Roberson, Jennifer - Chronicles of the Cheysuli 04 - The House of Homana

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THE HOUSE OF HOMANA

SHAINEm ELLINDA FERGUS m GWYNNETH

2} Lorsilla

HALEm LINOIR . TOURMALINE m FINN

AUX m DUNCAN CARILLON m ELECTRA x (7YNSTAR)

ALARIC m BRONWYN (SORCHA) x DONAL m AISLINN MEGHAN m EVAN

STRAHAN

(LILUTH) X IAN CE1NN m ISOLDE

TIERNAN

GISELLAm NIALL x (DEIRDRE)

MAEVE

BRENNAN HART CORIN KEELY

Prologue

I knelt in silence, in patience, right knee cushioned by

layers of rain-soaked leaves. Boot heel pressed against

buttock; the foot within the boot, perversely, threatened

suddenly to cramp. '

Not now, I told it, as if the thing might listen.

My left leg jutted up, offering a thigh on which I could

rest the arm supporting the compact bow. Support I

needed badly; I had knelt a very long time in the misted

forest, keeping my silence and my patience only because

the discipline my father and brother had taught me,, for

once, held true. Perhaps I was finally learning.

How many tones did Carillon kneel as I kneel, lying in

wait for the enemy?

My grandsire's name slipped easily into mouth or mind.

Perhaps for another man, perhaps for another grandson,

it would not. But for me, it was a legacy I did not always

desire.

—Carillon would keep still for hours—Carillon would

never speak—Carillon would know best how to do the

job—

Distracted by my thoughts, I did not hear the sound

behind me. I sensed only the shadow, the weight of the

stalking beast—

Even as I tried to turn on cramping foot, the bow was

knocked flying from my hands. Half-sheathed daws shred-

ded leather hunting doublet and, beneath that, linen,

shirt. Weight descended and crushed me to the ground,

grinding my face into damp leaves and soggy tun.

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In the cold, breath rushed out of my nose and mouth

like smoke from a dragon's gullet. Mountain cat.

I knew it at once, even as the cat's weight shifted and

allowed me room to move. 'nrere is a smell, not unpleas-

ant, about the cats. A sense of presence. An ambience,

created the moment one of their kind appears.

I rolled, coming up onto my knees, jerking the knife

free of the sheath at my belt—

—and froze.

A female. Full-fleshed and in prime condition. Her

lush red coat was a dappled chestnut at shoulders and

haunches. The tail lashed in short, vicious arcs as she

crouched. Dark-tipped ears flattened against wedge-shaped

bead as she snaried, displaying an awesome assemblage

of curving teeth.

She hissed, as a housecat will do when taken by surprise.

And then she purred.

I swore. Slammed the knife home into its sheath. Spat

out mud and stripped decaying leaf from face and hair.

And swore again as I saw the laughter in her amber,

slanted eyes.

And suddenly I knew—

I glanced back instantly. In the clearing, very near the

place I had waited so patiently, the red stag lay dead, the

fang stag, with the finest rack of antlers I had ever seen.

And a red-fletched arrow stood up tike a standard from

his ribs.

"lan!" I shouted. "lan—come out! It was not fair!"

The cat sat down in the clearing, commenced licking

one big paw, and continued to purr noisily.

"lan?" I looked suspiciously at the cat a moment.

"No—Tasha." Still there was no answer. It was all I

could do not to fill the trees with my shout. "lan, the

stag was mine—do you hear?" I waited. Wiggled my foot

inside my boot; the cramp, thank the gods, was fading.

"Ion," I said menacingly; giving up, I bellowed it. "The

stag was mine not yoursi"

"But you were much too slow." The answering voice

was human, not feline. "Much too slow; did you think

the king would wait on a prince forever?"

I spun around. As usual, with him, I had misjudged his

position. There were times I would have sworn he could

make his voice issue from rock or tree, and me left

searching fruitlessly for a man.

My brother sifted out of trees, brush, slanted foggy

shadows into the clearing beside the dead stag. Now that

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I saw him clearly, I wondered that I had not seen him

before. He had been directly across from me. Watching,

Waiting. And laughing, no doubt, at his foolish younger

brother.

But in silence, so he would not give himself away.

I swore. Aloud, unfortunately, which only gave him

more cause to laugh. But he did not, aloud; he merely

grinned his white-toothed grin and waited in amused

tolerance for me to finish my royal tirade.

And so I did not, having no wish to band him further

reason to laugh at me, or—worse—to dispense yet an-

other of his ready homilies concerning a prince's proper

behavior.

