Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 (70 page)

 
          
"No!"
he shouted. "
NO
!"

 
          
Aileen's
green eyes were wide. "Aidan, stop!" she cried. "No more of this—no
more
—"

 
          
"He
killed her!" he shouted. "He killed her and cut her
open
—"

 
          
"Aidan!
Listen to me!" Aileen shot a frightened glance over her shoulder toward
the door standing ajar and shouted for her husband. Then, turning back, she
pressed against his writhing flesh. "Stay still. You must remain still.
Your poor head can stand no more of this battering."

 
          
The
pain came in waves. "Shona," he whispered.

 
          
Brennan
came in, shoving the door open so hard it thudded against the wall and echoed
down the corridor. His face was gaunt and strained.

 
          
"Awake,"
Aileen told him, "and remembering everything."

 
          
Brennan
moved to the bed. The straps bound arms and legs; hissing, Aidan fought them.
"No," Brennan said. "No, let them be. We put them there for a
reason…" His voice trailed off as he looked down on his son. "How
much do you remember?"

 
          
Aidan
wanted to answer. But he felt the ripple in his flesh that presaged another
seizure. No matter how hard he tried to retain it, he was losing control of his
limbs. His head arched back, thrusting into the pillow.

 
          
Brennan
forcibly set Aileen aside. He leaned over his son and held him down against the
mattress, pinning him tightly. "No," he hissed. "No—you will
not
—"

 
          
Aidan's
vision flickered. The light in his room changed. Something buzzed in his ears,
distorting his father's voice.

 
          
"No,"
Brennan repeated. "Come
back
to
us, Aidan—all of you, and whole—not this crazed prophet—"

 
          
Jaws
locked into place. He tried to say her name. Only the sibilant escaped, like
the scrape of broom on stone.

 
          
Brennan's
hands tightened. "I want you back!" he shouted.

 
          
"Do
you hear me, Aidan?—
you
. For everyone
who needs you. For everyone who loves you."

 
          
Aidan
forced it between his teeth. "Shh—shh-ona—"

 
          
Brennan's
fingers tightened. The look in his eyes altered. "No," he said
gently. "Aidan—I am sorry."

 
          
It
was confirmation. Strength spilled out of him. With it went the spasms.

 
          
"Shona,"
Aidan whispered. In silence, Aileen cried.

 
          
Brennan
unsheathed his knife. With precise care, he cut the leather straps binding his
son. Mutely he peeled away the linen cuffs made to protect the flesh, then
discarded everything. As Aidan lay slack on the bed, Brennan massaged his
wrists.

 
          
"Clankeep?"
Aidan croaked.

 
          
"Mostly
destroyed," Brennan answered. "Much of the wall still stands, but
little inside. And even outside…" He shrugged. "Had it not rained two
days after, only the gods can say how much damage might have been done to the
surrounding forest."

 
          
"How
many people?"

 
          
Brennan's
expression was grim. "The count is one hundred and four. Women and
children, mostly."

 
          
"Lochiel,"
Aidan murmured.

 
          
"He
sent a message. A
written
message,
also; Clankeep was the first. That one in blood."

 
          
Distracted,
Aidan frowned. "What message?"

 
          
"That
he intends to do as his father—and
his
father—failed to do before him. Destroy the prophecy. Destroy
us
."

 
          
"Strahan's
son," Aidan murmured. "He was killing women and children. I heard
them dying." Attention wandered. He frowned, remembering. "I had a
sword wound."

 
          
"Healed
with the earth magic," Aileen told him. "And the bones of your head—"
She broke off, glancing at Brennan.

 
          
"But
not the wits inside?" Aidan's lips twitched once. "Have I been so
very odd?"

 
          
"Do
you recall none of it?" Brennan asked.

 
          
"Nothing
but Shona. Nothing but her…" Aidan stirred restlessly, ruthlessly pushing
away the memory of Locheil's butchery. "He preys on children. First he
kills Hart's son, then he turns to my child before it is even born."

 
          
"Lie
still," Aileen chided. "You have been very ill. It would be best if
you slept."

 
          
He
rolled his head slightly in denial. He was afraid of sleep. He was afraid of
what might come, sliding out of darkness into the light where he could see. And
where he could be afraid.

 
          
His
head ached unremittingly. The memory would not go. "He wanted it," he
murmured. "He wanted it for a purpose."

 
          
Aileen's
voice, so gentle. "Sleep, Aidan. Rest."

 
          
The
pain was increasing. "Lochiel took my
child
."

 
          
"Butcher,"
Brennan murmured. "Even Strahan did not stoop to that."

 
          
"He
took it," Aidan repeated. "He stole it from her body."

 
          
"Aidan,
rest." His mother again, smoothing a pain-wracked brow.

