Roberson, Jennifer - Chronicles of the Cheysuli 02 - The Song of Homana

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JENNIFER ROBERSON'S monumental

CHRONICLES OF THE CHEYSULI:

SHAPECHANGERS

THE SONG OF HOMANA

LEGACY OF THE SWORD

TRACK OF THE WHITE WOLF

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

DAUGHTER OF THE LION

FLIGHT OF THE RAVEN

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS*

and

THE NOVELS OF TIGER AND DEL:

SWORD-DANCER

SWORD-SINGER

SWORD-MAKER

* forthcoming from DAW Books

THE SONG

OF HOMANA

Book Two

of the Chronicles

of the Cheysuli

Jennifer Roberson

DAW BOOKS, INC.

DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, PUBLISHER

375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

Al! Rights Resei vec1

Cover art by fulek Heller

DAW Book Collectors No-635.

To Marion Zimmer Bradley,

for daydreams and realities

and

Betsy Wollheim,

for making mine better

First Printing, July 1985

6789

PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

PART I

ONE

I peered through the storm, trying to see Finn. He rode

ahead on a small Steppes pony much like my own, though

brown instead of dun, little more than an indistinct lump

of darkness in the blowing snow. The wind beat against

my face; Finn would not hear me unless I shouted against

it. I pulled the muffling wraps of woo! away from my face,

grimacing as the bitter wind blew ice crystals into my

beard, and shouted my question to him.

' "Do you see anything?"

The indistinct lump became more distinct as Finn turned

back in the saddle. Like me, he wore leather and wool and

furs, hooded and wrapped, hardly a man underneath all

the layers. But then Finn was not what most men would

name a man at all, being Cheysuli.

He pulled wrappings from his face. Unlike me, he wore

no beard in an attempt at anonymity; the Cheysuli cannot

grow them. Something in the blood, Finn had said once,

kept them from it. But what he did not have on his face

was made up for on his head, Finn's hair, of late infre-

quently cut, was thick and black. It blew in the wind,

baring a sun-bronzed predator's face.

"1 have sent Storr ahead to seek shelter," he called back

to me. "Is there such a place in all this snow, he will find

it."

Instantly my eyes went to the side of the narrow forest

track. There, parallelling the hoolprints of our horses—

I 11 I

12 Jennifer Robarson

though glimpsed only briefly in the blowing snow and

wind—were the pawprints of a wolf. Large prints, well-

spaced, little more than holes until the wind and snow

filled them in. But it marked the path of Finn's lir none-

theless; it marked Finn a man apart, for what manner of

man rides with a wolf at his side? Better yet, it marked

me, for what manner of man rides with a shapechanger at

his side?

Finn did not go on at once. He waited, saying nothing

more. His face was still bared to the wind. As I rode up I

saw how he slitted his eyes, the pupils swollen black

against the blinding whiteness. But the irises were a clear,

eerie yellow. Not amber or gold or honey. Yellow.

Beast-eyes, men called them. I had reason to know

why.

I shivered, then cursed, trying to strip my beard of ice.

Of late we had spent our time in the warmth of eastern

lands, it felt odd to be nearly home again, and suffering

because of the winter. I had forgotten what it was to go so

encumbered by furs and wool and leather

And yet I had forgotten nothing. Especially who I was.

Finn, seeing my shiver, grinned, baring his teeth in a

silent laugh. "Weary of it already? And will you spend

your time shivering and bemoaning the storms when you

walk the halls and corridors of Homana-Mujhar again?"

"We are not even to Homana yet," I reminded him,

disliking his easy assurance, "let alone my uncle's palace."

"Your palace." For a moment he studied me solemnly,

reminding me of someone else: his brother. "Do you

doubt yourself? Still? I thought you had resolved all that

when you decided it was time for us to turn our backs on

exile."

"I did." I scraped at my beard with gloved fingers,

stripping it again of the cold crystals. "Five years is long

enough for any man to spend in exile, it is too long for a

prince. It is time we took my throne back from that

Solindish usurper."

Finn shrugged. "You will. The prophecy of the First-

born is quite definite. You will win back the Lion Throne

from Bellam and his Ihlini sorcerer, and take your place as

Mujhar." He put out his gloved right hand and made an

THE SONG OF HOMANA 13

eloquent gesture: fingers spread, palm turned upward.

Tahlmorra. The Cheysuli philosophy that each man's fate

rested in the hands of the gods.

Well. so be it. So long as the gods made me a Idng in

place of Bellam.

The arrow sliced through the storm and struck deeply

into the ribs of Finn's horse. The animal screamed and

bolted sideways in a twisting lunge. Deep snowdrifts fouled

die gelding's legs and belly almost immediately and he

went down, floundering. Blood ran out of his nostrils, it

spilled from the wound and splashed against the snow,

staining it brilliant crimson.

I unsheathed my sword instantly, jerking it free of the

scabbard on my saddle. I spun my horse, cursing, and saw

Finn's outthrust arm as he leaped free of his failing mount.