I glared at him a moment, unable to keep myself from

that much. I saw the bow in his hands and the red-

fletched arrows poking up from the quiver behind his

shoulder. And looked again at the matching arrow in the

ribs of the red king stag.

Conversationally, I pointed out, "Using your lir to

knock me half-silly was not within the rules of the

competition."

"There were no rules," he countered immediately.

"And what Tasha did was her own doing, no suggestion

of mine—though, admittedly, she was looking after my

interests." I saw the maddening grin again; winged black

brows rose up to disappear into equally raven hair.

"And her own, naturally, as she shares in the kill."

"Of course," I agreed wryly. "You would never set

her on me purposely—"

"Not for a liege man to do," he agreed blandly, with

an equally bland smile. Infuriating, is my older brother.

"You ought to teach her some manners." I looked at

the mountain cat, not at my brother. "But then, she has

arrogance enough to match yours just as she is, so I am

sure you prefer her this way."

lan, laughing—aloud this time—did not answer. Instead

he knelt down by the stag to inspect his kill. In fawn-

colored leathers he blended easily into the foliage and

fallen leaves. Another man, lacking the skills I have

learned, would not have seen lan at all, until he moved.

Even then, I thought only the glint of gold on his bare

arms would give him away.

I should have known. I should have expected it. All a

man has to do is look at him to know he is the better

hunter. Because a man, looking at my brother, wul see

a Cheysuli warrior.

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But a man, looking at me. will see only a fellow

Homanan. Or Carillon, until he looks again.

For all we share a Cheysuli father, lan and I share not

a whit of anything more. Certainly not in appearance.

lan is all Cheysuli: black-haired, dark-skinned, yellow-

eyed. And I am all Homanan: tawny-haired, fair-skinned,

blue-eyed.

It may be that in a certain gesture, a specific move-

ment, lan and I resemble one another. Perhaps in a turn

of phrase. But even that seems unlikely. lan was Keep-

raised, brought up by the clan, I was bom in the royal

palace of Homana-Mujhar, reared by the aristocracy.

Even our accents differ a little: he speaks Homanan with

the underlying tilt of the Cbeysuli Old Tongue, frequently

slipping into the language altogether when forgetful of

his surroundings; my speech is always Homanan, laced

with the nuances of Mujhara, and almost never do I fall

into the Old Tongue of my ancestors.

Not that I have no wish to. I am Cheysuli as much as

lan—well, nearly; he is half, I claim a Quarter—and yet

no man would name me so. No man would ever look into

my face and name me, in anger or awe, a shapechanger,

because I lack the yellow eyes. I lack the color entirely;

the gold, and even the language.

No. No shapechanger, the Cheysuli Prince of Homana.

Because in addition to lacking Cheysuli looks, I also

lack a lir.

One

I think no one can fully understand what pain and futility

and emptiness are. Not as / understand them: a man

without a lir. And what of them I do understand comes

not of the body but of the spirit. Of the soul. Because to

know oneself a lirless Cheysuli is an exquisite sort of

torture I would wish on no man, not even to save myself.

My father was young, too young, when he received his

Ur, and then he bonded with two: Taj and Lom, falcon

and wolf. lan was fifteen when he formed his bond with

Tasha. At ten. / hoped I would be as my father and

receive my Ur early. At thirteen and fourteen I hoped I

would at least be younger than lan, if I could not mimic

my father. At fifteen and sixteen I prayed to all the gods

I could to send me my lir as soon as possible, period, so I

could know myself a man and a warrior of the dan. At

seventeen, I began to dread it would never happen,

never at all; that T would live out my life a lirless Cheysuli,

only half a man, denied all the magic of my race.

And now, at eighteen, I knew those fears for truth.

lan still knelt by the king stag. Tasha—lean, lovely,

lissome Tasha—flowed across the clearing to her Ur and

rubbed her head against one bare arm. Automatically

lan supped that arm around her, caressing sleek feline

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head and tugging affectionately at tufted ears. Tasha

purred more loudly than ever, and I saw the distracted

smile on lan's face as he responded to the mountain cat's

affection. A warrior in communion with his Ur is much

like a man in perfect union with a woman; another man,

shut out of either relationship, is doubly cursed . . . and

doubly lonely.

I turned away abruptly, knowing again the familiar

uprush of pain, and bent to recover my bow. The arrow

was broken; Tasha's mock attack had caused me to fall

on it. A sore hip told me I had also rolled across the

bow. But at least the soreness allowed me to think of

things other than my brother and his lir.

