The Chronicles of the Cheysuli: 
An Overview 


THE PROPHECY OF THE FIRSTBORN: 
"One day a man of all blood shall unite, In peace, four warring realms and two magical 
races." 


Originally a race of shapechangers known as the Cheysuli, descendants of the 
Firstborn, Homana's original race, held the Lion Throne, but increasing unrest on the part 
of the Homanans, who lacked magical powers and therefore feared the Cheysuli, 
threatened to tear the realm apart. The Cheysuli royal dynasty voluntarily gave up the 
Lion Throne so that Homanans could rule Homana, thereby avoiding fullblown 
internecine war. 

The clans withdrew altogether from Homanan society save for one remaining and 
binding tradition: each Homanan king, called a Mujhar, must have a Cheysuli liege man 
as bodyguard, councillor, companion, dedicated to serving the throne and protecting the 
Mujhar, until such a time as the prophecy is fulfilled and the Firstborn rule again. 

This tradition was adhered to without incident for nearly four centuries, until 
Lindir, the only daughter of Shaine the Mujhar, jilted her prospective bridegroom to 
elope with Hale, her father's Cheysuli liege man. Because the jilted bridegroom was the 
heir of a neighboring king, Bell am of Solinde, and because the marriage was meant to 
seal an alliance after years of bloody war, the elopement resulted in tragic consequences. 
Shaine concocted a web of lies to salve his obsessive pride, and in so doing laid the 
groundwork for the annihilation of a race. 

Declared sorcerers and demons dedicated to the downfall of the Homanan throne, 
the Cheysuli were summarily outlawed and sentenced to immediate execution if found 
within Homanan borders. 

Shapechangers begins the "Chronicles of the Cheysuli," telling the tale of Alix, 
daughter of Lindir, once Princess of Homana, and Hale, once Cheysuli liege man to 
Shaine. Alix is an unknown catalyst bearing the Old Blood of the Firstborn, which gives 
her the ability to link with all lir and assume any animal shape at will. But Alix is raised 
by a Homanan and has no knowledge of her abilities, until she is kidnapped by Finn, a 
Cheysuli warrior who is Hale's son by his Cheysuli wife, and therefore Alix's half-
brother. Kidnapped with her is Carillon, Prince of Homana. Alix learns the true power in 
her gifts, the nature of the prophecy which rules all Cheysuli, and eventually marries a 
warrior, Duncan, to whom she bears a son, Donal, and, much later, a daughter, Bronwyn. 
But Homana's internal strife weakens her defenses. Bellam of Solinde, with his sorcerous 
aide, Tynstar the Ihlini, conquers Homana and assumes the Lion Throne. 

In The Song of Homana, Carillon returns from a five-year exile, faced with the 
difficult task of gathering an army capable of overcoming Bellam. He is accompanied by 
Finn, who has assumed the traditional role of liege man. Aided by Cheysuli magic and 
his own brand of personal power, Carillon is able to win back his realm and restore the 
Cheysuli to their homeland by ending the purge begun by his uncle, Shaine, Alix's 
grandfather. He marries Bellam's daughter to seal peace between the lands, but Electra 
has already cast her lot with Tynstar the Ihlini, and works against her Homanan husband. 
Carillon's failure to father a son forces him to betroth his only daughter, Aislinn, to 


Donal, Alix's son, whom he names Prince of Homana. This public approbation of a 
Cheysuli warrior is the first step in restoring the Lion Throne to the sovereignty of the 
Cheysuli, required by the prophecy, and sows the seeds of civil unrest. 

Legacy of the Sword focuses on Donal's slow assumption of power within 
Homana, and his personal assumption of his role in the prophecy. Because by clan 
custom a warrior is free to take both wife and mistress, Donal has started a Cheysuli 
family even though he will one day have to marry Carillon's daughter to cement his right 
to the Lion Throne. By his Cheysuli mistress he has two children, Ian and Isolde; by 
Aislinn, Carillon's daughter, he eventually sires a son who will become his heir. But the 
marriage is rocky immediately; in addition to the problems caused by a second family, 
Donal's Homanan wife is also under the magical influence of her mother, Electra, who is 
mistress to Tynstar. Problems are compounded by the son of Tynstar and Electra, 
Strahan, who has his father's powers in full measure. On Carillon's death Donal inherits 
the Lion, naming his legitimate son, Niall, to succeed him. But to further the prophecy he 
marries his sister, Bronwyn, to Alaric of Atvia, lord of an island kingdom. Bronwyn is 
later killed by Alaric accidentally while in lir-shape, but lives long enough to give birth to 
a daughter, Gisella, who is mad. 

In Track of the White Wolf, Donal's son Niall is a young man caught between two 
worlds. To the Homanans, fearful of Cheysuli power and intentions, he is worthy only of 
distrust, the focus of their discontent. To the Cheysuli he is an "unblessed" man, because 
even though far past the age for it, Niall has not linked with his animal. He is therefore a 
lirless man, a warrior with no power, and such a man has no place within the clans. His 
Cheysuli half-brother is his liege man, fully "blessed," and Ian's abilities serve to add to 
Niall's feelings of inferiority. 

Niall is meant to marry his half-Atvian cousin, Gisella, but falls in love with the 
princess of a neighboring kingdom, Deirdre of Erinn. Lirless, and with Gisella under the 
influence of Tynstar's Ihlini daughter, Lillith, Niall falls prey to sorcery. Eventually he 
links with his lir and assumes the full range of Cheysuli powers, but he pays for it with an 
eye. His marriage to Gisella is disastrous, but two sets of twins are born-Brennan and 
Hart, Corin and Keely-which gives Niall the opportunity to extend his range of influence 
via betrothal alliances. He banishes Gisella to Atvia after he foils an Ihlini plot involving 
her, and then settles into life with his mistress, Deirdre of Erinn, who has already borne 
Maeve, his illegitimate daughter. 

A Pride of Princes tells the story of each of Niall's three sons. Brennan, the eldest, 
will inherit Homana and has been betrothed to Aileen, Deirdre's niece, to add a heretofore 
unknown bloodline to the prophecy. Brennan's twin, Hart, is Prince of Solinde, a 
compulsive gambler whose addiction results in a tragic accident involving all three of 
Niall's sons. Hart is banished to Solinde for a year, and the rebellious youngest son, 
Corin, to Atvia. Brennan is tricked into siring a child on an Ihlini-Cheysuli woman; Hart 
loses a hand and nearly his life in a Solindish plot; in Erinn, Corin falls in love with 
Brennan's bride, Aileen, before going to Atvia. One by one each is captured by Strahan, 
Tynstar's son, who intends to turn Niall's sons into puppet-kings so he can rule through 
them. All three manage to escape, but not after each has been made to recognize 
particular strengths and weaknesses. 

For Keely, sister to Niall's sons, things are different. In Daughter of the Lion, 
Keely herself is caught up in the machinations of politics, evil sorcery, and her own 


volatile emotions. Trained from childhood in masculine pursuits such as weaponry, Keely 
prefers the freedom of choice and lifestyle, and as both are threatened by the imminent 
arrival of her betrothed, Sean of Erinn, she fights to maintain her sense of self in a world 
ruled by men. She is therefore ripe for rebellion when a strong-minded, powerful 
Erinnish brigand-and possible murderer-enters her life. 

But Keely's battles are increased tenfold when Strahan chooses her as his next 
target. Betrayed, trapped, and imprisoned on the Crystal Isle, Keely is forced through 
sorcery into a liaison with the Ihlini that results in pregnancy. But before the child can be 
born, Keely escapes with the aid of the Ihlini bard, Taliesin. On her way home she meets 
the man believed to be her betrothed, and realizes not only must she somehow rid herself 
of the unwanted child, but must also decide which man she will have-thief or prince-in 
order to be a true Cheysuli in service to the prophecy. 

Prologue 

He was small, so very small, but desperation lent him strength. The need lent him 
strength, even though fright and tension threatened to undermine it. He placed small 
hands on the hammered silver door and pushed as hard as he could, grunting with the 
effort; pushing with all his might. 

The door opened slightly. Then fell back again, scraping, as his meager strength 
failed. 

"No," he muttered aloud between clenched teeth. "No, I will not let you." 

He shoved very hard again. This time he squeezed into the opening before the 
door could shut. When it shut, it shut on him; gasping shock and fright, Aidan thrust 
himself through. His sleeping robe tore, but he did not care. It did not matter. He was in 
at last. 

Once in, he froze. The Great Hall was cavernous. Darker than night-a thick, heavy 
blackness trying to squash him flat. Darkness and something calling to him. 

He would not be squashed. He would not-and yet his belly knotted. Who was he 
to do this? Who was he to come to his grandsire's Great Hall, to confront the Lion 
Throne? 

Small hands tugged at hair, twisting a lock through fingers. Black hair by night; 
by day a dark russet, red in the light of the sun. He peered the length of the hall, feeling 
cold stone beneath his feet. His mother would have told him to put on his slippers. But 
the need had been so great that nothing else mattered but that he confront the Lion, and 
the thing in the Lion's lap. 

He shivered. Not from cold: from fear. 

Compulsion drove him. Aidan moaned a little. He wanted to leave the hall. He 
wanted to turn his back on the Lion, the big black beast who waited to devour him. But 
the need, so overwhelming, would not let him. 

No candles had been left lighted. The firepit coals glowed only vaguely. What 
little moon there was shone fitfully through the casements, its latticed light distorted by 
stained glass panes. 

If only he could see. 

No. He knew better. If he could see the Lion, he would fear it more. 

Or would he? The light of day was no better. The Lion still glared, still bared 


wooden teeth. Now he could barely see it, acrouch on the marble dais. Could it see him? 

Aidan bit a finger. Bowels turned to water; he wanted the chamber pot. But he 
was prince and also Cheysuli. If he retreated now, he would dishonor the blood in his 
veins. 

But, oh, how he wanted to leave! 

Aidan rocked a little. "Jehana…" he whispered, not knowing that he spoke. 

In the darkness, the Lion waited. 

So did something else. 

Aidan drew in a strangled breath in three gulping inhalations very noisy in the 
silence. Pressure in his bladder increased. He bit into his finger, then slowly took a step. 

One. Then two. Then three. He lost count of them all. But eventually all the steps 
merged and took him the length of the hall, where he stood before the Lion. He looked at 
eyes, teeth, nostrils. All of it wood, all of it. He was made of flesh. He would rule the 
Lion. 

With effort, Aidan looked into the lap. In dim light, something glowed. 

It was a chain, made of gold. Heavy, hammered gold, alive with promises. More 
than wealth, or power: the chain was heritage. His past, and his future: legacy of the gods. 
He reached for it, transfixed, wanting it, needing it, knowing it was for him; but when his 
trembling hand closed over a link the size of a large man's wrist, the chain shapechanged 
to dust. 

He cried out. Urine stained his nightrobe. Shame flooded him, but so did 
desperation. It had been right there; now there was nothing. Nothing at all remained. The 
dust-and the chain-was gone. 

He did not want to cry. He did not intend to cry, but the tears came anyway. 
Which made him cry all the harder, ashamed of his emotion. Ashamed of his loss of 
control. Of his too-Homanan reaction; Cheysuli warriors did not cry. Grief was not 
expressed. 

But he was more than merely Cheysuli. And no one let him forget. 

Only one more bloodline needed. One more outcross required, and the prophecy 
was complete. But even he, at six, knew how impossible it was. He had heard it often 
enough in the halls of Homana-Mujhar. 

No Cheysuli warrior will ever lie down with an Ihlini and sire a child upon her. 

But even he, a boy, knew better. A Cheysuli warrior had; in fact, two had: his 
grandsire's brother, Ian, and his own father, the Prince of Homana, who one day would be 
Mujhar. 

Even at six, he knew. And knew what he was meant for; what blood ran in his 
veins. But it was all very confusing, and he chose to leave it so. 

Grief renewed itself. I want my chain. 

But the chain-his chain-had vanished. 

A small ferocity was born: I want my CHAIN-

One of the doors scraped open. Aidan twitched and swung around unsteadily, 
clutching the sodden nightrobe in both hands. It was his mother, he knew. Who else 
would come looking for a boy not in his bed? And she would see, she would know


"Aidan? Aidan-what are ye doing here? 'Tis far past your bedtime!" 

Shame made him hot. He fought tears and trembling. 

She was white-faced, distraught, though trying to hide it. He knew what she felt; 


could feel it, as if her skin was his. But she tried so hard to hide it. 

The familiar lilt of Erinn echoed in the Great Hall. "What are ye doing, my lad? 
Paying homage to the Lion?" Aileen's laugh was forced. " 'Twill be your beastie, one 
day-there's no need for you to come in the night to see it!" 

She meant well, he knew. She always meant well. But he sensed her fear, her 
anguish, beneath forced cheerfulness. 

She hurried the length of the hall, gathering folds of a heavy robe. By the doors 
stood a servant holding a lamp. Light glowed in the hall. The Lion leaped out of the 
shadows. 

Aidan fell back, thrusting up a warding arm, then realized it was no more than it 
ever was: a piece of wood shaped by man. And then his mother was beside him, asking 
him things fear distorted, until she gathered the reins of her worry and knotted them 
away. 

She saw his hands doubled up in a soaked nightrobe. She saw the urine stain. 
Anguish flared anew-he felt it most distinctly, like a burning band thrust into his spirit-
but she said nothing of it. She merely knelt down at his side, putting a hand on his 
shoulder. "Aidan-why are you here? Your nurse came, speaking of a nightmare… but 
when I came, you were gone. What are you doing here?" 

He looked up into her face as she knelt down next to him. Into eyes green as 
glass; green as Erinnish turf. " 'Tis gone," he told her plainly, unconsciously adopting her 
accent. 

She wore blue velvet chamber robe over white linen night-shift. Her hair was 
braided for sleeping: a single thick red plait, hanging down her back. "What's gone, my 
lad?" 

"The chain," he explained, though he knew she would not understand. No one 
understood; no one could understand. 

Sudden anguish was overwhelming. He craved reassurance as much as 
understanding. The former he could get. As the hated tears renewed themselves, he went 
willingly into her arms. 

