Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (15 page)

           
It could not possibly be Rhiannon—

           
"You struck him too hard,"
she said.

           
Let it not be Rhiannon— And yet he
knew it was.

           
"It needed doing," Jarek
answered. "But that has nothing to do with this. He is terrified."

           
"Too hard," Rhiannon
repeated. "You have knocked him out of his head."

           
—oh, gods, no—

           
Jarek's tone was thoughtful. “I have
heard of it before, once or twice ... a fear of being enclosed. But—in a
Cheysuli warrior?"

           
"They are as human as the next
man," she said sharply. "Do you think him a sorcerer? He is just a
man."

           
"Shapechanger, Rhiannon. And—as
the zealots would have it—pretender to the throne."

           
Rhiannon did not answer.

           
Lir—? he asked; he begged.

           
"He will be fit enough for the
sacrifice," Jarek said. "Whether he is in his head or no, the gods
will not care. Give them blood: they are content."

           
Brennan struggled to understand.
Pretender to the throne?

           
"And you?" she asked.
"Will you be content to know you have slain the Prince of Homana?"

           
"If it serves," Jarek
answered, "and it will. Oh, it will."

           
"There are two other sons. The
Mujhar is rich in sons."

           
Thinking: I have been a fool—the
woman has made me a fool—

           
Jarek: "And poor when all are
slain." Movement. The clink of iron links as Jarek tested the bonds.
"Not so soft a bed, is it? Cold, hard stone . . . iron for the bedclothes .
. ." He laughed. "What was it he called you?—meijhana? Perhaps a
bedding name ... a sweet Cheysuli love-name."

           
"It means 'lovely one,’ "
Rhiannon said; then, laughing: "Do you know none of their Old Tongue? You,
Jarek, who claim to know them so well? Even I know a little."

           
And I know less than nothing— Within
the link, Brennan sent again to Sleeta. Lir—lir—where are you?

           
But nothing answered him.

           
"Go, Rhiannon. There are things
to be said that do not require your presence."

           
"No?" Her tone was bitter.
"Are you done with me, then, now that I have served your cause?"

           
"We may find use for you
again," he said smoothly. "Now go."

           
"He is in pain, Jarek. You
struck him too hard."

           
"By this time tomorrow, he will
never know pain again. Now, go." Movement. The susurration of cloth;
bodies moving. And then Jarek spoke again. "Well, my lord prince, do you
intend to pretend senselessness forever? Have you no questions to ask?"

           
Brennan opened his eyes. A dish of
oil with a twist of wick filled his prison with smoky light. He saw squat stone
walls, very low, and a half-doorway barely large enough to admit a man hunched
over, with runes carved around the opening. He had seen a similar place once
before, much younger, when the shar tahl had carefully tutored the Mujhar's
sons in clan history. He frowned, then banished it at once as the expression
pulled at the wound in his hairline.

           
And then he knew. A cell. The sort
of cell a priest inhabited, not prisoner. But the runes around the low door
were Old Tongue, not Humanan; this place, then, was of the Firstborn, and very
old. Now freely profaned by Homanan zealots.

           
Questions, Jarek had said. Oh, aye,
he had one: "Why?"

           
Jarek nodded. "A good
beginning, my lord." He shifted his position, moving from a squat into a
kneeling posture, and Brennan saw past him to the doorway. Seated just outside
was a Homanan, clearly on guard even with Jarek present. They took no chances.
"There are many answers. One is that Cheysuli are demons and must be
returned through death to the netherworld of Asar-Suti, from whence they
issued." He smiled as his overdramatized voice echoed faintly.
"Another is that the old gods of Homana have turned their eyes from us,
requiring blood sacrifice to restore their favor." Jarek's grunt of
laughter mocked the statement. "And yet a third requires the—reduction-—of
those now close to the throne, to make way for the rightful ruler." He
glanced briefly toward the guard.

           
Brennan's head pounded. But for the
moment astonishment kept the fear of enclosure at bay. "Have you gone mad?
I can refute each of those ridiculous reasons!"