I have never been a sullen man, or even one much

given to melancholy. Growing up a prince and heir to the

throne of Homana was more than enough for most;

would have been more than enough for me, were I not

Cheysuli-born. But Uriessness—and the knowledge I would

remain so—had altered my life. Nothing would change it,

not now; no warrior in all the clans had ever reached his

eighteenth birthday without receiving his lir. Nor, for

that matter, his seventeenth. And so I tried to content

myself with my rank and title—no small things, to the

Homanan way of thinking—and the knowledge that for

all I lacked a fir, I was still Cheysuli. No one could deny

the Old Blood ran in my veins. No one. Not even the

shar tahl^ who spoke of rituals and traditions very care-

fully indeed when he spoke of them to me, because—for

all 1 lacked a lir—1 still claimed the proper line of de-

scent. And that line would put me on roe Lion Throne of

Homana the day my rather died.

That, at least, was something my brother could not lay

claim to—not that he would wish to. Being bastard-bom of

my father's Cheysuli meijha—light woman, in Homanan—

attached no stigma to him in the clans. Cheysuli do not

Slace such importance on legitimacy; in the clans, the

irth of another Cheysuli is all that counts, but as far as

the Homanans were concerned, Donal's eldest son was

tolerated among the Homanan aristocracy only because

he was the son of the Mujhar.

And so lan, as much as myself, knew what it was to

lack absolute acceptance. It was, I suppose, his own part

of the discordant harmony in an otherwise pleasing mel-

ody. It only manifested itself for a different reason-

"Niall—?" lan rose with the habitual grace I tried to

emulate and could not; I am too tall, too heavy, I lack

the total ease of movement born in so many Cheysuli.

"What is it?"

I thought I had learned to mask my face, even to lan.

It served no purpose to tell him what torture it was to see

my brother with his fir, or my father with his. Most of the

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time it remained a dull ache, and bearable, as a sore

tooth is bearable so long as it does not turn rotten in the

jaw. But occasionally the tooth throbs, sending pain of

unbearable intensity through my mind; my mask had

slipped, and lan bad seen the face I wore behind it.

"Rujho—" so quickly he slipped into the Old Tongue—

"are you ill?"

"No." Abrupt answer, too abrupt; I inspected the bow

again, for want of another action to cover my brief slip.

"No, only— " I sought a lie to cover up the pain '*—only

disappointed. But I should know better than to match

myself against you in something so—" I paused—"so

Cheysuli as hunting a stag. You have only to take lir-

shape, and the contest is finished."

lan indicated the arrow. "No fir-shape, rujho. Only

human form." He smiled, as if he knew we joked, but

something told me he knew well enough what had

prompted my discomfiture. "If it pleases you, Niall, I

will concede. Without Tasha's interference, you might

well have taken the stag."

I laughed at him outright. "Oh, aye, might have. Such

a concession, rujho\ You will almost have me believing I

know what I am doing."

"You know what I taught you, my lord." lan grinned.

"And now, if you like, I will- go fetch the horses as a

proper liege man so we may escort the dead king home

in honor."

"To Homana-Mujhar?" The palace was at least two

hours away; rain threatened again.

"No, I thought Clankeep. We can prepare the stag

there for a proper presentation. Old Newlyn knows all

the tricks." lan bent down and with a quick twist re-

moved the unbroken arrow from between the ribs of the

stag. "Clankeep is closer, for all that."

I shut my mouth on an answer and did not say what I

longed to: that I much preferred the palace. Clankeep is

Cheysuli; liriess, I am extremely uncomfortable there. I

avoid it when I can.

lan glanced up. "Niall, it is your home as much as

Mujhara." So easily he read me, even by my silence.

I shook my head. "Homana-Mujhar is my place.

Clankeep is yours." Before he could speak I turned

away. "I will get the horses. My legs are younger than

yours."

It is an old Joke between us, the five years that sepa-

rate us, but for once he would not let it go. He stepped

across the dead king stag and caught my arm.

"NialL" The levity was banished from his face. "Rujho,

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I cannot pretend to know what it is to lack a Ur. But

neither can I pretend your lack does not affect me."

"Does it?" Resentment flared up instantly, surprising

even me with its intensity. But this was intrusion into an

area of my life he could not possibly understand. "Does

it affect you, lan? Does it disturb you that the warriors of

the clan refer to me as a Homanan instead of a Cheysuli?

