Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (22 page)

           
"No, my lord. Not yet. She has
been overcome by brutal force, but she lives. For now. Until we are through
with you."

           
"How do you intend to kill
me?" Bitterly. He could not believe he had been so gullible.

           
"Strahan wants you alive."

           
"Strahan—" He nearly
gaped. "This is Strahan's doing?"

           
"Strahan's suggestion. My
doing." Rhiannon smiled and reached up to caress his face even as he tried
to jerk away. "It could have been worse, Brennan. Much worse. Seduction is
better than force."

           
His lips peeled back from his teeth
in an instinctive expression of feral disgust. He thought he might be ill.

           
"Lillith believed I could not
do it," Rhiannon said quietly. "She feared I was too young, even by
human standards. But then my mother forgets that Ihlini women are born to
seduction as Cheysuli are born to the lir."

           
His muscles spasmed beneath her
hand. "Lillith—"

           
"—is my mother. My jehana, you
would say. As Ian is my jehan." Rhiannon laughed softly. "We are
cousins, you and I—in addition to being bedmates."

           
"But—Jarek—" Brennan
stopped. He required no explanation. In the face of her triumph and confidence,
he knew she spoke the truth. "Not Jarek at all... nothing but
misdirection, to make us believe ourselves safe ... it was you all the while. .
. ."

           
"It was me all the while."
Rhiannon smiled. "Jarek was a fine diversion. Thinking him Ihlini, you did
not look at me." She laughed. "A clever plot to take you . . . send
Solindish Jarek into Homana as a Homanan, where he would pose as Elek's son to
win Homanan aid. And then we would take you in the name of Carillon's deaf-mute
bastard."

           
"Was it your idea to let Ian
believe Jarek was his son?" he asked bitterly. "Your idea to let me
believe I was kinslayer?"

           
She pursed her lips. "The
first? No. It was my mother's idea; a gift, she said, for Ian." Rhiannon
smiled. "As for allowing you to believe you were kinslayer, well . . . it
made you more vulnerable to me. That was my idea."

           
He drew in a deep breath, longing to
spit in her face, but knowing better. Ihlini held his lir. "A complex and
clever plan."

           
"It took a great deal of time
to lay this plan—more to execute." She shrugged. "But then time is
nothing to us." Black eyes narrowed. "And now we go, my lord. Strahan
grows impatient."

           
His struggles were futile, and he
knew it; Rhiannon's power over Sleeta was too pronounced. But he ignored the
pressure against bis breastbone and caught her wrist, thinking to snap it in
two, to shatter all the bones. Or to crack her fragile skull with a blow from
his other hand.

           
And yet he could do none of those
things. Even as he tried to move, he found ha body would not answer. His hand
fell away form her wrist; he slumped against the tree, pinned by slender
fingers. In her eyes was triumph and the knowledge of burgeoning power.

           
Angrily he bared his teeth in a
feral, mocking smile.

           
"Valgaard is a long ride from
here. If you think it will be easy—"

           
"Who said anything of
riding?" Rhiannon pulled something from beneath her gown; he saw a glint
of familiar silver. It was the ring he had given her, but the sapphire glowed
an eerie purple instead of clear blue. "We Ihlini have better ways."

           
He manged to laugh, albeit was
little more than an impotent bark of sound. "You forget; I am Cheysuli.
Your sorcery will not work."

           
"You forget, my lord—I am
Cheysuli also." She smiled.

           
"Ask why Sleeta did not know
me. Ask why I hold you so easily. Look into your mind and find the link I have
forged through careful and subtle means, all done in the throes of passion,
when you would not notice my intrusion."

           
He rolled his head against the tree
in desperate denial.

           
"You cannot. . . ."

           
"Can I not?" She was
magnificent in her pride. "But I can, cousin ... the merging of our blood
gives me a new dimension of power altogether, when that blood is also joined
with Asar-Suti."

           
Her serenity alarmed him. "But
you are not a Firstborn—"

           
"No. Not yet. But closer.
Closer even than you. Because in the end, it will be the blood of our child—of
Ihlini-Cheysuli children—who will hold dominance in Homana. Dominance in the
world."

           
Rhiannon unhooked the silver chain
that had replaced the ring's original leather thong. And though he tried to
twist his head away, she clasped it around his neck. The chain was ice against
his throat.

