Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (55 page)

 
          
After
a moment, he laughed.
Has it been like
this for you
?

 
          
Teel
did not answer at once. When he did, the characteristic acerbity was missing.
We belong together. They made us for one
another, you and I
.

 
          
You
were the one who said I should go
.

 
          
But I did not say we would enjoy it
.
Teel paused.
Will you fly
?

 
          
Aye
, Aidan said fervently.
I have been too long on the ground
.

 
          
Teel
lifted off the shoulder and flew. Aidan, not caring one whit who saw the
shapechange, with or without warning, lifted both arms, snapped up hands, give
himself over to the change.

 
          
The
void was swift and powerful, filling him with familiar exultation. As always,
he walked the edge of pain, but it was a sweet, comforting pain, filling every
portion of his being with triumph. He would not trade this for anything,
anything at all.

 
          
Muscles
knotted. Bones reknitted. The heart, pumping blood, sought and found new
avenues. Aidan, shouting aloud, heard the human voice altered even as he cried
out, and knew the change complete.

 
          
He
did not go at once to the fortress, but lingered over Kilore with Teel,
sweeping across the ocean, then angling back again. He was not a hawk, to soar,
or a falcon to plunge in stoop, but a raven. He flew as a raven flies, glorying
in the freedom, but knew it only delayed what lay before him. So he flew to the
fortress gates, took back his human form, and gave polite greeting to the
astonished guard contingent.

 
          
Aidan
smiled blandly. "Surely you have seen the Lady do similar things."

 
          
One
of the men cleared his throat. "Aye. But she always warns us, first."

 
          
That
did not sound like Keely. But then perhaps she had changed, during her years in
Erinn; after all, he had not known her at all. She had sailed from Homana when
he was but a few months beyond a year. He did her a disservice if he gave
credence to
all
the tales.

 
          
He
was admitted at once and went immediately into the fortress, looking for Sean
and Keely. He found them in the central hall, occupied by guests. He paused in
the doorway, thinking another time might be better; Keely saw him, put
something down, rose and called him in. Sean, bent over a gameboard with
another man, looked up, saw him, pushed away his stool.

 
          
Aidan
acceded to Keely's invitation solemnly, the peace regained in
lir
-shape dissipating too quickly. He
felt the eyes on him, all of them, and glanced briefly at the visitors as he
made his way to Keely. And realized, as he looked at the man with Sean, he was
among kinfolk. There was only one man in the world who claimed all of Sean's
size and more, as well as the flaming red beard.

 
          
"Well?"
Keely's voice was sharp.

 
          
He
saw no reason to soften the truth, or belabor it. "The Queen of Homana is
dead."

 
          
She
was very still. Then she drew in a deep breath, released it, nodded once.
"
Leijhana tu'sai
."

 
          
Aidan
felt a flicker of unaccustomed hostility. "Are you giving me thanks for
the news, or to the gods for answering your petition?"

 
          
Keely's
mouth opened. Blue eyes were wide and astonished, outraged by his presumption,
and then he saw the flinch of comprehension. Keely turned from him rigidly and
sought her chair, sitting down with exceptional care. She took from the table
the thing she had held as he entered; he saw it was a sword. Now it rested
across her knees, as if she meant to continue polishing it, but she made no
move to pick up the cloth. Both hands were on the blade, dulling the shine; he
saw the tension in her fingers as she closed them, and he wondered if she
intended to cut herself so the physical pain would keep the emotional at bay.

 
          
"
Jehana
," Keely said numbly. No one
made a sound, not even Sean, who watched her compassionately, or the blonde
woman nearest her with a young child in her lap.

 
          
The
moment lasted a year. Then, with renewed resolution, Keely shook her head.
"No. That was Deirdre—" She looked at Aidan, blinking away unshed
tears. "There are kinfolk for you to meet."

 
          
Aidan
smiled. "I know. Rory Redbeard, is it not?" He nodded a greeting,
glancing at the huge man.

 
          
"And
your
su'fala
," Keely continued
steadfastly, as if introductions might delay the acknowledgment of Gisella's
passing. "Maeve. And four of five cousins."

 
          
Courtesy
kept him in the hall. He greeted all of them—the blonde, green-eyed woman very
much like Deirdre, her mother; the red-haired boy of sixteen, so obviously
Rory's; the blonde girl of fourteen or so, and another perhaps ten, both
sweet-faced and shy; the last a very young child in Maeve's arms—but he wanted
only to find Shona. There were things he needed to say to her.

 
          
"Where
is—"

 
          
Sean
was the one who answered. "Outside, with Riordan. And Blais." His
brown eyes were steady. "On the south side of the wall, shooting
arrows."

 
          
Aidan
nodded absently and turned to go at once, only vaguely aware he should stay to
talk, to exchange news, but to do so would drive him mad. He had renewed his
link with Teel; now there was Shona.

 
          
"Aidan."

 
          
Irritated,
he turned back. Keely rose, holding the sword. "I want you to have this. I
had it made—'tis a woman's blade."

 
          
The
Erinnish lilt nearly made him smile. "I thank you for your generosity,
su'fala
, but what use is a woman's blade
to me?"