She pressed her cheek against his head, twining arms around small shoulders to 
still the wracking sobs. "Oh, Aidan, Aidan… 'twas only a dream, my lad… a wee bit of a 
dream come to trouble your sleep. There's no harm in it, I promise, but you mustn't be 
thinking 'tis real." 

"'Twas real," he insisted, crying hard into her shoulder. " 'Twas real-I swear… 
and the Lion-the Lion meant to eat me-" 

"Aidan, no. Oh, my sweet bairn, no. There's naught to the Lion's teeth but bits of 
rotting wood." 

" 'Twas real-'twas there-" 

"Aidan, hush-" 

"It woke me up, calling…" He drew his head away so he could see her face, to 
judge what she thought. "It wanted me to come-" 

"The Lion?" 

Fiercely, he shook his head. "Not the Lion-the chain-" 

"Oh, Aidan-" 

She did not believe him. He hurled himself against her, trembling from a complex 
welter of fear, anguish, insistence: he needed her to believe him. She was his rock, his 


anchor-if she did not believe him-

In Erinnish, she tried to soothe him. He needed her warmth, her compassion, her 
love, but he was aware, if distantly, he also required something more. Something very 
real, no matter what she said: the solidity of the chain in his small-fingered child's hands, 
because it was his tahlmorra. Because he knew, without knowing why, the golden links 
in his dreams bound him as fully as his blood. 

A sound: the whisper of leather on stone, announcing someone's presence. 
Pressed against his mother, Aidan peered one-eyed over a velveted shoulder and saw his 
father in the hall. His tall, black-haired father with eyes undeniably yellow, feral as 
Aidan's own; a creature of the shadows as much as flesh and bone. Brennan's dress was 
haphazard and the black hair mussed. Alarm and concern stiffened the flesh of his face. 

"The nursemaid came-what is wrong?" 

Aidan felt his mother turn on her knees even as her arms tightened slightly. "Oh, 
naught but a bad dream. Something to do with the Lion." Forced lightness. Forced calm. 
But Aidan read the nuances. For him, a simple task. 

The alarm faded as Brennan walked to the dais. The tension in his features 
relaxed. "Ah, well, there was a time it frightened me." 

Aidan did not wait. "I wanted the chain, jehan. It called me. It wanted me… and I 
needed it." 

Brennan frowned. "The chain?" 

"In the Lion. The chain." Aidan twisted in Aileen's arms and pointed. " 'Twas 
there," he insisted. "I came to fetch it because it wanted me to. But the Lion swallowed 
it." 

Brennan's smile was tired. Aidan knew his father sat up late often to discuss 
politics with the Mujhar. "No one ever said the Lion does not hunger. But it does not eat 
little boys. Not even little princes." 

Vision blurred oddly. "It will eat me. . ." 

"Aidan, hush." 

" 'Tis fanciful foolishness," Aileen admonished, rising to stand. "We'll be having 
no more of it." 

A dark-skinned, callused hand was extended for Aidan to grasp. Brennan smiled 
kindly. "Come, little prince. Time you were safe in bed." 

It was shock, complete and absolute. They do not believe me, either of them-

His mother and his father, so wise and trustworthy, did not believe him. Did not 
believe their son. 

He gazed blindly at the hand still extended from above. Then he looked into the 
face. A strong, angular face, full of planes and hollows; of heritage and power. 

His father knew everything. But if his father did not believe him. 

Aidan felt cold. And hollow. And old. Something inside flared painfully, then 
crumbled into ash. 

They will think I am LYING. 

It hurt very badly. 

"Aidan." Brennan wiggled fingers. "Are you coming with me?" 

A new resolve was born. If I tell them nothing, they cannot think I am lying. 

"Aidan," Aileen said, "go with your father. 'Tis time you were back in bed." 

Where I might dream again. 


He shivered. He gazed up at the hand. 

"Aidan," Aileen murmured. Then, in a flare of stifled impatience, "Take him to 
bed, Brennan. If he cannot be taking himself." 

That hurt, too. 

Neither of them believe me. 

The emptiness increased. 

Will anyone believe me? 

"Aidan," Brennan said. "Would you have me carry you?" 

For a moment, he wanted it. But the new knowledge was too painful. Betrayal 
was not a word he knew, but was beginning to comprehend. 

Slowly he reached out and took the hand. It was callused, large, warm. For a 
moment he forgot about the betrayal: the hand of his father was a talisman of power; it 
would chase away the dreams. 

Aidan went with his father, followed by his mother. Behind them, in the darkness, 
crouched the Lion Throne of Homana, showing impotent teeth. 

He clutched his father's hand. Inside his head, rebelling, he said it silently: I want 
my chain. 

Gentle fingers touched his hair, feathering it from his brow. " 'Twas only a 
dream," she promised. 

Foreboding knotted his belly. But he did not tell her she lied. He wanted his 
mother to sleep, even if he could not. 

PART I 

Chapter One 

«^» 

Deirdre's solar had become a place of comfort to all of them. Of renewal. A place 
where rank did not matter, nor titles, nor the accent with which one spoke: Erinnish, 
Cheysuli, Homanan. It was, Aileen felt, a place where all of them could gather, 
regardless of differing bloodlines, to share the heavy, unspoken bonds of heritage. It had 
nothing to do with magic, breeding, or homeland. Only with the overriding knowledge of 
what it was to rule. 

She knew what Keely would say; had said, often enough, phrased in many 
different-and explicit-ways. That women had no place in the male-dominated succession 
lining up for the Lion Throne. But Aileen knew better. Keely would not agree-she seldom 
agreed with anything concerning the disposition of women-but it was true. Women did 
have a place in the line of succession. As long as kings needed queens to bear sons for the 
Lion, women would have a place. 

Not the place Keely-or others-might want, but it was something nonetheless. It 
made women important, if for womb instead of brain. 

Aileen's womb had given Homana one son. Twin boys, enough to shore up 
Aidan's tenuous place in the succession, were miscarried; the ordeal had left her barren. 
She was, therefore, a princess of precarious reknown, and potentially threatened future. 
Brennan would not, she knew, set her aside willingly-he had made that clear-but there 
were others to be reckoned with besides the Prince of Homana. He was only a prince; 


kings bore precedence. And while the Mujhar showed no signs of concern regarding her 
son's odd habits, she knew very well even Niall was not the sole arbiter. There was also 
the Homanan Council. She was the daughter of a king, albeit the island was small; 
nonetheless, she understood the demands of a kingship. The demands of a council. 

Only one son for Homana. One son who was-different. 

She shivered. The solar was comfortable, but her peace of mind nonexistent. It 
was why she had gone to Deirdre. 

Aileen stood rigidly before the casement in the solar with sunlight in her hair, 
setting it ablaze. A wisp drifted near her eyes; distracted, she stripped it back. The gesture 
was abrupt, impatient, lacking the grace she had mastered after twenty-four years as 
Princess of Homana; twenty-four years as her aunt's protegee, in blood as well as 
deportment. 

She folded arms beneath her breasts and hugged herself, hard. "I've tried," she 
said in despair. "I've tried to understand, to believe 'twould all pass… but there's no 
hiding from it now. It started in childhood… he thinks we're not knowing… he believes 
he's fooled us all, but servants know the truth. They always know the truth-d'ye think 
they'd keep it secret?" Her tone now echoed the rumors. "The heir to Homana rarely 
spends a whole night in sleep-and he goes to talk to the Lion, to rail against a chair…" 
She let it trail off, then hugged herself harder. "What are we to do? I think he'll never be-
right." Her voice broke on the last word. With it her hardwon composure; tears welled 
into green eyes. "What are we to do? How can he hold the throne if everyone thinks him 
mad?" 

Deirdre of Erinn, seated near the window with lap full of yarn and linen, regarded 
Aileen with compassion and sympathy. At more than sixty years of age she was no longer 
young-brass-blonde hair was silver, green eyes couched in creases, the flesh less taut on 
her bones-but her empathy was undiminished even if beauty was. She knew what it was 
like to fear for a child; she had borne the Mujhar a daughter. But Maeve, for all her 
troubles, had never been like Aidan. Her niece's fears were legitimate. They all realized 
Aidan was-different. 

Deirdre knew better than to attempt to placate Aileen with useless platitudes, no 
matter how well-meant. So she gave her niece the truth: " 'Twill be years before Aidan 
comes close to inheriting. There is Brennan to get through first, and Niall is nowhere near 
dying. Don't be borrowing trouble, or wishing it on others." 

Aileen made a jerky gesture meant to dispel the bad-wishing, a thing Erinnish 
abhorred. "No, no… gods willing-" she grimaced "-or their eternal tahlmorras-Aidan will 
be old… but am I wrong to worry? 'Twas one thing to dream as a child-he's a grown man 
now, and the dreams are worse than ever!" 

Deirdre's mouth tightened. "Has he said nothing of it? You used to be close, you 
and Aidan-and he as close to Brennan. What has he said to you?" 

Aileen's expulsion of breath was underscored with bitterness. "Aidan? Aidan says 
nothing. Aye, once we were close-when he was so little… but now he says nothing. Not 
to either of us. 'Tis as if he cannot trust us-" She pressed the palms of her hands against 
temples, trying to massage away the ache. "If I say aught to him-if I ask him what 
troubles him, he tells me nothing. He lies to me, Deirdre! And he knows I know it. But 
does it change his answer? No, not his… he is, if nothing else, stubborn as a blind mule." 

"Aye, well, he's getting that from both sides of his heritage." Deirdre's smile was 


kind. "He is but twenty-three. Young men are often secretive." 

"No-not like Aidan." Aileen, pacing before the window, lifted a hand, then let it 
drop to slap against her skirts. "The whole palace knows it… the whole city knows it-
likely all of Homana." She stopped, swung to face Deirdre, half-sitting against the 
casement sill. "Some of them go so far as to say he's mad, mad as Gisella." 

"Enough!" Deirdre said sharply. "Do you want to give fuel to such talk? You're 
knowing as well as I there's nothing in that rumor. He could no more inherit insanity than 
I did, or you." She sat straighter in her chair, unconscious of creased linen. "He's 
Erinnish, too, as well as Cheysuli… how d'ye know he's not showing a bit of our magic? 
There's more than a little in the House of Eagles-" 

Aileen cut her off. "Oh, aye, I know… but the Cheysuli is so dominant I doubt our 
magic can show itself." 

Deirdre lifted an eyebrow. "That's not so certain, I'm thinking, with your hair on 
his head." 

Aileen grimaced, one hand drifting to brilliant locks. Aidan's was darker, but still 
red; only the eyes were Cheysuli. "There's nothing about my son that bespeaks Erinnish 
roots-he's as bad as any of them." 

Deirdre's smile was faint. "By 'them,' you're meaning Cheysuli?" 

"Cheysuli," Aileen echoed, forehead creased in absent concern. "One moment 
they're all so human… the next, they're alien." 

"Aye, well, they could say the same of us." Deirdre took up the forgotten 
embroidery in her lap, examining it critically. Her skills faded year by year, but not her 
desire. The worst thing about aging, she thought, was the inability physically to do what 
her mind wanted. "I think women have made that complaint many times before, whether 
the man in their bed is a shapechanger, or nothing more than a man." 

For the first time Aileen smiled. She had never been beautiful, but beauty was not 
what made her Aileen. The beauty of Erinn's eagles lay in vividness of spirit, and a crude 
physical splendor. "You wouldn't be saying that of the Mujhar." 

"I would," Deirdre retorted. "No doubt he's said it of me; no man understands a 
woman." 

Aileen's brief smile faded. "Does a mother understand her son?" 

Deirdre's hands slowed. "I'll not say you've naught to think about, with Aidan, but 
there's no madness in him. And there are worse things to a man than dreams; worse 
things to a throne than a dreamer." 

"I wonder," Aileen murmured. 

Deirdre schooled her tone into idle inquiry. "What does Brennan say?" 

"Nothing." Aileen shifted on the sill, cocking one knee against the glazing so that 
her weight was on the stone. "He feels it as much as I, but d'ye think he'll admit it? Admit 
he doubts his son?" The line of her mouth flattened. "When Aidan was little, and so sick, 
Brennan and I shared everything. But Aidan withdrew, and then so did Brennan. There 
was nothing left between us. Now, when he speaks of it at all, he says merely 'tis Aidan's 
tahlmorra to hold the Lion Throne." 

Deirdre sighed. "So says his birthright. But there are times, to my way of 
thinking, they put too much weight on what they believe instead of on what they feel." 

"They believe in the prophecy, each and every one of them." Then Aileen 
laughed. Bitterness was manifest. "Except, of course, for Teirnan and his a'saii, lost in 


the woods of Homana." 

Deirdre's mouth tightened. "Teirnan was a fool." 

"You only say that because he seduced your daughter… you're not caring a whit 
what Teirnan thinks about anything else, after what he did to Maeve." Aileen shifted 
restlessly, adjusting heavy skirts. "Maeve is happy now, in Erinn, and perfectly safe-my 
son is neither, I'm thinking." 

"Your son will do well enough." Deirdre bit through a thread. "As you said, 
Maeve is happy-and who would have thought that possible after what Teirnan did to 
her?" Deirdre sighed, untangling colors. "I thank the oldfolk of Erinn for hearing a 
mother's pleas… Rory Redbeard's a good man, and has made her a good husband." 

"Since he couldn't be having Keely." Aileen smiled briefly. "He wanted her, you 
know. For all she was meant for Sean, and the Redbeard came here knowing…" She let it 
trail off. "Maeve is nothing like Keely. If that was what Rory wanted, he got something 
other than expected." 

Deirdre raised a brow. "By the time Keely and Sean sailed for Erinn, only a fool 
would have thought he yet had a chance. After Teirnan's bastard was born, Rory took 
Maeve for Maeve's own sake, not as a replacement for Keely." 

Aileen laughed aloud. "There is no replacement for Keely." 

"And no replacement for Aidan… the boy will be whatever it is he's meant to be." 

Brief amusement fled. Aileen stared at her aunt. Deirdre's composure occasionally 
irked, because she claimed so little herself. Just now, it made her want to shatter it, even 
as she longed for Deirdre's serenity. It was a thing unknown to her, with a son such as 
Aidan. 

