Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (7 page)

           
"When have you ever been able
to make me speak when I have decided against it?"

           
True enough. Glumly, I gestured
toward one of the brass-bound clothing chests that lined fully two of my
chamber walls. "What do I wear for this, rufho? What finery do I put
on?"

           
Ian's look was level. "It
depends," he said calmly, "on what man you choose to be.”

           
I stared. "What man?"

           
"Cheysuli," he said,
"or Homanan."

           
Ian and I were directed to one of
the smaller audience chambers. Somehow I had expected the ceremony to take
place in the Great Hall, so full of ambience and history. But the Mujhar, we
were told, had selected the smaller hall, to promote intimacy rather than
intimidation.

           
"Possibly a mistake," Ian
said in a low voice as we entered the audience chamber. "I know little enough
of statecraft, but I think the Atvians may require what intimidation we can
offer."

           
"They shall face
Cheysuli," I said lightly. "That should be enough."

           
Ian laughed. "A good omen: my
rujho jests on his wedding day."

           
"Proxy," I reminded him as
the servant shut the door behind us. Though considerably smaller than the Great
Hall with its Lion Throne, the chamber was impressive enough ia its own
intimate way. Here the rose-red walls had been whitewashed. Stained glass
tableaus of Homanan history filled the deep, narrow casements and lent the
white walls a subtle wash of countless colors. The stone floors were bare of
rugs, but here the natural rose-colored surface was allowed to go unpainted.
Sunlight and stained glass filled the chamber with a pastel nacreous glow.

           
"Proxy," my father agreed.
"And as binding as a proper Homanan wedding." The Mujhar rose from
the cushioned chair on the low dais at the far end of the chamber.

           
Lorn sat slumped against one wooden
leg as if his sole responsibility in life was to hold up the chair. On the back
perched the golden falcon, Taj, and beside the chair stood another for the
Queen of Homana; at present, however, it was empty.

           
I glanced around quickly, searching
for Atvians, but saw none. Only my mother, by one of the narrow casements,
staring out into the inner bailey.

           
She turned abruptly. Yellow skirts
swirled around her feet. I saw the sheen of silk; heard the sibilance of fold
caressing fold. "Binding!" she said bitterly. "What binds us now
is idiocy. Niall would do better with another."

           
"Aislinn, we have been through
this," my father said in weary exasperation. "As for doing better,
how better? Gisella is his cousin, and harana to you by your marriage to me.
Throw a stone at Gisella. Aislinn, and you splatter its mud upon yourself."

           
Gold glittered at my lady mother's
neck. Her hands were clenched in the folds of her silken skirts. There was gold
on her hands as well, threading from the heavy girdle through rigid fingers to
clash against the fabric.

           
Her rich red hair was bound up
against her head, and resting against her brow was a circlet of twisted gold
wire.

           
"It is not Gisella," she
said tightly. "It is her father. Him. The Lord of Atvia himself. Do you
forget it was Alaric's brother who slew my father?"

           
"I do not forget," he told
her plainly. "You do not let me forget."

           
She wanted to go to him. I could see
it in her face; in the great gray eyes that harpers sang of, making her beauty
into legend. But she did not go to him. She stood instead by the casement and
faced him, proud as the Mujhar himself, and equally inflexible.

           
I glanced briefly at Ian, still
standing next to me. His face bore the polite mask it always wore before the
Queen of Homana and Solinde. But I wondered what he thought. I wondered what my
mother's terrible pride in heritage did to the man who was not her son.

           
I sighed. My headache threatened to
return. "Does it go on, then, this ceremony? Or do I go back to my chambers
and take off my finery?"

           
My mother still looked at my father,
even as he looked at her. I wondered if they had heard me at all. I wondered if
they even recalled Ian and I were in the chamber. They waged some private
battle, and I could not begin to name the stakes.

           
"No." My mother, at last,
still looking at my father, though the answer was for me. "No, you do
not."

           
There was neither triumph nor relief
in my father's face.

           
Acknowledgment, I thought, of my
mother's surrender.

           
And perhaps a trace of compassion,
because he knew why she fought so fiercely.

           
"You look well." My father
turned to me. "I approve the selection of Cheysuli leathers."

           
I shrugged a little. "It—there
was no choice. But—I could wish my arms were not so naked."

           
"And do wish it," my
father said. "I know, Niall. Better than you think."

           
The pain renewed itself. I had
chosen, but the choice did not feel right. It made my belly chum and stab at me
with a familiar burning pain. But I had not earned the leathers.

           
"You are Homanan also," my
mother began, as always; it was her litany. "Put not so much weight in
ornamentation and think of the blood in your veins."

           
"Carillon's blood?"
Through the pain I could not smile.

           
"Aye, lady, always. As you
would have me recall it."

           
Color stood high in her flawless face.
The gray eyes flicked to Ian. "Was it your suggestion?"

           
"No, lady," he said
gently. "I merely offered him the choice."

           
Briefly, she shut her eyes as if to
shut out his words.

