"Roberson, Jennifer - Chronicles of the Cheysuli 02 - The Song of Homana" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberson Jennifer)

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

Copyright © 1985 by Jennifer Bobt,^o:i O'^'-fc

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!"

"All?" I echoed, liking little of what I heard. Was all of

Homana desiring to give me over to my enemy for his

Solindish gold, my life was forfeit before the task was

begun.

"Aye!" he shouted. "All! And why not? They are de-

mons. Abominations. Beasts\"

The wind shifted. iLthrew ice into my face again, but I

made no move to rid myself of it. I could not. I could only

stare at the man in the snow, struck dumb by his admission.

And then I looked at Finn.

Like me, he was quite still. Silent. Staring. But then,

slowly, he lifted his head and looked directly at me. 1 saw

the shrinking of his pupils so that the yellow of his eyes

- stood out like a beacon against the storm. Yellow eyes.

Black hair. The gold that hung at his left ear, bared by the

'wind that blew the hair from his face- His alien, predator's

face.

I looked at him with new eyes, as I had not looked at

16 Jennifer Roberson

him for five years, and realized again what he was. Cheysuli.

Shapechanger. A man who took on the form of a wolf at

wiU.

And the reason for the attack,

Not me. Not me at all. I was insignificant. The prisoner

did not know that my head—delivered to Bellam—would

give him more gold than he could imagine. By the gods,

he did not even know who I wasi

Another time, I might have laughed at the irony. Been

amused by my conceit, that I thought all men knew me

and my worth. But here, in this place, my identity was not

the issue. Finn's race was,

"Because of me," he said, and that only.

I nodded. Sickened by the realization, I nodded. What

we faced now was more impossible than ever. Not only

did we come home to Homana after five years of exile to

raise an army and win back my stolen throne, but we had

to do it in the face ofHomanan prejudice. Shaine's purge—

the Cheysuli .call it qumahlin—was little more than the

pretty vengeance of a mad king, and yet it had not ended

even with the sundering of his realm.

They had not come to slay me or even take me prisoner.

They had come for Finn, because he was Cheysuli.

"What did they do to you?" I asked. "The Cheysuli.

What did this man do to you?"

The Homanan stared up at Finn in something akin to

astonishment. "He is a shapechanger!"

"But what did he do to you?" I persisted. "Did he slay

your son? Take your croft? Rape your daughter? Beggar

your family?"

"Do not bother," Finn said. "You cannot straighten an

ill-grown tree."

"You can chop it down," I returned. "Chop it down and

into pieces and feed it to the fire—" I wanted to say more,

but I stopped. I saw his face, with its closed, private

expression, and I said nothing more. Finn was not one for

sympathy, or even anger expressed in his behalf. Finn

fought his own battles.

And now there was this one.

"Can he be turned?" I asked. "His need I understand—a

desperate man will do desperate things—but his target I

THE SONG OF HOMANA I 17

will not tolerate. Go into his mind and turn him, and he

can go home again."

Finn's right hand came up. It was empty. But 1 saw the

clenching of his fingers, as if he sought to clasp a knife. He

was asking for my approval, ^ie was liege man to the

Prince of Homana, and he asked to mete out a death.

"No," I said. "Not this time. Use your magic instead."

The man spasmed against the snow. "Gods, no! No! No

sorcery—"

"Hold him," I said calmly, as he tried to leap up and

run.

Finn was on him at once, though he did not slay him.

He merely held him on'his knees, pressing him into the

snow, on one knee himself with an arm thrust around the

throat and the other gripping the head. One twist and it

would be done.

"Mercy!" the dead man cried. But could 1 do it, I would

leave him alive.

Finn would not ask again. He accepted my decision. I

saw the hand tighten against the Homanan's head and the

look of terror enter the brown eyes. And then they were

empty, and I knew Finn had gone in to do as I had

ordered.

It shows in the eyes. I have seen it in the faces and eyes

of others Finn has used his magic on. But I also saw it in

Finn's eyes each time: the total immersion of his soul as

he sought the gift of compulsion and used it on another.

He went away, though his body remained. That which was

Finn was elsewhere; he was not-Finn. He was something

less and something awesomely more. He was not man, not

beast, not god. Something—apart.

The man wavered and sagged, but he did not fall.

Finn's arm remained locked around his throat. The hand

was pressed against his skull, but it did not break it. It did

not snap the neck. It waited.

Finn twitched and jerked. The natural sunbronzing of

his face was suddenly gone; he was the color of death. All

gray and ivory, with emptiness in his eyes. I saw the

slackening of his mouth and heard the rasp in his throat.

And then, before I could say a word, he broke the man's

neck and threw the body down.

18 Jennifer Roberson

"Finn!" I was off my horse at once, thrusting my sword

blade down into the snow. I left it there, moving toward

Finn, and reached out to grab what I could of his leathers

and furs. "Finn, I said (urn him, not slay him—"

But Finn was lurching away, staggering in the snow,

and I knew he had not heard me. He was not himself. He

was still—elsewhere.

"Finn." I caught his arm and steadied him. Even be-

neath the thickness of winter furs I could feel the rigidity

in his arm. His color was still bad; his pupils were nothing

but specks in a void of perfect yellow. "Finn—"

He twitched again, and then he was back. He swung his

head to look at me, and only then realized I held his arm.

At once I released it, knowing he was himself again, but I

did not relax my stance. It was only because he was Finn

that I had left my sword behind.

He looked past me to the body in the snow. "Tynstar,"

he said. "I touched—Tynstar."

I stared. "How?"

He frowned and pushed a forearm across his brow, as if

he sweated. But his face was dusted with snow, and he

shivered from the cold. Once, but it gave away his bewil-

derment and odd vulnerability. "He was—there. Like a

web, soft but sticky . . . and impossible to shed." He

shook himself, like a dog shaking off water.

"But—if he and the others were hunting Cheysuli and

not the Prince of Homana ..." I paused a moment.

"Would Tynstar meddle in the qu'mahlin?"

"Tynstar would meddle in anything. He is Ihlini."

I nearly smiled. But I did not, because I was thinking

about Tynstar. Tynstar, called the Ihlini, because he ruled

(if that is the proper word) the race of Solindish sorcerers.

Much like the Cheysuli were the magical race of Homana,

the Ihlini sprang from Solinde. But they were evil and did

the bidding of the demons who served the netherworld.

There was nothing of good about the Ihlini. They wanted

Homana, and had aided Bellam to get her.

"Then he does not know we are here," I said, still

thinking.

"We are in Ellas," Finn reminded me. "Homana is but

a day or two away, depending on the weather, and I do

THE SONG OF HOMANA    19

not doubt Bellam has spies to watch the borders. It may

well be these men were sent to catch Cheysuli—" he

frowned, and I knew he wondered what tokens Beliam

required as proof of a Cheysuli kill. Probably the earring,

perhaps the armbands as well. —"but it may be they

sought Homana's exiled prince." He frowned again. "I

cannot be sure. I had no time to leam his intent."

"And now it is too late."

Finn looked at me levelly. "If Tynstar is meddling with

Homanans and sending them out against the Cheysuli,

they must be slain." For a moment he looked at the body

again. Then his eyes came back to me. "It is a part of my

service to you to keep you alive. Can I not do the same for

myself?

This time I looked at the body. "Aye," I said finally,

harshly, and turned back to retrieve my sword.