"There is something wrong with him. There is something not right." Aileen stared 
at her aunt, daring her to disagree. "Next time you see him," she said intensely, "look into 
his eyes. Then ask yourself these questions: "Is my grandson happy? Is my grandson 
sane?" " 

Deirdre stared, aghast. "I'd never do such a thing!" 

"Ask," Aileen suggested. "Better yet, ask him. But don't listen to what he says-
look in his eyes, instead. 'Tis where you'll find the truth. Cheysuli eyes or no, 'tis where 
you'll find the truth." 

Chapter Two 

«^» 

He was up and out of his bed before he knew who or where he was; before he 
knew what he wanted. The need drove him to it. The compulsion preempted everything: 
thought, logic, comprehension, much as lir-sickness had. It overtook his body and carried 
him to the door, where he pressed himself against it in mute appeal for passage. 

Inside his head tolled a certainty tainted with a plea:. This time I can touch it… 
this time it will be real-THIS time, I know-

But the declaration faded, along with certainty, as he came sluggishly to himself 
from the depths of unsettling dreams. He realized, in despair, it had happened yet again. 

Sweat filmed him. He slept nude, as always, disliking the bindings of 
sleepclothes, the excess warmth of covers. So now, damp with dreams and fear, he 
shivered in the chill of a cool summer night and cursed himself for a fool. 

With great effort he stilled his breathing, pressing his brow against the heavy door 


as if the pressure of flesh on wood might drive out the dream he dreamed. But it never 
did, never, no matter how hard he tried, and at last he turned, giving up, scraping 
shoulder blades against wood, and stared blindly into darkness. 

"Why?" he whispered raggedly, through the headache only beginning. "Why does 
this happen to me?" 

In the darkness, something stirred. But no answer was offered him; after too many 
years of the asking, he no longer expected one. 

The pounding of his heart slowed. He swallowed heavily twice, disliking the 
bitter aftertaste of the dream, and scratched irritably at a scalp itchy from dream-fear and 
reaction. He shivered once, controlled it, then stood up at last from the door. 

He lingered only a moment, considering what might happen if he simply went 
back to bed; he knew better. He knew very well, having tasted futility more often than 
dreamless slumber. So he gave up the sweet contemplation of what it might be like if he 
could simply sleep, as other people slept, and stumbled to the nearest clothing chest to 
pull out age-softened leather leggings. 

No more: only leggings, enough for now, he thought; more would be too much. 
More would be too hot; the summer night was cool, but dreams banished comfort and 
basted him with warmth. 

It would not be so bad, he thought wryly, if at least I dreamed of women. They are 
worth the discomfort of a night become too hot. 

He had been a man, as manhood is reckoned, for nearly eight years. He had 
dreamed, and spilled his seed, into women and into his bed. But it was not of women he 
dreamed when the dreams were sent by gods. 

A servant always left him a lighted candle; he always blew it out. Warrior 
training-and common sense-taught him safety lay in eyes well-accustomed to heavy 
darkness instead of blinded by too much light. But his room was an outer one, narrow 
casements slit the walls, and torchlight from the baileys crept through to bathe his 
chamber. Pale light burnished his arms: faceted lir-bands gleamed. 

Bare of chest and feet, he swung back toward the door. He paused there, eyes 
shut, cursing himself for a fool. 

"Leave it alone-ignore it-" Aidan bit into his lip. "Who is in control: a piece of 
wood, or you?" 

Inside his head, the Lion roared. Aidan's belly knotted. 

"Leave it alone," he repeated. "Gods-leave me alone-" 

Time to go, someone said. How can you turn back now? It has become ritual… 
and you are not the kind who changes anything regardless of the need. 

Stung, Aidan turned to glare through darkness at the rustling in the corner. "What 
am I to change? Would you have it be my tahlmorra?" 

Now the tone was scornful. You do not even have an inkling what your tahlmorra 
IS. 

Through the link, he lashed out. I know very well what it is-

Do you? 

I have known all along. What do you think I am? Are YOU not proof that my 
tahlmorra is undertaken? 

Because I exist? No. The tone, now, was cool. I exist because I am. Because the 
gods created me. 


To be my lir. 

The tone spilled into smugness. Or you to be mine. 

Aidan swore beneath his breath. Mockingly, he asked, "Has any warrior ever 
revoked the lir-link?" 

No living warrior. 

It reminded Aidan of something, as it was meant to do: the precariousness of his 
race. "Has any warrior petitioned the gods for a new lir?" 

Undoubtedly others have asked. But it is not my duty to tell you how the gods 
deal with ungrateful children. 

"Ungrateful," Aidan muttered. "How could any man be so foolish as to consider 
how peaceful life might be if his lir was other than you?" 

How can any warrior contemplate peace when he stands ready to fight a chair 
made of wood? 

"Agh, gods…" Aidan put his hand on the latch. "You do not need to come, Teel. 
Stay in the corner and sulk; I can find my own way." 

He jerked open the heavy door and stepped through, leaving it ajar. He thought 
for the merest moment he would be unaccompanied, but the rustling grew louder. And 
then the raven left the darkness and flew to perch on his shoulder. 

Aidan extended an arm. "Try my hand," he suggested. "Like this, you scratch my 
shoulder." 

Too soft, his lir chided, but exchanged shoulder for hand. 

Aidan briefly considered taking a lamp with him, but decided against it. No 
corridor in the massive palace was left completely without light so guards or servants, if 
needed, could see to serve or protect, but unnecessary torches and lamps were 
extinguished. And he was, after all, Cheysuli, with yellow Cheysuli eyes; he saw what 
there was to see whether light existed or not. 

"A fool," Aidan muttered, but set off anyway. Ignoring the stubborn compulsion 
gained him nothing but sleepless nights. 

He had known, for as long as he could remember, he was different. The dreams of 
childhood had faded during adolescence, dissipated by the intense need for and the 
bonding with his lir, but once adulthood was reached the dreams returned in force. Now, 
at twenty-three, he was accounted a warrior in the clans and a full-grown man by the 
Homanans who called him a prince, but he was still plagued by dreams. By the vision of 
the chain. By the substance of the chain-until he put out a hand to touch it, and the links 
dispersed into dust. 

As a child, it had frightened him. Growing older, he believed it merely a 
manifestation of a want and desire he could not fully understand. But of late the dreams 
had worsened. The desire had become a demand. And Aidan fully believed, with a 
dreadful certainty, he was somehow, someway, tainted. 

"Tainted," he murmured aloud, aware of familiar tension. 

Perhaps, the raven agreed. But why would gods choose a tool that is tainted? Teel 
paused significantly. Unless they merely forgot-

It was not precisely the sort of reassurance he craved. It was true the lir were a 
gift of the gods, but he preferred to think of himself as a man, not a tool. Not even a 
divine one; he asked no favors of the gods, for fear they might give him one. 

Enough, he said dismissively, sending it through the link. 


Well? Well? Why would they? 

Firmly, Aidan said: We are not discussing gods. 

Perhaps we should discuss them. You discuss everything else, yet very little of 
substance. 

He gritted teeth, but did not answer. He merely walked, saying nothing, passing 
out of shadows into torchlight, into darkness again. Through countless corridors and 
passageways, knowing them all by heart, until he reached the Great Hall. 

There are times, the raven commented, even Cheysuli are fools. 

Aidan, searching for release from the tension, settled on irony. It is because of the 
other blood. 

Teel considered it. I think not, he replied. I think it is merely you. 

Muttering under his breath, Aidan shoved open the doors. 

Go back to bed, Teel suggested. You know how you feel in the morning when you 
spend the night chasing dreams. You know how you look. 

Irritated, Aidan shifted back into human speech as he shouldered into the hall. 
Against his flesh he felt the texture of the silver, the whorls and angles and patterns set by 
craftsmen into the metal. "You know very well when I try to ignore the dream, it only 
gets worse." 

Because you allow it to. 

He let the door fall closed behind him, hearing its distant grate. Irritation spilled 
away. Fear trickled back. He recalled all the nights very clearly. Especially the first, when 
he had come at the age of six to find the chain of gold in the lap of the Lion Throne. And 
how he had shamed himself, frightened by something of wood; and by things he could 
not fathom. 

All came rushing back. Humiliation caused him to squirm; why could he not 
forget? 

Tension made him curt. "Is it there?" 

Probably, Teel observed dryly. Is it not always there? 

Aidan sighed and moved away from the heavy silver doors. The flames of the 
firepit had died to coals, lending dim illumination to the cavernous hall. Shadows cloaked 
the walls: tapestries and banners; history set in cloth. Wheels of swords and daggers 
painstakingly bracketed in a perfect and deadly symmetry. Spears and pikes sprouted 
from display blocks set in corners; flagsticks dangled silk. In the folds crouched Homana. 
Beyond the pit, on the dais, crouched the Lion Throne. 

Teel rode Aidan's hand easily, considerably lighter than the hawks, falcons and 
eagles other warriors claimed. It was, Aidan felt, a facet of his very differentness that his 
lir was a raven. The bird was hardly unknown in the history of the clans, but neither was 
it common. Aidan considered it a jest played on him by capricious gods. In addition to 
sending him dreams, they gave him an irascible lir. 

Teel pecked his thumb. I have ridden faster rocks. 

"Then get off my hand and go sit on one." 

Obligingly, the raven lifted and flew the length of the hall. But he did not sit on a 
rock. He sat on the head of the Lion. 

Aidan, ruddy brows lifted, stopped at the foot of the dais. "Surely sacrilegious-
you profane the Mujhar's throne." 

Teel fluffed a wing. Considering the Mujhar is only the Mujhar because of lir like 


myself, I think it is allowed. 

Steadfastly, Aidan stared at the raven. Then, drawing a breath, he made himself 
look down at the cushion on which his grandsire sat when he inhabited the throne. 

So, Teel observed, the dream remains constant. 

Aidan shut his eyes. The painfully familiar sense of loss and oppression rushed in 
from out of the shadows. 

Stiffly, he knelt. He waited. Felt the coldness of glossy marble through the leather 
of his leggings. Smelled ash, old wood, oil; the scent of ancient history, intangible yet 
oddly vivid. 

Let me touch it, he begged. Let me know the chain is real. 

But when he put out a hesitant hand, the links dissolved to dust. 

Breath spilled raggedly. "Oh, gods… oh, gods-why do this to me? What have I 
done to deserve it? What do you want from me?" 

But even as he asked, futility overwhelmed him, much as it had the very first 
time. And, like that time, what he wanted was to cry. But he was twenty-three: a man 
fully grown. An acknowledged Cheysuli warrior with a lir to call his own… if Teel 
condescended to let him. 

Aidan did not cry. He was no longer six years old. 

Though there are times I wish I were, so I could begin again. 

Teel's tone was cool. What use in that? he asked. The gods made the child. Now 
the rest is up to the man. 

"Stop," Aidan declared. 

When you do. 

"I swear, you will drive me mad, hag-riding me to death." 

Teel's irony slipped, replaced with an odd kindness. I will keep you sane when you 
hag-ride yourself to death. 

Aidan let it go. He was too weary, too worn. There was something he had come 
for. The ritual to perform. 

He sighed, cursing himself out of habit. He knew what he would find, but Aidan 
put hand to cushion. Touched the worn nap of the velvet. Felt nothing but the fabric. Not 
even the grit of dust. 

Futility was overpowering. "Why?" The shout filled the hall. "Why do I always 
come back when I know what will happen?" 

"Because the gods, when they are playful, are sometimes cruel instead of kind." 

Aidan lurched to his feet and spun around, catching himself against the Lion. He 
had heard nothing, nothing at all; no scrape of silver on marble, no steps the length of the 
hall. He stared hard like a wolf at bay, thinking of how he looked; of what appearance he 
presented-hair in disarray, half dressed, haranguing a wooden beast. Heat flooded him. 
Humiliation stung his armpits. He wanted to shout aloud, to send the man from the hall, 
away from his royal-but embarrassed-presence; he did not. Because he looked at the man 
who faced him and recognition shamed him. 

His grandfather smiled. "I know what you are thinking; it is written on your face. 
But it is unworthy of you, Aidan… you have as much right to be here, no matter what the 
hour, as I do myself." 

On the headpiece of the Lion, the bright-eyed raven preened. I have told you that, 
myself. 


Aidan ignored his lir. Embarrassment had not receded; if anything, he felt worse. 
What he wanted most was to apologize and flee-this man is the Mujhar!-but he managed 
to stand his ground. 

After a moment's hesitation, he wet his lips and spoke quietly. "I may have the 
right to be here, but not to disturb your rest." 

"The rest of an old man?" Niall's tone was amused. "Ah, well… when you are as 
old as I you will understand that sleep does not always come when you want it to." 

He began to feel a little better; the Mujhar was now his grandsire. Wryly, Aidan 
smiled. "I know that already." 

"So." Niall advanced, holding a fat candle in its cup of gleaming gold. "Why have 
you said nothing to me of these dreams? Do you think I have no time for my grandson?" 

Aidan stared at the man who, by right of gods and men, held the Lion Throne of 
Homana. He, like Deirdre, was past sixty, yet as undiminished by age. Still tall, still fit, 
still unmistakably regal, though no longer youthful. Tawny hair had silvered, fading like 
tarnished gilt; Homanan-fair skin had creased, displaying a delicately drawn fretwork 
born of years of responsibility; of the eyes, one was blue and bright as ever, the other, an 
empty socket couched in talon scars, was hidden behind a patch. 

Aidan drew in a breath, answering his grandfather's question with one of his own. 
"How can you have the time? You are the Mujhar." 

"I am also a man who sired five children, and who now reaps the benefits of my 
children's fertility." Briefly, Niall eyed the raven perched upon his throne. "You I know 
better than the others, since you live here in Homana, but there are times I fully believe I 
know you least of all." 

Aidan smiled. "It is nothing, grandsire." 

Niall arched a brow. 

"Nothing," Aidan repeated. 

"Ah." Niall smiled faintly. "Then it pains me to know my grandson feels he 
cannot confide in me." 

Guilt flickered deep inside. "No grandsire-'Tisn't that. 'Tis only…" Aidan 
shrugged. "There is nothing to speak about." 

Niall's gaze was steady. "I am neither a fool, nor blind-though I have but one eye I 
still see." 

