Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 (55 page)

           
After a moment, she did.

           
Corin sprawled on his back in the
center of his bed. It felt odd to be in it after so many months, smelling
familiar smells, feeling familiar warmth and the softness of the mattress. He
had known so little warmth and softness in Strahan's glassy fortress.

           
He sought Kiri with one hand, found
her, lost himself in silent communion. It remained unbroken until his sister
came into the chamber.

           
"Corin?"

           
He turned his head.

           
"You mean to go back to
Atvia."

           
It was a statement, not inquiry. He
thought about it a moment, then nodded. "I think so."

           
Keely moved closer to the bed,
"And if I asked you to stay?"

           
The wall of his belly clenched.
"Do you know what you ask?"

           
"I know." She stood
rigidly beside the bed. "Aileen has confided in me." She shrugged a
little, clearly tense.

           
"We became close. Corin, being
somewhat alike . . . she told me what had happened, and how." Abruptly she
sat down. "Gods, rujho, I know how you must feel! But if you go to Atvia
you will leave me all alone."

           
"I went to Atvia before."

           
"That was for a year. You would
come home, I knew it—but now, now—' She sighed, shaking her head; the tawny
braid shook itself. "You will go, and never come home again."

           
He stroked Kiri with resolution,
locked away in silence.

           
Keely's tone altered. "You are
afraid. I see it."

           
"Aye." He did not shirk
the admission.

           
"You, Corin?"

           
"I have cause." He
threaded fingers in Kiri's pelt.

           
"Alaric is dead. Atvia lies
open to whatever influence Lillith wields, and Strahan. And jehana also is
there—witless, twisted jehana." He rolled his head against the bedclothes.
"Someone must go, Keely . . . and Atvia is mine."

           
"Leave it to someone
else."

           
"No."

           
"Corin—"

           
"I will not run from
responsibility, nor bewail it. I have something of my own at last, something no
one else may hold; Atvia is mine. It is for me to put the realm into order
again, my task, to put light in place of darkness. It is for me to do; not
Brennan, not Hart, not you."

           
He shook his head again. "One
day, Keely, you will learn that saying no is not always the answer. Nor is
turning your back."

           
"Then you will go."

           
Corin sighed. "Aye."

           
Keely's tone was bitter.
"Because the prophecy requires it."

           
"As much as it requires service
of you. And you will serve it, Keely; no matter how difficult, how demanding,
how much sacrifice is asked. You are not like Teirnan."

           
Corin sat up and turned, swinging
his legs over the edge of the bed. He still wore his boots; he did not care
that he had soiled his bedclothes. "Be what you must, Keely, but let me do
what I must."

           
She leaned against him slightly.
"Then do it, I will not gainsay you; I am not such a fool as to say no to
you now, after such a pretty speech. But you are a fool if you think I will not
curse you for such newfound resolution."

           
"I am not a fool; I know you
will." He flipped her braid behind her back.

           
Keely drew in a breath. "Will
you see her before you go?"

           
"I thought to do so now."

           
She opened her mouth, then shut it,
and would not meet his eyes.

           
After a moment, he nodded. "She
has gone to Brennan."

           
"They—she said there are things
to be settled between them, things Brennan must know of her, and things she
must learn of him. She said if she left it until after she had seen you—"
She broke off, plainly uncomfortable.

           
"Oh, Corin—"

           
"Later, then; we will both of
us be better prepared to say good-bye." Corin nodded; his "newfound
resolve" was firm at last, and something he could live with. "And
now, if you do not mind, I would like to take a bath."

           
He bent over and tugged off his
boots, one by one, welcoming the activity. And then, distracted, he looked at
his sister in startled comprehension. "Oh, gods, Keely-one-handed. Hart
cannot even do this!"

           
Keely turned her face against his
shoulder in unspoken grief for lost hands and lost brothers, not knowing, for
her, which was worse, or would be.

           
Hart pushed open his chamber door,
leaned against it in weary numbness, at last moved aside and shut it. As
always, he looked for Rael. As always, the hawk was on his perch, wings folded,
perfectly groomed, content to wait in silence.

           
He sighed. He wandered aimlessly to
the bed, sat down on the edge, stared blankly at the floor. He wondered vaguely
if he was ill; depression was foreign to him.

           
"Gods," he said aloud; it
seemed a most eloquent comment. Wearily he bent forward, reached to grab his
boots, realized abruptly he no longer had the freedom to undress himself at his
leisure.

           
It stunned him. But then for longer
than he could remember, he had not been required to change clothing or boots.
In Valgaard, there had been no need, and there had been no time on the journey
from Taliesin's cottage to Mujhara except to dip head in a bucket and scrub
face and hands—hand—clean.

           
Hart stared at his boot. At his
hand. And at the hand that no longer existed. "Gods—" he said; he
choked, and covered his head with his arms.