           
But almost immediately they opened
again and she looked at him unflinchingly. Her tone lacked the bitterness of
moments before. “No, no, you would not thrust one or the other upon him. I know
you better than you think, Ian. It is myself—'

           
But she did not finish, because the
liveried servant who had shown us into the chamber was opening the door yet
again. And this time there came Atvians into the room.

           
A man and a woman. The man was tall.
elegant, garbed in understated blue velvets and an attitude too well-trained to
betray anything other than respect and graciousness, and yet I sensed a power
in him, leashed, as if he were a hawk waiting for the jesses to be cut. His
hair was very dark, nearly black, and his eyes were an odd pale brown. The only
ornamentation was a silver ring on his left hand and matching earrings in his
lobes.

           
His outstretched left hand offered
escort to the woman.

           
Though her right hand met his palm,
they hardly touched one another. An odd dance by two magnificent animals.

           
A bizarre sort of courtship rite, I
thought, when the woman was meant for me.

           
Looking at her, I reminded myself at
once the ceremony was proxy only. What I knew of the custom was no less than
anyone else: I would wed the woman in Gisella's place to make certain the
alliance between Homana and Atvia was sealed by the blood of our respective
Houses, but I would not bed the woman. That was left for Gisella.

           
And yet I found I regretted it.

           
She put me in mind of a harp string,
capable of a poignant, subtle power. Plucked this way, plucked that, she would
still emit a tone that would bind each man to its strength, resonating in his
soul. I thought almost at once of my mother's mother, Electra of Solinde, whom
legend said could ensorcell men with a single glance from lambent eyes. And yet
what I knew of that woman did not apply to this one. The white-blond hair was
black.

           
The ice-gray eyes were also. The
velvet gown was brilliant crimson.

           
Smiling faintly, she allowed the man
to lead her forward. The hem of her skirts brushed the stone of the floor; I
heard its subtle song. A woman's song, that sound, and incredibly powerful. But
it was not at her skirts I looked.

           
Her head was bowed in a perfect
humility, but there was pride in her posture as well, and a comprehension of
her strength. Beautiful, aye, and claiming that power as a matter of course,
but there was more to her than simple beauty. There was confidence as well. An
acknowledgment of her place in the world of kings and princes.

           
My mother moved smoothly to my
father's side. They stood together on the dais before the padded chairs, united
in titles and goals, and waited to receive the Atvian envoy and Gisella's proxy
bride.

           
Silver glittered. The woman wore it
at hip and brow. A chain of interlocking silver feathers formed a girdle. A
plain silver circlet touched her brow, then flared out at each temple to form
delicate downswept wings, curving back to encircle her head. Black hair,
unbound except for the winged silver -circlet, fell in a silken curtain to
girdled, crimson hips.

           
"By the gods," I whispered
to Ian, "is there a way I can wed the proxy bride instead of the genuine
thing?"

           
His answering smile was wry.
"It might discompose Gisella."

           
"As well as the alliance."
I sighed dramatically. "Ah, well . . . tahlmorras must be obeyed."

           
"Such sacrifice," Ian
mocked. "I, however, am not already bound to such a course."

           
I opened my mouth to return a
suitable retort, but the envoy was speaking and I shut my mouth on my answer.

           
"I am Varien, ambassador from
the Atvian court to yours," the Atvian said quietly. "My lord Mujhar;
Aislinn, queen of Homana and Solinde; Niall, prince of Homana—may I present the
Lady Lillith, sent from Alaric himself, Lord of the Idrian Isles."

           
Shea of Erinn would dispute that
particular title. And did, I knew, even now. A petty thing, to fight over petty
titles, but it was not Homana's problem.

           
Varien's voice was a smooth,
cultured baritone. He spoke with a fluent, meticulous courtesy in accentless,
flawless Homanan. Envoys are required to speak many languages, but for a
moment, oddly, I wondered how he would do in the Cheysuli Old Tongue, which
defies those not born to its cadence and lyricism.

           
Lillith. An odd name not unpleasing
to the ear. I rolled it over on my tongue silently and found it more difficult
to say than to hear.

           
Crimson skirts flared and settled as
she dropped into a curtsy before the dais. I saw her nails were tipped in
silver, and her mouth was painted red.

           
Beside me, Ian drew in his breath in
a sudden hiss of shock. I looked at him sharply and found him staring rigidly
at the woman as she rose from her eloquent obeisance. Yet it was not the stare
of a man struck by a woman's beauty, but by realization instead.

           
And then I heard Tasha's growl.

           
Almost at once, the chamber was
filled with tension.

           
Tasha still growled, tail whipping
at Ian's right leg. Lorn rose to stand before the chairs, hackled from neck to
tail.

           
And Taj, still perched upon the
chair, bated in agitation.

           
My brother's hand was on his knife.
My father was off the dais and standing before the woman. "You dare to
come into my hall?" His anger and astonishment were manifest. "You
dare to come into my city?"

           
"My lord Alaric sent me."
Her voice was low and husky. The Homanan words had a foreign lilt.

           
"Does he know what you
are?"

           
After a moment, Lillith smiled. But
only a little smile.

           
"My lord Alaric knows
everything about me."