 
          
He
realized they did not understand. He needed them to. He
required
them to. "He took it. Lochiel took the child. He cut
Shona open and
took
the child from
her."

 
          
"Aidan."
Brennan leaned down, hands pressing a warning against Aidan's shoulders.
"Let it go. Shona is dead—and surely the child, after that. It has been
weeks… the clan gave her a Ceremony of Passing along with all the others—"
Briefly, Brennan broke off. "And I have written Keely."

 
          
"
No
—" He twitched away from the
pain. "He took the child from Shona.
Alive
.
He wanted it for some purpose."

 
          
Aileen
was horrified, hands covering her mouth. Frowning, Brennan shook his head.
"No child could survive that."

 
          
Aidan
did not listen. "He wanted it. For himself. He said—he said—" Aidan
squinted. "He said he would make the seed of the prophecy
his
."

 
          
"Aidan,
no—"

 
          
Consciousness
receded. "Lochiel took my child. I will have to get it back."

 
          
«
^
»

 
          
His
recovery was slow, impeded by weakness and fits. The wounds themselves had been
healed, but only outwardly. Inwardly Aidan was still very much aware of the
edge he walked. If he lost his balance once, he would be tipped off into the
void. It was very like the balance required in
lir
-shape; he chose to think of it as that, since he was accustomed
to it, and tried to regain the man he had been before Lochiel.

 
          
Winter.
Time had passed, too much time; the Cheysuli in Clankeep worked to rebuild what
they had lost, but most of the effort would have to wait until spring. And
Aidan, walled up in Homana-Mujhar, chafed at the weather and weakness that kept
him indoors, prisoner of unpredictability.

 
          
Blinding
headaches stole the wits from his head and sense from his tongue. From time to
time he came out of a seizure to the echoes of a language he did not know, even
though he spoke it. No longer bound to his bed by straps or debilitation, Aidan
moved freely within Homana-Mujhar—but often found himself in odd portions of
the vast palace without knowing how he got there. He dreamed when he was awake,
losing himself even in the midst of conversation. The servants began discreetly
eyeing him with pity or wariness, depending on his behavior of the particular
moment, and Aidan found himself loathing them as well as himself.

 
          
At
last he talked Ian into practicing the knife with him in a private chamber. He
needed by spring to regain quickness and ability if he was to hunt Lochiel for
his child, and only Ian would agree. But Aidan quickly discovered his reflexes
had been destroyed. He was slow and awkward with a knife; what would it be like
with a sword? And his vision was slightly askew; how would that affect his
prowess with the warbow?

 
          
Finally,
furious, he threw the bitter truth in Ian's austere face. "I will never be
the same!"

 
          
Ian
lowered the knife and regarded him in perfect stillness. "No," he
said finally. "It is folly to harbor that hope."

 
          
It
shocked him. Even knowing, it shocked. Aloud, the truth was so harsh.

 
          
His
grip on the knife loosened. He shook, as he so often did, no matter how hard he
fought it. "Then what am I,
su'fali
?"

 
          
Ian
sheathed his knife. "A man who has been sorely hurt," he said gently,
"in spirit as well as body. Aidan—you cannot expect to be what you once
were. Not after that. Do not even hope for it."

 
          
Aidan
clutched his knife. It shook. "At least you are honest," he rasped.
"Everyone else tells me to give myself time; that of course all will be
well. All will be as it was before." He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw
ached. "It will never be the same."

 
          
"No."
Ian's eyes were kind. "They lie because they love you, and because they
want to lessen the pain. They know no other way,
harani
… honesty is difficult for people to deal with when it offers
only sorrow. You want
so badly
to go
after Lochiel, and yet they wonder how you can. You are not—what you
were."

 
          
The
word was ash. "No."

 
          
Ian
smiled. "No one knows what to expect of you anymore, and it makes them
nervous. There is someone else inside of you, someone else who speaks, someone
who
prophesies
—" He sighed.
"You always were different. Now it is worse."

 
          
Mutely,
Aidan nodded.

 
          
Something
moved in Ian's eyes. "Have you looked at yourself since the attack?"

 
          
Aidan
shrugged. "My hand is not yet steady enough to shave myself.
Jehana
fears I will cut my throat…"
Frustration tightened. "Someone shaves me, and I do not require a polished
plate to dress."

 
          
"Then
perhaps you should go and look." Ian smiled as Aidan tensed, eyes widening
in horror. "No, no—it is not so bad as that. I promise. Save for one
detail, you are much as you were. But it is the sort of thing others will
remark on, particularly when they know the contents of your life."

 
          
Aidan
shrugged again. "I will look." He scowled down at the knife in his
hand. There were good days and bad days.

 
          
On
the good ones he dropped things only occasionally. On the bad, he would do well
to touch nothing at all.