           
"Can you? The first two,
perhaps—I no more believe you are a demon than I am myself, and the old gods
perished long ago—but I do subscribe to the final reason for your
assassination, my lord." The guttering flames from the oil lamp scribed
shadows in Jarek's face. "I personally have nothing against your race.
Cheysuli have as much right to live in this land as Homanans do, but—"

           
"Then why—'

           
"Why?" Jarek's tone was
intent. "Because through a miscarriage of a twisted prophecy and the blind
acquiescence of Homanans overcome by Carillon's legend, Cheysuli now hold the
Lion Throne. And that, my lord Prince of Homana, is why you—and others of your kin—must
die."

           
Brennan stared at him. "You
have gone mad!"

           
"No," Jarek's demeanor
remained unruffled. "There is a man in the world much better suited to
rule Homana than your father."

           
"I have gone mad," Brennan
muttered in disbelief. "This is nothing but a nightmare—"

           
Jarek merely smiled. His expression
was oddly bland, as if he enjoyed giving nothing away except what he chose, and
for specific reasons.

           
And suddenly, with ice-cold clarity,
Brennan recalled his cousin. "You are Cheysuli—?" It was question,
statement and accusation all at once.

           
Jarek's brows jerked upward;
something flickered briefly in pate eyes, then disappeared. He laughed.
"Do I look Cheysuli, my lord?"

           
In the distorted shadows, his face
was alien, full of planes and hollows. He was black-haired but brown-eyed, a
pale ale brown; in poor light, around the rims, almost a yellow-gold. And
though his skintones lacked the sun-bronzing characteristic of most Cheysuli,
so did Corin and Keely.

           
"Cheysuli," Brennan said,
shivering once in shock, "and in league with Teirnan, with the
a'saii—" He looked at the man waiting just outside the low door. "You
use the Homanan zealots to mislead any who might work against you, who might
suspect what you are doing. . . ."

           
Iron chimed. "Everyone knows
the story of Elek's murder—how he supposedly died by the hand of the Prince of
Homana . . . and you use it. You use it and other lies to twist the trust, to
twist the prophecy—you use the Homanan zealots to throw down the rightful House
and replace it with your own."

           
"Do we?" Jarek shrugged.
"No, my lord. I am in league only with those who believe Carillon
bequeathed us a better living legacy than the one who now holds the Lion."

           
"Living legacy—" Brennan
went very still. "Then if you are not Cheysuli, and you are not
a'saii—" He stopped. "You mean Carillon's bastard son!"

           
"Carollan," Jarek
affirmed. "Son of the last Homanan Mujhar, and dispossessed king."

           
"Dispossessed! He was never
acknowledged—and even if he had been, he could not rule. He is deaf and dumb,
Jarek!"

           
"That does not alter the fact
he bears the proper blood. It does not alter the fact that he can sire sons who
are not deaf and dumb."

           
Brennan rolled his head against the
hard stone beneath his head. "This is madness, madness . . . this was
settled twenty years ago, when my father and Caro met. There is no ambition in
him. There is no desire for anything more than a peaceful life. And he has it,
with Taliesin ... do you mean to tear him away from it? To force the Lion on
him, even if he does not desire it?"

           
Jarek's face and manner were not
those of a madman, nor a zealot. He was quietly, wholeheartedly dedicated to
his cause, lacking the fanaticism that might tip him into madness. He was
utterly committed. Brennan saw in him the same quiet fire that burned in
Teirnan, and wondered again if he was being purposely misled.

           
Jarek glanced over his shoulder at
the Homanan guard, then turned back and wet his lips. "Twenty years ago my
father was murdered by yours, my lord. Within the halls of Homana-Mujhar,
before Cheysuli Council, Niall struck down my father to keep him from
overturning the Cheysuli claim to kingship. For that cause, my father died. I
swore an oath to carry out his commitment, and I mean to do it. No matter what
the cost."

           
"Elek was sacrificed by his own
people," Brennan said wearily. "My jehan held the knife, it is true,
but only because in the crush of fighting someone put one into his hand and
then forced him to stab Elek, It was carefully planned that way to implicate my
jehan."