Does it affect you that if they could, they would petition

the shar tahl to have my birth-rune scratched off the

permanent birth-lines?" His dark face went gray as death,

and I realized he had not known I was aware of what a

few of the more outspoken warriors said. "Oh, rujfw, I

know I am not alone in this. I know it must disturb

you—a full-fledged Cheysuli warrior and a member of

Clan Council—in particular: that the man intended to

rule after Donal lacks the gifts of the Cheysuli. How

could it not? You serve the prophecy as well as any

warrior, and yet you look at me and see a man who does

not fit. The link that was not forged." It hurt me to see

the pain in his yellow eyes; eyes some men still called

bestial. "It affects you, it affects our sister, it affects our

father. It even affects my mother.'*

lan's hand fell away from my arm. "Aislinn? How?"

His tone was unguarded; I heard the note of astonish-

ment in his voice. No, he would not expect my lack of a

Ur to affect my mother. How could it, when the Queen of

Homana was fully Homanan herself, without a drop of

Cheysuli blood?

How could he, when there was so little of affection

between them? Not hatred; never that. Not even a true

disliking of one another. Merely—toleration. A mutual

apathy.

Because my mother, the Queen, recalled too clearly

that what love my father had to offer had been given

freely to his Cheysuli meijha, lan's mother, and not to

the Homanan princess he had wed.

At least, not then.

I smiled, albeit wryly, and more than a little resigned.

"How does it affect my mother? Because to her, my

lacking a lir emphasizes a certain other bloodline in me.

It reminds her mat in addition to looking almost exactly

like her father, I reflect all his Homanan traits. No CheysuU

in me, oh no; I am Homanan to the bone. I am Carulon

come again."

The last was said a trifle bitterly; for all I am used to

the fact I look so much like my grandsire, it is not an

easy knowledge. I would sooner do without it.

lan sighed. "Aye. I should have seen it. The gods

know she goes on and on about Carillon enough, Unking

her son with her father. There are times I think she

confuses the two of you."

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I shied away from that idea almost at once. It whis-

pered of sickness; it promised obsession. No son wishes

to know his mother obsessed, even if she is.

And she was not. She was not.

"dankeep," I said abruptly. "Well enough, then let us

go. We owe this monarch more than a bed of leaves and

bloodied turf."

A muscle ticked in lan's jaw. "Aye," he said tersely;

no more.

I went off to fetch the horses.

Once, individual keeps had been scattered through-

out Homana, springing up like toadstools across the land.

Once, they had even reached a finger here and there into

neighboring Ellas, when Shame's qu'mahlin had been in

effect. The purge had resulted in the destruction of

Cheysuli holdings as well as much of the race itself; later

the Solindish king, Bellam, had usurped the Lion Throne

and laid waste to Homana in the name of Tynstar, Ihlini

sorcerer, and devotee of the god of the netherworld.

With Carillon in exile and the Cheysuli hunted by

Solindish, Ihlini and Homanan alike, what remained of

the Cheysuli was nearly destroyed completely. The keeps

had been sundered into heaps of shattered stone and

shreds of painted cloth.

My legendary grandsire had, thank the gods, come

home again to take back his stolen throne; his return

ended Solindish and Ihlini domination and Shaine's purge.

Freed of the threat of extirpation, the Cheysuli had also

come home from secret keeps and built Homanan ones

again. Clankeep itself, spreading across the border be-

tween woodlands and meadowlands, had gone up after

Donal succeeded to the Lion on Carillon's death. And

though the Cheysuli were granted freedom to live where

they chose after decades of outlawry, they still preferred

the closeness of the forests. Clankeep, ringed by un-

mortared walls of undressed, gray-green stone, was the

closest thing to a city the Cheysuli claimed.

As always, I felt the familiar admixture of emotions as

we entered the sprawling keep: sorrow—a trace of

trepidation—a fleeting sense of anger—an undertone of

pride. A skein of raw emotions knotted itself inside my

soul . . . but mostly, more than anything, I knew a tre-

mendous yeanling to belong as Ion belonged.

Clankeep is the heart of the Cheysuli, regardless that

my father rules from Homana-Mujhar. It is Clankeep

that feeds the spirit of each Cheysuli; Clankeep where

the shar tahls keep the histories, traditions and rituals

dear of taint. It is here they guard the remains of the

prophecy of the Firstborn, warding the fragmented hide

with all the power they can summon.

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And it was here at Clankeep that Niall of Homana

longed to spend his days, for all be was prince of the land.

Because then he would be Cheysuli.

The rain began again, though falling with less force

than before. This was more of a mist, kiting on the wind.

Sheets of it drifted before my horse, shredded by the gusts.

It muffled the sounds of the Keep and drove the Cheysuli

inside their painted pavilions.

Except for Isolde. I should have known; 'Solde adores

the rain, preferring thunder and lightning in abundance.

But this misting shower, I knew, would do; it was better

than boring sunlight.