'Three of them . . . now!"

The first man reached me. We engaged. He carried a

sword as 1 did, swinging it like a scythe as he sought to cut

off my head. I heard the familiar sounds: the keening of

the blade as it slashed through the air, the laboring of his

' mount, the hissing of breath between his teeth as he

grunted with the effort. I heard also my own grinding

teeth as I swung my heavy broadsword. I felt the satisfac-

tory jar of blade against body, though his winter furs

, muffled most of the impact. Still, it was enough to double

him in the saddle and weaken his counterthrust. My own

blade went in through leathers and into flesh, slowed by

~ the leathers, then quickened by the flesh. A thrust with

my shoulder behind it, and the man was dead.

I jerked the sword free instantly and spun my horse yet

again, cursing his small size and wishing for a Homanan

warhorse as he faltered. He had been chosen for anonymi-

ty's sake, not for his war-sense- And now I must pay for it.

I looked for Finn. I saw instead the wolf. I saw also the

dead man, gape-mouthed and bleeding in the snow; the

third and final man was still ahorse, staring blankly at the

wolf. It was no wonder. He had witnessed the shapechange,

which was enough to make a grown man cry out in fear; I

' did not only because I had seen it so many times. And yet

^ I feared it stilL

14 Jennifer Roberson

The wolf was large and ruddy. It leaped even as the

attacker cried out and tried to flee. Swept out of the

saddle and thrown down against the snow, the man lay

sprawled, crying out, arms thrust upward to protect his

throat. But the teeth were already there.

"Finn!" I slapped my horse's rump with the flat of my

bloodied blade, forcing him through the deep drifts. "Finn,"

I said more quietly, "it is somewhat difficult to question a

dead man."

The wolf, standing over the quivering form, turned his

head to stare directly at me. The unwavering gaze was

unnerving, for it was a man's eyes set into the ruddy,

snow-dusted head. A man's eyes that stared out of the

wolfs head.

Then came the blurring of the wolf-shape. It coalesced

into a void, a nothingness that hurt the eyes and head and

made my belly lurch upward against my ribs. Only the

eyes remained the same, fixed on me: bestial and yellow

and strange. The eyes of a madman, or the eyes of a

Cheysuli warrior.

I felt the prickling down my spine even as I sought to

suppress it. The blurring came back as the void dissipated,

but this time the faint outline was that of a man. No more

the wolf but a two-legged, dark-skinned man. Not human;

never that. Something else. Something more.

I shifted forward in the saddle, urging my horse closer.

The little gelding was chary of it, smelling death on Finn's

mount as well as on the first two men, but he went closer

at last. I reined him in beside the prisoner who lay on his

back in deep snow, staring wide-eyed up at the man who

had been a wolf.

"You," I said, and saw the eyes twitch and shift over to

me. He wanted to rise; I could see it. He was frightened

and helpless as he lay sprawled in the snow, and I meant

him to acknowledge it. "Speak," I told him, "who is your

master?"

He said nothing. Finn took a single step toward him,

saying nothing at all. The man began to speak.

I suppressed my twitch of surprise. Homanan, not

Ellasian. I had not heard the tongue for five years, except

from Finn's mouth; even now we kept ourselves to

THE SONG OF HOMANA 15

Caledonese and Ellasian almost always. And yet, here in

Ellas, we heard Homanan again.

- He did not look at Finn. He looked at me. I saw the

fear, and then I saw the shame and anger. "What choice

did I have?" he asked from his back in the snow. "I have a

wife and daughter and no way to support them. No way to

clothe them, feed them, keep them warm in winter. My

croft is gone because I could not pay the rents. My money

was spent in the war. My son was lost with Prince Fergus.

Do I let my wife and daughter starve because I cannot

provide? Do I lose my daughter to the depravity of Bellam's

court?" He glared at me from malignant brown eyes. As

he spoke the anger grew. and the shame faded. All that

was left was hostility and desperation. "I had no choice! It

was good gold that was offered—"

The knife twisted in my belly, though the blade did not

exist. "Bloodied gold," I interrupted, knowing what he

would say.

"Aye!" he shouted. "But worth it! Shaine's war got me

nothing but a dead son, the loss of my croft and the

beggaring of my family. What else am I to do? Bellam

ofiers gold—bloodied gold\—and I will take it. So will we

all!"

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JENNIFERROBERSON'SmonumentalCHRONICLESOFTHECHEYSULI:SHAPECHANGERSTHESONGOFHOMANALEGACYOFTHESWORDTRACKOFTHEWHITEWOLFAPRIDEOFPRINCESDAUGHTEROFTHELIONFLIGHTOFTHERAVENATAPESTRYOFLIONS*andTHENOVELSOFTIGERANDDEL:SWORD-DANCERSWORD-SINGERSWORD-MAKER*forthcomingfromDAWBooksTHESONGOFHOMANABookTwooftheChronicl...

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Roberson, Jennifer - Chronicles of the Cheysuli 02 - The Song of Homana

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