Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (31 page)

           
"I will order a horse saddled
for me. You may wait, my lord."

           
And he did, somewhat impatiently,
wondering why women took so long to ready themselves for a ride when the wind
would only muss them almost instantly. But Lisa did not, and when she appeared
he discovered she had not changed at all, save to clean the mud from her face
and to put on a fitted leather doublet with silver-rimmed horn buttons. Engaged
in working hands into snug gloves, she hardly looked at him as she walked past
him toward the front entrance.

           
Hart exited with her. "You need
take no guard. My lir and I are enough, I think, to ward you against most
dangers."

           
She slanted him a cool glance over
one shoulder as she turned toward the white mare she had ridden at their first
meeting. "Are you? I think a man need only offer you a wager, and you
would name me as the stakes."

           
He stopped short, staring at her in
shock. She knows . . . oh, gods, she already knows, and this is nothing more
than a travesty.

           
But Lisa gave no sign, no hint she
knew anything of the wager between Hart and Dar. She merely waited for him to
hand her up into the saddle, and when he did not move to do it at once she led
the mare to a mounting block and did it on her own. Belatedly, Hart hastened to
lend her a hand, though now she did not require it.

           
The white mare nosed him, pressing
muzzle against neck and blowing even as he tried to turn her head away.

           
He looked up at Lisa, backlighted by
the sun, and opened his mouth to speak. Then abruptly turned away.

           
Hart swung up into his saddle and waited
for Lisa to fall in beside him. It was midmorning and cool; the air chilled his
bare arms and lent an icy sheen to his fir-bands. He had brought nothing out of
Homana save Cheysuli leathers. Solindish clothing would be warmer, but he
preferred familiar garb.

           
How can I tell her? How can I
explain?

           
Rael offered no answer. In silence.
Hart escorted Lisa out of Lestra and into the countryside beyond.

           
He found it no easier when they were
free of the city.

           
He did find it easier to forget
about the wager altogether, losing himself in the pleasure of the moment. And
so he did.

           
Lisa was an accomplished rider, as
her flight through the wood had proved. He did not hold back now; together they
galloped across the turf and lost themselves, for the moment, in the sheer joy
of good horseflesh. Running on, running on, he could forget all about wagers
and risks and titles, thinking only of how the stallion should move beneath
him; how fast, how smooth, how willing. For an unblessed human, it was the
closest thing to lir-shape.

           
The moment was spent too quickly.
Hart eased his mount from a gallop to a canter, then to a walk, even as Lisa
did. In companionable silence they listened to the horses blow, jangling bits
and shanks and ornamentation.

           
He could smell the acrid tang of his
stallion's sweat, the scent of flowers in the turf, the promise of summer
coming. It was a good time to be alive. Better yet, it was a good time to share
it with a woman.

           
"Is that your hawk?" she
asked, pointing.

           
He glanced up and saw the shape
against the sky; the outspread wings and lazy spiral. "Aye. Rael. He keeps
his distance today, knowing this is a thing between man and woman, requiring no
lir.”

           
She looked at him sharply. "He
knows such things?"

           
Hart laughed. "Did you think
him mute? A pet, or a tame bird like those kept mewed up at the palace?"
Grinning, he shook his head. "No, lady. A lir is far more than anything
you might imagine. Rael is an extension of myself, though his conscience is his
own. We are bonded. He speaks to me, I to him, though it is all done
silently."

           
"And does he value games as
much as you?"

           
He heard the dry tone in her voice.
So close to the edge of contempt; it hurt. "No," Hart said quietly.
"Rael does not. Rael does, however, suggest I turn to things more
important, such as learning how to rule."

           
"Then indeed, he is wiser than
you."

           
"The lir always are." He
felt safer discussing Rael than his irresponsibility. "Do you know nothing
of them?"

           
She shrugged. "I know only the
things I have heard: that they are magical animals with awesome arts, allowing
the Cheysuli to assume shapes other than their own."

           
Her glance betrayed no distaste, but
quiet curiosity. "You can really become a hawk? With wings and feathers
and talons?"

           
The laughter was gone.
"Aye."

           
"Does it hurt?"

           
Hart frowned. It had been so long
since he had thought of lir-shape in terms other than an automatic exchange of
human form for raptor that the words were harder to find than ever. In Homana,
the Cheysuli were no longer the enemy, but part and parcel of the present. No
one required explanations.

           
"There is no pain," he
said thoughtfully. "Not as you know pain. But there is an oddness, an
alienness, when I put off my human shape for another." He shrugged a
little. "Knowing what I will become, it does not frighten me. I will come
through it; I always do, and back again. But the first time, not knowing, is
frightening and exhilarating all at once." He looked at-her intent face, wishing
he could share lir-shape so he need not struggle for words that were inadequate
no matter how glib his explanation. "From birth we are told that to be
whole we require a lir. And although we have no reason to anticipate being left
without one, the hidden fear is always there ... the fear that somehow the gods
have forgotten to prepare the animal that is to become your lir." He
shrugged. "The first time you assume lir-shape, you are so eager the fear
recedes and you think only of the need, not the fear of what you do."

           
Lisa looked into the sky to watch
Rael's soaring flight.

           
"And when you are a hawk, what
do you feel then?"