Finn moved to his dead horse and stripped him of the

saddlepacks. I mounted my horse and slid the sword home

in the scabbard, making certain the blade was clean of

blood. The runes ran silver in the white light of the storm.

Cheysuli runes, representing the Old Tongue which I did

not know. A Cheysuli sword for a Homanan prince. But

then that was another thing the prophecy claimed: one

day a man of all blood would unite, in peace, four warring

realms and two magic races. Perhaps it would no longer

be a Cheysuli sword in the hand of a Homanan prince. It

would merely be a sword in the hand of a king.

But until then. the golden hilt with its rampant, royal

lion and the huge brilliant ruby in the prong-toothed

pommel would remain hidden by leather wrappings. At

least until I claimed the Lion Throne again and made

Homana free.

"Come up," I told Finn. "You cannot walk in all this

snow."

He handed up his saddlepacks but did not move to

mount behind me. "Your horse carries enough bulk, with

all of you." He grinned. "I will go on as a wolf."

"If Storr is too far ahead—" I stopped. Though the

shapechange was governed by the distance between war-

^ rior and lir, it was obvious this time there was no impedi-

^ ment. The peculiar detached expression I knew so well

20 Jennifer Roberson

came over Finn's face. For a moment his body remained

beside my horse, but his mind did not. It was elsewhere,

answering an imperative call, his eyes turned inward and

blank and empty, as if he conversed with something—or

someone—no one else could hear.

And then he was back, grinning in genuine pleasure and

the attack on us both forgotten. "Storr says he has found

us a roadhouse."

"How far?"

"A league, perhaps a bit more Close enough, I think,.

after days without a roof over our heads." He ran a hand

through his black hair and shook free the powdery snow.

"There are great advantages to lir-shape. Carillon. I will

be quicker—and certainly warmer—than you."

I ignored him. It was all I could ever do. I turned my

horse back to the track and went on, leaving behind three

dead men and one dead horse—the others had run away. I

cursed the storm again. My face was numb from the ice in

my beard. Even the wrappings did not help.

When Finn at last went past me, it was in wolf-shape:

yellow-eyed, ruddy-furred, fleet of foot. And wanner, no

doubt, than I.

TWO

The common room was crowded with men seeking respite

from the storm. Dripping candles puddled into piles of

cooling, ^waxy fat on each table, shedding crude light and a

cruder pall of smoke into the low beamwork of the road-

house. The miasma was thick enough to make me choke

against its acrid odor, but there was warmth in abundance.

For that I would share any stench.

The door hitched against the hardpack of the frozen

earthen floor. I stopped short, ducking to avoid smacking

my head against the doorframe. But then few roadhouse

doors are built to accommodate a man of my height; the

years spent in exile had made me taller than I had been

five years before and nearly twice as heavy. Still, I would

not complain, did the added height and weight—and the

beard—keep me unknown on my journey home, I would

not care if I knocked myself silly against Ellasian doorframes.

Finn slipped by me into the room as I wrestled with the

door. I broke it free, then swung it shut on half-frozen

leather hinges, swearing as a dog ran between my legs and

nearly upset me. For a moment I thought of Storr, seek-

ing shelter in the forest. Then I thought of food and wine.

I settled the latch-hook into place and marked absently

how the stout iron loops were set for a heavy crossbeam

lock. I could tell it was but rarely used, but I marked it

nonetheless. No more did I have room in my life for the

ease of meaningless friendships found in road- and alehouses.

21

22 Jennifer Roberson

Finn waited at the table. Like the others, it bore a

single candle. But this one shed no light, only a clot of

thick smoke that fouled the air where the flame had glowed

a moment before. Finn, I knew. It was habit with us both.

I joined him, shedding furs and leathers. It felt good to

be man again instead of bear, and to know the freedom of

movement. I sat down on a three-legged stool and glanced

around the common room even as Finn did the same.

No soldiers. Ellas was a peaceful land. Crofters, most of

them, convivial in warmth and the glow of liquor. Travel-

ers as well, bound east or west; Ellasians; Homanans;

Falians too, by their accents. But no Caledonese, which

meant Finn and I could speak Ellasian with a Caledonese

twist and no one would name us other.

Except those who knew a Cheysuli when they saw one,

and in Ellas that could be anyone.

Ellasians are open, gregarious folk, blunt-speaking and

plain of habits. There is little of subterfuge about them,

for which I am grateful. I have grown weary of such

things, though I have, of necessity, steeped myself in it. It

felt good to know myself accepted for what I appeared in

the roadhouse: a stranger, foreign, accompanied by a

Cheysuli, but welcome among them regardless. Still, it

was to Finn they looked twice, if only briefly. And then

they looked away again, dismissing what they saw.

I smiled. Few men dismiss a Cheysuli warrior. But in

Ellas they do it often. Here the Cheysuli are not hunted.

And then I recalled that Homanans had come into Ellas

hunting Cheysuli and I lost my smile entirely.

The tavern-master arrived at last, wiping greasy hands

on a frayed cloth apron. He spoke with the throaty, blurred

accent of Ellas, all husky and full of phlegm. It had taken

me months to learn the trick, but I had learned. And I

used it now.

"Ale," he said, "or wine. Red from Caledon, a sweet

white from Falia, or our own fine Ellasian vintage." His

teeth were bad but I thought the smile genuine.

"Have you usca?" I asked.

The grizzled gray brows rose as he considered the ques-

tion. "Usca, is't? Na, na, I have none. The plainsmen of

the Steppes have naught of trade wi' us now, since Ellas

THE SONG OF HOMANA     23

allied wi' Caledon in tiast war." His pale brown eyes

marked us Caledonese; my accent had won us that much.

Or me; Finn did not in the least resemble a Caledonese.

"What else would you have?"

Finn's yellow eyes were almost black in the dim candle-

light, but I saw the glint in them clearly. "What of Homanan

honey brew?"

At once the brows drew down into a scowl. The Ellasian's

hair, like his eyebrows, was graying, close-cropped against

his head. A blemish spread across one cheek; some child-

hood malady had left him scarred. But there was no suspi-

cion or distrust in his eyes, only vague disgust.

"Na, none of that, either. Tis Homanan, as you have

said, and little enough of Homana comes across our bor-

ders now." For a moment he stared at the gold earring

shining in Finn's black hair. I knew what the Ellasian

thought: little enough of Homana crossed the borders,

unless you counted the Cheysuli.

"No trade, then?" I asked.

The man picked at snags in his wine-stained apron. He

glanced around quickly, judging the needs of his custom-

ers out of long practice. "Trade, after a fashion." he agreed

in a moment, "but not wi' Homana. Wi' Bellam instead,

her Solindish king." He ripped his head in Finn's direc-

tion. "You might know."

Finn did not smile. "I might," he said calmly. "But I

left Homana when Bellam won the war, so I could not say

what has befallen my homeland since."

The Ellasian studied him. Then he leaned forward,

pressing both hands flat against the table. "I say 'tis a sad

thing to see the land brought down so low. The land

chafes under that Solindish lord. And his Ihlini sorcerer."

And so we came to the subject I had wanted to broach

all along, knowing better than to bring it up myself. Now,

did I say nothing and ask no questions, I made myself out

a dullard, and almost certainly suspect. The man had

proved talkative; I had best not disabuse him of that.

"Homana is not a happy land?" My tone, couched in

Caledonese-tinged Ellasian, was idle and incurious; strang-

ers passed time with such talk.

