Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 (3 page)

           
And more— With the boy's help Ian
lowered himself to the top step of the dais, then bit back a grimace.
Breathlessly, he said, "Kellin—fetch your grandsire."

           
The boy was all Cheysuli save for
lighter-hued flesh and Erinnish eyes, wide-sprung eyes: dead Deirdre's eyes,
who had begun the tapestry for her husband, Niall, Ian's half-brother, decades
before—green as Aileen's eyes— ... the Queen of Homana, grandmother to the boy;
sinter to Sean of Erinn, married to Keely, mother of Kellin's dead mother. So
many bloodlines now .. . have we pleased the gods and the prophecy?

           
The flesh of Kellin's Cheysuli face
was pinched Homanan-pale beneath thick black hair. "Su'fali—"

           
Ian twitched a trembling finger in
the direction of the massive silver doors gleaming dully at the far end of the
Great Hall. "Do me this service, Kellin—"

           
And as the boy hastened away, crying
out loudly of deadly lions, the dying Cheysuli warrior bid his mountain cat to
run.

           
'' Summerfair,'' Kellin whispered in
his bed-chamber, testing the sound of the word and all its implications. Then,
in exultation, " Summefair!”

           
He threw back the lid of a clothing
trunk and fetched out an array of velvets and brocades, tossing all aside in
favor of quieter leathers. He desired to present himself properly but without
Homanan pretension, which he disliked, putting into its place the dignity of a
Cheysuli.

           
Summerfair. He was to go, this year.
Last year it had been forbidden, punishment as much for his stubborn insistence
that he had been right as for the transgression itself, which he still believed
necessary. They had misunderstood, his grandsire and granddame, and all the
castle servants; they had all misunderstood, each and every one, regardless of
rank, birth, or race.

           
Ian would have understood, but
Kellin's harani was two years' dead. And it was because of Ian's death—and the
means by which that death was delivered—that Kellin sought to destroy what he
viewed as further threat to those he loved.

           
None of them understood. But his
mind jumped ahead rapidly, discarding the painful memories of that unfortunate
time as he dragged forth from the trunk a proper set of Cheysuli leathers:
soft-tanned, russet jerkin with matching leggings; a belt fastened with onyx
and worked gold; soft, droopy boots with soles made for leaf-carpeted forest,
not the hard bricks of the city.

           
"—still fit—?" Kellin
dragged on one boot and discovered that no, it did not fit, which meant the
other didn't either; which meant he had grown again and was likely in need of
attention from Aileen's sempstresses with regard to Homanan clothing ... He
grimaced- He intensely disliked such attention. Perhaps he could put on the
Cheysuli leathers and wear new Homanan boots; or was that sacrilege?

           
He stripped free of Homanan tunic
and breeches and replaced them with preferred Cheysuli garb, discovering the
leggings had shrunk; no, his legs had lengthened, which Kellin found pleasing.
For a time he had been small, but it seemed he was at last making up for it.
Perhaps now no one would believe him a mere eight-year-old, but would
understand the increased maturity ten years brought.

           
Kellin sorted out the fit of his
clothing and clasped the belt around slender hips, then turned to survey
himself critically in the polished bronze plate hung upon the wall. Newly-washed
hair was drying into accustomed curls—Kellin, frowning, instantly tried to mash
them away—but his chin was smooth and childish, unmarred by the disfiguring
hair Homanans called a beard- Such a thing marked a man less than Cheysuli,
Kellin felt, for Cheysuli could not ordinarily grow beards—although some
mixed-blood Cheysuli not only could but did; it was said Corin, in distant
Atvia, wore a beard, as did Kellin's own Errinish grandfather, Sean—but he
would never do so. Kellin would never subscribe to a fashion that hid a man's
heritage behind the hair on his face.

           
Kellin examined his hairless chin,
then ran a finger up one soft-fleshed cheek, across to his nose, and explored
the curve of immature browbone above his eyes. Everyone said he was a true
Cheysuli, save for his eyes—and skin tinted halfway between bronze and fair;
though in summer he tanned dark enough to pass as a trueblood—but he could not
replace his eyes, and his prayers in childhood that the gods do so had
eventually been usurped by a growing determination to overlook the improper
color of his eyes and concentrate on other matters, such as warrior skills,
which he practiced diligently so as not to dishonor his heritage. And anyway,
he was not solely Cheysuli; had they not, all of them, told him repeatedly he
was a mixture of nearly every bloodline there was—or of every one that
counted—and that he alone could advance the prophecy of the Firstborn one step
closer to completion?

           
They had. Kellin understood. He was
Cheysuli, but also Homanan, Solindish, Atvian, and Erinnish. He was needed, he
was important, he was necessary.

           
But sometimes he wondered if he
himself, Kellin, were not so necessary as his blood. If he cut himself, and
spilled it, would that satisfy them—and then make him unimportant?

           
Kellin grimaced at his reflection.
"Sometimes they treat me like Gareth's prize stallion ... I think he
forgets what it is to be a horse, the way they all treat him.. . ." But
Kellin let it go. The image in the polished plate stared back, green eyes
transmuted by bronze to dark hazel. The familiarity of his features was
momentarily blurred by imagination, and he became another boy, a strange boy, a
boy with different powers promised one day-

           
"Ihlini," Kellin
whispered. "What are you really like? Do you look like demons?"

           
"I think that unlikely,"
said a voice from the doorway: Rogan, his tutor. "I think they probably
resemble you and me, rather than horrid specters of the netherworld. You've
heard stories of Strahan and Lochiel. They look like everyone else."

           
Kellin could see Rogan's distorted
reflection in the bronze. "Could you be Ihlini?"