           
"I would expect Niatl's son to
say nothing else." Jarek smiled faintly. "It is old history, my lord,
but history is a living thing, bequeathing life and knowledge to others, and
the fuel to carry out ambitions and commitments. Time grows short—Carollan
ages, and with each passing day Homanans forget the Lion belongs to them, not
to the Cheysuli . . . not to Niall, nor to you, nor to the children you might
sire upon your Erinnish queen." The light flickered, nearly died. "It
is our tahlmorra to wash the Lion clean of Cheysuli claim, and give it to
Homanans once again."

           
"Tahlmorra—" Brennan could
not summon the means to spit. "If you do this—if you do this to me or to
anyone else—the gods will turn their eyes from you!"

           
"Then all the better we appease
them with blood sacrifice." Jarek picked up the dish of oil and told the
other man to go.

           
Brennan tensed in his shackles.
"You cannot simply slay me out of hand ... in war, aye, but like this? In
the name of Carollan?"

           
"But we can." The light
was stark on Jarek's face. "You questioned if I could be Cheysuli, working
with—a'saii?" He nodded, went on. "Perhaps this will convince you
otherwise. For a six-month, now, we have been catching and slaying Cheysuli—not
warriors, unless we are forced, because too many lir deaths would be remarked
by other lir—but women and children. It is necessary." He bent closer,
lowering his voice. "Now we reach higher, touching the royal family
itself, to show no one is invulnerable. That even the highest can be
overtaken." He paused. "Left to me, alone, I would devise another
means. Death is death, but there should be dignity involved. Sacrifice is
barbaric . . . but also useful. For those who thrive on such things, it serves
to keep the fire burning. And we do need a fire, my lord—bright and hot and clean—if
we are to bum the Cheysuli infection from the wound you have made in
Homana."

           
"Jarek—"

           
But Jarek was gone, and he took the
lamp with him.

           
Eventually, Rhiannon came. She set
the place alight with a single candle and knelt by him in shadows. Her palm was
cool on his brow. Gently she parted sweat-stiff hair, pushed it back to bare
the wound.

           
He jerked away from her.

           
She drew in a startled breath,
twitching in shock.

           
Abruptly she twisted to look over
her shoulder toward the low entrance, as if she feared discovery.

           
Did she think he did not know?

           
He wanted to say: leave me alone,
but he could not find the words. Thinking: if I cannot be free of the place I
am imprisoned, let someone share it with me.

           
"Oh, my lord . . ." Her
black eyes were blacker still in the shadows of his prison. "My lord—“

           
He cut her off. "Where is my
lir? What have they done with my lir?"

           
"They have put her elsewhere.
My lord—"

           
"Is she alive?"

           
"Aye. Of course." A smudge
of dirt marred her face.

           
"They want you whole. For the
sacrifice. They will not slay her before the proper time."

           
He bared his teeth. "I cannot
touch her. There is no Sleeta in the link!"

           
The flame danced, guttered, nearly
went out; Rhiannon's hand was trembling. "I swear, she is alive. I swear
it, my lord. Confined, as you are, but well enough."

           
"I cannot touch her!"

           
"Perhaps it is the drug."
Plaited hair hung over her shoulders, braided ropes of glossy hair, threaded
with crimson ribbon. "The wine—Jarek's wine, the second jug—it was
drugged, my lord. To dull your Cheysuli magic."

           
The candlelight was kind to her
face. Black hair, fair skin, long-lashed eloquent eyes— Inwardly, the fear and
fury rose. "By the gods, woman, you tricked me! You sucked me into this
madness of Jarek's making."

           
"No! Oh, no, I swear . .
." Tears welled up into her eyes. "I knew noth—"

           
Brennan's mocking laughter cut her
off. "Oh, aye, give me tears! No, no, woman, not again ... I will not
succumb to your posturing of innocence yet again."