           
The answer was instant.
"Freedom." As she looked at him, he smiled. "Freedom. No more am
I earthbound; no more do I require legs, feet, horse, or other means of
transportation. I have only myself, requiring only myself . . . and I become
the freest thing alive."

           
"But you are still a man."

           
"Mostly. I keep my human
thoughts and feelings, although I experience things as a hawk. Human instincts
are augmented, not overcome. I know I am a man in the form of a hawk. I am
still Hart."

           
She turned from Rael to him.
"Is there danger in it?"

           
He shrugged. "There is a question
of balance. A Cheysuli in lir-shape is both and neither; it is possible for him
to lose himself to the animal form, but it only rarely happens. It is something
we are carefully taught, this balance," He saw the comprehension in her
eyes, and the realization of the dangers. "I will not lie to you, Lisa. If
a warrior in lir-shape should grow too angry, relying too much on animal
instinct instead of both, he can tip over the edge and lose humanness
altogether,"

           
"And remain an animal."

           
"Or something made of
both." He plaited the mane of his bay stallion, thinking through the best
way to explain to her what he had learned quite young. "It is one reason
the shapechange is more difficult in extremity. In pain, a man might lose
himself. In anger also, and sheer exhilaration. The shapechange requires
concentration, and responsibility. There is always the risk that a warrior in lir-shape
may become something other than himself."

           
"And risk is something you
understand very well." Lisa smoothed hair back. "I have known Dar
nearly since birth; his family has served mine for centuries. I have seen how
it is with him, this need to risk his wealth in wagers. The coin means little
to him, other than representing victory over the odds." Briefly, her mouth
twisted ironically. "I see much the same in you, although you are worse.
Dar enjoys a good wager, but I think you need it."

           
"For as long as I can
remember." He did not smile, not try to avoid the topic. "I do not
lose myself in lir-shape, perhaps, understanding the need for self-control . .
. but a wager is different. I do lose myself."

           
"And so the balance is broken,
and you tip over the edge." Lisa looked at him squarely. "Last night
you told me you take pride in nothing. I think you lied, albeit unknowing. If
nothing else, you take pride in being Cheysuli; in the ability to become a hawk
and know the freedom of the skies."

           
He did not look away.
"Aye."

           
"Then I offer you a challenge,
my lord. I offer you risk." Lisa smiled a little. "Put it aside,
Hart. Set aside this need of the game, and look instead to becoming a prince in
fact. Solinde is in the palm of your hand. Grasp it, my lord, or surely you
will lose it."

           
"It is out of my hand," he
said. "Blame me, blame Dar, blame us both, but we have undertaken a wager
that will end this controversy over Solinde. One of us will be the victor, the
other the vanquished . . . with you and Solinde in the middle."

           
Lisa went rigid in her saddle.
"What have you done?" Her face was taut and pale. "What have you
done?"

           
Hart drew in a deep breath. "I
came to see you intending to tell you the truth at once. I delayed it because
it was easier, as always, to avoid speaking of it at all, and because I wanted
to spend time with you. And so now the time for truth is on me once again, I
find I have no more desire to spoil what is between us than I did before."

           
"Hart—"

           
"You must wed," he said
clearly, overriding the beginnings of her protest. "And wed soon, for the
sake of Solinde. For all I avoid responsibility whenever possible, I am no
stranger to political intrigues and marriages. Three choices face you, Lisa:
wed me, wed Dar, or wed another powerful Solindishman with the ability to help
you hold Solinde."

           
She said nothing.

           
Hart did not look away. "If you
delay, my own hold on Solinde increases; are they not advocating you wed within
a month?" Grimly he nodded, though she remained locked in rigid silence.
"If you wed Dar, Solinde will one day revolt; he has as much as promised
it. If you wed another Solindishman, there will always be those who advocate
rebellion. If you wed me—“

           
Lisa cut him off. "Why?"
she asked flatly. "Why would I wed you? You offer me nothing, my lord
wagerer . . . you offer nothing to Sotinde save irreverence and
irresponsibility."

           
"The wager is this," he
said quietly. "If you wed me, Dar gives over the Third Seal—and his life.
If you wed Dar, I am sent home to Homana . . . and Solinde remains
Solindish."

           
"Under a Homanan regent!"
Color spilled into her face, then out again. "Dar put up his life?"

           
"Aye, lady—at his own behest. I
do not want it."

           
"But you accepted the
wager!"

           
"I am on the edge of the
blade," he said clearly. "If I go home to my jehan, having lost
Solinde, I will have lost him as well. Worse, I wilt have destroyed the
prophecy."

           
Hart nodded slowly. "Aye, Lisa,
I accepted the wager. Dar gave me no other choice."

           
"What choice did you give him?”
He saw tears in her eyes. "If he loses this wager, he loses his life! I
think that is more important than a Cheysuli prophecy—"

           
"One life is little when
balanced against a race," Hart told her quietly. "Hear me, Lisa, when
I tell you that above all, I serve the prophecy. Wastrel that I have been, I am
fully committed to this. Aye, you spoke of pride—and I do take pride in
something. I take pride in the prophecy."

           
"So you leave the choice to
me," she said bitterly. "Yet again you turn your back on responsibility
and reduce the future of Solinde to a wager and a woman's choice of
husband." She said something more, equally bitterly, but the words were
Solindish, and he did not know them. He knew only that he had angered her far
more than even he had anticipated.