
"A
painful death, and somewhat unexpected," agreed the other. "But by
then it no longer mattered… Finn would have killed me once he walked the hall.
It was what he came to do." Briefly the eyes smoldered. "Hale's
shapechanger son… gods, but I hated them. And Alix was the worst, coming before
me like Lindir, but dark instead of fair." Lips writhed briefly.
"Carillon would have wed her, and made her Queen of Homana. I could see it
in his eyes."

 
          
Dumbstruck,
Aidan stared. The words came very slowly. "She married Duncan
instead."

 
          
"Duncan.
Your great-great-great-grandsire." Gray eyes narrowed. "A long
history. I weary of it all."

 
          
This cannot be happening. None of this is
real
. Aidan stared at the man. He filled his eyes with the man, stretching
lids wide, then swallowed back the sour taste filling his mouth.
Am I dead
? he wondered.
Could this all be real
?

 
          
The
knots in his belly tightened. Aidan felt numb. "If you are Shaine…"
he mumbled. "If you
are
Shaine…"He
twitched the thought away. "Am I dead?" he asked flatly. "Oh,
gods, am I dead? Is this what it is to die?"

 
          
"Dead?
You?" White teeth parted the beard. "No, not yet. There is time still
left to you."

 
          
Fleetingly,
Aidan wondered how much; he forbore to ask. Relief was too overwhelming, until
he considered again the circumstances.

 
          
He
wiped one sweaty hand on a legging-clad thigh. His only chance was to focus on
something, anything, to keep himself from losing control. "If you are
Shaine the Mujhar, you
are
dead."

 
          
The
man did not reply.

 
          
Aidan
felt sick. He wanted to spew out the contents of his belly across the fallen
altar, or onto leaf-thickened floor. Sweat bathed his flesh. His head began to
ache. Worst of all was the fear.

 
          
I HAVE gone mad.

 
          
And
then,
Gods, where is Teel? What has
become of my lir
?

 
          
Still
kneeling, he shuddered. Hands clenched on the links.

 
          
This is a new dream… gods, let it BE a dream
—

 
          
Shaine
the Mujhar stared back. "We are not discussing me. We have come to speak
of you."

 
          
"Me?"
Aidan blurted. "What have you to do with me?"

 
          
"Stand
up," he was told.

 
          
Aidan
slowly rose. Links in his hand chimed.

 
          
The
man examined him. "Cheysuli," he said in disgust. "I should have
known Carillon would lift my curse as soon as he claimed the Lion… well, it
took him five years to win it back from Bellam, and longer still to end the
extermination." The line of the mouth was bitter. "
Qu'mahlin
, you shapechangers call it?
Aye, well, nothing lasts, not even the Cheysuli…" Gray eyes narrowed.
"Red hair, fair skin… is it merely you mimic the fashion?"

 
          
Sickness
was unabated. His belly writhed within. But he focused on something else so as
to ignore his discomfort.

 
          
"Mimic
the fashion—?" Abruptly, Aidan understood. It made him angry, very angry;
it gave him courage again. "These
lir-
bands
and the earring are mine, gained in the usual way, and properly bestowed during
my Ceremony of Honors. There is no
fashion
to them; nor to me, my lord apparition: I am Cheysuli and heir to Homana."

 
          
Shaine
the Mujhar smiled. "Are you so certain of that?"

 
          
Aidan
struggled with himself.
I am mad
—
I
must
be mad
—
why else am I standing
here arguing with a fetch
? He glanced around for Teel.
Where is my lir
?

 
          
Shaine
the Mujhar still smiled. "Are you so certain?"

 
          
The
derision snared Aidan's attention. "Of course I am certain," he
snapped. "I have told you who I am, and you say I am not dead; how would I
not
be heir?"

 
          
"By
never accepting the throne."

 
          
Aidan
swallowed a shout. Quietly, he said, "I was born to accept the throne. The
Lion will be mine."

 
          
Shaine
lifted a hand and pointed to the chain dangling from Aidan's hand. "Men
are but links," he said. "Links in a chain of the gods, who play at
the forge as a child plays at his toys. Make a link, and solder it here—solder
another there… rearrange the order to better please the eye." The
arrogance had faded, replaced by intensity. "Some links are strong and
never yield, bound to one another… others are flawed, and break, replaced by
those who are stronger so the chain is never destroyed. It is a game of the
gods, Aidan, to forge a flawless link, then join it to the other. One by one by
one, making the chain strong. Making the chain perfect. Disposing of weakened
links so as not to harm the whole."

 
          
Holding
the broken chain, Aidan said nothing.

 
          
Shaine
did not smile. "The weak link has a name: Aidan of Homana."

 
          
Anger
rose, was suppressed. It would do no good to argue with a man who did not
exist. "You are in my dream," Aidan rasped. "Dreams have no
substance. This
chain
has no
substance. Nothing you say is real."