Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (18 page)

           
"And what is wrong with waiting
to move until all the facts are known?" Maeve asked. "Keely, you are
too bold, too quick to say that you think when you would do better to
wait."

           
Niall silenced the brewing battle
with a raised hand.

           
"Enough." The single word
was sufficient.

           
Brennan made good use of the
opportunity to put in his own thoughts. "It is possible Jarek acted alone.
Now that I think on it, he seemed very aware of how the others might preceive
him, as if he had to think about how he phrased things so as not to give
himself away. To me, he was always Homanan, in speech and attitude."

           
He paused. "At least—until he
chose to divulge himself, and then the others scattered."

           
Niall looked at Rhiannon. "It
is for you to tell us what you know of Jarek. Everything. Hold nothing back, or
you may deal us a blow Strahan would be proud of."

           
Rhiannon's face was pale as she
stared at the Mujhar.

           
Her hand, in Brennan's, was still
very cold. He squeezed it to lend her reassurance; quickly she looked at him,
smiled faintly, then withdrew her hand entirely and nodded to the Mujhar.

           
Niall opened his mouth to speak
again, but held his question as Deirdre touched his arm lightly. "A
moment, my lord. Let the girl—and the rest of us—find a seat.”

           
She poured wine into the remaining
cup and passed it to Rhiannon. "You're not to be holding us all in so much
awe," Deirdre told her kindly, green eyes alight with humor.
"Underneath all the gold and prickly pride, these Cheysuli are no
different from you and me."

           
Rhiannon clutched the cup.
"But—are you not?”

           
"Cheysuli?" Deirdre's
brows rose. "No, no,
not
I.
Erinnish, I am, no more. There is no magic
in my bones."

           
"Nor in mine." Maeve did
not smile, though her tone was even enough. "We are remiss in our
gratitude. For what you did in Brennan’s cause, all of us are grateful."

           
Rhiannon fixed her eyes on Brennan's
face. What she felt was clear for all to see. "There was nothing else I
could do."

           
Ian fetched a chair and brought it
forward, thumping it down behind her. "Sit you down, meijhana.” His smile
was exceedingly charming; the glint in his eyes was clearly intended for
Brennan's benefit. "Be at ease, as I insist—and tell us whatever you can
of Jarek."

           
Slowly she sat down, clutching her
cup of wine. She did not drink. She waited, watching as her hosts found places
to sit, and then she drew in a breath so deep it made the sapphire glint in the
candlelight. "He was a kind man—to me." Blood rushed into her face as
clearly she heard the incongruity in her statement. "He said nothing to me
of Elek, my lord Mujhar. He kept his affairs very private, aye . . . but how
many men share such things with women? Even the women who share their
beds?"

           
Color deepened in her face; she
glanced briefly at Brennan, then looked away. "He served Cheysuli
willingly in the tavern. I heard no words of hatred or hostility."

           
"Nor did I," Brennan
confirmed. "Even when he and the others threw me down on the altar, there
was little of true hatred about it, and nothing of madness at all." He
shrugged. "Again ... up to the point he gave away his race by admitting he
served Asar-Suti, Jarek was loyal, dedicated, openly commited to the bastard's
cause . . . and I believed him. There was no reason not to."

           
Niall nodded. "I think you may
have the right of it. He misled them purposely so he could, if he had to, blame
them for your death. He would admit the truth of his identity to no one who was
not Ihlini." His eyes softened as he looked at Rhiannon. "Not even to
you."

           
"What else?" Ian asked
white-faced Rhiannon quietly. "Think of him in a new light, meijhana, and
surely you will discover something in his conversation, his behavior ... in the
company he kept."

           
Rhiannon frowned thoughtfully.
"Once, he said something of his birth. He said he was bastard-born."
She shrugged. "I thought nothing of it—I too am bastard-born—but he said
it mattered very much in the scheme of things. That in the end, the bastard
blood would give him power no one else could hold." She glanced at
Brennan. "It was not a claim I paid much attention to—until I heard him
tell my lord he would bring down the House of Homana. And then I knew what I
had to do."

           
"Thank the gods," Maeve
murmured.

           
Niall shook his head slowly.
"Power from his blood ... for all we know, he may have been Strahan's
son."

           
"Does it matter?" Keely
asked. "He is dead."

           
Ian shrugged. "Dead, aye . . .
but I will curse the nameless bitch who bore him anyway."

           
Rhiannon looked at him sharply.
"But I do know her name," she said. "I thought it pretty, so I
remember it easily," Rhiannon smiled a little. "His mother's name was
Lillith."

           
As one, they looked at Ian.

           
"You cannot be certain,"
Niall declared. "Rujho—you cannot."

           
Ian's face was a peculiar chalky
gray. "How not?" he asked hoarsely. "Am I to ignore the
obvious?"

           
"What is obvious?" Niall
demanded. "Do you think Lillith kept herself celibate before or after
you?"

           
Ian looked blankly at Rhiannon, who
stared back in growing alarm. "Have I said the wrong thing?" she
asked. "Have I said something I should not?"