Heat coursed through Aidan's flesh. The sweat of shame dotted a thin line above 
his lips. He made a futile gesture. "They are just-dreams. Nothing more." 

"Then I must assume the servants are embroidering the truth." The tone was very 
quiet, but compelling nonetheless. "I think it is time you spoke. If not to Aileen or to 
Brennan, then to me. I have some stake in this." 

Aidan clenched his teeth briefly. "Dreams, nothing more-as anyone dreams. 
Fragments of sleep. Thoughts all twisted up, born of many things." 

The Mujhar of Homana forbore to sit in his throne, usurped by a black-eyed raven 
who, as a lir, had more claim than any human, Cheysuli-bred or not. Or so Teel told 
them. Instead, Niall sat down upon the dais, setting down the candle cup with its wax and 
smoking flame. "Tell me about them." 

Aidan rubbed damp fingertips against soft leather. Tell him. Tell him? Just like 
that? 

Niall's tone was kind. "Locking things away only adds to the problem. Believe 


me, I know; I spent far too many years denying myself peace because I believed myself 
unworthy of this creature looming behind me." 

Aidan glanced only briefly at the Lion. Then sat down on the dais next to Niall, 
putting his back to the beast. He felt a vast impatience-how could he share what no one 
would believe?-but attempted to honor his grandsire by fulfilling part of the request. 
"This has nothing at all to do with unworthiness. I promise, grandsire, I know who I am 
and the task I am meant for: to rule as Mujhar of Homana." Easily, he made the palm-up 
Cheysuli gesture denoting tahlmorra, and his acceptance of it. "I think I will do as well as 
the next man when my time comes-you and my jehan have taught me very well; how 
could I not be worthy?" He flicked fingers dismissively, thinking it enough. 

Niall waited in silence. 

Discomfited, Aidan stirred. "No one can understand. Why should I speak of it? 
When I was a child, I tried to tell them about it. But neither of them believed me." 

"Who did not?" 

"Jehan and jehana. They both said I was a child, and that what I dreamed was not 
real. That I would outgrow it…" Bitterness underscored the tone; Aidan pushed it away 
with effort. "Would you speak of a thing people would ridicule you for?" 

"Aileen and Brennan would never ridicule you." 

Aidan grimaced. "Not them, perhaps… not so obviously. But what is a child to 
feel when his parents call him a liar?" 

Niall's brows knit. "I have never known you to be that. I doubt they have, either; 
nor would ever say such a thing." 

"There is such a thing as implying-" 

"They would not even do that." 

It was definitive. Aidan shifted his buttocks and stared gloomily into the hall. "I 
wish there were a way I could explain what I feel. What I fear." 

"Try," Niall suggested. "Tell me the truth, as you know it. Tell me what disturbs 
your sleep." 

Aidan rubbed gritty eyes. What he needed most was sleep. 

No. What he needed most was the chain. 

He sighed and let it go. "What I fear is the meaning behind my dream. The same 
one over and over." Now it was begun. Tension began to ease. With it went strength. 
Slumping, he braced elbows on his knees and leaned his chin into cupped hands. "For as 
long as I can recall, the same dream over and over. I think it will drive me mad." 

Niall said nothing. His patience was manifest. 

Aidan sighed heavily and sat upright, scraping hair back from his face. In the poor 
light his thick auburn hair was an odd reddish black, falling across bare shoulders too fair 
for a Cheysuli. A man, looking at him, would name him all Homanan, or call him 
Erinnish-born. Until he saw the eyes. 

"There is a chain," Aidan began. "A chain made of gold. It is in the lap of the 
Lion." 

The Mujhar did not give in to the urge to turn and look. Mutely, Niall waited. 

Aidan, abruptly restless, thrust himself upright and paced away from dais, Lion, 
Mujhar. Away from his lir, uncharacteristically silent. He stared in disgust at the firepit, 
letting the coals dazzle his eyes, then swung back to face his grandsire. 

"I know-I know how it sounds… but it is what I feel, what I dream-" 


"Aidan," Niall said quietly, "stop trying to look through my eyes." 

Brought up short, Aidan shut his mouth and waited. He had been carefully 
tutored. 

Niall's gaze was kind. "You are wasting too much time trying to imagine what I 
will think. Simply say it. Tell it; you may find me less ignorant than you believe." 

Aidan clenched his teeth; how could anyone, kin or not, fully understand? 

But in the end, it was very easy. "I have to have it," he said plainly. "If I do not, 
the world ends." 

Niall's expression was startled. "The world-ends?" 

Aidan gestured acknowledgment; it sounded as odd to him. "The entire world," he 
agreed dryly. "At least-for me." And then he gestured again. "I know, I know-now I am 
being selfish, to think of the entire world, and its fate, being determined by what I do… 
but that is what I dream. Over and over again." 

He waited. Before him the old man sat hunched on the dais, silvered brows knit 
with thought. Niall frowned pensively, but his expression gave nothing away. 

The thought was fleeting and unwelcome. There is madness in my kinfolk-

But Aidan knew better than to say it. Niall would only deny it; or, rather, deny its 
cause as anything other than accident. He had said, time and time again, the madness of 
Aidan's Atvian granddame, Gisella, was induced by an early, traumatic birth-but Aidan 
sometimes wondered. He was capable of intense thoughts and impulses, sometimes as 
disturbing as his dreams, though he always suppressed them. He had heard the same said 
of Gisella. And he knew from repeated stories his su'fala, Keely, had never been fully 
convinced the madness was not hereditary. 

"Well," Niall said finally, "everyone dreams. My dreams are odd enough-" 

For the first time in his life, Aidan cut him off. "I have to have it, grandsire. Do 
you understand? It is a need as strong as the need of a man for a woman… as the need of 
warrior for lir. There is no difference, grandsire… it makes me come here. Every time I 
dream it." 

Niall stared at him, clearly startled by the passion. "If it disturbs you this much-" 

Aidan laughed aloud. "Disturbs me? Aye, that is one way of saying it…" He 
banished the desperation with effort, striving for equanamity. "Grandsire, perhaps it is 
better put like so: what if, as you reached to take her into your arms, Deirdre was turned 
to dust? To nothingness in your hands, even as you touched her, wanting her so badly you 
think you might burst with it." 

Niall's expression was arrested. Aidan knew, as he always knew, the emotions his 
grandsire felt. Shock. Disbelief. The merest trace of anger, that Aidan could compare a 
chain to the Mujhar's beloved meijha… and then the comprehension of what the failure 
meant. 

After a moment, Niall got up with a muffled grunt of effort and mounted the dais 
steps. He paused before the Lion, placed a hand upon it, then turned awkwardly and sat 
down. It was not, Aidan knew, an attempt to use his rank, but the desire of an old man 
wishing for softness under his buttocks while he contemplated his grandson. 

The Mujhar rubbed at deep scar-creases mostly hidden beneath the patch, as if the 
empty socket ached. "What happens, then, when you come looking for this chain?" 

Aidan shrugged, trying to diminish the desperation he always felt. "I put out my 
hand to take it, and the chain is changed to dust." 


"Dust," Niall echoed thoughtfully. 

Aidan extended his right hand. It shook; he tried to suppress it. "I have to have it, 
grandsire… I have to have the chain-and yet when I touch it, only dust is left." He shut 
his hand tightly. "But even the dust goes before I can really touch it." 

Niall's single eye was steady. "Have you seen the priests?" 

Aidan grinned derisively, slapping his hand down. "They are Homanans." 

A silver brow arched. Mildly, the Mujhar said, "They are also men of the gods." 

Aidan made an impatient gesture. "They would laugh." 

Niall rubbed meditatively at his bottom lip. "No priest of Homana-Mujhar would 
ever deign to laugh at the man who will one day rule." 

Aidan sighed. "No, perhaps not… but they would tell those stories. Already 
people tell stories." He tapped his bare chest. "The servants are full of gossip about the 
Prince of Homana's fey son-the man who walks by night because he requires no sleep." 

Niall's smile was faint. "Oh, you require it. And they should know it, too-they 
have only to look at your face." 

"So it shows…" He had known it did, to him; he had hoped others were blind to 
it. "I have done so many things, trying to banish the dreams. Petitions to the gods. Even 
turning to women." His mouth twisted in self-contempt. "I have lost count of how many 
women… each one I hoped could do it, could banish all the feelings by substituting 
others. It is a sweet release, grandsire, but it gave me no freedom." He sighed heavily. 
"None of them was ungrateful-it was the heir to the Prince of Homana, grandson to the 
Mujhar!-and I like women too much to cast them off indiscreetly… but after a while, it 
palled. Physical satisfaction was no longer enough… all the dreams came back." 

Niall said nothing. 

"Gods-now I am started…" Aidan laughed a little. "And liquor! I have drunk 
myself into a stupor more times than I can count, hoping to banish the dream. And for a 
night, it may work-but in the morning, when all a man in his cups desires is for the sun to 
set again so it does not blind his eyes, the dream slips through the cracks." Aidan smiled 
wryly. "I'll be telling you plain, grandsire, the dream is bad enough when I've been 
having no liquor-'tis worse when I'm in my cups." 

Niall's smile widened. "Did you know that when you are upset, you sound very 
like your jehana?" 

Aidan's mouth twitched. "Or is it I sound like Deirdre?" 

"No, no-Dierdre has been in Homana too long… most of Erinn is banished, in 
her…" Niall flicked dismissive fingers and straightened in the throne. "But we are not 
here to speak of accents. Aidan, if you will not go to Homanan priests, what of the shar 
tahls?" 

Aidan stilled. "Clankeep?" 

"There may be an answer for you." 

"Or no answer at all." 

"Aidan-" 

"I thought of it," he admitted. "Many, many times, and each time I did I 
convinced myself not to go." 

Niall frowned. "Why? Clankeep is your home as much as Homana-Mujhar." 

"Is it?" Aidan shook his head. "Homana-Mujhar is my home-Clankeep is merely a 
place." 


For a moment his grandsire's expression was frozen. And then the fretwork of 
Niall's face seemed to collapse inwardly. His eye, oddly, was empty of all expression, 
until realization crept into it. Followed by blatant grief and regret. 

His tone was ragged. "So, it comes to pass… Teirnan was right after all." He 
slumped back in the throne, digging at the leather strap bisecting his brow. "All those 
times he said we would be swallowed up by Homanans; are you the first, I wonder? Is 
this the Homanan revenge; if Cheysuli must hold the Lion, we make the Cheysuli 
Homanan?" 

Aidan stared in startled dismay. "Grandsire-" 

Niall waved a hand. "No, no, I am not mad… nor am I grown suddenly too old for 
sense." He pulled himself upright in the massive throne. Now the tone was bitter. "I am 
speaking of Tiernan, your kinsman-cousin to your jehan, son to my dead rujholla. The 
one who renounced the prophecy and founded his own clan." 

Aidan frowned faintly. "I know who he is. We all know who Teirnan is-or was." 
He shrugged. "How many years has it been since anyone has seen him? Fifteen? Twenty? 
He may well be dead." 

Niall's expression was pensive. "He took his clan into the deepwood somewhere 
in Homana… he is still out there, Aidan-he still plots to take the Lion." 

Aidan did not really believe his grandsire was too old to rule, or growing feeble in 
his wits, but he did think perhaps too much weight was given to a man no one had seen 
for too many years. The Ihlini were past masters at waiting year after year to strike at 
their enemies, but from what he knew of his kinsman, Teirnan was not that kind. 

"Grandsire-" 

Niall did not listen. He heaved himself out of the Lion and bent to retrieve the 
candle in its cup. He straightened and looked his grandson dead in the eyes. "Go to 
Clankeep, Aidan. Discover your true heritage before it is too late." 

Dumbfounded, Aidan automatically gave way to his grandfather's passage and 
watched him go, saying nothing. Then turned to look at his lir once the silver doors had 
closed. "What does that mean?" 

Teel observed him thoughtfully. I did not know you were deaf. 

Aidan scowled. "No, I am not deaf… but what good will Clankeep do?" 

Give you ears to hear with. Give you eyes with which to see. Teel rustled feathers. 
Go back to bed, deaf lir. No more dreams tonight. 

Aidan thought about retorting. Then thought instead about his bed and the 
sweetness of dreamless sleep. "Coming?" he asked acerbically, turning away from the 
dais. 

Teel flew ahead. I could ask the same of you. 

Chapter Three 

«^» 

The stallion was old, growing older, but retained enough of his spirit to make 
handling him occasionally difficult. The horseboys and grooms of Homana-Mujhar had 
long ago learned the tending of the black-appropriately named Bane-was best left to his 
owner, who had a true gift. They dealt with him as they could, then gave him gladly into 
Brennan's keeping whenever the prince came down to the stableyard. 

He came now, dismissing the horseboys flocking to offer attendance, and went 


into the wood-and-brick stable to see the stallion. But a true horseman never merely 
looks; he can but tie his hands to keep from touching the flesh, from the strong-lipped, 
velveted muzzle, blowing warmly against his palms. 

Bane, by right of rank, had the largest stall in the stable block; a second block 
housed the Mujhar's favorite mounts. Brennan slipped the latch and entered the straw-
bedded stall. The stallion laid back ears, cocked a hoof, then shifted stance to adjust his 
weight. One black hip briefly pressed Brennan into the stall; automatically slapped, the 
hip duly shifted itself, ritual completed. Raven ears came up. One dark eye slewed around 
to look as Brennan moved in close. Bane blew noisily, then bestowed his chin upon 
Brennan's shoulder, waiting for the fingers that knew just where to scratch. 

The murmured words were familiar. Bane spoke neither Homanan nor the Old 
Tongue of the Cheysuli; Bane spoke motion and voice and touch and smell, the language 
of horse and rider. He listened but vaguely to the words Brennan crooned, hearing instead 
the tones and nuances, knowing nothing of meaning. Only the promise of affection. The 
attendance upon a king by a royal-born man himself. 

Bane did not mark the underlying anguish in Brennan's tone, the soft subtleties of 
despair. He was horse, not human; he did not answer to anything unless it concerned his 
few wants and needs. But even if he were human, even a Homanan, the emotions would 
escape him. Cheysuli-born were different. The unblessed, regardless of bloodlines, of 
humanness, were deaf to things unsaid. Blind to things suppressed. 