           
"My lord—"

           
"I heard you," he accused.
"You and Jarek, discussing my health and welfare, and the plans for my
demise. Do you think I am a twice-born fool?" Iron chimed as he fisted
grimy hands. "Go, woman. Hie yourself back to the man who is so kind, so
generous, so—"

           
"Listen to me!" Her
desperate hiss set the candleflame aguttering and cast distorted shapes upon
the curving wall behind her. "Listen to me, my lord, when I deny knowledge
of Jarek's plans . . . when I deny willing participation—"

           
"Oh, aye, you knew
nothing," He writhed in his chains and knew again the helpless fear of a
man entombed. "Oh, Rhiannon, I commend you; you played your part so well.
I fell into the trap like a green boy sick for love of his first woman—"

           
"What do you want me to say?"
she demanded. "Shall I swear by your gods? By the Mujhar? By this?"
Light caught the sapphire ring dangling from its thong and set the gemstone
aglow. "Then I will swear by you, my lord prince—by Brennan of Homana,
firstborn of the Mujhar's sons, and destined one day to sit upon the Lion
Throne."

           
"So glib," he retorted.
"You spew out titles and destinies like a shar tahl, woman, but I will not
be suborned by you again."

           
Rhiannon briefly bared small white
teeth in a feral display of frustration. "You fool—I came here to give you
what aid I can, and you spend your strength on insults!"

           
Brennan's laugh was a short bark of
sound. "Fool, am I? No more 'my lord' this, 'my lord' that, now that the
truth is out."

           
"At the moment, my lord, there
is little in your state to recommend your heritage or your divinity!"

           
"Divinity . . ." This time
the laugh was genuine. "Aye, not much of a man in this malodorous shell,
is there?"

           
"I came to help," she said
curtly. "Tell me what you would have me do."

           
He rattled his chains. "Set me
free, Rhiannon. Prove you are innocent of my accusations." Thinking: What
lie will you tell me now?

           
"Jarek has the key."

           
He wanted to strike the innocence
from her face. "Are you not his whore, then? Have you no bed skill, that
you cannot tease the key from him? Better yet, steal it!"

           
Color flamed in her face to rival
the candlelight.

           
"Jarek—is my first man,"
she said stiffly, with an odd integrity. "It has only been but a month . .
. teasing is—not something I do very well." Her knuckles were white on the
smoking candle.

           
He wanted to shout at her, to shake
her, to force the truth from her. And yet, against all odds he believed her.

           
"And if you do not try to
tease, cajole, steal, Jarek will have me slain." He saw how her chin
trembled convulsively. More quietly, he said: "Do you want that knowledge
to compete with the memory of the ring I gave you?"

           
One hand closed over the ring and
clenched it so hard the sinews stood up beneath the flesh. "If I am
caught—" She stopped. "If I am caught, three will be
sacrificed."

           
Brennan closed his eyes and felt the
sweat sting the wound on his forehead. He would not deny the truth, even if he
thought she might believe him when he told her Jarek would never consider such
a thing. Jarek might.

           
Once again he tested his bonds and
found them firm as ever, biting into weals and making them bleed again. He
turned his head from her and ground his teeth, trying to keep himself from
begging. If asking were not enough, begging would merely diminish what little
pride he had left.

           
"My lord—" This time when
she touched him, he did not pull away. "My lord, Jarek said you were
afraid of places like this."

           
All the breath spilled out of his
mouth. "I am." It was easier than he had believed; the fear did it
for him. "This place—this weight—" He stopped short, shut his eyes,
smelled the fear-stench again. "When—when I was but a boy, very small, I
was trapped in a place not so different than this—all stone, cold stone, so much
darkness and all the weight—“ He swallowed, nearly gagged. “I had forgotten,
thank the gods, forgotten . . . until now. . . ."

           
"Oh, my lord."

           
"Rhiannon—" He stopped,
began again, not caring that this desperation was manifest; that the sound of
his fear filled up his prison. "I beg you—get me free!"

           
Her fingers briefly squeezed the
cold flesh of his arm.

           
"I will do what I can do."

           
And she left him alone in darkness
where he could cry in privacy.

           
Rhiannon did not come again. There
was no freedom, no miracle that conjured a shackle key from the air to unlock
his cuffs. There was no escape in sleep or unconsciousness. There was only the
consuming knowledge that time passed too quickly, and that at the end of
another day he would be dead, sacrificed in the name of Carollan, his great-grandsire's
bastard son.