           
Brennan intended to speak, to calm
her fears, but lan moved to stand before her, neatly shouldering him out of the
way.

           
"Rhiannon." For a moment Ian
said nothing more, locked up within some private battle, and then he blew out a
breath between constricted lips and knelt down in front of her.
"Meifhana—" He took one of her hands into both of his. "Can you
tell me how old he was?"

           
"How old?" She stared in
bafflement at Ian, then glanced up at Brennan as if to ask instruction. But he
could offer her nothing.

           
Ian was singulariy intent. "How
old was Jarek, Rhiannon?"

           
"My age," she answered.
"Twenty."

           
"Twenty," Ian repeated
blankly. He turned his head to look at Niall. "The age is right . . . and
he was bastard-born of an Ihlini jehana whose name we know is Lillith. What
other proof do you require?"

           
The Mujhar looked infinitely older.
"Perhaps none," he said wearily, rubbing at the ruined flesh around
the patch. "Perhaps we have all we need."

           
"Aye." Ian's face was
oddly blank. "It was what she wanted. A child of us both, to mix the
blood, the heritage, the power—"

           
"And now he is dead."
Niall's voice was steady. "Why hate yourself the more when the need for it
is passed?"

           
Ian's posture was incredibly rigid
as he released Rhiannon's hand and rose. Brennan, watching him in growing
alarm, thought he had never seen his uncle so shaken, or so vulnerable.

           
"Thank the gods," Ian
said. He looked at Brennan.

           
"Leijhana tu'sai, harani, for
ridding us of another Ihlini—an Ihlini abomination!"

           
For all the words were brutal,
Brennan heard the anguish in Ian's tone. He knew better than to believe it
derived from grief, but there was more than dispassion as well.

           
How does a man deal with the death
of a son he never knew? Brennan slowly shook his head. "Su'fali—'

           
"Surely you recall the
story," Ian said harshly. The mask slipped from his face; Brennan saw the
hostility that was so uncharacteristic of his uncle. "I was stud to
Lillith's mare. She ensorcelled my lir, ensorcelled me ... she stole the seed
from me. Do you think I will grieve for that misbegotten spawn?"

           
Looking at him, Brennan saw an angry
man who tasted the bitter fruit of shame. It was a new aspect of Ian, whose
place in the household was one of abiding warmth and affection. He was
kinspirit as well as kin.

           
It is as if he wishes to flagellate
himself since we will not do it for him. "Su'fali—" Brennan began again,
thinking to ease Ian's anguish, and realized there was himself to think of as
well. Ian could not, for the moment, see past his own feelings to those of his
nephew. "Su'fali, you are saying I killed a kinsman."

           
For a brief arrested moment there
was acknowledgment in Ian's eyes, and then it was quickly banished.

           
"Ihlini. No more than
that."

           
Slowly Brennan shook his head.
"But he was. He was an enemy, aye, but we shared blood. He was my cousin,
just as Teirnan is. It does matter, su'fali.''

           
Ian's look was intense. "Then I
will put it another way," he said with elaborate distinctness. "If
you had known he was my son as he began to carve you to pieces on that
perverted altar, would you have hesitated to kill him?"

           
A neat trap— But Brennan shook his
head. "No, su'fali. No."

           
"Then do me the courtesy of
attempting to understand my feelings," Ian said curtly. "I will not
weep for a man who was born of my seed, but decidedly not of my beliefs and
loyalties."

           
"Ihlini and Cheysuli,"
Keely said rigidly. "Gods, who is to say what arts he might have had? What
magnitude his powers?"

           
"Firstborn," Maeve said
tightly.

           
"No." Niall's answer was
quick and definitive. "No, not a Firstborn. He lacked the other blood;
therefore the prophecy was unfulfilled . . . and even if it had been, do you
think the gods would countenance an accursed kinslayer on the Lion?"

           
Brennan's belly twisted.
"Kinslayer," he said hoarsely. "Am I not accursed, then?"

           
He saw their eyes upon him. He could
not read them, even as well as he knew them, because what they all considered
was something entirely new. Killing enemy Ihlini, Homanans, Solindish and
Atvians in service to the prophecy was one thing, and well accepted, but
slaying kin? It carried a heavy weight.

           
Niall slowly shook his head.
"Weigh yourself against Jarek, Brennan, and tell me which man deserved to
die."

           
"Easy enough," Keely said
sharply. "Rujho, you cannot doubt it. You are heir to the Lion Throne.
Would you give it instead to Jarek?"

           
"No." He looked at his
uncle, whose face was masked to them all, and yet the world was in his eyes.
"No, I would not give the Lion to any man such as Jarek. But—“ He paused,
still looking at lan. "Su-fali, surely you must wonder what he might have
been if you instead of Lillith had had the raising of him."

           
"Must I?" Ian shook his
head. "No, I must not. Else I will begin to question my conviction that
Ihlini and Cheysuti cannot possibly coexist, within a realm or within a
conscience." His eyes were on the Mujhar. "You say that once we were
brother races, rujho; that the gods sired us both. And I say they did not,
being gods of uncommon sense. But if you have the right of it ... if we are
brother races, intended for cohabitation once again when the prophecy is
fulfilled . . . then how do I live with it? How do I live with the knowledge
that my son tried to murder yours?"