But Ian was not unblessed. Ian was Cheysuli. His own share of anguish and 
despair, though mostly vanquished by time, made him party to them in his nephew. 

He moved close to the stall, pausing at the door. Briefly he watched Brennan with 
his stallion, noting tension in the movements, marking worry in the expression. Seeing 
such indications was what he had learned to do as liege man to the Mujhar, and as kin to 
volatile fledglings not always cognizant of caution. 

"I have," Ian began quietly, "spent much of my life offering succor-or merely an 
attentive ear-to those of my kin in need. You have always held yourself apart, depending 
in great measure on a natural reserve and full understanding of your place. But I have 
never known a Lion's cub to be beyond the need of comfort." 

Brennan, startled, stiffened into unaccustomed awkwardness, then turned. One 
arm rested on Bane's spine, as if maintaining contact might lend him strength. The other 
fell to his side. The gold on his arms gleamed in a latticework of sunlight, vented through 
laddered slats in the outside stable walls. "Did jehan send you?" 

Ian, hooking elbows on the top of the stall door, smiled with serene good humor. 
His arms, like Brennan's, were bare of sleeves, displaying Cheysuli gold. "I am not 
always in his keeping, any more than you. Give me credit for seeing your pain 
independent of the Mujhar." 

Brennan grimaced, looking away from his uncle's discerning eyes to the black silk 
of Bane's heavy rump. Idly he smoothed it, slicking fingers against the thin cloak of 
summer coat. Thinking private things. "It was always jehan you went to, or Hart-then 
Keely, when Hart was gone. There were times I wanted to come, but with so many others 
to tend, I thought your compassion might be all used up." 

Ian's eyes were on Bane. He was, like the stallion, past his prime, with hair more 
gray than black, and white creeping in. By casual reckoning, he was perhaps fifty; in 
truth, nearly seventy. It was the good fortune of the Cheysuli that age came on them 


slowly, except for prematurely graying hair. The bones and muscles stiffened, the skin 
loosened, the hair bleached to white. But nothing about Ian's manner divulged a 
weakening of spirit any more than in the stallion. 

He shifted slightly, rustling boots in straw and hay and bits of grain dropped by 
Bane over the door. "Niall's children cannot escape the often too-heavy weight of 
tahlmorra, except perhaps for Maeve." Still-black brows rose in brief consideration. "But 
even then, I wonder-who are we to say there is no magic in her? Niall's blood runs true… 
even in Aidan." 

Brennan winced. And Ian, who had baited the hook with quiet deliberation, saw it 
swallowed whole. 

"Oh, aye," Brennan sighed wearily. "The blood runs true in Aidan… including 
Gisella's, I wonder? It is what everyone else wonders, regardless of the truth." Brennan 
turned again to the stallion. A lock of raven hair, showing the first threading of early 
silver, fell across a dark brow deeply furrowed with concern. "You know and I know my 
jehana's madness is not hereditary, but the Homanans overlook it. All they see is his 
difference, then they mutter about Gisella." 

"You cannot ask a man to hide his true self," Ian said gently, "and yet Aidan does 
so." 

Brennan's mouth tightened. "You refer to what jehan told me. About Aidan's 
dreams." 

"There was a time he would have told you himself." 

Brennan's expression was bleak. "Not for many years. He changed, su'fali… 
somehow, somewhen, he changed." 

"Perhaps he believed he had to." 

The tone now was anguished. "I did not want him to! Why would I? After so 
many years of sickness… after so much worry and fear…" Brennan sighed, shutting his 
eyes. "We thought he would die, su'fali. In fever, he often babbled. We learned not to 
listen." 

"Because what you heard made no sense." 

Mutely, Brennan nodded. 

"And so now he does not speak." Ian shook his head. "Aidan is perhaps not what 
you expected… but trying to reforge a sword will only make the steel brittle." 

Brennan swung abruptly from the horse. "Have I tried?" he cried. "He is as much 
a man and warrior as you or I. There is nothing in him I would curse, wishing for 
alteration… he came through a sickly childhood in better fashion than we hoped for, and 
now there are no doubts he will live to inherit the Lion. But I cannot say what he thinks-" 
Brennan broke it off. The stallion shifted restlessly, disturbed by the raw tone. "Su'fali, 
have you never seen him look through you? Not at you, but through. As if you were not 
present. As if he were not, but in another place." 

Ian felt serenity slipping. He was one of those men others spoke to freely, finding 
him easy to confide in. It was a trait not well known among the Cheysuli, who had, in the 
old days, forbidden the showing of private emotions before others for fear of divulging a 
weakness to enemies. But those days were past. Things changed within the clans-some 
said too many things-and he saw no oddity in listening to the sometimes illogical initial 
commentary of a man-or a woman-trying to find the proper way. It had been so with 
Niall, and with Hart, and Keely. Brennan had needed no one; Corin had wanted no one, 


unless she be twin-born Keely. But even that had changed. 

As everything changed. Now Brennan needed someone to explain a son to his 
father. And Ian could not do it. 

"So you have," Brennan said dully. "You have seen it as well." 

Ian sighed. "How can I give you an answer? How can anyone? Aidan is like none 
of us in many ways, while very like us in others. I see Aileen in him. I see you in him. 
But perhaps all of us look too hard for unimportant things, such as who he resembles or 
sounds like. Perhaps Aidan is merely Aidan-" 

"That bird." Brennan's tone was intent. "That raven-" 

Ian smiled. "Teel is a lir." 

Brennan shook his head. "More. I swear, he is more. Have you seen the look in 
Aidan's eyes when he goes into the link?" 

Ian's smile broadened. "If Keely were here, no doubt she could tell us what it is 
they converse about, but I would imagine what they say to one another-or what Teel says 
to him-is little different from what we say to our own lir. You should see your expression 
when Sleeta links with you." 

"Aye, well, she is sometimes difficult to deal with." Brennan's brow smoothed as 
a faint smile pulled his mouth crooked. "Aidan himself has said Teel hag-rides him 
unmercifully." 

Ian stepped aside as Brennan left Bane and unlatched the door to exit the stall. 
"For too many years he was sick, too many times close to death. It marks a man, 
Brennan. It marked your jehan. It marked you. It marked Hart and Corin and Keely. Did 
you think your son would escape it?" 

Brennan swung shut the door and slammed the latch into place. "The Lion 
requires a man who can rule with intellect, not with dreams and fancies." 

"Ah," Ian murmured. "Is that why you allowed yourself none?" 

Brennan's face hardened. "You understand what responsibility is, su'fali. Do you 
blame me? When it comes to levying war, dare a king think of dreams?" 

"There is no war in Homana. Nor in Solinde. Nor in Erinn or Atvia. What war are 
you fighting, harani?" 

Brennan shook his head. "No one understands what it is to look at Aidan and 
wonder what he will be. To wonder what he is." 

Ian refrained from answering at once. There was wildness in the Cheysuli, for all 
they practiced control; he knew from personal experience how difficult it was to maintain 
balance under trying circumstances. Some said it was the beast in the blood. Ian knew 
better. There was a price to pay for control: the occasional loss of it. 

His royal nephew, for all Brennan's reknowned maturity, was as capable of anger 
as his volatile brother, Corin, or Keely, his prickly sister. He simply did not show it as 
much, yet Ian thought it best now to avoid provocation. It was next to impossible to make 
a man see reason if his mouth was busy shouting. 

He watched Brennan a moment, marking redoubled tension. "Do you wonder, 
then, why he says nothing to you? Why he goes so often to the Lion? If you have, in any 
fashion, caused him to wonder if he is-askew-in any way, should he trust himself with a 
throne shaped like a mythical beast? Or believe it an enemy?" 

"By the gods, Ian, he is a grown man, a warrior." 

"This began when he was a child. Children view things differently." 


"Children are often too fanciful. They frighten themselves." Brennan's eyes, 
oddly, were black. "Do you think I know nothing of that? Even within Bane's stall, 
knowing the door is there, I still feel the fear of being closed in." 

"Do you blame yourself for that?" 

Brennan's expression was ravaged. "I was locked in the Womb for a very short 
time… and yet I believed it days." He raked a hand through his hair. "Gods-how I 
frightened myself. I made all those lir into beasts… carved marble shapes, I remade into 
living beasts. And now I reap the reward… shut me up in darkness, and I lose myself 
utterly." 

Ian nodded slightly. "And so the jehan, seeing a child's fear fed by fancies, told 
him it was not real. Over and over again, until the child thought it best to keep everything 
to himself." 

Desperation threaded Brennan's tone. "They are dreams, Ian. What else was I to 
do? Allow him to frighten himself?" 

Ian shrugged a single shoulder. "I have no answer for you. But Aidan still 
dreams… fear or no fear, something is real to him." 

"And I gave it no credence, ever." Brennan collapsed against the wall, mouth 
pulled awry. "I am not and have never been the most discerning of men." 

Ian watched him closely. Quietly, he suggested, "I think Aileen might understand 
what you feel. She has as much stake in Aidan's future as you." 

Brennan's expression was bleak. "She says nothing of it to me." 

Ian did not smile. "Have you ever thought to ask her?" 

Brennan shrugged. "She is too quick to defend him. She hears nothing of my 
concern, gives no weight to what I say." He grimaced. "He is her only child; she will hear 
no wrong of him." 

Ian shook his head. "Aileen is neither blind nor deaf. She defends him to others; 
is there need to do that with you?" 

The stallion, now turned, thrust his head over the door, blocking their view of one 
another. Brennan cupped a hand over the bone of the nose and pulled the black head 
down so he could see his uncle. "I have the right to worry." 

Ian stroked the silken neck. "No one will take that from you. But Aileen might 
help you bear it." 

Brennan's expression was odd. "He needs to sire a son." 

Ian's motion was arrested. "Why? Do you think it might be best if you replaced 
your son with a grandson? Just in case-" 

"No!" The response came too quickly. "But he is twenty-three, su'fali… I had a 
son by then. My jehan had three of his own, as well as two daughters." 

Ian said nothing a moment. Then, in precise, staccato, tones, "Have you never 
thought that, given more time, you and Aileen might have made a true match? One much 
like Niall's and Deirdre's?" 

"There was Corin-" 

"That was very nearly twenty-five years ago!" 

Muscles clenched in Brennan's jaw. "You are saying I should give Aidan time." 

"There is enough of it yet; aye. You know the price you and Aileen have paid… 
why ask him to pay it?" 

Brennan's tone was as clipped. "Kings must beget sons." 


Ian lost his patience. "The present king is living. His own heir is perfectly healthy, 
and he has an heir. I think the Lion, just this moment, requires no more than that." 

Brennan shut his eyes. When he opened them, Ian saw bleak despair. "And if my 
son is mad? How do I get another? Aileen can give me no more… and I will not set her 
aside. I need a son from Aidan." 

Ian shook his head. "Aidan is not mad. Aidan is only-different." 

Brennan cupped Bane's black muzzle. "Kings cannot be different. It makes the 
Homanans afraid." 

His uncle's expression was compassionate. "No more afraid than you." 

The day was gray, growing grayer. Aidan, who had ridden out of Mujhara not 
long after a mid-morning meal, scowled irritably at the pewter-hued sky. Teel was in it 
somewhere, riding out the wind; Aidan looked, found him, sent his feelings through the 
link. 

As if to spite the wind, Teel's tone was undiminished. Some things are worth 
discomfort. 

"But it is summer," Aidan protested. "Summer rain I understand-this feels more 
like winter!" 

Only yesterday you complained of the heat… I think you are merely perverse. 

He could be, Aidan admitted. But now was not one of those times. Yesterday, it 
had been hot; now it was much too cold. Not so cold as to make him shiver, but enough 
to make him wish he had brought at least a fall cloak. Arms left bare by Cheysuli jerkin 
protested the chill. Lir-bands felt icy. 

Wind changed direction and blew ruddy hair into pale eyes. Aidan stripped it 
back, peeling strands free of lashes, then forgot about hair altogether as his horse shied 
violently sideways to make his own discomfort known. The dun gelding did not bolt, but 
only because Aidan was ready for him. 

"No," he said calmly, speaking also through the reins. "I think it would be best for 
both of us if you let me do the choosing of whether we walk or run." 

Lir. Teel's voice. The storm is growing worse. 

Aidan, who could feel the blast of the wind as well as the raven, offered no 
comment. He was too busy with the horse, who threatened to run again. Aidan did not 
really blame him. If he himself were a horse, he might run as well. The wind was full of 
urging, wailing down hilly croftlands. Its song was one of winter; of hearthfires and 
steaming wine. Or, if he were a horse, of windtight stable and warm bedding straw, with 
grain for the asking. 

"Summer," Aidan muttered. "What will winter be like, I wonder?" 

There was nothing for it but to ride on, to reach the fringes of the wood that would 
provide some protection. The track, warded by trees and foliage, would be free of much 
of the wind, and he could go on to Clankeep screened from the worst of the weather. 

Debris littered the air: leaves, dirt, torn petals of wind-tattered flowers. Aidan 
ducked his head, squinted, spat, urged the gelding a little faster. And then faster still. 

"Go ahead," he agreed, giving the dun his head. "A bit of a run will do no harm, 
and will get us there the faster." 

The gelding required no urging. By the time they reached the trees, Aidan was 
almost sorry. A gallop through the wind blew away the dull dregs of a troubled night's 
sleep, leaving him refreshed and in good spirits. He gloried in the sensation of horse 


against the storm, himself bent over the neck so as to give the wind no purchase. But he 
did not give into the impulse that told him to run again; the gelding deserved a rest, and 
the track was littered with stormwrack, providing treacherous footing for a horse already 
spooked. 

"Shansu," he said, patting the gelding's neck. "Another time, I promise-for now 
we will walk." 

The dun was ordinarily a well-mannered, settled horse, neither young nor old, and 
not given to coltish antics. But clearly the storm had set him on edge; now, as Aidan 
attempted to calm him, he pawed and swished his tail, indicating displeasure. 

Aidan lifted an arm and pointed. "That way," he suggested. 

The dun backed in a circle, eyeing the way they had come. 

"No, I said that way-" Aidan turned him forcibly. "We have been to Clankeep 
uncountable times before… there is no reason for this. If there were danger, Teel would 
say so; I trust him more than you." 