The Ellasian guffawed. "Happy? Wi' Bellam on her throne

24 JwmMT Robwon

and Tynstar's hand around her throat? Na, not happy,

never happy . . . but helpless. We hear tales of heavy

taxes and over-harsh justice- The sort of thing that trou-

bles us little enough in Ellas, under our good High King."

He hawked and turned his head to spit onto the earthen

floor. "They do say Bellam desires an alliance with Rhodri

himself, but he'll not be agreeing to such a miscarriage of

humanity. Bellam's a greedy fool; Rhodri is not. He has no

need oft, wi* six fine sons." He grinned. "I hear Bellam

offers his only daughter to the High Prince himself, but I

doubt there will be a match made. Cuinn has better thighs

to part than Electra of Solinde's."

And so the talk passed-to women, as it will among men.

But only until the Ellasian left to see about our food, and

then we said nothing more of women, thinking of Homana

instead. And Bellam, governed by Tynstar.

"Six sons," Finn mused- "Perhaps Homana would not

now be under Solindish rule, had the royal House proved

more fertile."

I scowled at him. I needed no reminders that the

House of Homana had been less than prolific. It was

precisely because Shaine the Mujhar had sired no son at

all—let alone MX of them!—that he had turned to his

brother's only son. Ah, aye, fertility and infertility. And

how the issues had shaped my life, along with Finn's. For

it was Shaine's infertility—except for a defiant daughter—

that had left an enormous legacy to his nephew. Carillon

of Homana, and the Cheysuli shapechanger who served

him. The Lion Throne itself, upon the Mujhar's death,

and now a war to fight.

As well as a purge to end.

The tavern-master arrived bearing bread for trenchers

and a platter of steaming meat, which he set in the center

of the table. Behind him came a boy with a jug of Ellasian

wine, two leathern mugs and a quarter of yellow cheese- I

saw how the boy looked at Finn's face, so dark in the

amber candlelight. I saw how he stared at the yellow eyes,

but he said not a single word. Finn was, perhaps, his first

Cheysuli. And worth a second look.

Neither boy nor man lingered, being too pressed by

other custom, and Finn and I set to with the intentness of

THE SONG OF HOMANA    25

starving men. We were Јiit starving, having eaten at the

: break of day, but stale j( urney-loaf eaten in a snowstonn is

not nearly as toothsome as hot meat in a warm roadhouse.

^  I unsheathed my knife and sliced off a chunk of venison,

" dumping it onto my trencher. It was a Caledonese knife I

..used now in place of my own, a bone-handled blade

wrought with runes and scripture. The hilt had been cut

from the thigh of some monstrous beast, or so the king of

^.iCaledon had told me upon presentation of it. The blade

Iftself was bright steel, finely honed; the weight of it was

^"perfect for my hand. Still, it was not my own; that one—

^Cheysuh-made—was hidden in my saddlepacks.

$ I ate until I could hardly move upon my stool, and

^ordered a second jug of wine. And then, even as I poured

^Our mugs full again, I heard the hum of rising conversa-

^tion. Finn and I both looked instantly for the cause of the

^ heightened interest.

,t The harper came down the ladder with his instrument

^.clasped under one long arm. He wore a blue robe belted

^.at the waist with linked silver, and a silver circlet held

-^back the thick dark hair that curled on his shoulders. A

^wealthy harper, as harpers often are, being hosted by

?; kings and gifted with gold and gems. This one had fared

y. well- He was tall, wide-shpuldered, and his wrists—showing

;' at the edges of his blue sleeves—were corded with mus-

^cle. A powerful man, for all his calling was the harp

;fc instead of the sword. He was blue-eyed, and when he

^ smiled it was a professional smile, warm and welcoming.

^   Two men cleared space for him in the center of the

; room and set out a stool- He thanked them quietly and sat

.'down, settling harp against hip and thigh. I knew at once

^ the instrument was a fine one, having heard so many of

^ the best with my uncle in Homana-Mujhar. It was of rich

^ honey-gold wood, burnished to a fine sheen with years of

^ use. A single green stone was set into the top. The strings

|t glowed gossamer-fine in the smoke and candlelight. They

-^ glinted, promising much, until he touched them and ful-

H' filled that promise with the stroke of a single finger.

J^  Like a woman it was, answering a lover's caress. The

,.- music drifted throughout the room, soft and delicate and

^ infinitely seductive, and silenced the voices at once. There

26 J—mtfT Robwon

is no miL\ alive who cannot lose himself in harpsong,

unless he oe utterly deaf.

The harper's voice, when he spoke, was every bit as

lovely as '••10 harp. It lacked the feminine timbre of many I

had hearof, yet maintained the rich liquid range the art

requires. The modulation was exquisite; he had no need to

speak leudly to reach all corners of the room. He merely

spoke. Men listened.

"I will please you as I please myself," he said quietly,

"by giving you what entertainments I can upon my Lady.

But there s a task I must first perform." From the sleeve

of his robe he took a folded parchment. He unfolded it,

smoothed it. and began to read. He did not color his tone

with any emotion, he merely read. But the words were

quite enough.

"Know ye all men that Bellam the Mujhar,

King of Solinde and Mujhar of Homana;

Lord of the cities Mujhara and Lestra;

Sets forth the sum of five hundred gold pieces

to any man bringing sound word of Carillon,

styling himself Prince of Homana,

and wrongful claimant to the Lion Throne.

"Know ye all men that Bellam the Mujhar

desires even more the presence of the pretender,

offering one thousand gold pieces

to any man bringing CariUon—or his body—

into Homana-Mujhar."

The harper, when finished, folded the parcliment pre-

cisely as it had been and returned it to his sleeve. His

blue eyes, nearly black in the smoky light, looked at every

man as if he judged his thoughts. All idleness was gone; I

saw only shrewd intensity. He waited.

I wondered, in that moment, if he recruited. I won-

dered if he was Bellam's man, sent out with the promise of

gold. I wondered if he counted the pieces for himself.

Five hundred of them if he knew I was here. One thou-

sand if he brought me home to Homana-Mujhar.

Home. For disposal as Bellam—or Tynstar—desired.

THE SONG OF HOMANA    27

?.  I saw what they did, the Ellasian men. They thought of

'Cthe gold and the glory. They thought of the task and the

1, triumph. They considered, for a moment, what it might

I: be to be made rich, but only for a moment, for then they

% considered their realm. Ellas. Not Homana. Rhodri's realm.

t. And the man who offered such gold had already swallowed

^ one land.

"^, The Ellasians, I knew, would do nothing for Bellam's

a'" gold. But there were others in the room, and perhaps they

P^ would.

I looked at Finn. His face was a mask, as ever; a blank,

sun-bronzed mask, with eyes that spoke of magic and

myth and made them both quite real.

The harper began to sing. His deep voice was fine and

sweet, eloquently expressing his intent. He sang of the

bitterness of defeat and the gut-wrenching carnage of war.

He sang of boys who died on bloodied fields and captains

who fell beneath Solindish and Atvian swords. He sang of

a king who hid himself in safety behind the rose-red walls

of Homana-Mujhar, half-mad from a crazed obsession. He

sang of the king's slain brother, whose son was trapped in

despair and Atvian iron. He sang of the same boy, now a

man and free again, who lived flis life in exile, fleeing

Ihlini retribution. He sang my life, did this stranger, and

brought the memories alive.

Oh gods . . . the memories . . .

How is it that a harper can know what was? How is it

that he captures the essence of what happened, what I

am, what I long to be? How is it that he can sing my song

while 1 sit unknowing, knowing only it is true, wishing it

were otherwise?

