Read Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 Online
Authors: Flight of the Raven (v1.0)
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He
was up and out of his bed before he knew who or where he was; before he knew
what he wanted. The need drove him to it. The compulsion preempted everything:
thought, logic, comprehension, much as
lir
-sickness
had. It overtook his body and carried him to the door, where he pressed himself
against it in mute appeal for passage.
Inside
his head tolled a certainty tainted with a plea:.
This time I can touch it… this time it will be real—THIS time, I know
—
But
the declaration faded, along with certainty, as he came sluggishly to himself
from the depths of unsettling dreams. He realized, in despair, it had happened
yet again.
Sweat
filmed him. He slept nude, as always, disliking the bindings of sleepclothes,
the excess warmth of covers. So now, damp with dreams and fear, he shivered in
the chill of a cool summer night and cursed himself for a fool.
With
great effort he stilled his breathing, pressing his brow against the heavy door
as if the pressure of flesh on wood might drive out the dream he dreamed. But
it never did, never, no matter how hard he tried, and at last he turned, giving
up, scraping shoulder blades against wood, and stared blindly into darkness.
"Why?"
he whispered raggedly, through the headache only beginning. "Why does this
happen to
me
?"
In
the darkness, something stirred. But no answer was offered him; after too many
years of the asking, he no longer expected one.
The
pounding of his heart slowed. He swallowed heavily twice, disliking the bitter
aftertaste of the dream, and scratched irritably at a scalp itchy from
dream-fear and reaction. He shivered once, controlled it, then stood up at last
from the door.
He
lingered only a moment, considering what might happen if he simply went back to
bed; he knew better. He knew very well, having tasted futility more often than
dreamless slumber. So he gave up the sweet contemplation of what it might be like
if he could simply
sleep
, as other
people slept, and stumbled to the nearest clothing chest to pull out
age-softened leather leggings.
No
more: only leggings, enough for now, he thought; more would be too much. More
would be too
hot;
the summer night
was cool, but dreams banished comfort and basted him with warmth.
It would not be so bad
, he thought
wryly,
if at least I dreamed of women.
They are worth the discomfort of a night become too hot
.
He
had been a man, as manhood is reckoned, for nearly eight years. He had dreamed,
and spilled his seed, into women and into his bed. But it was not of women he
dreamed when the dreams were sent by gods.
A
servant always left him a lighted candle; he always blew it out. Warrior
training—and common sense—taught him safety lay in eyes well-accustomed to
heavy darkness instead of blinded by too much light. But his room was an outer
one, narrow casements slit the walls, and torchlight from the baileys crept
through to bathe his chamber. Pale light burnished his arms: faceted
lir
-bands gleamed.
Bare
of chest and feet, he swung back toward the door. He paused there, eyes shut,
cursing himself for a fool.
"Leave
it alone—
ignore
it—" Aidan bit
into his lip. "Who is in control: a piece of wood, or you?"
Inside
his head, the Lion roared. Aidan's belly knotted.
"Leave
it alone," he repeated. "Gods—leave
me
alone—"
Time to go
, someone said.
How can you turn back now? It has become
ritual… and you are not the kind who changes anything regardless of the need
.
Stung,
Aidan turned to glare through darkness at the rustling in the corner.
"What am I to change? Would you have it be my
tahlmorra
?"
Now
the tone was scornful.
You do not even
have an inkling what your tahlmorra IS
.
Through
the link, he lashed out.
I know very well
what it is
—
Do you?
I have known all along. What do you think I
am? Are YOU not proof that my tahlmorra is undertaken?
Because I exist? No
. The tone, now, was
cool.
I exist because I am. Because the
gods created me
.
To be my lir.
The
tone spilled into smugness.
Or you to be
mine
.
Aidan
swore beneath his breath. Mockingly, he asked, "Has any warrior ever
revoked the
lir
-link?"
No
living
warrior
.
It
reminded Aidan of something, as it was meant to do: the precariousness of his
race. "Has any warrior petitioned the gods for a new
lir
?"
Undoubtedly others have asked. But it is not
my duty to tell you how the gods deal with ungrateful children.
"Ungrateful,"
Aidan muttered. "How could any man be so foolish as to consider how peaceful
life might be if his
lir
was other
than you?"
How can any warrior contemplate peace when
he stands ready to fight a chair made of wood?
"Agh,
gods…" Aidan put his hand on the latch. "You do not need to come,
Teel. Stay in the corner and sulk; I can find my own way."