 
          
"Not
for you. For your daughter. For Shona's—" Keely broke it off, scowling
fiercely at the blade. "I want no milk-mouthed granddaughter in
Homana-Mujhar. Give her a sword, Aidan—and give her the means to use it."

 
          
Keely
set the sword into his hands. He appraised it carefully, marking its superior
balance, the perfect weight and excellent quality, and grieved that he would
dishonor the giving as well as hurt Keely. But there was nothing else for it.
He would not lie to her.

 
          
Aidan
handed back the sword. "Keep it," he said softly. "And give it
to
Shona's
daughter."

 
          
The
emphasis was deliberate. As he turned away he heard her indrawn breath of
shock, and knew she understood what he intended to tell her daughter.

 
          
He
found them, as Sean had said, on the south side of the fortress wall. Three of
them: Riordan, Shona, and a stranger. Their backs were to him as he approached.
Shona's thick blonde braid divided her back in half, dangling to her thighs,
and Riordan's unruly shoulder-length hair tumbled in the wind. But the
stranger's hair was very black, also long—though not nearly as long as Shona's—and
also braided. For a moment Aidan believed the stranger a woman, until he looked
beyond the hair and saw height, shoulders, stature.

 
          
He
wore Erinnish clothing: long-sleeved wool tunic, dyed dark green, with
copper-bossed leather bracers snugged halfway up his forearms; leather
over-tunic, belted with copper platelets hooked together by copper rings; and
green woolen trews tucked into low-heeled calfboots. Although most Erinnish
were light- or red-haired, Aidan had seen some with near-black hair. But there
was no doubting the stranger's heritage, regardless of where he was or what he
wore. . His eyes, when he turned, were pure Cheysuli yellow.

 
          
Aidan's
kivarna
tingled. Recognition,
acknowledgment; his blood knew perfectly well even if
he
did not.

 
          
The
stranger smiled. The hair, though braided back in an Erinnishman's warrior
plait, looped through with cord, was also held from his face by a slender leather
thong.

 
          
This man looks more Cheysuli than I do, even
without the gold
… It was an unsettling thought. Aidan did not know him.
Neither did his
kivarna
.

 
          
But
then Shona turned, and Aidan forgot all about strange Cheysuli warriors. So,
clearly, did she; her color drained away, leaving her gray as death, then
rushed back to splotch her cheeks and set brown eyes to glittering with a
vibrant intensity. In loud silence, she held the bow. A compact Cheysuli warbow
once refused to her brother.

 
          
Now
apparently not. Riordan, deaf and blind to the sudden tension—which betrayed
the absence of
kivarna
in Sean's son—impatiently
tapped the bow. "Shoot it, Shona—or let
me
shoot it!"

 
          
Aidan
approached steadily, taking care with each step. He was not purposely delaying
the moment, but his nerves screamed with acknowledgment of her nearness. He
refused to give into emotion, or physical sensation, merely to please a gift he
did not fully understand. His
kivarna
needed training. He was prepared to instruct it.

 
          
Riordan
now tugged at the bow, but Shona was unmoved. She clung to the weapon with
steadfast determination, ignoring her young brother's muttered threats. She was
as intense as Aidan; he wondered if she, too, fought the silent battle with her
senses.

 
          
He
meant to speak to Shona. But the stranger, standing beside her, beat him to it.
"Aidan, it is?" he asked. "They said you'd be coming—but not so
soon, I'm thinking… unless Gisella died."

 
          
Distracted,
Aidan spared only a quelling glance for the stranger. His world was alive with
Shona's nearness, and yet something about the stranger snared his attention as
well. It was more than a little astonishing to hear a Cheysuli warrior speaking
pure, fluent Erinnish with a broad Erinnish accent.

 
          
His
command of the tongue and its nuances was expert enough to mark him
islander-born, except that he was so blatantly Cheysuli.

 
          
And
then Aidan knew. Not islander-born, but almost. As close as one could come,
while drawing first-breath in Homana. "Blais?" he asked tentatively,
recalling Sean's brief mention.

 
          
The
other nodded, grinning. "Half-cousins, we are. Maeve is my mother. And the
Redbeard, well…" Blais shrugged, gesturing oddly. "In spirit if not
in blood, Rory is my father."

 
          
In
spirit
only
. Aidan recalled, with
unsettling clarity, precisely who Blais was.

 
          
Yellow
eyes narrowed assessively. "If you're not minding, cousin, I'll be sailing
back with you."

 
          
"Back?"

 
          
"To
Homana." The faint smile was ironic. For all his accent was Erinnish,
Blais' attitude was Cheysuli. "You
will
be going back, I'm thinking… who would turn his back on a throne like the
Lion?"

 
          
Who
indeed? Certainly not Teirnan, Blais' true father. Teirnan still fought
for
the throne, with his treacherous
followers.

 
          
Blais'
eyes glinted. In fluent Old Tongue, he said, "I think it is past time I
met my
jehan
. I have a
lir
, but no gold, no Ceremony of Honors,
no proper
shu'maii
. I am as Cheysuli
as you, cousin… do you not think I am due what other warriors are given?"
He paused delicately, then added in Homanan, "A warrior should know his
own bloodline. It is easier for the gods to keep track of us."