How is it done?

The poignancy nearly shattered me. I shivered once

convulsively, then stared hard at the scarred wooden table

while the shackle weals beneath the sleeves of my leather

shirt ached with remembered pain. I could not look at the

harper. Not while he gave me my history, my heritage,

my legacy, and the story of a land—my land—in her death

struggle.

"By the gods—" I murmured before I could stop,

I felt Finn's eyes on me. But he said nothing at all.

THREE

"I am Lachlan," said the harper. "I am a harper, but also a

priest of Lodhi the All-Wise, the All-Father, would you

have me sing of Him?" Silence met his question, the

silence of reverence and awe. He smiled, his hands un-

moving upon the harp. "You have heard of the magic we

of Lodhi hold. The tales are true. Have you not heard

them before?"

I looked over the room. Men sat silently on their benches

and stools, paying no mind to anyone save the harper. I

wondered again what he intended to do.

"The All-Father has given some of us the gift of song,

the gift of healing, the gift of words. And fewer of us claim

all three " He smiled. It was an enigmatic, eloquent smile.

"I am one, and this night I will share what I can with

you."

The harp's single green stone cast a viridescent glow as

his fingers danced across the strings, stirring a sound that

at once set the flesh to rising on my bones. His eyes

passed over each of us again, as if'he sought to compre-

hend what each one of us was about. And still he smiled.

"Some men call us sorcerers," he said quietly. "I will

not dispute it. My Lady and I have traversed the leagues of

this land and others, and what I have seen I have learned.

What I will give you this night is something most men

long for: a return to the innocent days, A return to a time

when cares were not so great and the responsibilities of

I 28 I

THE SONG OF HOMANA    29

manhood did not weigh so heavily. I wilt give you your

greatest day." The blue eyes swelled to black. "Sit you

still and listen, hearing only my Lady and myself, and 1

will give you the gift of Lodhi."

I heard the music begin. For a moment I thought

. nothing of it: it was harpsong as ever, boasting nothing

more than what I had already heard. And then I heard the

underscore moving through the melody. A strange, eerie

tone, seemingly at odds with the smoother line. I stared at

the harper's hands as he moved them in the strings, light

glittering off the strands. And then I felt him inside my

. head.

'f   Suddenly I was nothing but music. A single, solitary

note. A string plucked and plucked again, my use dictated

by the harper whose hands were on my soul. I stared at

the eloquent fingers moving, caressing, plucking at the

strings, and the music filled my head.

The colors of the room spilled away, like a wineglass

tipped and emptied. Everything was gray, dark and light,

with no blacks and no whites. I saw a harper in a gray robe

. with gray eyes and grayish hair. Only the harp held true:

honey-gold and gleaming, with a single emerald eye. And

', then even that was gone . . .

No more war—no more blood—no more wishing for

\ revenge. Only the sense of other days. Younger days, and

a younger Carillon, staring with joy and awe at the great

; chestnut warhorse his father had gifted him on his eigh-

teenth birthday. I recalled the day so well, and what I had

thought of the horse. I recalled it all, for on that day I was

named Prince of Homana, and heir to the Lion Throne.

Again I clattered down the winding staircase atJoyenne,

nodding at servants who gave me morning greeting, think-

', ing only of the promised gift. I had known it was to be a

i'.horse, a warhorse, but not which one. I had hoped—

—and it was. The great red stallion had gotten a

matching son on my father's best mare, and that son was

mine at last. FuU-grown and fuUy trained, ready for a

warrior. I was not so much a warrior then, knowing only

the practice chamber and tourney-fields, but 1 was more

^than ready to prove what I could of my skill. And yet I

\ could not have wished for that chance to come so soon.

30 Jennifer Roberson

1 saw then the underside of the harper's spell. It was

true he gave me my innocent days, but with those days

came the knowledge of what had followed. He could not

have summoned a more evocative memory had he tried

for it; I think he did it purposely. I think he reached into

my mind, digging and searching until he found the proper

one And then he gave it to me.

The memory altered. No more was I the young prince

reaching out to touch the stallion. No. I was someone else

entirely: a bloodied, soiled, exhausted boy in a man's

body, his sword taken from him and his wrists imprisoned

in Atvian iron. Taken by Thorne himself, Keough's son,

who had ordered the iron hammered on.

All my muscles knotted. Sweat broke out on my flesh. I

sat in a crowded common room of a roadhouse in the

depths of an Ellasian storm, and I sweated. Because I

could not help myself.

And then, suddenly, the colors were back The grays

faded. Candlewicks guttered and smoked, turning faces

tight and dark, and then I realized I sat still upon my stool

with Finn's hand imprisoning my right wrist. It was not

iron, it was flesh and bone, holding my arm in place. And

then I saw why. In my fist was gripped the bone-handled

knife, the blade pointing toward the harper.

"Not yet," Finn said quietly "Perhaps later, when we

have divined his true intent."

It made me angry, Angry at Finn, which was wrong,

but I had no better target. It was the harper I wanted, for

manipulating me so, but it was Finn who was too near.

I let go the knife. Finn let go the hand. I drew it in to

my body, massaging the ridges of scar tissue banding my

wrist as if it bore iron still. And I glared at him with all the

anger in my eyes. "What did he give you? A Cheysuli on

the throne?"

Finn did not smile "No," he said, "He gave me Alix."

It took the breath from my chest. Alix. Of course. How

better to get to Finn than to remind him of the woman he

had wanted badly enough to steal? The woman who had

turned her back on him to wed Duncan, his brother.

The woman who was my cousin, that I wanted for

myself.

THE SONG OF HOMANA     31

x^

Vi.

I laughed bitterly. "A skillml harper indeed ... or more

likely a sorcerer, as he claims." I stared across at the

blue-robed man who was calmly refusing to sing again.

"Ihlini. do you think? Sent from Bellam to set a trap?"

Finn shook his head. "Not Ihlini; I would know. And 1

have heard of this All-Father god." He grimaced in distaste.

"An Ellasian deity, and therefore of less importance to

me, but powerful nonetheless." He shifted slightly on the

stool, leaning forward to pour himself more wine. "I will

have a talk with him."

He had named himself Lachlan, and now he moved

around the room to gather up his payment in coin and

baubles and wine. He carried his harp tucked into the

crook of one arm and a cup in his other hand. Light

glittered off the silver links around his waist and the

circlet on his brow. He was a young man still, perhaps my

own age, and tall, but lacking my substantial height and

weight. Still, he was not slight, and I thought there was

strength in those shoulders.

He came last to our table, as I expected, and I pushed

the winejug forward so he would know to help himself.

And then I kicked a stool toward him. "Sit you down.

Please yourself with the wine. And this." I drew forth

from my belt-purse a jagged piece of gold, stamped with a

crude design. But it was good gold, and heavy, and few

men would look askance at its crude making. I slid it

across the table with a forefinger, pushing it around the

bone-handled knife.

The harper smiled, nodded and sat down upon the

stool. His blue eyes matched the rich hue of his robe. His

hair, in the dim candlelight, showed no color other than a

dull dark brown. It looked as if the sun had never touched

ft, to bleach it red or blond. Dyed, I thought, and smiled

to myself.

He poured wine into the cup he held. It was a fine

silver cup, though tarnished with age. The house cup for a

harper, I thought, seeing little use I doubted it was his

own.