The gelding protested, snorting nosily. Dark eyes rolled. 

Frowning, Aidan went into the link. Lir-is there danger? 

So much for trust, Teel answered. No, there is no danger… nothing but the storm. 

Relieved, Aidan aimed the dun yet again toward the east. "If this is a show of will, 
I could choose a better time… shall we discuss this a bit later?" 

The gelding stood still and quivered. 

Aidan stroked the ocher-brown neck again. "Shansu, my lad, my boy-'tis naught 
but a bit of a blow… d'ye think I'd be wanting you harmed?" 

Erinnish, many held, was a tongue made for horses, but the gelding was 
Homanan. He chose to misunderstand. 

Wind roared through the trees. The dun bolted and ran. 

It was, Aidan thought grimly, an entirely horselike flight. After refusing to go 
east, fright had forced the gelding. If the storm had not worsened matters, Aidan might 
have let him run on since he was heading toward their destination. But he dared not in the 
wind. The track was fouled with debris. If the gelding tripped and went down


"Never mind," Aidan muttered, cursing imagination. 

He drew the reins in tautly and attempted to apply force of will to the restraint. He 
had gentled many a colt and won many a horse's trust, sharing much of his father's skill. 
But the gelding was having none of it. 

Concern instantly deepened. Aidan knew the feel of it: the bit had been rolled 
forward, free of tender bars, and now was lodged in teeth. The horse was in control. The 
man on his back was nothing more than a minor inconvenience not worth the trouble of 
throwing off. 

Aidan, amused by the all-too-accurate vision, grinned, then wished he had not as 
dirt fouled his teeth. He spat. I could simply take lir-shape and let this fool of a boy run 
on without me-

But the thought of risking the gelding made him reconsider. His father had trained 
him too well; when it came to welfare, he thought of the horse's in place of his own. 

Or, I could-

But what else he could-or could not-do, went unthought. Without altering his 
pace, the gelding dodged off the track and crashed into deadfall and foliage, neatly 
avoiding a tree trunk. Aidan also avoided the trunk, but did not miss the limp sweeping 


down from the rack of low boughs. 

In reflex, he thrust out a warding forearm, knowing it much too late. Lir-

It was all Aidan managed as the tree limb embraced his ribs and swept him out of 
the saddle. 

Chapter Four 

«^» 

He dreamed. He dreamed he was made of smoke and fire in place of flesh and 
blood. His heart was a white flame and his soul whiter still, so brilliant it was blinding. 
Out of the white flame of his heart and the whiter brilliance of his soul came the music 
that poured through his veins like quicksilver, burning what it touched with a pain 
exquisitely sweet. He wanted to cry with its beauty, but knew he dared not. 

Water extinguishes flame. Extinguished, I will die. 

He saw himself, but it was not himself. The Aidan he saw was another man, 
insubstantial, incorporeal, substantive as smoke. He drifted this way, that way, shredding 
himself as he moved, then forming himself again. And then the man of smoke congealed 
into anther shape, taking the form of a raven, also made of smoke, and the raven flew 
swiftly skyward in a bid for needed freedom. 

South: to an island: away from Homana-Mujhar and all the Cheysuli Keeps; away 
from the world everyone else called home, until the raven found a new home among the 
standing stones now fallen, cold and green and gray, where he perched upon a shattered, 
rune-scribed altar as if he wished to speak of gods. 

The altar was overturned. From beneath it, something glinted with the dull-
brilliance of muddied gold. The raven, knowing need, left his perch and descended. 

A chain. Coiled beneath the altar, perfect and unblemished. Its beauty was so 
compelling that even the raven was moved to desire it. But a raven has no hands; he 
shapechanged himself to a man and knelt down to pick up the chain. 

He touched it. It was whole. He lifted it. It was whole. He took it from the 
shadows, unable to breathe, and held it in the light. 

The links were the size of a man's forearm. Seamless, flawless gold, filled with 
twisted runes too intertwined to decipher. 

He dared to breathe on it. One of the links broke. 

Grief swallowed him. Why do I destroy when all I want is to make things whole? 

He still held half of the chain. The other half had fallen, spilled on leaf-molded 
floor. 

A sound. He turned, still kneeling, still grasping his half of the chain, and saw the 
shadowed figure in the tumbled doorway of lichen-clad stones. 

The voice was firm and commanding. "You hold me in your hand. What do you 
want from me?" 

Aidan tried not to gape. Where had the stranger come from? 

For that matter, where was he? 

"Who are you?" he blurted. 

Disbelief was manifest: black brows arched up, then snapped together over a 
blade-straight nose. "The Mujhar," he said. Clearly the stranger believed Aidan could 
surely name him; only a fool could not, or a man with no eyes to see. 

Aidan heard the undertone of expectation couched in blatant arrogance. But he 


heard it, he did not feel it; something was not right. Something was not real. 

The Mujhar-? he echoed blankly. 

Certainly the man looked it. He wore black velvet and leather of exquisite quality 
and cut; a scarlet rampant lion clawed its way across the black silken overtunic belted 
with heavy gold. Hands, hooked into the belt, were strong, long-fingered, callused, the 
hands of a soldier; no Cheysuli, he. The eyes were a clear, piercing gray. Black hair was 
frosted silver. 

Neither young nor old. Aidan thought him fifty. But something he could not name 
whispered of agelessness. 

It would do no good to wonder when he knew the man lied. "Who are you?" he 
repeated. 

Gray eyes narrowed. "I have said: the Mujhar." 

It was too much. Aidan, frowning, glanced around the ruins, trying briefly to 
place himself. And then the arrogance of the tone-and the claim-restored his attention to 
the stranger. 

Who is he to say such a thing? And then he nearly laughed. And to me, when it 
comes to that; I know the truth. 

"Mujhar, you say?" Aidan sat back on his heels. "And I say you are lying." 

Well-cut lips tightened. "That is punishable by death." 

"Oh?" Aidan smiled. "Then kill me, Mujhar… kill the man who will hold the Lion 
when the proper time is come." 

"You?" Black brows swept up again. "You will hold the Lion?" 

Aidan spoke lightly. "So I have been told. It has to do with my birth-I am 
Brennan's son, and grandson to Niall." 

"Ah." It was succinct, yet brimming with comprehension. "Where I am, there is 
no time… and I did not realize so much had already passed." He smiled consideringly. 
"Are we to Niall already?" 

This man is mad. And I am mad for listening. 

He adopted a coolly condescending tone. "You will forgive me, I hope, if I fail to 
display the deference due a Mujhar-I show it to my grandsire, who is deserving of it. You 
I do not know." 

"Oh, I think you do." The gray eyes were oddly lambent. "The history of the 
Cheysuli is full of my name and title." 

Aidan held on to his patience. "Then why not give me both." 

"You have the title: Mujhar. The name I am called is Shaine." 

Shaine. Shaine? Shaine? 

He wanted to laugh, but could not. This man touched his pride, as well as 
heritage. "I will thank you to keep your mouth from the name of my ancestor." 

Gray eyes glinted. "But it is my name." 

"Shaine is dead," he said flatly. 

The stranger merely nodded. "A long time ago. Would you like to hear how?" 

"I know how. I was taught. All of us were taught." Aidan did not smile. "Shaine 
killed himself when he voided Ihlini wards set to keep Cheysuli from Homana-Mujhar." 

"A painful death, and somewhat unexpected," agreed the other. "But by then it no 
longer mattered… Finn would have killed me once he walked the hall. It was what he 
came to do." Briefly the eyes smoldered. "Hale's shapechanger son… gods, but I hated 


them. And Alix was the worst, coming before me like Lindir, but dark instead of fair." 
Lips writhed briefly. "Carillon would have wed her, and made her Queen of Homana. I 
could see it in his eyes." 

Dumbstruck, Aidan stared. The words came very slowly. "She married Duncan 
instead." 

"Duncan. Your great-great-great-grandsire." Gray eyes narrowed. "A long history. 
I weary of it all." 

This cannot be happening. None of this is real. Aidan stared at the man. He filled 
his eyes with the man, stretching lids wide, then swallowed back the sour taste filling his 
mouth. Am I dead? he wondered. Could this all be real? 

The knots in his belly tightened. Aidan felt numb. "If you are Shaine…" he 
mumbled. "If you are Shaine…"He twitched the thought away. "Am I dead?" he asked 
flatly. "Oh, gods, am I dead? Is this what it is to die?" 

"Dead? You?" White teeth parted the beard. "No, not yet. There is time still left to 
you." 

Fleetingly, Aidan wondered how much; he forbore to ask. Relief was too 
overwhelming, until he considered again the circumstances. 

He wiped one sweaty hand on a legging-clad thigh. His only chance was to focus 
on something, anything, to keep himself from losing control. "If you are Shaine the 
Mujhar, you are dead." 

The man did not reply. 

Aidan felt sick. He wanted to spew out the contents of his belly across the fallen 
altar, or onto leaf-thickened floor. Sweat bathed his flesh. His head began to ache. Worst 
of all was the fear. 

I HAVE gone mad. 

And then, Gods, where is Teel? What has become of my lir? 

Still kneeling, he shuddered. Hands clenched on the links. 

This is a new dream… gods, let it BE a dream-

Shaine the Mujhar stared back. "We are not discussing me. We have come to 
speak of you." 

"Me?" Aidan blurted. "What have you to do with me?" 

"Stand up," he was told. 

Aidan slowly rose. Links in his hand chimed. 

The man examined him. "Cheysuli," he said in disgust. "I should have known 
Carillon would lift my curse as soon as he claimed the Lion… well, it took him five years 
to win it back from Bellam, and longer still to end the extermination." The line of the 
mouth was bitter. "Qu'mahlin, you shapechangers call it? Aye, well, nothing lasts, not 
even the Cheysuli…" Gray eyes narrowed. "Red hair, fair skin… is it merely you mimic 
the fashion?" 

Sickness was unabated. His belly writhed within. But he focused on something 
else so as to ignore his discomfort. 

"Mimic the fashion-?" Abruptly, Aidan understood. It made him angry, very 
angry; it gave him courage again. "These lir-bands and the earring are mine, gained in the 
usual way, and properly bestowed during my Ceremony of Honors. There is no fashion to 
them; nor to me, my lord apparition: I am Cheysuli and heir to Homana." 

Shaine the Mujhar smiled. "Are you so certain of that?" 


Aidan struggled with himself. I am mad-I must be mad-why else am I standing 
here arguing with a fetch? He glanced around for Teel. Where is my lir? 

Shaine the Mujhar still smiled. "Are you so certain?" 

The derision snared Aidan's attention. "Of course I am certain," he snapped. "I 
have told you who I am, and you say I am not dead; how would I not be heir?" 

"By never accepting the throne." 

Aidan swallowed a shout. Quietly, he said, "I was born to accept the throne. The 
Lion will be mine." 

Shaine lifted a hand and pointed to the chain dangling from Aidan's hand. "Men 
are but links," he said. "Links in a chain of the gods, who play at the forge as a child 
plays at his toys. Make a link, and solder it here-solder another there… rearrange the 
order to better please the eye." The arrogance had faded, replaced by intensity. "Some 
links are strong and never yield, bound to one another… others are flawed, and break, 
replaced by those who are stronger so the chain is never destroyed. It is a game of the 
gods, Aidan, to forge a flawless link, then join it to the other. One by one by one, making 
the chain strong. Making the chain perfect. Disposing of weakened links so as not to 
harm the whole." 

Holding the broken chain, Aidan said nothing. 

Shaine did not smile. "The weak link has a name: Aidan of Homana." 

Anger rose, was suppressed. It would do no good to argue with a man who did not 
exist. "You are in my dream," Aidan rasped. "Dreams have no substance. This chain has 
no substance. Nothing you say is real." 

"Then why did you summon me?" 

Aidan shook his head. "I did not summon you. A man cannot summon a dream… 
nor can he raise the dead." 

"But I am there, in your hand." Shaine pointed precisely. "The chain, Aidan; that 
link. I explained it all to you once, must I explain it all again?" 

Aidan looked at the link clutched in his hand. His fingers tightened on it. If, in his 
twisted dream, this link was Shaine, who were the others? 

But he banished the question at once; Shaine was his concern. "Begone," he said 
tautly. "I want none of you." 

Gray eyes glittered. "But I am in you, Aidan. All of us are." 

Aidan threw down the chain. Shaine disappeared. 

The tremor ran through his body. It convulsed legs, arms, neck, then snatched at 
lax control. He felt the spasm, the jerk, then the sudden cessation of movement. He lay 
limply on the ground, sprawled in broken foliage now compressed beneath his body. 

What-? he asked vaguely, numb with disorientation. 

"Shansu," a voice said quietly. "Let the world settle." 

Aidan had little choice. For the moment he knew nothing of who he was or where 
he was, or what had happened to him. Only that somehow-how?-he had come to be lying 
on his back on the ground. 

"Shansu," the voice repeated. "I would be the last to harm you." 

Who-? Aidan forced open eyes. Dazzled, he stared blindly up at the pewter-gray 
sky screened by a lattice of limbs, and recalled he was in the wood. 

Not inside a ruined chapel with a dead Mujhar standing before him. 


Consciousness solidified. "Teel," he managed aloud, groping through the link for 
familiar reassurance. 

There was nothing. Nothing. No Teel. No link. Only the absence of everything, as 
if he had been emptied. 

"Teel!" 

The spasm returned in full force, this time prompted by the frantic flailing of his 
limbs. He still had no control, but this time he was the cause. 

A hand touched his brow and pressed him gently against the ground. "Shansu." A 
third time. "Your lir is safe, I promise. I only sent him ahead. Clankeep is not so far… 
unless, of course, I have misreckoned the distance." The tone was wry. "That is possible, 
I suppose; I am not accustomed to human time divisions, or distances reckoned as 
leagues. Still, as the raven flies…" Now the tone was amused. 

"Who-?" Aidan squinted. 

The hand was cool on his brow. "For now, it makes no difference. I have a name, 
aye, but we do not bestow them on men, who cannot deal with the power held in a true 
name. If you like, you may call me the Hunter; it will do as well as my real one, which 
means very much the same." 