           
Brennan saw clearly that a measure
of Ian's pain was his father's. Half-brothers only, sharing so little and yet
so much; he wondered if their bond was anything like the one between himself
and Hart.

           
"Then I will answer for
you," Ian continued, as Niall did not respond. "I could not live with
it. And even if you have the right of it after all, and one day we are expected
to lie down with Ihlini again ... I would sooner give myself over to the
death-ritual than acknowledge one as my kin," Ian looked at each of them,
one by one: Niall, Deirdre, Maeve, Keely and Rhiannon. Lastly he looked at
Brennan, "Leifhana tu'sai," he said firmly, and then he put down his
cup of wine and walked silently out of the solar.

           
The Mujhar sat down again and
scrubbed at his rigid face. "Ah, gods, spare my rujho this pain. . .
."

           
"My lord." It was
Rhiannon, speaking softly, and Niall turned his head to look at her. "My
lord, is this true? Jarek was his son?"

           
The Mujhar sighed. "It is an
old story," he said gently, "and a very private one. But aye, it
seems likely Jarek was Ian's son."

           
"Then he also was Cheysuli?
Like you. Like the Prince of Homana?"

           
"And one step closer to the
Firstborn," Keely said flatly, answering in place of her father. She
tossed back a gulp of wine, then shook her head in disgust. "So, the Ihlini
think to destroy the prophecy from within instead of without. A Cheysuli sire,
an Ihlini dam, and children who do the bidding of the Seker."

           
"A formidable mixture,"
Niall agreed grimly.

           
Rhiannon frowned. "I do not
understand.”

           
Keely cast her an impatient glance,
then looked at Brennan. "You would do well to tell her, rujho. Her
ignorance is appalling."

           
"Keely, enough," Deirdre
said quietly. "Are you thinking everyone knows what the Ihlini are to
us?"

           
"Us?" Keely asked.
"You are not Cheysuli."

           
"Keely, that is enough,"
Niall said sharply. "I will tolerate no insults to Deirdre or
Rhiannon."

           
Keely recoiled, looking startled.
"No! Oh, no, I meant no insult. Deirdre, I did not. I only meant you had
less to fear, not being a part of the prophecy."

           
Deirdre's smile was crooked.
"Aye, 'less to fear.' I'm only needing to worry myself over all of your
father's children, as well as the father himself."

           
"Something you should think
about," Maeve told her younger sister darkly.

           
"Aye, so I should." But
Keely did not sound particularly repentant.

           
"Well," Deirdre said.
"I'm thinking 'tis time I showed Rhiannon what there is to learn if she is
to enter my service."

           
Rhiannon stared. "Your
service?"

           
"My service," Deirdre
repeated. " ‘Tis hardly payment enough for saving the lives of the Prince
of Homana and his lir, but I think 'twill be a beginning. If you are
willing."

           
"Willing?" Rhiannon
echoed. "Do you mean I am to stay here, with him—with you? I need not go
back to the tavern?"

           
Deirdre smiled and slanted Brennan a
bright, knowing glance. "There is a place for you here, if you want
it," she told Rhiannon kindly. "You deserve better than serving wine
to amorous young lordlings in tawdry taverns."

           
Brennan raised his brows. "I
was always polite, and The Rampant Lion is not tawdry."

           
" Tis for Rhiannon to
decide."

           
Keely grunted. "Even Hart would
not lay a wager on that."

           
Brennan felt the familiar stab of
loneliness.

           
Rhiannon looked at him directly a
long moment. And then she rose and curtsied to Deirdre. She was slim and
lissome in the rich blue gown. The rope of heavy hair swung against her hip.
"Aye, lady, I will stay."

           
"Good.” Deirdre's beckoning
gestures encompassed Maeve and Keely as well. "Come then, there are things
you must be learning. We'll be leaving the men to themselves."

           
Maeve and Rhiannon moved to the door
at once.

           
Keely, scowling darkly, finished her
wine in a single gulp and then thumped the cup down on the nearest table.

           
"Foolishness," she
muttered, and was the last one out of the room.

           
Brennan smiled a little as the door
thudded closed to punctuate Keely's temper. "Do you regret it, jehan?
Siring such unruly children?"

           
Niall grinned. "There are
times. . . ." He let it trail off and stretched out his legs, slumping
back in the chair.

           
Candlelight glinted off the cup
still held in his hand. "If the gods are willing, you will know the same
trials I do. But in the end it is worth it... too long was the House of Homana
poor in children, poor in healthy sons." He shook his head. "Because
of my unruly children, I am able to make just distribution of our holdings, and
improve for our House the trusts held by other kings. Within one generation I
am able to secure threefold the path of the prophecy. Believe me, that is
something."

           
Brennan nodded. Idly he looked into
his cup; his wine was untouched. He drank down half of it in two gulping swallows,
then dropped into the nearest chair. His ear hurt, and his head, and the rest
of him as well. "There is more," he said at last. "I saw Teir at
Clankeep. He was his usual self."