"Steppes gold." He picked up the coin. "I do not often

see payment of this sort." His eyes flicked from the coin to

32 Jennifer Roberson

my face. "My skill is not worth so much, I think, you may

have it back." He set the coin on the table and left it

The insult was made calmly and clearly, with great care.

Its intent was unknown, and yet I recognized it regard-

less. Or was it merely a curious man gone fishing for an

outsize catch? Perhaps an exiled pnnce.

"You may keep it or not, as you wish." I picked up my

own mug. "My companion and I have just returned from

the Caledonese war against the plainsmen of the Steppes—

alive and unharmed, as you see—and we are generous

because of it." I spoke Ellasian, but with a Caledonese

accent.

The harper—Lachlan—swirled wine in his tarnished cup.

"Did it please you," he said, "my gift?"

I stared at him over my mug. "Did you mean it to?"

He smiled. "I mean nothing with that harpsong. I merely

share my gift—Lodhi's gift—with the listener, who will

make of it what he will. They are your memories, not

mine; how could I dictate what you see?" His eyes had

gone to Finn, as if he waited.

Finn did not oblige. He sat quietly on his stool, seem-

ingly at ease, though a Cheysuli at ease is more prepared

than any man I know. He turned his mug idly on the table

with one long-fingered hand. His eyes were hooded slightly,

like a predator bird's, but the irises showed yellow below

the lids.

"Caledon." The harper went on as if he realized he

would get nothing from Finn. "You say you fought with

Caledon, but you are not Caledonese. 1 know a Cheysuli

when I see one." He smiled, then glanced at me. "As for

you—you speak good Ellasian, but not good enough. You

have not the throat for it. But neither are you Caledonese;

I know enough of them." His eyes narrowed. "Solindish,

perhaps, or Homanan. You lack the lilt of Palia."

"Mercenaries," I said clearly, knowing it was—or had

been—the truth. "Claiming no realm, only service."

Lachlan looked at me. I knew he saw the thick beard

and the uncut, sunstreaked hair that tangled on my shoul-

ders. I had hacked off the mercenary's braid I had worn

for five years, bound with crimson cord, and went as a free

man again, which meant my sword was available. With a

THE SONG OF HOMANA    33

,. Cheysuli at my side, I would be a valuable man. Kings

ir would pay gold for our service.

'v   "No realm," he said, and smiled. Then he pushed away

y' from the table and got to his feet, cradling the harp. He

;i picked up the blackened silver cup and nodded his thanks

(< for the wine.

"Take your payment," I said. "It was made in good

faith."

§    "And in good faith, I refuse it." He shook his head.

t "You have more need of it than I. I have no army to

H raise."

H    I laughed out loud. "You misunderstand mercenaries.

I; harper. We do not raise armies. We serve in them."

I,   "I said precisely what I meant." His face was solemn,

f^ eyes flicking between us shrewdly. And then he turned

^ away.

j    Finn put out his hand and gathered up his knife. No,

9  not his precisely; like me, he hid his away. He carried

'i instead a knife taken from a Steppes plainsman, and it

',• served its purpose. In Finn's hand, any knife did.

^    "Tonight," he said quietly, "I will have conversation

|p with that harper."

I,    I thought fleetingly of the Ellasian god the harper claimed

? to serve. Would Lodhi interfere? Or would Lachlan

I? cooperate?

j^    I smiled. "Do what you have to do."

^    Because the storm had driven so many inside for the

^ evening, the roadhouse was crowded to bursting. There

were no private rooms. The best I could do was give gold

to the tavern-master for two pallets on the floor of a room

already occupied by three others. When I went in alone,

later than I had intended, they already slept. I listened

;\ silently just inside the open door, to see if anyone feigned

® sleep to lure me into a trap, but all three men were deep

I. asleep. And so I shut the door, set my unsheathed sword

I   on the lice-ridden pallet as I stretched out my legs, and

^ waited for Finn to come in.

A-    When he did, it was without sound. Not even the door

^  squeaked, as it had for me. Finn was simply in the room.

34 Jennifer Roberson

"The harper is gone," he said. It was hardly a sound, but I

had learned how to hear it.

I frowned into the darkness as Finn knelt down on the

other pallet. "In this storm?"

"He is not here."

I sat back against the wall, staring thoughtfully into the

darkness. My right hand, from long habit, touched the

leather-wrapped hilt of my sword. "Gone, is he?" I mused-

"What could drive a man into an Ellasian snowstorm,

unless there be good reason?"

"Gold is often a good reason." Finn shed a few of his

furs and dropped them over his legs. He stretched out

upon his pallet and was silent. I could not even hear him

breathe.

I bit at my left thumb, turning things over in my mind.

Questions arose and I could answer none of them. Nor

could Finn, so I wasted no time asking him. And then,

when I had spent what moments I could spare considering

the harper, I slid down the wall to stretch full length upon

the lumpy pallet and went to sleep.

What man—even a prince with gold upon his head—

need fear for his safety with a Cheysuli at his side?

It was morning before we could speak openly, and even

then words were delayed. We went out into the ethereal

stillness of abated storm, saddled and packed our horses

and walked them toward the rack. The snow lay deep and

soft around my boots, reaching nearly to my knees. The

track was better, packed and shallow, and there I waited

while Finn went into the trees and searched for his lir.

Storr came at once, bounding out of the trees like a dog,

hurling himself into Finn's arms. Finn went down on one

knee, ignoring the cold, and cast a quick, appraising look

toward the roadhouse. I thought it highly unlikely anyone

could see us now. Satisfied, Finn thrust out an arm and

slung it around Storr's neck, pulling the wolf in close.

What their bond is, I cannot say precisely. I know only

what Finn has told me, that Storr is a part of his heart and

soul and mind; half of his whole. Without the wolf, Finn

said, he was little more than a shadow, lacking the gifts of

his race and the ability to survive. I thought it an awe-

THE SONG OF HOMANA     35

somely gruesome thing, to claim life only through some

sorcerous link with an animal, but I could not protest what

so obviously worked. I had seen him with the wolf before

during such greetings, and it never failed to leave me

feeling bereft and somehow empty. Jealous, even, for

what they shared was something no other man could claim

save the Cheysuli. I have owned dogs and favorite horses,

but it was not the same. That much I could tell, looking at

them, for Finn's face was transfigured when he shared a

reunion with Storr.

Finn's new horse, a dark brown gelding purchased from

the tavern-master, pulled at the slack reins. I pulled him

back again and got his reins untangled from those of my

little Steppes pony. When I looked again at Finn I saw

him slap Storr fondly on the shoulder, and then he was

pushing back through the snow toward me.

I handed the reins to him. "How does he fare?"

"Well enough." The fond half-smile remained a mo-

ment, as if he still conversed with the wolf. I had thought

once or twice that his expression resembled that of a man

well-satisfied by a woman, he wore it now "Storr says he

would like to go home."

"No more than I." The thought of Homana instead of

foreign lands knotted my belly at once. Gods. to go home

again ... I looped my horse's reins over his ears, pulled

them down his neck and mounted. As ever, the little

gelding grunted. Well, I am heavier than the plainsmen

who broke him. "I think we can reach Homana today,

does the sky remain clear." I looked skyward and squinted

out of habit. "Perhaps we should go to the Keep."

Finn, settling into his saddle, looked at me sharply. He

went hoodless as I did, and the early dawn light set his

earring to glinting with a soft golden glow. "This soon?"

I laughed at him. "Have you no wish to see your brother?"