           
"Certainly," Rogan
replied. "I am an evil sorcerer sent here from Lochiel himself, to take
you prisoner and carry you away to Valgaard, where you will doubtlessly be
tortured and slain, then given over to Asar-Suti, the Seker—"

           
Kellin took it up with appropriate
melodrama:

           
"—the god of the netherworld,
who made and dwells in darkness, and—"

           
"—who clothes himself in the
noxious fumes of his slain victims," Rogan finished.

           
Kellin grinned his delight; it was
an old game,

           
"Grandsire would protect
me."

           
"Aye, he would. That is what a
Mujhar is for.

           
He would never allow anyone,
sorcerer or not, to steal his favorite grandson."

           
"I am his only grandson."

           
"And therefore all the more
valuable." Rogan's reflection sighed. "I know it has been very
difficult for you, being mewed up in Homana-Mujhar for so many years, but it
was necessary. You know why."

           
Kellin knew why, but he did not
entirely understand. Punishment had kept him from attending Summerfair for two
years, but there was much more to it than that. He had never known any freedom
to visit Mujhara as others did, or even Clankeep without constant protection.

           
Kellin turned from the polished
plate and looked at Rogan. The Homanan was very tall and thin and was inclined
to stoop when he was tired, as he stooped just now. His graying brown hair was
damp from recent washing, and he had put on what Kellin called his
"medium" clothes: not as plain as his usual somber apparel, but not
so fine as those he wore when summoned to sup in the Great Hall with the
family, as occasionally happened. Plain black breeches and gray wool tunic over
linen shirt, belted and clasped with bronze, replaced his customary attire.

           
"Why?" Kellin blurted.
"Why do they let me go now? I heard some of the servants talking. They
said grandsire and granddame were too frightened to let me go out."

           
The lines in Rogan's face etched
themselves a little more deeply. "Even they understand they cannot keep
you in jesses forever. You must be permitted to weather outside like a hawk on
the blocks, or be unfit for the task. And so they have decided you may go this
year, as you have improved your manners—and because it is time. I am put in
charge . . . but there will be guards also."

           
Kellin nodded; there were always
guards. "Because I'm Aidan's only son", and the only heir," He
did not understand all of it. "Because—because if Lochiel killed me, there
would be no more threat."

           
He lifted his chin. "That's
what they say in the baileys and kitchens."

           
Rogan's eyes flinched. "You
listen entirely too much to gossip—but I suppose it is to be expected.

           
Aye, you are a threat to the Ihlini.
And that is why you are so closely guarded. With so many Cheysuli here
Lochiel's sorcery cannot reach you, and so you are closely kept—but there are
other ways, ways involving nothing so much as a greedy cook desiring Ihlini
gold—" But Rogan waved it away with a sharply dismissive gesture. "Enough
of a sad topic. There will be guards, as always, but your grandsire has decided
to allow you this small freedom."

           
Summerfair was more than a freedom.
It was renewal. Kellin forgot all about rumor and gossip.

           
Grinning, he pointed at the purse
depending from the belt. His grandfather had given Rogan coin for Summerfair.
"Can we go? Now?"

           
"We can go. Now."

           
"Then put on your Summerfair
face," Kellin ordered sternly. Rogan was a plain, soft-spoken man in his
mid-forties only rarely given to laughter, but Kellin had always known a quiet,
steady warmth from the Homanan. He enjoyed teasing Rogan out of his melancholy
moods, and today was not a day for sad faces. "You will scare away the
ladies with that sad scowl."

           
"What does my face have to do
with the ladies?"

           
Rogan asked suspiciously.

           
"It's Summerfair," Kellin
declared. "Everyone will be happier than usual because of Summerfair.

           
Even you will attract the ladies ...
if you put away that scowl."

           
"I am not scowling, and what do
you know about ladies?"

           
"Enough," Kellin said
airily, and strode out of the room.

           
Rogan followed- "How much is
enough, my young lord?"

           
"You know." Kellin stopped
in the corridor. "I heard Melora. She was talking to Belinda, who said it
had been too long since you'd had a good woman in your bed." Rogan's face
reddened immediately. It was the first time any of Kellin's sallies had
provoked such a personal reaction, and the boy was fascinated. "Has it
been?"

           
The man rubbed wearily at his scalp.
"Aye, well, perhaps. Had I known Belinda and Melora were so concerned
about it, I might have asked them for advice on how to change matters." He
eyed his charge closely. "How much do you know about men and women?"

           
"Oh, everything. I know all
about them." Kellin set off down the corridor with Rogan matching his
longer strides to the boy's. "I was hoping I might find a likely lady
during Summerfair."

           
A large hand descended upon Kellin's
shoulder and stopped him in his tracks. "My lord," Rogan said
formally, "would you be so good as to tell your ignorant tutor precisely
what you are talking about?"

           
"If you mean how much do I
know," Kellin began, "I know. I learned all about it last year.

           
And now I would like to try it for
myself."

           
"At ten?" Rogan murmured,
as much for himself as for Kellin.

           
"How old were you?"

           
Rogan looked thoughtful. "They
say Cheysuli grow up quickly, and there are stories about your grandsire and
his brothers. ..."

           
Kellin grinned. "This might be
the best Summerfair of all."

           
"Better than last year,
certainly." The understated amusement faded from Rogan's tone. "You
do recall why you were refused permission to go."

           
Kellin shrugged it away.
"Punishment."

           
"And why were you
punished?"

           
Kellin sighed; it was very like
Rogan to impose lessons upon a holiday, and reminders of other lessons.
"Because I set fire to the tapestry."

           
"And the year before
that?"

           
"Tried to chop the Lion to
bits." Kellin nodded matter-of-factly. "I had to do it, Rogan. It was
the Lion who killed Ian."

           
"Kellin—"

           
"It came alive, and it bit him.
My harani said so.