Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (32 page)

           
And even hostility.

           
Ian hesitated only a moment before
he stepped up behind the table. Tasha was a shadow behind him, tail whipping as
she paced silently onto the dais. Like Serri, she sensed the tension in the
hall.

           
There were three chairs on the dais.
The middle was obviously my father's: Taj perched upon the back. Lorn lay beside
it, eyes slitted, Ian went by him to the left and waited behind it even as I
took my place at the right.

           
Into the hush my father spoke
quietly, presenting both of us to those assembled. I saw faces I knew and faces
I did not. The council members ringed the floor in the curving front row. I
knew none of them well, save Rowan; I looked to his face for some indication of
the gravity of the session, but it was a mask to me.

           
We sat down as my father did. Still
there was silence.

           
The man in the middle of the floor
continued to stare at me.

           
"Be seated," my father
announced, and the silence was replaced by the sound of benches scraping, the
ring of spurs, the clatter of sheaths and scabbards striking wood.

           
The stranger in the center waited in
tense silence.

           
"This is Elek," my father
said. "From the north, across the Bluetooth. He represents that faction of
Homanans who support the right of Carillon's son to inherit the throne when I
am dead."

           
Every man in the hall looked at me,
to judge my reaction. No doubt they expected shock, anger . . . perhaps even
hostility. And a few, probably, fear. But I gave them none of those things.
Instead, I looked at Elek.

           
He did not look like a rebel, a
fanatic, a madman. He looked like a man, and not so much older than myself.

           
He was brown-haired, brown-eyed,
clean-shaven with an open, earnest face. His clothes were plain homespun: tunic
and breeches, without embellishment. His kneeboots were muddied, but otherwise
the leather was good. Not a nobleman, Elek, but neither was he a poor man. No doubt
his wealth lay in his convictions.

           
I rose, scraping my chair against
the dais. Silently I bade Serri stay by the chair; slowly I stepped off the
dais and crossed the open center of the floor. In silence I stopped before
Elek, marking how he wet his lips; how he had to look up to meet my eyes. And
marking also the faintest tang of perspiration. Elek was nervous, now that I
stood before him. And so I knew he had been exceedingly eloquent, championing
the bastard's right to usurp my place in the line of succession.

           
"Why?" I asked. That only.

           
He swallowed. His gaze nicked
between me and the Mujhar. Clearly, he did not know how to answer.

           
I waited. So did all the others.

           
After a moment, Elek cleared his
throat. "He is Carillon's son."

           
"He is Carillon's
bastard."

           
His chin rose minutely. "It is
customary for the son to inherit from the father."

           
"Rather than the
grandson?" I nodded. "Aye, I grant you that. But the circumstances
were different."

           
"We maintain that had he known.
Carillon would have named his son as his successor, rather than Donal of the
Cheysuli."

           
"I am his daughter’s son,"
I said quietly. "In, in Homana, women could rule in their own right,
Aislinn, my mother, would have inherited the Lion Throne. As it was, her
husband did. Do you really think Carillon would have disinherited his daughter
to make way for a bastard son?"

           
"Had he known—"

           
"How do you know he did
not?" I looked past Elek to Rowan. "My lord general, you are the best
man to answer my question. Did Carillon know the woman had conceived?"

           
Elek wrenched his head around to
stare in disbelief at Rowan; had he thought to make his case uncontested?

           
Rowan's smile was very faint. As
always, he wore the crimson silk tunic with the black rampant lion sprawled
across its folds. With his Cheysuli looks, the colors were good on him.
"Aye, my lord. He knew she had conceived."

           
Elek turned sharply to refute
Rowan's statement, but my raised hand stopped him. "Before you ask it, Elek,
let me answer your question: that is General Rowan himself, who served Carillon
for nearly twenty-five years. Do you intend to question his veracity?"

           
"I question his prejudice,” Elek
answered curtly. "He is Cheysuli. Do you think he would prefer to have a
Homanan replace a fellow Cheysuli in the succession?"

           
"There speaks ignorance,"
I retorted. "Were you never taught the histories? In your zeal to champion
Carillon's son, did you never learn the names of those who served the father so
faithfully?" I shook my head. "No, you did not. Else you would know
that General Rowan is a lirless Cheysuli. He was raised Homanan, Elek ... he
has no lir-gifts, owes no loyalty to his race, does not claim a clan. What benefit
would he gain from lying to you?"

           
Elek did not respond.

           
I looked again at Rowan. "He
knew she had conceived, and yet he let her go."

           
"She requested it my
lord." Rowan was so calm, and yet I sensed a trace of amusement beneath
the surface of his tone. Did he have so much faith in me?

           
"She requested his leave to
go."

           
"Aye, my lord. She wished to
have the baby elsewhere, away from the brutalities of war. The Mujhar made no
attempt to dissuade her."