Finn scowled. "You know well enough I am not averse

to seeing Duncan again. But I had not thought we would

go openly into Cheysuli land so soon."

I shrugged. "We are nearly there. The Keep lies on the

border, which we must cross. And, for all that, I think we

both wish to see Alix again."

Finn did not meet my eyes. It was odd to realize the

36 Jennifer Roberson

time away from Homana had not blunted his desire for his

brother's wife. No more than it had mine

He looked at me at last. "Do you wish to take me to her,

or go for yourself?"

I smiled and tried not to show him my regret. "She is

wed now, and happily. There is no room for me in her life

except as a cousin."

"No more for me except as a rujholli." Finn laughed

bitterly; his eyes on me were ironic and assessive as he

pushed black hair out of his dark, angular face. "Do you

not find it strange how the gods play with our desires? You

held Alix's heart, unknowing, while she longed for a single

word from your mouth. Then I stole her from you, intend-

ing to make her my meijha. But it was Duncan, ever

Duncan ... he won her from us both." Grimly he put out

his hand and made the gesture I had come to hate, for all

its infinite meaning.

"Tahlmorra," I said sourly. "Aye, Finn, I find it passing

strange. And I do not like it overmuch."

Finn laughed and closed his hand into a fist. "Like it?

But the gods do not expect us to like it. No. Only to serve

it."

"You serve it. I want none of your Cheysuli prophecy. I

am a Homanan prince."

"And you will be a Homanan king . . . with all the help

of the Cheysuli."

No man, born of a brief history, likes to hear of another

far greater than his own, particularly when his House has

fallen into disarray. The Homanan House had held the

Lion Throne nearly four hundred years. Not long, to

Cheysuli way of thinking. Not when their history went

back hundreds of centuries to a time with no Homanans,

Only the Firstborn, the ancestors of the Cheysuli, with all

their shapechanging arts.

And the power to hand down a prophecy that ruled an

entire race.

"This way, then." Finn gestured and kicked his horse

into motion.

"You are certain?" I had no wish to get myself lost, not

when I was so close to Homana at last.

Finn cast me a thoroughly disgusted glance. "We go to

THE SONG OF HOMANA    37

the Keep, do we not? I should know the way. Carillon.

Once, it was my home."

I subsided into silence. I am silent often enough around

him. Sometimes, with Finn, it is simply the best thing to

do.

FOUR

The weather remained good, but the going did not. We

had left behind the beaten track that led westward into

Homana, seeking instead the lesser-known pathways.

Though the Cheysuli were welcome within Ellas, they

kept to themselves. I doubted High King Rhodri knew

much of the people who sheltered in his forests. They

would keep themselves insular, and therefore more mys-

terious than ever. There would be no well-traveled tracks

leading to the Keep.

At last, as the sun lowered in the sky, we turned into

the trees to find a proper campsite, knowing Homana and

the Keep would have to wait another day. We settled on a

thick copse of oaks and beeches.

Finn swung off his mount. "I will fetch us meat while

you lay the fire. No more journey-loaf for me, not when I

have tasted real meat in my mouth again." He threw me

his reins, then disappeared into the twilight with Storr

bounding at his side.

I tended the horses first, untacking them, then hobbling

and graining them with what dwindling rations remained.

Once the horses were settled I searched for stones, in-

tending to build us a proper firecaim. We had gone often

enough without a fire, but I preferred hot food and warmth

when I slept.

I built my caim, fired the kindling we carried in our

saddlepacks and made certain the flames would hold. Then

I 38 I

THE SONG OF HOMANA I 39

I turned to the blankets I had taken from the horses.

Pelts, to be precise; each horse was blanketed with two.

The bottom rested hair-down against the horse, the top

one hangup, to pad the saddle. At night the pelts became

blankets for Finn and me, smelling of sweat and horsehair,

but warm. I spread them now against the snow; after we

ate we could thrust the hot stones beneath them to offer a

little heat.

As \ spread the blankets I heard the muffled movement

in the snow. My hand was on my sword instantly, ripping

it from the sheath at my left hip. I spun, leveling the

blade, and saw the flash of setting sunlight turn the runes

to blinding fire.

Three men before me, running at me out of the thicken-

ing shadows. More than that behind me. I wondered

where was Finn, and then I did not, for I had no time.

I took the first one easily enough, marking the expres-

sion of shock on his face as I swung my blade and cut

through leather and furs and flesh, shearing the bone of

his arm in two just below the shoulder. The momentum of

the blade carried it farther yet, into his ribs, and then he

fell and I wrenched the sword free to use it on yet another.

The second fell as well, thrust'through the lungs, and

then the others did what they should have done at the

first. They came at me at once, en masse, so that even did

I try to take yet a third the others could bear me down. I

did not doubt I would account for at least another death

before I died, perhaps even two—Finn and adversity had

taught me wen enough for that—but the result would be

the same. I would be dead, and Bellam would have his

pretender-prince.

I felt the cold kiss of steel at the back of my neck,

sliding through my hair. Yet another blade was at my

throat; a third pressed against the leather and furs shield-

ing my belly. Three men on me, then, two were dead, and

the last man—the sixth—stood away and watched me.

Blood was splattered across his face, but he bore no wound.

"Stay you still," he told me at once, and I heard the fear

in his voice. As well as the Homanan words.

I gestured toward my belt-purse. "My gold is there."

"We want none of t/our gold," he said quickly "We

40 Jennifer Roberson

came for something more." He smiled. "But we will take

it, since you offer.'

I still held my sword in my right hand. But they did not

let me keep it. One man reached out and took it from me,

then tossed it aside. I saw how it landed across the firecairn,

clanging against the stone. I saw how the hilt was in the

flames, and knew the leather would bum away to display

the golden lion.

"Whose gold do you want, then?" I spoke Homanan,

since they did, but I kept my Caledonese accent.

"Bellam's," he confided, and grinned.

Inwardly I swore- The Solindish usurper had caught me

easily enough. And I had not even reached Homana.

Still, I forced a bewildered frown. "What does Bellam

want with a mercenary? Can he not buy hundreds of

them?"

"You travel with a shapechanger," he stated flatly.

Still I frowned. "Aye. What of it? Has Bellam declared

it unlawful? I am not Homanan, I am Caledonese, I choose

my companions where I will." I looked at the sword hilt

and saw how the leather turned black and crisp. In a

moment it would peel away, and I would be unmasked. If

I were not already.

"Cheysuli are under sentence of death," the Homanan

said. "That is one policy Bellam has kept intact since the

days of Shame."

I allowed surprise to enter my face. "You welcome

Bellam as king, then? Though you be Homanan?"

He glanced at the others. They were all familiar: I had

seen them in the roadhouse the night before. And they

had heard Bellam's message the harper had read. But I

wondered how I had given myself away.

The man spat into the snow. "We welcome Bellam's

gold, since we get none of it another way. While he offers

payment for each Cheysuli slain, we will serve him. That

is all,"

I kept my surprise from showing. Once more, it was not

me they sought. Finn again. But it was me they had

caught, and worth more—to Bellam—than five hundred

Cheysuli warriors.

THE SONG OF HOMANA    41

Except there were not five hundred Cheysuli left in all

the world. My uncle had seen to that.

"You have come across the border hunting Cheysuli?" I

asked.

He smiled. "They are hard to find in Homana. But the

Ellasian king gives them refuge, so we seek them here.

How better to earn the gold?"

"Then why," I asked very calmly, "do you disarm me? I

have no stake in this."