           
"Let me," the woman said,
and he jerked arms away in shock.

           
Lisa. He gaped at her like a fool.

           
Lisa. In his room.

           
"Let me," she repeated,
and knelt to remove his boot.

           
Awkwardly, Hart scrambled away. He
found himself standing some ten feet from her, still staring, still made mute
by her presence; filled with abject humiliation, that she had seen his helplessness.

           
And then anger began to replace it.
"Go." he said curtly.

           
Lisa rose. The incandescence of her
beauty had not faded, and he felt renewed astonishment at the magnitude of it.
"Hart," she said, "it does not matter to me."

           
He was shaking. "You knew."

           
"Dar told me what he had
done." She was pale as death. "He thought I would approve."

           
"And you did not?"

           
"I was appalled." Her tone
was even. At first he thought she spoke by rote, not caring what she said;
beneath the tone he sensed a wire stretched to breaking.

           
"I swear, I did not know what
he intended. I did not know he would go so far."

           
"But you did not tell the
Mujhar." He recalled too clearly his father's shock.

           
Even her lips were pale. "I
could not find the words. Not after I learned how he lost his eye. To tell him
his son had also been maimed by Ihlini treachery—?" White-faced, Lisa
shook her head. "I could not do it. I thought it better left to you."

           
He thought again of Dar. "You
were in the house."

           
As he intended, his tone accused.

           
Lisa drew in a breath. Slender
fingers shredded the gray-blue silk of her gown. "Dar came," she
said. "We drank wine. We spoke of you. I told him I wanted no harm to come
to you, nor to him, nor to Solinde. And he laughed, and said it would not; that
the wager was merely a game." Her tone wavered minutely; she steadied it
and went on. "I looked into his eyes, and knew he lied to me. But by then
it was too late. The wine was drugged. I—slept." Color touched her cheeks;
the glacial eyes were angry. "In the morning, he came in triumph, saying
the enemy was removed. And he told me what he had done."

           
Hart longed to believe her.
"Did he tell you all of it?"

           
"Aye." She did not look
away as he displayed the handless arm before her. "He told me quite
clearly, in his perversity, knowing I would be sickened, and seeking pleasure
from it." Lisa drew in a trembling breath. "I swear, I swear, I had
nothing to do with it."

           
His eyes narrowed. "Why are you
here? What did you tell my jehan so he would let you stay?"

           
Her eyes were startled. "The
truth. That I desire you to come home."

           
"Home?"

           
Fingers twitched in a gesture of
arrested acknowledge-ment. "To Solinde," she amended.

           
He nodded grimly. "Dar should
like that."

           
"Dar should not," she said
quietly, "knowing he will be executed,"

           
That startled him out of his
bitterness. He stared at her and saw the grief in her eyes, that she tried to
hide and could not. "I am not dead. It was a hand, not my head."

           
And he knew, as he said it, the
first seeds Taliesin had so carefully planted were beginning to take root.

           
"It was treason," she said
steadily. "He attacked the Prince of Solinde and otherwise threatened his
person. I had no other choice but to petition the regent for Dar's arrest, and
I did so immediately." She paused awkwardly.

           
"It is for you to give the
order, when the trial is completed."

           
"Me?"

           
"You are the Prince of
Solinde."

           
He did not deny it. "Why a trial,
Lisa? So that others might argue in Dar's behalf? I should think the Solindish
might prefer to be rid of me, regardless of circumstances."

           
"Some, aye," she agreed,
"but not all,"

           
"What of you?" he asked.
"What of the last of Bellam's line?"

           
Lisa drew in a breath. "I came
here to bring you home—" quickly, she caught herself, "—to Solinde. I
came to tell you that we are in need of a prince of the blood." Her smile
was slight, but wry. "A prince not entirely of our blood, perhaps, but
there is some. Electra was your kinswoman as well as mine, though we tend to
overlook it; I am not the sole bearer of the blood of Bellam's House. It
should, in the end, please those who argue against you." Briefly, Lisa
looked down at closed hands, "I came here to tell you I had chosen even
before Dar arrived—it was why I sent the messenger—and that you were the one L
chose."

           
"Did you?" It was
rhetorical; he was not certain he believed her.

           
"Aye," she told him
evenly, and held out her closed right hand.

           
After a moment, he accepted what she
gave him. Heavy rings chimed. He looked down at the Third Seal. At the Second,
which Tarron had held. And the First, that had been in Niall's keeping.

           
"The Trey," Lisa said.

           
"I know what it is." He
felt empty, "I do not think I can."

           
"There is also this." Lisa
held out her other hand.

           
When he did not move to accept what
she offered, she turned over her hand and opened it. Against her palm the
sapphire glowed.

           
"My signet," he blurted,
startled.

           
"I got it from the wine-girl
after Dar told me she had it."