Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (49 page)

 
          
"So,"
she said, "it comes. Too many years too late, but at last it comes."

 
          
Sean
did not go directly to her. Instead he moved by her as if to sit down in the
chair she disdained, and then paused. One big hand settled upon her right
shoulder. A moment later the other shoulder was also engulfed. Very gently, he
squeezed, and Aidan saw the tension of Keely's fingers relax almost
imperceptibly. Now the goblet shook.

 
          
Aidan
looked at her face.
Is it comfort he
offers her? Or restraint
?

 
          
"So,"
Keely repeated. "Gisella is dying, and wants to see her kin."

 
          
It
startled him. Slowly Aidan sat down, conscious of Shona drifting toward the
fireplace. His senses chafed at the distance, but he studiously ignored them.
If this was what
kivarna
was, this
strong physical tie, he was not certain he wanted to obligate himself to it.
Understanding the feelings of others was bad enough.

 
          
Aidan
cleared his throat. "Will you go?"

 
          
Keely's
astonishment was blatant. "I?"

 
          
"Aye.
She is your
jehana
. If she wants her
kinfolk, surely she means you."

 
          
Keely
laughed once, mirthlessly. She gulped from the goblet, then thunked it down
upon the table. "Whether she means me or not makes no difference. She gave
up any claim to me more than forty years ago, when she tried to hand my
rujholli
over to Strahan." Keely's
face hardened. "I renounced her in life. Now I renounce her in
death."

 
          
Sean's
hands remained on her, gently working the taut tendons stretched between neck
and shoulders. "Lass, 'tis Corin you should be thinking of. 'Twill
dishonor him if no one goes."

 
          
"Corin
will understand." Keely's eyes were hard as stone. "I thought perhaps
Aidan might go."

 
          
"Me!"
He stared at her in surprise. "I have never even seen her. Gisella is
nothing to me…
Deirdre
is my
granddame, if only in name." He shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. "I
have no desire to see a dying old woman."

 
          
"Her
blood is in your veins," Keely said. "It is what makes you a part of
the prophecy, Aidan—" But she pulled free of Sean and strode away from
them all, turning back awkwardly when she had gone three paces. "I cannot
go. I cannot
make
myself go, even if
I should. I have spent a lifetime hating that woman… she is old and sick and
dying, and
mad
…" Wearily she
rubbed her brow, stretching the flesh out of shape. "Someone should go,
for Corin's sake if nothing else… and for Gisella's. But not me. I would look
at her, and see the woman whose actions nearly destroyed me, and I would hate
her. And no one, dying, deserves hatred. She deserves forgiveness—"
Keely's face was frozen. Tears glittered briefly. "There is none of that
in me."

 
          
Sean's
voice was quiet rustiness as he looked at Aidan. "She's seen none of her
grandchildren, lad. I've no doubt she's a lonely old woman, now—it might ease
her passing if she saw you."

 
          
"I
know, but…" Aidan sighed, giving up. "Aye. I understand. If nothing
else, I can carry word home to my grandsire that the Queen of Homana is dead…
it might be best from a kinsman, rather than a messenger." He pulled
himself out of his chair. "I will go."

 
          
"Wait."
It was Keely. "If you go, there is something you must do."

 
          
Aidan
nodded, willing.

 
          
Her
gaze remained steady. "You must leave your
lir
behind."

 
          
"Leave
Teel! Why? How can you even ask it?"

 
          
Sean's
voice was placatory. "There is reason, lad."

 
          
"I
cannot leave my
lir
behind."

 
          
Keely
shook her head. "You must, Aidan, or risk losing him. In Atvia, ravens are
death-omens. They shoot them whenever they can, so the birds cannot bear
tidings of death to the next one meant to die."

 
          
It
was unbelievable. "But
Corin
rules. He is Cheysuli. Surely he has taught them what a
lir
is."

 
          
"They
understand," Keely told him. "But Kiri is the only one they know, and
she is a fox. For centuries the Atvians have killed ravens. That sort of habit
is not easily overturned, even by a king—especially a foreign one…" She
sighed. "Is it worth taking the chance? Leave Teel here."

 
          
He
shook his heat. "If he remains here, I have no recourse to the
lir
-gifts. No shapechange, no healing—"

 
          
"Will
you need either, there?" Keely put her hand on his arm. "Stay a week.
A ten-day, at the most. Then come back—" she cast an enigmatic glance at
her daughter "—and do whatever you must do to settle your affairs."

 
          
Aidan
looked at Shona. For a long moment their gazes locked. Then she turned her
head, staring into the fire resolutely, and his reluctance to go to Atvia
evaporated. Perhaps the best thing for them at this moment was to part, to put
things in perspective. To better understand precisely what the
kivarna
meant, without feeling its
presence so tangibly.

 
          
Aidan
looked back at Keely. "First I will speak to Teel, Then I will go."

 
          
Sean's
smile was faint. "No need to
run
,
lad… stay the night while we feast you. I'll see you fetched across the
Dragon's Tail first thing in the morning."

 
          
Aidan
nodded. Shona turned on her heel and strode out of the hall.