"You came in with the shapechanger. By taking you,

we take him He will not turn beast with your life in our

hands."

I laughed. "You count on a bond that does not exist,

The Cheysuli and I met on the trail; we owe each other

nothing. Taking me wins you nothing except a meaning-

less death." I paused. "You do mean to slay me, do you

not?"

He glanced at the others. For a moment there was

Hesitation in his blue eyes, and then he shrugged. His

decision had been made. "You slew two of us. You must

pay."

I heard the jingle of horse trappings. The blades pressed

closer against my neck, throat and belly as the man rode

out of the trees. In his bare hands was a harp, and the

single note he plucked held us all in thrall.

"You will slay no one," the harper said. "Fools, all of

you, when you have Carillon in your hands "

The Homanans did not move. They could not. Like me,

they were prisoners to the harp.

Lachlan looked at me. "They are Homanans, Did you

tell them your name, they might bend knee to you instead

of baring steel."

His fingers tangled in the strings 'and brought forth a

tangle of sound. It allowed me to speak, but nothing

more. "I am a mercenary," I said calmly. "You mistake me

for someone else "

He frowned. His eyes were on me intently, and the

sound of the harp increased. I felt it inside my head, and

then he smiled. "I can conjure up your life, my lord.

Would you have me show it to us all?"

42 Jonnlfttr Robwon

"To what purpose?" I inquired. "You will do what you

will do, no matter what I say."

"Aye," he agreed.

I saw how his fingers played upon the strings, drawing

from the harp a mournful, poignant sound. It conjured up

memories of the song he had played the night before, the

lay that had driven a blade into my belly with the memo-

ries of what had happened. But it was not the same. It had

a different sound. His Lady sang a different song.

The blades moved away from my neck, my throat, my

belly. The Homanans stepped away, stumbling in the

snow, until I stood alone. I watched, mute, as they took

up the men I had slain and bore the bodies away into the

trees. I was alone, except for the harper, but as helpless as

before.

"Ah," I said, "you mean to claim the gold yourself."

"I mean to give you what men I can," he reproved. "I

sent them home to wait until you call them to your

standard."

I laughed. "Who would serve a mercenary, harper? You

have mistaken me, I say."

Quite calmly he set the harp into its case and closed it

up, hooking it to his saddle. Lachlan jumped down from

his horse and crossed the snow to me. He knelt swiftly,

pulled thick gloves from his belt and folded them, then

pulled my sword from the firecairn. The leather had burned

away, and in the last rays of the setting sun the ruby

glowed deep crimson. The lion was burnished gold.

Lachlan rose. He held the blade gingerly, careful of the

heat even through the gloves, but his smile did not fade.

He turned to look at me with subtle triumph in his eyes.

"I have leather in my packs," he said quietly. "You will

have to wrap it again."

Still I could not move. I wondered how long he meant

to hold me. I wondered if he would take me all the way to

Mujhara in his ensorcellment, so that Bellam would see

me helpless. The thought set my teeth to gritting.

And then I smiled. As Lachlan turned to go to his

horse—for the harp, no doubt—Finn stepped around the

horse's rump and blocked Lachlan's path. Around the

other side came Storr. And the ensorcellment was broken.

THE SONG OF HOMANA    43

u

1!»

I reached out and closed my gloved hand upon the

blade of my sword, still in Lachlan's careful grasp. I felt

the heat, but it was not enough to burn me. Simply

enough to remind me what had so nearly happened.

Lachlan stood quite still. His hands were empty of

everything now save the gloves he held, folded in his

palms. He waited.

Finn moved closer. Storr followed. I could feel Lachlan's

tension increase with every step they took. My own was

gone at last; I felt calm, at ease, content to know the

confrontation was firmly in our hands. No more in a sor-

cerous harper's-

"The others are dead." Finn stopped in front of Lachlan.

The harper started. "You slew them? But I gave them a

task—"

"Aye," Finn agreed ironically. "I prefer to take no

chances."

Lachlan opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again.

I saw how rigid was his jaw. After a moment he tried

again. "Then you have taken five men from Carillon's

army. Five men you will miss."

Finn smiled. There was little of amusement in it. "I

would sooner take five men from Carillon's army than

Carillon himself."

Lachlan looked sharply at me. "You disbelieve me when

I say 1 wish only to aid you. Well enough, I understand it.

But he is Cheysuli. He can compel the truth from me. I

know of his gifts; I have my own."

"And, having them, you may withstand mine," Finn

commented.

Lachlan shook his head. "Without my harp, I have no

magic. I am at your disposal. And I am not Ihlini, so you

need fear no loss of your own power."

Finn's hands were a blur, reaching to catch the harper's

head before Lachlan could move away. He held the skull

between both palms, cradling it, as if he sought to crush

it, but he did not. Lachlan's own hands came up, reaching

to peel Finn's fingers away, but they stopped. The hands

fell to his sides. Finn held him there, and went into his

mind.

After a moment, when some sense came back to Finn's

44 Jennifer Robarson

eyes, he looked at me. "He is a harper, a healer and a

priest. That much I can touch. But nothing else. He is

well shielded, no matter that he wishes to claim his

innocence."

"Does he serve Bellam or Tynstar?"

"He does not appear to." The distinction was deliberate.

I looked upon my sword and methodically rubbed the

ash and charring from its hilt. "If he is neither Bellam nor

Tynstar's man, whose man is he? He had his chance to

slay me with that harp, or to take my mind from me.

Bellam would give him his gold for a body or a madman."

I grimaced. "He might even have used the Homanans as a

guard contingent—he has the power with that harp. But

he did none of those things."

"Shall I slay him for you?"

I squinted at the ruby, darkening as the sun went down.

"Harpers are traditionally immune from such things as

assassination. Petty intrigue they cannot help—I think it is

born in them even as the harping is born—but never have

I known one to clothe himself in murder."

"Gold can buy any man."

I grinned at him, brows lifting. "A Cheysuli, perhaps?"

Finn scowled. With (he fortune in gold on his arms and

in his ear, more would hardly tempt him. Or any other

warrior. "He is not Cheysuli," was all he said, and the

meaning was quite clear.

"No," I agreed, sighing. "But perhaps he is only a spy,

not a hired assassin. Spies I can deal with; often they are

useful. How else coufd we have led Bellam this merry

dance for five years?" I smiled again. Bellam had sent

spies to track us down. Five had even found us. Those we

had stripped of their task, giving them a new one instead:

to take word to Bellam that we were elsewhere in the

world. Usually hundreds of leagues away from where we

were. It had worked with three of them.

The others we had slain.

"Then you mean to use him." His tone was perfectly

flat, but I knew he was not pleased.

"We will take him with us and see what he means to

do."

"You tread a dangerous path, Carillon."

THE SONG OF HOMANA    45

I smiled. "It is already dangerous. This will add a fillip."

I laughed at his expression. "It will also keep you in

practice, liege man. You were slow in coming to my aid."

"I had five men to slay before I could reach the harp."

But he frowned a little, and I knew he was not immune to

the knowledge that he had been slow. Faster than anyone

else, perhaps, but slow for a Cheysuli warrior.

"You are getting old, Finn." I gestured. "Set our harper

free. Let us see what he intends to do."

Finn released Lachlan. The harper staggered a mo-

ment, then caught himself, touching his head with a tenta-

tive hand. His eyes were blurred and unfocused. "Have

you done?"

"More than done," I agreed- "Now tell us why you wish

to aid me."