           
He did not notice his slip. The
Mujhar. To him, no doubt. Carillon would always be the Mujhar. But I thought in
this instance the mistake was a good one; Elek, turning again to look at Rowan,
frowned a little, as if disturbed by the reference. A man who was so dedicated
to Carillon that he still referred to him as Mujhar unconsciously emphasized
where the depth of his loyalty lay.

           
"Were you present when be gave
her that leave to go?"

           
"Aye, my lord. He gave her coin
and his best wishes for the birth of a healthy child."

           
"And did he say nothing about
bringing the child to him? That if it was a son, he would want the child given
into his keeping?"

           
"He said nothing of it, my
lord."

           
"Why do you think he would not?
A son is a son."

           
"A bastard is a bastard."
Rowan did not smile, "He intended to wed Electra of Solinde."

           
"And expected a son of
her."

           
"It—was hoped. Certainly."
Rowan's faint smile was gone. No doubt the questioning aroused old memories.

           
Painful memories of earlier days,
when Carillon's youth precluded the thought of illness and accelerated age.

           
"Aye!" Elek shouted
triumphantly. "But he got no son of her—only a daughter." He swung to
face me again.

           
"Only a daughter, my lord . . .
who could not inherit the throne."

           
Still I looked at Rowan. "You
knew him better than most, general. Do you recall at any time that Carillon
considered-—or wished to consider—sending for his bastard?"

           
"No, my lord. He said nothing
of it."

           
"To him!" Elek cried.
"But does a man—a Mujhar—confide everything to another, even his general?
I say no, he does not. I say he divulges what he wishes, and keeps some things
private, as every man does. Even a Mujhar."

           
I laughed. "And do you seek now
to tell me my grandsire's private thoughts?"

           
"No. There is no need for me to
do it. I will let the woman do it instead." It was Elek's turn to laugh
even as I stared at him. "Aye, my lord—the woman. The bastard's mother.
Why not ask her these questions? She is just outside the door."

           
I did not dare show him my concern.
It had become quite obvious many of the strangers in the hall were companions
of Elek's, fellow supporters of the bastard.

           
And I could not be certain how many
of the men supposedly loyal to my father intended to remain so. It was possible
Elek and those present with him hoped to gather more supporters even within the
walls of Homana-Mujhar.

           
"By all means," I said
quietly. "Have the woman brought in."

           
There was no sense in confronting
her as I confronted Elek. And so as a man was sent to fetch the woman, I
returned to my seat upon the dais.

           
My father's face was grim. "He
did not say the woman was here."

           
I glanced at him sharply. "Do
you think that will change anything?"

           
"He is making a formal petition
of the Homanan Council," my father answered. "It is possible a
majority of the members might agree with his claim in the name of Carillon's
bastard."

           
"But you could overrule
it."

           
"And I would immediately do so.
But it would have serious repercussions. It could split the council entirely,
which would more or less split Homana. And the gods know I do not need a
hostile, divided council, going into war."

           
"What of the Cheysuli? Have
they no stake in this?"

           
He did not appreciate my tone.
"And will you speak of the a'saii? Or will Elek?"

           
I did not answer because the woman
had arrived. I watched pensively as the men made way for her as they had not
for Ian and me.

           
At first I was surprised. She was
short, too heavy, at least ten years older than my father. Her graying brown
hair was pulled back from a sallow, puffy face into a knot at the back of her
bead. She wore, like Elek, simple homespun, but the quality was not as good.

           
A gray woman, I thought. Gray of
dress, gray of hair, gray of spirit. Nothing in manner or appearance spoke of
the young woman who had captured a Mujhar's interest.

           
She stopped beside Elek. She
curtsied awkwardly, as if she had forgotten how. Her eyes were downcast, yet as
she raised her lids and looked at my father, I saw they were also gray. But a
large, lovely gray, clear as glass and brilliant. No matter what else she was,
she was not a stupid woman.

           
Carillon bedded this woman and got a
son upon her.

           
Rowan rose. "My lord?"

           
My father nodded.

           
The woman turned toward him as he
approached. I saw the look they exchanged; an agreement to disagree.

           
He knew her, she him, and yet their
loyalties were spent on different men.

           
He nodded. Silently he returned to
his bench. "My lord." Again, Rowan looked to my father. "It is
the woman, my lord. Her name is Same."

           
"Same." My father leaned
forward in his chair. "You bore Carillon a son."

           
"Nearly thirty-six years ago,
my lord. When I was twenty." Her voice was as cool as her eyes; whore she
might be, but she was also bound to the man they called the bastard.

           
"And now you come to us claiming
he should be Prince of Homana in place of my son."

           
"My lord—he is Carillon's
son."

           
"Illegitimate son." I knew
how much the emphasis cost my father, with Ian seated beside him. It is not a
Cheysuli custom to curse a bastard for his birth, and yet for my sake he had
to.

           
"Bastard-born, aye," she
answered forthrightly. "But acknowledged by his father."

           
The Mujhar nodded. "By his
father. Which one? Carillon—or the crofter you married?”