 
          
«
^
»

 
          
Clearly,
the Atvians had expected Keely, or someone of her household. When only Aidan
arrived, a stranger unattended by even a single servant, or a message from the
Lord and his Lady, they displayed polite bewilderment, then belatedly mustered
the appropriate courtesy and ushered him into a chamber. To wait, he was told,
for a proper personage.

 
          
Aidan,
left to ponder the wisdom of his coming, idly walked the room. Rondule was,
much like Kilore, a fortress built to defend Atvia, not a dwelling designed to
offer excessive comfort. There were chairs, tables, benches; three pelt rugs; a
newly lighted fire. The beamwork was rough-hewn, hacked out of massive timbers,
and left purposely crude. Not much like Homana-Mujhar's fine, silk-smooth
beams, arching in graceful waves beneath the dark stone groins.

 
          
Aidan
sighed and halted by the fireplace, warming morning-chilled hands. The brief
voyage across the Dragon's Tail had been accomplished with speed and skill, but
he had a landsman's belly. He was pleased to be aground again.

 
          
Over
the mantel hung a massive wooden shield bossed with brass. The shield was
obviously quite old, with an honor all its own; gouges pocked the dark wood and
the brass was dented in places. Pieces were missing here and there, displaying
the dark outlines of the original ornamentation beneath. Aidan knew better than
to believe it a keepsake brought by Corin from Homana; more likely it was left
over from the wars between Atvia and Erinn.

 
          
It
seemed odd now to think of it. But the enmity between the two island realms,
separated only by a narrow channel, had forged a bitter rivalry into ongoing
hostility, so that two peoples who might otherwise be much alike had spent
generations killing one another. Now they were united in a peace forced by
Corin's assumption of the Atvian throne and a treaty first with Liam, then with
Sean, but Aidan knew better. People did not change their ways so quickly. Only
twenty years or so before Alaric had ruled, pure Atvian of the old line, a man
dedicated to making Erinn part of his domain. Corin, his grandson by Gisella,
had ended that ambition by inheriting on Alaric's death; Sean, married to
Corin's sister, had no wish to continue the battles that had, until Liam's
time, stolen away a portion of Erinn's manhood every year.

 
          
The
door swung open. Aidan turned, expecting Corin; instead, it was a woman.

 
          
She
paused, then entered the room and shut the door behind her. Small Hands were
clasped together in the folds of her deep russet gown. The color was most
flattering against dusky skin. Dark brown hair was braided neatly back from
delicate face and slender neck, then netted in gold and pinned to the back of
her head. A rope of dark garnets bound her waist, then dripped down to the hem
of her skirts. The dyed brown toes of slippers peeped under the hem as she
moved toward him, smiling exquisite welcome.

 
          
She
was, most obviously, not a serving-girl. Aidan revised his greeting instantly
and offered a courteous inclination of his head, explaining who he was and why
he had come in place of Keely or Sean.

 
          
Huge
eyes reflected momentary surprise. Then, still smiling, she gathered swirling
skirts in deft, graceful hands and swept into a curtsy. Garnets rattled
briefly; then she rose and placed one flattened hand over her heart, dipping
her head in eloquent acknowledgment. Beneath lowered lashes, Aidan saw brown
eyes rich and expressive. The mouth, curving slightly in a delicate, fragile
face of quiet loveliness, made no move to speak.

 
          
She
was thin, very thin, but with a tensile grace that belied the fragility of her
body. The long, slender neck, set off by the netted hair, was exquisitely
elegant. He thought of Shona, so tall and broad and strong, and realized next
to this woman the Erinnish princess would resemble a sturdy kitchen wench,
albeit one with a royal pedigree. But this woman's strength did not require a
body so much as it required eyes; looking at her. Aidan found himself
understanding her disability, and why it made no difference.

 
          
The
door swung open again. The woman turned, skirts swinging out, and Aidan
realized she was only mute, not deaf. He saw her delicate face light up as the
man entered, and then she went to him and took his hand, drawing him through.
Her smile was luminous as she turned to Aidan, still grasping the man's hand;
she put out her own, gesturing gracefully, and seemed to say everything
necessary with that single motion.

 
          
It
was, of course, Corin. Aidan knew it at once. There were few men in the world
who so strongly resembled the Mujhar, though Niall's stamp was somewhat diluted
by the other blood in Corin's veins, and the Lord of Atvia was much younger. He
was tawny-haired and blue-eyed, but bearded, like Sean. He also lacked Niall's
tremendous height and weight, built shorter and slighter, though no one would
name him small. He was, Aidan thought, at least as tall as Brennan and Hart,
perhaps even a bit taller. He wore traditional Cheysuli leathers, which Aidan
found unexpected in light of Corin's realm. There was gold on his arms and in
his left ear, glinting through thick hair. He was nothing at all like his
brothers, Aidan realized. But like his sister, aye. Keely was in his face and
smile.

 
          
Corin
nodded thoughtfully, assessing Aidan rapidly. His tone was very dry. "Not
so much of a weakling after all, are you? Was it Brennan's righteousness, or
Aileen's stubbornness that made you defy all the doomsayers who predicted your
death?"

 
          
Aidan
smiled politely. "And were you one of them?"

 
          
White
teeth flashed. "Hardly! You forget,
haranir—
I
know your
jehana
. I never believed
for a moment a son with Aileen of Erinn in him would give up so easily."