Another one, Aidan thought dimly. First the one calls himself Shaine, and now 
this one… It drifted away on a wisp of disbelief. He would not allow himself. Self-
possession was the key, if he was to survive. 

Aidan licked dry lips. "I came off my horse." 

"Most dramatically. Unlike you, the horse is unhurt." The voice was amused. 

Aidan focused with effort. Now he could see someone. A man, kneeling by his 
side. A brown man: hair, skin, eyes, leathers, all degrees of peat-brown, as if he hid 
himself in the wood-or, Aidan thought dimly, as if he was of the wood. Not old, not 
young, but in between; a score of years older than Aidan, a score younger than Niall. 
Dark eyes were kind, but compelling. 

Something in Aidan answered. "You are Cheysuli-?" But he broke it off almost at 
once. "No-no, of course not… how could I think such a thing?" 

The Hunter smiled. "There is Cheysuli in me. Or, to be precise: there is me in 
Cheysuli." 

For a man only recently revived from unconsciousness-and with an aching head-it 
was much too confusing. Very like his meeting with Shaine, which, Aidan was certain, 
came as reaction to the fall. "Let me sit-aghh-" 

"Perhaps not," the Hunter said mildly. 

Aidan was appalled by the pain. His head hurt, aye, but not so much as his chest. 
A demon was kicking his ribs. "Am I broken?" he asked faintly. 

"Bruised, a little. Repairable, certainly. I could do it for you, but that is not my 
gift. I Hunt; I do not Heal." 

That won Aidan's attention. "Hunt-" he muttered blankly. "What is it you hunt?" 

"Men." 

Something jumped inside painful ribs. "But-" He stopped. "No-I think not… you 
could not be-" 

"-hunting you?" the brown man finished. "Oh, indeed I could be… in fact, I am 
certain I am." 

Sweat sheened Aidan's face. He felt it under his arms; in the hollow of his belly, 


beneath aching ribs. "What have you done with my lir?" 

"Sent him ahead, as I said. Do you think I could hurt a lir?" The tone changed to 
shock. "No more than harm you, who are true-born or the Cheysuli…" The Hunter's voice 
faded. His face registered concern. "I have little experience with humans, even with those 
of my blood… perhaps I would have done better to come in another guise." He frowned 
thoughtfully. "But this one has always served me… it has always been so benign…" 

Aidan lost fear and patience. "Who exactly are you? And why are you hunting 
me?" 

The dark face creased in a smile. "To discover what you have learned." 

"Have-learned-?" It was incongruous to Aidan that any of what he saw was real. 
That what he heard was real; the fall had addled his wits. First Shaine, and now the 
Hunter. "Am I supposed to have learned anything in particular? Or anything at all?" 

"Oh, I think something. You have been alive for twenty-three years… I think you 
must have learned something." The smile was undiminished, though irony laced the tone. 

And yet another time, as if repeated asking would eventually win him an answer: 
"What have you done with my lir?" 

The brown man's smile vanished. "Ruefully, he rubbed his jaw. "I see the link is 
even stronger than we expected… we might have done better to lessen it, to make lir and 
warrior less dependent upon one another, but without the strength of that bond, there 
could be repercussions. And we could not afford those." He shook his head. "No, I think 
it is as well." 

Patience frayed. "What is as well?" 

"The bond," the Hunter answered equably. "The thing you call the lir-link. The 
thing that sets you apart from all the others we made… except, of course, the Ihlini." He 
sighed. "We do not succeed in everything. Imparting free will was a risk we decided to 
take… the Ihlini were the result." He paused. A trace of grimness entered his tone. "And, 
now, the a'saii." 

Aidan gritted his teeth. "You have not answered my question." 

"About your lir! But I have. I sent him ahead, to Clankeep." 

Response was immediate. "Teel does no man's bidding! Teel can be sent nowhere, 
unless I do the sending!" 

"Ah, but the lir answer to a higher power than that of the Cheysuli. They can be 
sent wherever we say." 

"There is only one other power-" Aidan broke it off. He stared hard at the man, 
daring him to repeat the oblique claim, but nothing was forthcoming. 

The wind, for a moment, rose, then died away to nothing. Storm clouds peeled 
away, leaving behind a clear sky. It was, abruptly, spring, not summer; grass grew, trees 
budded, the air was warm and light. Even as Aidan sat there, braced against the ground, a 
flower grew up between the fingers of one hand. And blossomed. 

The Hunter's smile was mild. "Perhaps you begin to see." 

Aidan snatched his hand away. The denial was absolute. "No." 

The Hunter nodded in silence. 

I am mad. I am. I must be. Or sick in the head; the fall-it was the fall… I landed 
on my head, and everything is a dream-yet another dream… first Shaine, now this 
Hunter-Aidan squinted fiercely. If I look at things more closely-

What he looked at was a man who claimed he was a god. 


Spring dissolved itself. It grew cooler as Aidan stared, until he began to shiver. It 
was cold, too cold; in winter he wore fur-lined leathers, forsaking the linens of summer. 
But now he was caught, bathed by winter's breath. The ground around him hardened. The 
trees sloughed leaves. The grass beneath was dead, and all the flowers gone. 

But a moment ago it was spring… Aidan shivered. And then it was warm again. 

When he could, he cleared his throat. Perhaps if he proceeded with extreme 
caution… "Why did you send Teel away? If he is of your making-" 

"Oh, not of mine-I do not do the making. That is a task for others, though all of 
us, of course, have some say in the matter." The Hunter's expression was kind, as if he 
understood all too well what Aidan was thinking. Which perhaps he did, if he was what 
he claimed. "As to why I sent him away, the answer is simple enough. This is a thing 
between you and I, Aidan, not among you and I and the raven. Even the lir are not privy 
to all we do." 

The seasons, without fanfare, continued changing. Grass grew, then died; flowers 
bloomed, then died; trees changed their shapes; the sky was day, then night; then night 
and day again. And all without a word from the brown man watching Aidan. Without a 
single gesture to say he realized what he did was not done-could not be done-by anyone 
but a god. 

Think about something else… 

Aidan stirred, then ventured another question. "Why are the lir not privy to all 
you do?" 

"Oh, they are quite arrogant enough without requiring another reason. They are 
familiars, not gods-they cannot know everything, or they become quite insufferable." 

"No," Aidan said faintly, letting it sink in. "Teel needs no more cause for any 
additional arrogance. He has quite enough as it is." 

White teeth gleamed. "I thought you might agree. I think any warrior would, 
faced with such a course." The Hunter rose, stretched legs, moved to a shattered tree 
stump. As he sat down, a tiny sapling sprouted at the base of the broken stump. "Teel is-
different. I thought him well suited to you." 

Aidan sat upright carefully, holding himself very straight. I will say nothing of 
this to him-all these wonders he performs. Perhaps I am not meant to notice. 

But that seemed incongruous. How could he not notice? 

Once more, Aidan focused. "Why? Why is Teel suited to me? Why not another 
warrior?" 

"Because you also are different." There was no sting in the quiet words; from a 
god, they were revelation. "You will spend much of your time questioning things; that is 
the way of you. Many men act first with little thought for result-rashness is sometimes a 
curse, sometimes a virtue-but your gift is to think things through before acting." The 
Hunter smiled. "You will make mistakes, of course-you are man, Aidan, not god-but you 
are also exceedingly cautious. Some might call you reluctant, others will name you 
afraid, but cowardice is not your curse." 

Aidan wet drying lips. "What is my curse?" 

The god looked down at the sapling trying mightily to be a tree. He bent, cupped 
its crown in his fingers, murmured something quietly in a tongue foreign to Aidan. Then, 
in clear Homanan, "Not so quickly, small one… there is time for you to grow. For now 
you must wait on men." He took his fingers away and looked again at Aidan. "You are 


simply you. Try to be no one else. Let no one force you to be." 

"But-" Aidan, staring at the tiny tree, did not finish, forgoing the question he 
meant to ask in a flood of others like it. "Is that all?" 

"All?" Brown eyebrows arched. "Trying to be himself-or herself, as Keely 
learned-is one of the most difficult tasks a human can face." 

Aidan waited a moment. "But I have to be Mujhar." 

The Hunter was very solemn. "That, too, is a task. Not every man succeeds." He 
shifted on the stump. "I am here to tell you nothing more than I have. It is not the nature 
of gods to tell their children everything-man does not learn by being told; he must do. So, 
you will do." One leather-clad shoulder lifted and fell in a casual shrug. 

Aidan, who felt in no way enlightened or casual, scowled at the Hunter. "Are you 
really here?" 

"Are you?" 

In spite of himself, he smiled. "With this pounding in my head, I could not begin 
to say." 

Brown eyes glinted. "Horses are made for riding, not for falling off of. Now you 
must pay the price." He paused. "You might have flown, you know." 

"I might have," Aidan agreed. "There is nothing so free as flying… but riding a 
good horse has its own brand of magic." 

The Hunter laughed. "Aye, well, we gave you free will… choosing to ride instead 
of fly is one of the smaller freedoms." 

Aidan shifted restlessly, then surpressed a wince. "That is all-? You came merely 
to say I must be myself?" 

"Enough of a task, for now. But since I am here, you may as well tell me about 
your dream." 

Ice encased his flesh. "You know about my dream? You know about the chain?" 

The answer was oblique. "I mean the dream you dreamed just now, before coming 
to yourself. Your eyes were wide open, but you saw nothing of the day. Only inside 
yourself." 

Aidan felt moved to protest. "But you are a god." 

The Hunter looked annoyed. "You are a man," he said plainly. "We made you 
deliberately impulsive and idiosyncratic, and gave you minds with which to dream… do 
you think we also put thoughts in your heads? Why would we want to do that when it 
defeats the purpose of living?" 

"My heads hurts," Aidan replied. "That is my only thought." 

The Hunter displayed white teeth. "We gave you the freedom to rule yourselves, 
Aidan, because we wanted children, not minions. Devotion is appreciated; respect we 
honor highly. But we do not want fanatics and zealots. That is not why we made men." 
He paused, then softened his tone. "Now, tell me of the dream." 

He did not want to, any more than tell Niall. But he had spoken to the Mujhar. 
Surely he could find it within himself to divulge the dream to a god. 

He drew in a trembling breath. "Shaine," Aidan said, and told him the whole of it. 

He thought, at the end, the Hunter would disparage him for it, saying he was too 
fanciful, or blame it on the fall. But the Hunter did no such thing. 

"It was not false," he said quietly. "Who calls it so is a blind man, with no soul to 
use as eyes. Those in your head can play you false; those of your soul cannot." 


"But Shaine has been dead for nearly one hundred years!" 

Frowning, the Hunter nodded. 

It frightened Aidan badly. "Have you no explanation?" 

"There are tests," the Hunter replied absently. "I am only one among many; I 
cannot tell you what others plan for you. There are tests, and tasks… no tahlmorra is 
fulfilled without pain, or there can be no growth. Without growth or evolution, there can 
be no change. Without change, the world dies." 

"Evolution?" Aidan echoed. 

The Hunter's smile was sanguine. "A mechanism for change. For the betterment 
of a world." 

Aidan, lacking reply, merely stared at the god. 

"So." The Hunter rose. "I have said what I came to say. There remains only this." 
He reached into his belt-pouch. "This is for you, and only you. When you have learned 
both use and meaning, you will be closer to finding the answers to all those questions you 
ask aloud in the darkness of the night." 

Something arced through the air. Aidan, scrambling forward painfully, caught it. 
And knew it instantly by touch. By the texture of the gold, formed into a seamless, 
flawless link big enough for a man's wrist. 

"You do know-" he began, but found the Hunter gone. 

In his place reared a tree, in full-blown majesty. 

Chapter Five 

«^» 

Aidan made his way through Clankeep and rode straight to the blue pavilion 
bedecked with a painted black mountain cat. It was not his own; he had none. It was his 
father's pavilion, though Brennan rarely came. Its use had fallen to Aidan, though he also 
spent most of his time in Homana-Mujhar. 

He reined in the dun before the laced doorflap. And scowled up at his lir, perched 
in perfect indolence atop the pavilion ridgepole. 

You knew, he charged, sending annoyance through the link. 

Teel fluffed feathers. 

"You knew," he said aloud, as if the dual challenge carried more weight than one 
or the other. 

I knew nothing, the raven retorted. 

Aidan's brows shot upward. His tone dripped sarcasm. "Oh? Is this the first crack 
in your vaunted self-assurance? You admit to ignorance?" 

Teel thought it over. I knew what he was, he conceded at last. But not what he 
wanted. 

It was, Aidan thought, a compromise. Something Teel rarely did. "Why?" he 
asked aloud. "Why did he come to me?" 

Teel turned around twice on the ridgepole, then stared down at his irritated lir. 
You are angry. 

"Aye," Aidan snapped. "Should I not be? I have just spent a portion of my life-I'm 
not even knowing how much!-talking with dead men and gods." 

Ah. Black eyes were bright. Anger is good. 

Aidan glared. "Why?" 


Because it is better than fear. If you give in to the fear, it can overwhelm you. 

"For now the only thing overwhelming me is frustration," Aidan retorted. He 
scowled blackly at the raven. "You did not answer my question. Why did he come to me? 
This god." 

Teel fluffed feathers. I am quite certain he told you. 

"Something of something," Aidan agreed. "Not enough to make sense, merely to 
confuse." 

Teel cocked his head. Gods are often like that. 

Aidan drew breath for waning patience, caught it on a hiss as the pain of bruised 
ribs renewed itself. "Then I am to assume you will give me no answers to the questions I 
still have." 

We are not put here to answer all your questions, Teel said .brusquely. Only some 
of them. 

"With you choosing which ones." 

We answer what we can, if the questions are in your best interests. Teel dug 
briefly under a wing, then looked down at Aidan once more. You will know what you 
must know when the time to know is come. 

Aidan gritted teeth. "Obscurity," he said grimly, "is a game I do not care for." 

The raven's tone was amused. But it is the one I am best at. 

Giving up, Aidan kicked free of stirrups and carefully let himself down from the 
saddle. It was a painful exercise and one he regretted immensely, clutching impotently at 
ribs. Likely he needed them strapped, which meant admitting to the accident. His father 
would be amused; Brennan never came off a horse. 