He rubbed his brow, still frowning slightly. "It is a

harper's life to make songs out of heroes and history. You

are both, you and your Cheysuli. You should hear the

stories they tell." He grinned, his senses restored. "A

harper gains his own measure of fame by adding to the

fame of others. I could do worse than to ride with Carillon

of Homana and his equally infamous liege man."

"You could," I agreed, and let him make of that what he

would.

After a moment Lachlan gestured. "Your fire has gone

out. Do you wish it, I can give it life again."

I glanced down at the firecaim. Snow had been kicked

into the fire during the scuffle with the Homanans and the

weight had finally doused it. "I have flint and steel," 1

said.

"Your kindling is damp. What I do will take less effort."

Lachlan turned to go to his horse for the harp, but Storr

was in his way. After a moment a gray-faced harper looked

back at me.

I smiled. "Storr does Finn's bidding, when he does not

do his own. Look to him."

Lachlan did not move. He waited. And finally Storr

moved away.

The harper took down his case from the horse and

turned, cradling it against his chest. "You fear I will use

sorcery against you?"

46 Jennifer Roberson

"With reason," I declared.

"I will not." He shook his dull, dark head. "Not again. I

will use it for you, do you wish it, but not against. Never

against. We have too much in common "

"What," I asked, "does a mercenary have in common

with a harper?"

Lachlan grinned. It was the warm, amused expression I

had seen the evening before, as if he knew what 1 could

not, and chose to keep it that way. "I am many things," he

said obliquely. "Some of them you know: harper, healer,

priest. And one day I will share the rest with you."

1 lifted my sword, With great deliberation I set the tip

against the lip of the sheath and let Lachlan see the runes,

hardly visible in the dying light. Then I slid the sword

home with the hiss of steel filling the shadows. "Do you

admit to complicity," I said softly, "take care."

Lachlan's smile was gone. Hugging his harp case, he

shook his head "Were I to desire your death, your Cheysuli

would give me my own." He cast a quick, flickering glance

at Finn. "This is Ellas. We have sheltered the Cheysuli for

some years, now. Do you think I discount Finn's skill?

No. You need not be wary of me, with him present. I

couid do nothing."

I gestured. "There is that in your hands."

"My Lady?" He was surprised, then smiled. "Oh, aye,

there is her magic. But it is Lodhi's, and I do not use it to

kill."

"Then show us how you can use it," I bid him. "Show

us what other magic you have besides the ability to give us

our memories, or to lift our wills from us."

Lachlan looked at Finn, almost invisible in the deepen-

ing shadows. "It was difficult, with you. Most men are so

shallow, so transient. But you are made of layers. Com-

plex layers, some thin and easily torn away, but in tearing

they show the metal underneath. Iron," he said thought-

fully. "I would liken you to iron. Hard and cold and

strong."

Finn abruptly gestured toward the firecaim "Show us,

harper."

Lachlan knelt down by the firecaim. Deftly he unsealed

the harp case—boiled leather hardened nearly to stone by

THE SONG OF HOMANA    47

some agent, padded thickly within—and took from it his

Lady. The strings, so fragile-seeming, gleamed in the

remaining light. The wood, I saw, was ancient, perhaps

from some magical tree. It was bound with spun gold. The

green stone—an emerald?—glowed.

He knelt in the snow, ignoring the increasing cold, and

played a simple lay. It was soft, almost unheard, but

remarkable nonetheless. And when his hands grew blurred

and quick I saw the spark begin, deep in the damp,

charred wood, until a single flame sprouted, swallowed it

all. and the fire was born again.

The song died upon the harp. Lachlan looked up at me.

"Done," he said.

"So it is, and myself unscathed." I reached down a

gloved hand, caught his bare one and pulled him to his

feet. His was no soft grasp, no woman's touch designed to

keep his harper's fingers limber.

Lachlan smiled as we broke the grip. I thought he had

judged me as quickly as I had him. But he said nothing;

there was nothing at all to say. We were strangers to one

another, though something within me said it would not

always be so.

"You ride a blooded horse," T said, looking at the

dapple-gray.

"Aye," Lachian agreed gravely. "The High King likes

my music. It was a gift last year."

"You have welcome in Rheghed?" I asked, thinking of

the implications.

"Harpers have welcome anywhere." He tugged on his

gloves, hunching against the cold. "I doubt not Bellam

would have me in Homana-Mujhar, did I go."

He challenged me with his eyes. I smiled, but Finn did

not. "Aye, I doubt not." I turned to Finn. "Have we

food?"

"Something like," he affirmed, "but only if you are

willing to eat coney-meat. Game is scarce."

I sighed. "Coney is not my favorite, but I prefer it to

none at all."

Finn laughed. "Then at least I have taught you some-

thing in these past years. Once you might have demanded

venison."

48 Jennifer Roberson

"I knew no better, then." I shook my head. "Even

princes leam they have empty bellies like anyone else,

when their titles are taken from them."

Lachlan's hands were on his harp as he set it within its

case. "Which title?" he asked. "Prince or Mujhar?"

"Does it matter? Bellam has stolen them both."

When the coneys were nothing but gristle and bone—

and Storr demolished the remains quickly enough—Lachlan

brought out a skin of harsh wine from his saddlepacks and

passed it to me. I sat cross-legged on my two peits, trying

to ignore the night's cold as it settled in my bones. The

wine was somewhat bitter but warming, and after a long

draw I handed it to Finn. Very solemnly he accepted it,

then invoked his Cheysuli gods with elaborate distinction,

and I saw Lachlan's eyes upon him. Finn's way of mocking

another man's beliefs won him few friends, but he wanted

none. He saw no sense in it, with Storr.

Lachlan retrieved the skin at last, drank, then passed it

on to me. "Will you tell me what I must know, then? A

saga is built out of fact, not fancy. Tell me how it was a

king could destroy the race that had served him and his

House so well."

"Finn would do better to tell it." If he would.

Finn, sitting on his pelts with Storr against one thigh,

shrugged. The earring glinted in the firelight. In the shad-

ows he seemed more alien than ever, part of the nighttime

itself. "What is there to say? Shaine declared qu'mahlin on

us for no good reason . . . and we died." He paused.

"Most of us."

'"You live," Lachlan commented.

Finn's smile was not precisely a smile, more a move-

ment of his lips, as if he would bare his teeth. "The gods

saw another way for me. My tahlmorra was to serve the

prophecy in later years, not die as a helpless child." His

hand went out to bury itself in Storr's thick hair.

Lachlan hesitated, cradling his harp case. "May I have

the beginning?" he asked at last, with careful intonation.

Finn laughed. There was no humor in it. "What is the

beginning, harper? 1 cannot say, and yet I was a part of

THE SONG OF HOMANA     49

it." He looked at me a moment, fixedly, as if the memo-

ries had swallowed him-

1 swallowed, remembering too. "The fault lay in a man's

overweening pride." I did not know how else to begin.

"My uncle, Shaine the Mujhar—who wanted a son and

had none—tried to wed his daughter to Ellic of Solinde,

Bellam's son, in hopes of ending the war. But that daugh-

ter sought another man: Cheysuli, Shaine's own liege man,

turning her back on the alliance and the betrothal. She

fled her father, fled Homana-Mujhar, and with her went

the warrior."

"My^ehon," Finn said before I could continue. "Father,

you would say. Hale. He took Lindir from her tahlmorra

and fashioned another for them both. For us all; it has

resulted in disaster." He stared into the fire. "It took a