Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (13 page)

 
          
Go
, he told himself.
Just go, go to bed—turn your back on this
idiocy. Think of something else. Dream of something else. Imagine yourself with
a woman
—

 
          
But
the chain transfixed his eyes, washing him free of all thought except the need
to touch it. To hold it in his hands.

 
          
I think I begin to hate you
—

 
          
But
nothing could make him ignore it.

 
          
Wearily
Aidan mounted the dais steps. He halted briefly before the Lion, rubbing
absently at gritty eyes, then slowly knelt. The motion was awkward and painful;
his ribs still ached. He placed both hands upon the curving, carved armrests
and gripped the Lion's paws. The throne was dead to him. A thing of wood; no
more. He sensed none of its power or the ambience of its age.

 
          
Burning
eyes locked on the chain coiled against dark velvet. "So," he said
unevenly, "I shall put out my hand to touch it, and the gold will crumble
to dust."

 
          
Aidan
put out his hand. Fingertips touched gold. He waited for it to crumble, but the
chain remained whole.

 
          
"Something,"
he breathed, "is different."

 
          
Nothing
answered him. Silence was very loud.

 
          
He
waited. He knew what had to happen. It happened without fail. It had
always
happened.

 
          
He
clung one-handed to the Lion. "This time, something is
different
."

 
          
The
hissed declaration filled the hall. He heard himself breathing; the uneven
rasping of air sucked through a throat nearly closed off by emotions. He could
not name them all, only two: a slowly rising despair and a burgeoning
exhilaration.

 
          
They
were, he thought, contradictory emotions, even as he felt them. How could a man
experience exhilaration and despair, both at the same time? From the same
cause?

 
          
He
allowed his fingers to move. Now the palm touched the chain.

 
          
Cool,
rune-scribed metal. No different from that on his arms. Solid, substantial
gold.

 
          
"I
know you," Aidan challenged. "You entice me, you seduce me, promising
fidelity—the moment I pick you up, there will be nothing left but dust."

 
          
Nothing
answered him.

 
          
Sweat
prickled flesh. He ached, yet felt no pain, only a brittle intensity. A
growing, obsessive hunger.

 
          
Aidan
dared to close his fingers. The chain remained solid.

 
          
He
laughed softly into the darkness. "Such a sweet, subtle seduction… if I
but pick you up—" He suited action to words.

 
          
Links
rang softly, chiming one against another.

 
          
Aidan
knelt before the Lion. One hand steadied himself. The other held up the chain.
It dangled in the dimness, one perfect link clutched in rigid, trembling
fingers.

 
          
Jubilation
crept closer, hand in hand with apprehension. Aidan stared, waiting. The hair
stood up on his arms, tickled the back of his neck. He drew in a tenuous
breath, taking care to make no sound. "What now?" he whispered.

 
          
In
answer, the link parted. Half of the chain fell, spilling across crimson
velvet.

 
          
Oh, gods—oh, no—not AGAIN—

 
          
A
blurt of sound escaped him: forlorn, futile protest. Sweat ran down his
temples, tracing the line of his jaw. "So," he rasped hoarsely,
"you tease me a little
more
—"

 
          
Intrusion.
He heard the scrape of silver on marble; the step of booted feet. Humiliation
bathed him. If his father found him like this, or even the Mujhar—

 
          
Aidan
set his teeth and turned, still kneeling, still clutching the remaining links
against his bare chest. That much he had gotten, he had
won
… if he showed his father—if he displayed it to the Mujhar, or
to anyone who asked—

 
          
Halfway
breathed, breath stopped. The man was no one he knew.

 
          
And
yet, somehow, he did. He knew that face; had
seen
that face. The same tawny hair, now silvered. The same blue
eyes, but no patch; both eyes were whole. Even the same remarkable physical
presence, though this man, Aidan thought, was a trifle taller than the Mujhar.
The breadth of shoulder was startling; that, and his expression.

 
          
No
, Aidan mouthed. And then, almost
laughing:
Aye. First Shaine, now—this.
Now HIM—

 
          
Transfixed,
he stared at the man. At the slow transformation in the features. First a quiet
acceptance of his presence in a place not quite expected. Then the realization
of what that place, and his presence, meant. Lastly the quiet joy, the subtle
recognition of a man returned to his home after too many years—and deaths—away.

 
          
It
was not an old face, not as old as the Mujhar's, though the lines were similar.
But there was an odd awareness of age, an eerie aura of knowledge far greater
than Aidan's own, so well-tutored in heritage. This man was not Cheysuli, but
clearly he knew the Great Hall. Clearly he knew the Lion.

 
          
Unlike
Shaine in his velvets, he wore plain soldiers' garb: ringmail over leather.
Ringmail stained with blood; leather scuffed from usage. On his hand glinted
the ring Aidan's grandsire wore.

 
          
Ringmail
in place of velvets.

 
          
Aidan
stared blankly, recalling Shaine, whose arrogance dominated. This man was as
proud, but less of himself than of things that had occurred in a realm once his
own.