           
Curse you. Carillon . . . curse the
loins that sired a son on some baseborn Homanan drudge instead of on Solindish
Electra—

           
And yet he knew an insane amused
irony in that curse, for without the loins that had sired Carollan—deaf, dumb
Caro—there would have been no Niall. No Brennan. No need for Cheysuli rule at
all, for there would have been a Homanan heir.

           
And no need for sacrifice. Uneven
stone pitted his flesh through Cheysuli leathers. Oh, Sleeta, give me the
strength to die as a warrior dies, not hating myself for losing control in this
fear of small, harmless places—

           
Footsteps. Torchlight, reaching in
through the low opening to set his prison aflame. And the shape of a man,
ducking down, bending to enter, to kneel at his side with an iron key in his
hand.

           
"My lord, your time is come
upon you. The gods are thirsty tonight."

           
"Put no hands on me."

           
"What? And leave you here to go
mad from close confinement?" Jarek unlocked ankle shackles. "Lest you
forget, my lord, we have your lir as well. Try to escape, and she shall surely
die." His face was mostly hidden in distorted shadows. "The drug was
strong." Calmly, Jarek set iron aside. It rang in the tiny cell. "An
herbalist who has knowledge of such things recommended a mixture of ingredients
deadly to most men, but merely temporarily-if powerfully—discomfiting to a
Cheysuli. One ingredient you may recognize: the root called tetsu."

           
Muscles spasmed. "Tetsu is
deadly!"

           
"Does it matter?" Jarek
laughed. "No, no, not when used with certain other herbs—the root is
dangerous, but not deadly in proper proportion. Still, it exerts a powerful
presence, does it not? Cut off from your lir, you are no different from a
Homanan." The wrist cuffs were unlocked. "Come out, my lord. The gods
await."

           
"And if I stay?" Brennan
flexed painful wrists and set his teeth against the cramping of his calves.
"If I choose to remain here, what will you do?"

           
"Brick up the door and leave
you to die a madman."

           
Jarek shrugged. "It would
discommode the gods briefly, perhaps, to lose so princely a sacrifice, but
there are others. And who is to say the sacrifice be limited to the Mujhar's
sons? There are daughters, too—"

           
"No!" he cried, and heard
it briefly echo. "No, not my rujholla. Jarek—"

           
"Then come out, my lord. Come
out into the air, where you can breathe again, and know yourself alive."

           
Alive. For how long? Still, he stood
a better chance of escape out of the cell than in.

           
Jarek moved aside and gestured
Brennan to exit first.

           
He went, stooped and cramped, and
felt fresh air upon his face. No chains—he was free-frames were in his face. He
thrust up a hand to ward his eyes, felt heat and the lick of dripping oil. He
staggered, thought to run, felt hands upon his arms; the strength of Jarek's
drug still lingered in his system.

           
Behind the flames, he saw faces.
Strangers all, ten, twenty, thirty or more of them, but he knew them. He knew
them by their avid eyes and feral expressions; their commitment to Jarek's
cause.

           
Nowhere did he see Rhiannon.

           
The men closed on him. "Come,
my lord," Jarek said, as they forced him to the altar.

           
It was old, dark stone, stained
black with the blood of murdered Cheysuli. Beyond the flames of the torches his
captors carried he saw other torches, ten of them, thrust into the earth to
form a ring around the stone. All the earth was beaten into dust beneath the
trees around the altar; now his blood would muddy it.

           
He stiffened, tried to twist free,
was shoved toward the altar.

           
"Your lir, my lord," Jarek
said quietly. "Do not forget your lir.”

           
They lifted him, even as he
struggled; thrust him up onto the stone; pinned him on his back.

           
"Justice," Jarek said.

           
"You are mad—all of you,
mad!"

           
"The rightful line restored . .
."

           
"Carillon himself declared
Donal heir in lieu of sons," Brennan appealed. "He wed Aislinn,
Carillon's daughter, who bore him a son . , . whose son sired a son."