           
One last time—

           
"Brennan." Calmly she
interrupted his futile attempt at fir-shape. "I do not love you, but
neither do I hate you. What I do, I do to serve my race, as much as you serve
yours. We are kin, close kin, and I have no wish to spill your blood; I share
more than a measure of it. Ian is in us both." She caught his hands and
linked her fingers with his, even against his will. "But we cannot control
the Firstborn unless we make our own."

           
"Ihlini—" He writhed
against the tree.

           
Rhiannon kissed him. And then the
world was gone.

           
Where she walked, smoke followed.
Disturbed by the motion of heavy skirts, it tore apart like a webwork of lilac
lace, then repaired itself in her wake to renew its delicate dance.

           
God fire hissed in the whorls of
glasswork columns.

           
Down and down, around and around;
light glistened in the twisted strings of the Seker's magnificent harp. She
thought once to touch the closest column to see if it twould sing, but she did
not. It was not for her to do.

           
She walked, and the smoke followed.
All the way to the rent in the flesh of the earth, where flame instead of blood
issued forth in a blinding glare. Beyond it, poised on the rim of the Gate,
stood her mother and her uncle.

           
On the near side, Rhiannon halted.
She folded her hands in her skirts.

           
Lillith smiled. In her daughter she
saw herself, and took pride in the girl's loyalty as well as her loveliness.

           
"How soon will the child be
born?"

           
"Seven months. Brennan was—most
accommodating."

           
"And you?"

           
"I?"

           
"You are young," Lillith
said kindly. "Cheysuli and Ihlini are bloodkin, born of the same gods, and
meant to be together. It is understandable if this was—difficult, There is no
shame in wishing it could be another way."

           
Rhiannon lifted her delicate chin.
"Was it difficult for you, when you seduced my father? Was it hard to
break that immense Cheysuli pride?"

           
"Ian's pride was never
broken," Liltith answered. "He may have thought so, but it was lirlessness
he felt, nothing more." She paused. "When you speak of breaking
pride, remember that what is theirs is also ours."

           
"They will never accept
it," Rhiannon said. "Never will they accept us as anything more than
enemies."

           
"Good," Strahan said coolly.
"If the day ever comes that an Ihlini and a completed Cheysuli lie down
together willingly, the Seker is defeated. The gate will be sealed forever, and
the Firstborn shall rule the world. We will no longer exist."

           
Rhiannon frowned. "What is a
'completed' Cheysuli?"

           
"One with all the necessary
blood, save our own," The glare increased, leeching shadows from Strahan's
face, then faded away to a dull glow, as if the god listened.

           
"The prophecy is a true one,
Rhiannon, The Cheysuli weave it like a tapestry, and the pattern is nearly
completed. But we can still alter it. We can tear away the brightest yams, as
we have torn away Brennan, and use them to fashion another."

           
Lillith nodded. "Link by link,
we must shatter the chain."

           
Godfire hissed; the flame rose,
swelled, died away again.

           
"What will you do to him?"
Rhiannon asked.

           
"Break him," Strahan
answered. "Then mend him most carefully."

           
"How?" she asked intently.

           
Strahan's eyes narrowed. "Have
you a suggestion?"

           
Rhiannon's laughter echoed amidst
the columns and set the glassy strings to thrumming. "Lock him away,"
she said. "Lock him away in a small stone place . . . with no light, no
lir, and no hope at all for escape."

HART

           
Solinde was an inhospitable, barren
land. Hart thought, until he left behind the borderlands and entered wooded
hills. The wide track leading out of Homana into Solinde traded plains for
huddled hills, winding like a tunnel through heavy vegetation. Thick and deep,
the shadows held dominance over sunlight.

           
He was thankful he had exchanged
sleeveless jerkin for something a bit more substantial. The doublet, dyed a
rich emerald green and belted with bronze-plated leather, was of stiffer
leather than a Cheysuli jerkin and, though still immensely comfortable, its
long sleeves provided warmth against the breath of a fall day. In the wood, in
the shadows, the chill seemed to seep through flesh into his bones.

           
Hart shivered as the trees closed
in, branches reaching for his face. The tunnel shrank and the shadows deepened,
until he felt singularly oppressed. All around him were trunks and limbs and
vines. The wood smelted of decay.

           
Lir, he said uneasily; Rael was out
of sight.

           
Here. The hawk answered instantly.
Above you, lir, above the trees, where it is bright and warm in the sunlight.

           
Hart tilted his head back and
searched, but all he could see was the screen of limbs, a latticework thrown up
by trees and vine and shadow. Perhaps I should leave the horse behind and go on
as a hawk.