"lan! Niall! Both my rufholU at once?" She wore

crimson, which was like her; it stood out against the

damp grayness of the day as much as her bright ebul-

lience did. I saw her come dashing through the drifting

wet curtains as if she hardly felt them, damp wool skirts

gathered up to show off furred boots of sleek dark otter

pelt. Silver bells rimmed the cuffs of the boots, chiming

as she ran. Matching bells were braided into thick black

hair; like lan, she was all Cheysuli. Even to the Old

Blood in her veins.

"What is this?" She stopped as we did, putting out a

hand to push a questing wet muzzle from her face; lan's

gray stallion was a cunous sort, and oddly affectionate

toward our sister. But then, perhaps it was the magic in

her showing. "The king stag!" Yellow eyes widened as

she looked up at lan and me. "How did you come by

this?"

'Solde seemed untroubled by the rain, falling harder

now, that pasted hair against scalp and dulled the shine

of all her bells. One hand still on the stallion's muzzle,

she waited expectantly for an explanation.

I blew a drop of water off the end of my nose. " 'Solde,

you have eyes. The king stag, aye, and brought down by

lan's hand—" I paused "—in a manner of speaking.*'

lan glared. "What nonsense is this? 7n a manner of

speaking.^ I took him down with a single arrow! You

were there."

"How kind of you to recall it." I smiled down at

'Solde. "He set Tasha on me the moment I prepared to

loose my own arrow, and the cat spoiled my shot."

'Solde laughed, smothered it with a hand, then at-

tempted, unsuccessfully, to give lan a stem glance of

remonstration. At three years younger than lan and two

years older than I, she did what she could to mother us

both- Though I had my own mother in Homana-Mujhar,

'Solde and lan did not; Sorcha was long dead.

Rain fell harder yet. My chestnut gelding snorted and

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shook himself. Jostling all my bones. I was already a

trifle stiff from Tasha's mock attack; I needed no further

reminding of human fragility. " 'Solde, do you mind if

we go into lan's pavilion? You may like the rain, but we

have been out in it longer than I prefer."

Her slim brown fingers caressed the crown bedecking

the king stag's head. "So fine, so fine ... a gift for our

jehanT' She asked it of lan, whose stallion bore the stag

before the Cheysuli saddle.

"He will be pleased, I think," lan agreed " 'Solde,

Niall has the right of it. I will shrink like an old wool

tunic if I stay out in this downpour a moment longer."

'Solde stepped aside, shaking her head in disappoint-

ment, and all the bright bells rang. "Babies, both of

you, to be so particular about the weather. Warriors

must be prepared for anything. Warriors never complain

about the weather. Warriors—"

" 'Solde, be still," lan suggested, calmly reining his

stallion toward the nearest pavilion. "What you know of

warriors could be fit into an acorn."

"No," she said, "at least a walnut. Or so Ceinn tells

me."

The stallion was stopped short, so short my own mount

nearly walked into the dappled rump, which is not some-

thing I particularly care to see happen around lan's prickly

stallion. But for once the gray did nothing.

lan, however, did. "Ceinn?" He twisted in the saddle

and looked back at our smug-faced sister- "What has

Ceinn to say about how much you know of warriors?"

"Quite a lot," she answered off-handedly. "He has

asked me to be bis cheysula."

"Cemn?" lan, knowing the warriors better than I, could

afford to sound astonished; all I could do was stare. "Are

you sure he said cheysula and not meijha?"

"The words do have entirely different sounds," 'Solde

told him pointedly, which would not please lan any at

all. But then, of course, she did not mean to. "And I do

know the difference."

lan scowled. "Isolde, he has said nothing to me about

it."

"You have been in Mujhara," she reminded him. "For

weeks. Months. And besides, he is not required to say

anything to you. It is me for whom he wishes to offer."

lan, still scowling, cast a glance at me- "Well? Are you

going to say nothing to her?"

"Perhaps I might wish her luck," I answered gravely,

"Whenever has anything we have said to her made the

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file:///D|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry/Desktop/Roberson,%...CLES%204%20-%20Track%20Of%20The%20White%20Wolf%20(v%20UC).txtTHEHOUSEOFHOMANASHAINEmELLINDAFERGUSmGWYNNETH2}LorsillaHALEmLINOIR.TOURMALINEmFINNAUXmDUNCANCARILLONmELECTRAx(7YNSTAR)ALARICmBRONWYN(SORCHA)xDONALmAISLINNMEGHANmEVANSTRAHAN...

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Roberson, Jennifer - Chronicles of the Cheysuli 04 - The House of Homana

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