 
          
Aidan's
lips were dry.
A different kind of Mujhar—

 
          
The
length of the hall, he came. Then stopped before the dais, before the throne,
before the prince still kneeling in rigid silence, pale Erinnish flesh
stretched nearly to cracking over unmistakable Cheysuli bones.

 
          
"So
long
," the man whispered.
"I thought never to see it again."

 
          
Numbly,
Aidan murmured, "This is Homana-Mujhar."

 
          
The
other man's jubilant smile was brilliant. "I know where I am. I know who
you are. Do you know who
I
am?"

 
          
Aidan
wet dry lips. "I can make a guess."

 
          
The
stranger laughed aloud, in eerie exultation. "Then let me save you the
trouble: my name is Carillon. That throne once belonged to me." He paused
delicately. "And are you kneeling to me, or to your own
tahlmorra
?"

 
          
Aidan
did not move. "Carillon was Homanan. He knew nothing of
Tahlmorras
."

 
          
Tawny
eyebrows rose. "Nothing? Nothing at all? When it was
my
doing that the Lion Throne of Homana was given back into
Cheysuli hands?" Blue eyes were assessive. "Ah, Aidan, have they
neglected your history? Or are you merely being perverse?"

 
          
"Homanans
have no
tahlmorras
."

 
          
"Oh,
I think they do. I think they simply lack the imagination to accept them."
Carillon's voice was kind, pitched to a tone of quiet compassion. "It
hurts to kneel on marble. If I were you, I would not."

 
          
Aidan
put out a groping hand and caught at the Lion, dragging himself from the dais.
He stared at his kinsman. His great-great-grandsire, with no Cheysuli in him.

 
          
I am so tired
—
so confused
—

 
          
He
sighed gustily, trying to summon respect for a man dead so many years even
though the pragmatic part of him suggested he might be so tired and sore he was
merely dreaming the whole thing. "I suppose you have come with a message,
much like Shaine. I suppose you are here to talk about this chain, much like
Shaine." He held it up; it dangled. "The rest of it is in the throne…
I am only worth half of it." He grimaced, shoving away the acknowledgment
of pain. "But more than I was before."

 
          
Carillon
said nothing.

 
          
Aidan
looked down at his kinsman, taller than Carillon only because of the dais. He
lacked the height of his father or the Mujhar, certainly that of the man—or
fetch—he faced now. "Shaine mouthed nonsense. Have you come to do the
same?"

 
          
Now
Carillon smiled. "I did not come: I was
brought
. By you, whether or not you know it. There is a certain
need…" But he did not finish. "As for Shaine, he often mouthed
nonsense. My uncle—my
su'fali
, as you
might say—was a hard man to know, and a harder man to like. Respect, honor,
even admire, aye—"

 
          
"Admire!"
Aidan's astonishment echoed. "The
ku'reshtin
began the
qu'mahlin
! He nearly
extinguished my race!"

 
          
Some
of the fire dimmed in old/ageless blue eyes. "Aye, he did that. But I was
speaking of the man before the madness. The man who was Mujhar, was
Homana
, before the fool who began a
purge." Carillon sighed. Wan light glinted on ringmail. "He was a man
of great loves and stronger hatreds. I will excuse him for neither; I did not
understand him, save to serve him as an heir. And, as you know, even that was
never intended; I was not raised to be Mujhar."

 
          
"No,"
Aidan agreed, giving up the last vestige of disbelief. It seemed he was meant
to have discourse with all manner of men and gods.

 
          
"I
was raised to be a soldier, and to inherit my father's title. Never my uncle's—that
only became
my
place when Lindir ran
away with Hale, and Shaine got no other heirs." Carillon glanced down at a
lifted hand: blood-red ruby glowed. "So, I was made heir to Homana… and
heir to travesty—" Abruptly he broke it off, smiling ruefully. "But
you know all of this… I will bore you with old stories." Now the smile was
twisted. "Finn would say it is my habit, to prate about history."

 
          
"Finn,"
Aidan echoed. "Could he come here? Could I summon him, if what you say is
true?" He paused. "Finn—and
Hale
?"

 
          
After
a momentary stillness, Carillon shook his head. "They were never
Mujhars."

 
          
"Mujhars,"
Aidan murmured. He looked at the chain in his hand. Realization was swift.
"Mujhars—and links. Is that what this is about? Is that what the dreams
are for?" He held out the portion to Carillon. His voice shook, even as
his hand. "Is that
it
, my lord?
Each of those links—"

 
          
"—is
a man." Carillon's voice was steady. "A man caught up in the game of
the gods. But you should know that, Aidan. You should know very well."

 
          
I know nothing at all
… Aidan strung out
the chain, touching individual links. "You. Donal. Niall. Here: my
jehan
." The chain ended abruptly.

 
          
Suspicion
blossomed painfully. So did fear.

 
          
White-faced,
Aidan swallowed. Looked at the Lion. Reached down and picked up the two halves
of the broken link. They chimed in his hand. "And Aidan?" he asked
softly, looking back at Carillon.