           
And then you would arrive without
all your finery.

           
Hart laughed aloud, casually patting
the saddlepacks that clothed most of his stallion's rump. "Little enough
of that, I fear. Aye, I could have brought every trunk, but what is the sense
in that? I have leathers, food and a fortune-game - - what else do I
require?"

           
Good sense, Rael retorted. Or am I
expected to supply the wisdom while you supply the gold?

           
"I intend to win the gold, not
supply it," Hart explained. "Sweet Solindish gold ... I hear it is
red as copper, but with twice the weight and thrice the value of Homanan."

           
Then you will need thrice the amount
of your allowance to make the games worthwhile, Rael countered. Sooner wagered,
sooner lost.

           
"I win, lir. I win."

           
Tell it to the Mujhar.

           
Hart scowled blackly at the branches
overhead, trying to see the hawk, but gave up after a fruitless search.

           
Feeling oppressed yet again by the
wood, he pulled up and held the stallion in place.

           
All was silence initially, as if the
wood paused as he did, waiting to see what he would do. And then the impression
passed and the wood was a wood again, full of familiar song. And even one Hart
welcomed: the splash and gurgle of a stream.

           
"Water," he said aloud,
then leaned forward to pat the stallion's chestnut shoulder. "Not as good
as wine or ale, I'll wager, for me, but it will do for us both until we reach
Lestra."

           
He guided the horse off the track
into the thicker wood, tearing vines and bracken as they went, beating their
way through brush. It gave way at last to spongy ground and the rocky bank of a
wide, shallow stream.

           
Hart swung off his sorrel and turned
him free to pick his way through rocks into the water; he himself balanced
precariously on a flattened boulder and bent to scoop up handfuls as he braced himself
with one splay-fingered hand.

           
The water was cold and sweet. Hart
lingered even as the stallion did, ignoring the chill of his fingers. He was
weighted with bow and quiver in addition to his long-knife, but at least he
wore no sword. Even though he had learned it in deference to his Homanan rank,
he much preferred fighting with Cheysuli weapons.

           
Hart felt the vibration first even
as the stallion did, transmitting itself through the water. And then the sound,
close upon its heels; the splash of hooves in water, running, and the clop and
clack of rocks torn free of their customary bed. He pressed himself up as the
stallion stumbled through the rock-choked stream to the bank on the far side,
to shy away into the shadows. Hart stood his ground silently, knowing a
Cheysuli's very stillness was protection in itself.

           
Lir. He appealed to Rael for
information.

           
A rider, the hawk answered. In
flight from yet another.

           
And then. A woman, lir. In crimson,
mounted on white.

           
He saw her, then, come running out
of the shadows.

           
She was a palette of white and
scarlet; hair white-blond, gown bright red, the mare unsullied white. She
hunched in the saddle, bent low over the mare's neck, and the vivid mantle
billowed behind as she urged the mare onward.

           
The mare would fail soon. Hart knew,
or trip and fall, snapping slender forelegs, perhaps even her neck. The
streambed was treacherous with rocks and deeps and shallows; it was only a
matter of time.

           
She was by him. And then he stepped
out into the center of the stream, water lapping just above booted ankles, and
unstrapped his Cheysuli warbow.

           
Lir.

           
A single man, Rael answered. Not
far, not far, coming on.

           
Coming on. Hart nocked an arrow,
drew the black string back to his ear, and waited.

           
The rider came on, splashing through
deeps and shallows. It was clear he did not see Hart, so intent was he on his
prey. Hart waited, waited; watched the horse come closer, coming on, coming on,
churning water into spray.

           
And when the man was close enough.
Hart ordered him to hold.

           
The rider drew up in shock,
brown-haired, brown-eyed, staring with mouth agape as he tried to control his
mount. And then he shut his mouth, reaching for his sword, but did not
unsheathe it, did not spur on as he saw the arrow was intended for his throat.

           
"Hold," Hart repeated.

           
The man spat out a spate of
Solindish Hart could not decipher. But the emotions were clear: anger,
astonishment, outrage.

           
"You tempt me," Hart said
quietly.

           
It was plain the Solindishman
understood Homanan, Color rose in his face. Impotently he raised a clenched
fist, but it was conspicuously empty of knife or sword. In accented Homanan, he
said, "It is my duty, my task—"

           
"And now your duty is
failure," Hart answered. "I have no knowledge of the place you are
from—Lestra, perhaps?—but I suggest you go back to it."