He
jerked open the heavy door and stepped through, leaving it ajar. He thought for
the merest moment he
would
be
unaccompanied, but the rustling grew louder. And then the raven left the
darkness and flew to perch on his shoulder.
Aidan
extended an arm. "Try my hand," he suggested. "Like this, you
scratch my shoulder."
Too soft
, his
lir
chided, but exchanged shoulder for hand.
Aidan
briefly considered taking a lamp with him, but decided against it. No corridor
in the massive palace was left completely without light so guards or servants,
if needed, could see to serve or protect, but unnecessary torches and lamps
were extinguished. And he was, after all, Cheysuli, with yellow Cheysuli eyes;
he saw what there was to see whether light existed or not.
"A
fool," Aidan muttered, but set off anyway. Ignoring the stubborn
compulsion gained him nothing but sleepless nights.
He
had known, for as long as he could remember, he was
different
. The dreams of childhood had faded during adolescence,
dissipated by the intense need for and the bonding with his
lir
, but once adulthood was reached the
dreams returned in force. Now, at twenty-three, he was accounted a warrior in
the clans and a full-grown man by the Homanans who called him a prince, but he
was still plagued by dreams. By the vision of the chain. By the
substance
of the chain—until he put out
a hand to touch it, and the links dispersed into dust.
As
a child, it had frightened him. Growing older, he believed it merely a
manifestation of a want and desire he could not fully understand. But of late
the dreams had worsened. The desire had become a
demand
. And Aidan fully believed, with a dreadful certainty, he was
somehow, someway, tainted.
"Tainted,"
he murmured aloud, aware of familiar tension.
Perhaps
, the raven agreed.
But why would gods choose a tool that is
tainted
? Teel paused significantly.
Unless
they merely
forgot—
It
was not precisely the sort of reassurance he craved. It was true the
lir
were a gift of the gods, but he preferred
to think of himself as a man, not a tool. Not even a divine one; he asked no
favors of the gods, for fear they might give him one.
Enough
, he said dismissively, sending it
through the link.
Well? Well? Why
would
they
?
Firmly,
Aidan said:
We are not discussing gods
.
Perhaps we
should
discuss them. You discuss everything else, yet very little of substance
.
He
gritted teeth, but did not answer. He merely walked, saying nothing, passing
out of shadows into torchlight, into darkness again. Through countless
corridors and passageways, knowing them all by heart, until he reached the
Great Hall.
There are times
, the raven commented,
even Cheysuli are fools
.
Aidan,
searching for release from the tension, settled on irony.
It is because of the other blood
.
Teel
considered it.
I think not
, he
replied.
I think it is merely you
.
Muttering
under his breath, Aidan shoved open the doors.
Go back to bed
, Teel suggested.
You know how you feel in the morning when
you spend the night chasing dreams. You know how you
look.
Irritated,
Aidan shifted back into human speech as he shouldered into the hall. Against
his flesh he felt the texture of the silver, the whorls and angles and patterns
set by craftsmen into the metal. "You know very well when I try to ignore
the dream, it only gets worse."
Because you allow it to.
He
let the door fall closed behind him, hearing its distant grate. Irritation
spilled away. Fear trickled back. He recalled all the nights very clearly.
Especially the first, when he had come at the age of six to find the chain of
gold in the lap of the Lion Throne. And how he had shamed himself, frightened
by something of wood; and by things he could not fathom.
All
came rushing back. Humiliation caused him to squirm; why could he not forget?
Tension
made him curt. "Is it there?"
Probably
, Teel observed dryly.
Is it not
always
there
?
Aidan
sighed and moved away from the heavy silver doors. The flames of the firepit
had died to coals, lending dim illumination to the cavernous hall. Shadows
cloaked the walls: tapestries and banners; history set in cloth. Wheels of
swords and daggers painstakingly bracketed in a perfect and deadly symmetry.
Spears and pikes sprouted from display blocks set in corners; flagsticks
dangled silk. In the folds crouched Homana. Beyond the pit, on the dais,
crouched the Lion Throne.
Teel
rode Aidan's hand easily, considerably lighter than the hawks, falcons and
eagles other warriors claimed. It was, Aidan felt, a facet of his very
differentness
that his
lir
was a raven. The bird was hardly
unknown in the history of the clans, but neither was it common. Aidan
considered it a jest played on him by capricious gods. In addition to sending
him dreams, they gave him an irascible
lir
.