           
"Homanan!" the man cried.
"It is my responsibility—"

           
"Go back," Hart said
calmly. "Gods, but you do tempt me."

           
The Solindishman glared angrily past
Hart toward the prey he had lost. Then he muttered an imprecation in throaty
Solindish and jerked his horse into a rearing pivot and an awkward departure
that splashed Hart liberally with water.

           
He returned the unused arrow to his
quiver, hooked the bow over a shoulder and turned to face the woman. She had
not gone far past him, or else she had come back. The white mare stood in the
center of the stream, sucking water gratefully; the woman sat erect in the
saddle with crimson skirts and mantle all tangled on equipage, while her hair
came free of its braid. Her expression was serious, yet it did not hide the flawlessness
of the delicate bones of her face.

           
Fragility personified. But Hart
thought he might be wrong. He had seen her ride.

           
"My thanks," she said
gravely, gathering up her reins.

           
For all her fingers were slender,
they handled the mare competently. And tightened, wary, as he splashed through
the water toward her.

           
The mare eyed him in alarm and shied
two steps, until the young woman checked her with a rein. Hart halted at once.
From closer range, the incandescence of her beauty was incredible. It unfolded
like a lily in the sun, then dominated its surroundings. Ice-white hair,
ice-blue eyes, with glorious, flawless skin.

           
"You have done me a
service." Her accented Homanan only attracted him the more.

           
Hart grinned. "Saving your
life, or your virtue? Aye, you might say so."

           
"No." Her long-lidded eyes
were gray-blue. "No, he meant me no harm. What he said of his duty, his
task, his responsibility—all was true. But not as you believed. He was
bodyguard, not ravager. Certainly not assassin."

           
He stared up at her. Gods, but this
woman is enough to charm the teeth out of the Lion, and he would give them
willingly— He smiled. "Lady—he was not? Then what service did I do
you?"

           
Her laughter set the world ablaze.
"Freedom—you give me freedom ... at least until the others come searching
for me." Some of her gaiety was banished. "And they will. They
will."

           
He could well imagine they would. He
would. "So, you allowed me to chase away the man who guarded you." He
laughed out loud in genuine amusement, appreciating her wit. "The man must
now be cursing me for a fool, or himself."

           
Her eyes were full of laughter.
"Aye, cursing us all—or cursing those who set him to his task."
Almost abruptly, the humor spilled out of her face. An odd grimness replaced
it. "But do they expect me to do nothing, meekly accepting their
will?"

           
He heard a trace of bitterness in
her tone and wondered if perhaps she had intended to use him to rid herself of
her hound. "You said nothing, lady," he told her quietly. "And
if I had slain him, what would you have told those who gave him his duty to
ward you against enemies?"

           
She shook her head decisively.
"No. No. I would not have let it go so far." She tightened reins and
prepared to go. "My thanks, Homanan. But my business is better left to me."

           
He caught one of the reins, stepping
closer. "And what do you give me for your freedom?"

           
She frowned. "Give?"

           
He shrugged, "I have done you a
service. Now I ask payment, lady."

           
"If you think—"

           
"I do." He pulled the mare
closer. "A kiss, lady. Small token of your gratitude, payment for my
service." He grinned, arching suggestive brows. "Not so much, I
think."

           
"More than you know, from
me." One booted foot kicked out and caught him flush on the jaw.

           
He staggered back, swearing, and
lost his grip on her reins. By the time he could see clearly again, the woman
had spurred the mare on and was gone.

           
Rael, he said. "Rael!"

           
Not so far, lir. Mount your horse
and catch up.

           
He whistled the stallion out of the
trees and splashed through the stream to the bank, swearing all the while.

           
She had caught him squarely,
snapping his head sideways toward his right shoulder; neck muscles protested in
unison with the jaw. Had she been man instead of woman, she might have broken
his neck.

           
Were she man instead of woman, you
would never have asked a kiss.

           
Hart, swinging up into his saddle,
laughed aloud as he heard the hawk's tone. No, I would wager not. He urged the
chestnut through the water onto the bank on the other side. Where, lir? Which
way?

           
Westward, along the track. Riding
toward Lestra.

           
The mare, he knew, was tired, and
had drunk too much water to sustain a comfortable gallop for long. His own
mount was rested; he would be on them soon enough.

           
He was. Rounding a curve in the
tunneled track, he saw a flash of white tail ahead. Closer, closer yet; divots
of dirt and turf were thrown up into his face. He ducked down and let the
stallion shield him even as he ran.