Or, if he had, his son had never known of it. 

"Hungry," he muttered aloud. "But chewing will hurt my head." 

Out of sorts, are we? 

Aidan went into the link. Out of sorts and out of patience; I am here for the shar 
tahl. Perhaps he will have my answers, even if you do not. 

Teel eyed him archly. Oh, he may have them… but are you worthy of them? 

Aidan looped the reins over a post set into dirt before the pavilion. Surely a 
warrior with you for a lir is worthy of anything. 

It was sufficiently double-edged that Teel did not respond. 

The shar tahl's pavilion was larger than most, since he required additional room 
for storage of clan birthlines and assorted ritualistic items. It was customary to wait no 
farther inside a shar tahl's or clan-leader's pavilion than a single pace; Aidan therefore sat 
very precisely near the open doorflap on a gray-blue ice bear pelt brought from the 
Northern Wastes. The shar tahl was not yet present, although word had been carried 
throughout Clankeep the Mujhar's grandson had arrived. 

Even though Aidan was well-accustomed to the immense size and overwhelming 
presence of Homana-Mujhar, he felt daunted by the pavilion. It was here the history of 
the clan was kept, rolled tightly in soft leathers and tucked away inside strong chests. His 
own history resided somewhere in the pavilion, reduced to a single rune-sign on pale, 
bleached doeskin. A rune, no more than that, yet he felt small because of it. Small 
because of doubts; was he doing the right thing? The Hunter had not admonished him 
against displaying the golden link, merely said it was for him. He could not imagine 


anything to do with gods could be denied a shar tahl. Such men served those gods with 
steadfast loyalty. 

He waited, legs folded beneath him, with the link clutched in two hands. Teel was 
not with him, leaving his lir, with some trepidation, to find his own way. Aidan was 
alone, and feeling immensely lonely. 

He will say I am mad. Or, if he does not say it, he will think it… and soon even the 
clans will say I mimic Gisella-

Aidan cut it off. 

I should look at another side… perhaps he will have my answers and share them 
willingly. Perhaps he will know what this is and what I should do with it-

Aidan gritted teeth. "Why does this happen to me? First all those dreams, now this 
nonsense of dead Mujhars and gods-" He clenched fingers around the link. Fear was 
unavoidable, no matter what Teel said. "What if I am mad?" 

"Aidan." 

He stiffened, then bowed, showing homage, and was startled when a hand 
touched the crown of his head. 

"No, Aidan-not from you." The hand was removed. The shar tahl came more 
fully into the pavilion and moved around to face his guest. He was surprisingly young for 
his place, still black-haired and firm of flesh. He was, Aidan thought, perhaps thirty-five 
or thirty-six. 

But the shar tahl's physical appearance was not the matter at hand. "Why not?" 
Aidan asked, glad to think of something else. "Honor is your due." 

"And I do not disparage it. I only resent the time it wastes when there is distress to 
be addressed." The shar tahl sat down in front of Aidan. It seemed somehow incongruous 
to see a shar tahl in leathers; Aidan was accustomed to linen or woolen robes, though 
neither was required. But this particular man, displaying armbands and earring-his absent 
lir was a fox-was different from the others. Aidan knew it at once. 

It is not merely age… the fire in him is different. It burns a little brighter-
Inwardly, he frowned. I have only known old shar tahls… this one is not old. This one is 
more like a warrior. Perhaps that is the difference. 

The shar tahl's tone was mild. "You come so rarely, or so I have heard, that the 
reason must be quite important." 

Guilt pinched Aidan's belly. He answered more brusquely than intended. "Aye, it 
is. This." He set down the link on the fur between them, then took his hands away. 

The shar tahl did not at once look at the object. He looked only at Aidan, who felt 
years stripped away until he was a boy, staring guiltily but defiantly into the face of 
authority. Yellow eyes were kind, but also very attentive. "You do not know who I am." 

Aidan maintained a blank expression. "The shar tahl, of course." 

"I mean, which one." 

He debated answers. This shar tahl, a stranger to Aidan, was as odd as the brown 
man who called himself the Hunter, who called himself a god. Aidan decided to avoid 
possible problems by stating the obvious. "The shar tahl of Clankeep." 

The other smiled. "You take the easy road. That is not your reputation." 

Aidan's answering smile was twisted. "My reputation is founded on many things, 
and so there are many reputations. Which one do you know?" 

"The one I heard up north across the Bluetooth, in my home Keep." The shar tahl 


crossed his legs and linked dark fingers. "My name is Burr. I am but newly come to 
Clankeep-I thought it might be worthwhile for me to live nearer the Lion." 

Something pricked at Aidan's awareness. Something sounded a faint alarm. "How 
nearer?" he asked. Then, very quietly, "As near as Teirnan might like?" 

Burr's eyes narrowed, if only minutely. And then he smiled. "Teirnan, as you 
know, has been proscribed by all clan councils. He forgoes the teachings of the shar 
tahls; therefore he forgoes my own. And, undoubtedly, anything else I might say to him." 

Certainty firmed Aidan's tone. "But you know him, my proscribed kinsman." 

"Everyone knows of him." 

Aidan spoke very precisely, so no mistake could be made. "I did not say of him. I 
said you knew him." 

Quiet reassessment. Burr altered manner and tone, as if casting off prevarication 
and the habitual obliqueness of shar tahl. "I know him. I knew him. I met him, once." 
The tone was uninflected, shielded behind self-assurance. 

Oddly, it rankled. "But you did not see fit to send word to the Mujhar." 

"Teirnan has more to concern himself with than what the Mujhar might say, or 
do." 

Aidan felt a flicker of irritation. For a fleeting instant it shocked him-this man was 
a shar tahl, due honor and respect-but it passed. What they spoke of-prince and priesthistorian-
could affect Homana's future, as well as the prophecy. 

"What 'more' is there?" Aidan demanded. "You know what he has done." 

"And paid the price for it." Burr's eyes did not waver. "Teirnan has lost his lir." 

"Lost his-" It brought him up short. Aidan spread a hand, made the gesture 
denoting tahlmorra. "Then Teirnan is dead. We need not concern ourselves with him 
further." 

"I did not say he was dead." 

"But he must be-he lost his lir." 

Burr's smile was very faint. "The death-ritual is voluntary. It is, to my knowledge, 
undertaken when a warrior truly believes in such binding clan custom." 

Aidan nodded impatiently. "Of course. It is always done-" And then he 
understood. "You are saying Teirnan rejected that, too?" It was impossible to believe. 
"But that means he is mad. No Cheysuli warrior will countenance that. He has to die. The 
loss of control, the awareness of loss of balance, drives him to it. There is no other 
choice." 

Burr did not answer. Aidan, staring, heard the echo of his own words inside his 
skull. 

Am I mad, too? he wondered with a new insight. Am I bound for Teirnan's course, 
to throw myself away? Is that why Shaine-or whatever he was-tells me I will not rule? 

It nearly overwhelmed him. Lir-bonded or not, was he meant to give up his life to 
keep the blood free of taint? 

Numbly, he echoed, "There is no other choice." 

The shar tahl spoke quietly. "He does choose, Aidan. Every warrior chooses. He 
dies if he wants to die. But that is not Teirnan's way." 

Teirnan, not Aidan. He pushed away thoughts of himself and focused on his 
kinsman. 

More than bruised ribs ached. Also family pride; the awareness of a betrayal he 


had never experienced. He had been told all about Teirnan's defection from the clan, his 
rejection of the prophecy and betrayal of heritage, but Aidan had been conscious of it 
with a pronounced sense of detachment. He had been too young to know Teirnan, to 
comprehend the issues. 

But he was no longer too young. Now he began to understand why all his kin 
hated Teirnan. 

Speculation took precedence over fear of his own ends. "He wants the Lion," 
Aidan said flatly. "He has always wanted the Lion." 

"Aye, well, men want many things…" Burr neatly turned the subject. "What is it 
you want?" 

Aidan was no longer certain he cared to continue the discussion with Burr. The 
man was different. He was unlike any shar tahl Aidan had ever known. That he thought 
differently was obvious. And what he might do with such thoughts-

Abruptly, Aidan laughed. Is this what they say of me? 

Burr's smile lapsed. The eyes, so like Aidan's own, were fixed and uncannily 
feral. The voice was very quiet; the tone a whiplash of sound. "If you question my own 
commitment to my race, let me reassure you. My belief in the gods is unshakable. It has 
been since I was quite young-I knew as clearly as I knew my lir what I was meant to be. 
It was my tahlmorra: I could be nothing else. No man, no woman, no warrior-proscribed 
or otherwise-could ever turn me from that, any more than Teirnan or anyone else could 
turn you from the Lion. I am a Cheysuli shar tahl, fully cognizant of my service." 
Intensity dispersed abruptly, as if no longer needed. The calm smile returned. "What 
service may I do you?" 

Something in Aidan answered. His distrust of Burr faded, replaced with an odd 
recognition. This man is very like me-He smiled back slowly, though its twist was 
decidedly wry. "I have many questions." He pointed at the link. "What do I do with that?" 

Burr, for the first time, looked at the link. Aidan knew what it looked like, what it 
felt like; he had carried it by hand all the way to Clankeep, unable to hide it away. It was 
nothing and everything, all bound into the gold and runes, and he dared not let it go. 

For Burr, he had let it go. It waited on the pelt, glinting dully in wan light. 

Abruptly, the man was shar tahl. Aidan was startled by the sudden 
transformation. It was, he thought, merely his own perspective, somehow altered; this 
Burr was no different from the Burr of a moment before, in appearance or manner. And 
yet Aidan felt the change, the slow comprehension, that flooded the man with an eerie 
exaltation. 

Burr unlaced his hands and reached out, as if to pick up the link. But he refrained. 
Fingertips trembled a moment. Then quieted into stillness. He did not touch the link. He 
looked searchingly at Aidan. Then abruptly looked away. 

Aidan frowned. "What is it?" 

Burr quickly rose to his feet and went directly to the open doorflap. The gesture 
was blatant: Aidan was to leave. "I cannot help you," he said. "You must find your own 
way." 

Unquestionably dismissal, in tone and posture. Part of Aidan responded 
instinctively-a Cheysuli warrior was carefully tutored to honor a shar tahl-until he 
recalled his other self. The self meant for the Lion. 

"No," he said quietly, still kneeling on the pelt. "I came to you with questions. 


You promised answers." Slowly he twisted his head and glanced over a shoulder at the 

shar tahl. "Are you the kind of man who can refuse to give them?" 

Burr did not hesitate. "You ask too much." 

Aidan was deliberate. "As warrior? Or as a prince?" 

Burr drew in a breath, then released it audibly. His expression was peculiar. "We 
spoke of choices, my lord. We spoke of a warrior's tahlmorra. No Cheysuli is truly 
forced to accept his tahlmorra-he does have free will-but if he is truly commited to his 
people, to the prophecy, to his belief in the afterworld, he never refuses it. So we are 
taught: so I believe." The phrasing was deliberate; Aidan understood. "I came to my own 
arrangement with the gods when I was very young. Now you must come to yours." 

"I know my tahlmorra" Aidan declared. "I came to you for this." 

Burr did not look at the link. "I have no answer for you." 

Anger flickered dully. He had come for help, as advised by his grandsire, and this 
was what he got. More obscurity. His belly was full of it. 

"Tell me," he said quietly. "You see something in this. You know what this is. 
Why will you not tell me?" 

"I am not meant to tell you." 

Control slipped askew. "Gods," Aidan rasped, "will anyone speak plainly? My lir 
practices obscurity; now so do you. Tell me, shar tahl: am I to live, or die?" 

"The gods will decide that." 

Aidan's laughter was a sharp bark of blurted sound. "The Hunter tells me 
differently. He speaks of choices, even as you do." 

Burr's eyes glittered. "I do not know everything." 

"Neither do I," Aidan gritted. "I'm knowing nothing at all-d'ye think this is 
pleasant?" He sat rigidly on the pelt. "I came to you for help, because grandsire suggested 
it. Because I think I am going mad." 

There, it was said. The silence was very loud. 

Burr swallowed tightly. For a brief moment there was war in his face, a battle that 
underscored, to Aidan, the great need for him to know. Then the shar tahl muttered a 
brief, sibilant petition and pulled aside the doorflap. 

Aidan was filled with emptiness. He was six years old once more, faced with 
adult betrayal; the inability of anyone-even those who should-to understand the pain that 
drove him so desperately. "Nothing," he murmured numbly. "You give me nothing at 
all." 

Burr's jaw was clenched. "If I could, I would. But if your lir will not, who am I to 
do it?" He gazed at the link, glowing wanly in the light. "I only know part of it." 

Aidan scooped up the link and rose, turning to face the shar tahl. Contempt 
shaded his tone. "What do you have for me?" 

The yellow eyes were kind. "My lord, my sympathy." 

Chapter Six 

«^» 

It was dark when Aidan rode into Mujhara, well after sunset. He had come close 
to staying one more night at Clankeep, but judged three enough; it was time he tested his 
newfound "knowledge" regarding links, Mujhars, and himself. 

He rode in through the massive gates of Homana-Mujhar, only vaguely 


acknowledging salutes and greetings-he was too weary to offer more-and gave the dun 
into the keeping of the horseboy who came running. Brief instructions passed on, Aidan 
then went into the palace by way of the kitchens, studiously avoiding his kinfolk, who 
would no doubt ask him questions he did not wish to address. He was not yet in the 
mood. First things first. 

Word of his return would not be carried to the Mujhar or his parents once they 
had retired for the night. Aidan kept himself to the kitchens, cadging meat, ale, and bread 
from servants startled by his presence, until well after bedtime. Then he sent Teel to his 
perch in private chambers, and went by himself to the Great Hall. 

Bootsteps echoed as he walked the length of the firepit, dividing the hall in half 
from dais steps nearly to the doors. As always, he took no lamp or candle; this was better 
done in dimness, with only the summer-banked coals for light. 

He silenced his steps, and stopped. In the darkness, Aidan laughed: bitter irony. 
Speaking with the Hunter had changed nothing for the better. Now the dream was real 
even when he did not sleep. 

He stood, as he had stood so often, before the Lion Throne. In its seat was the 
chain. 

Aidan linked hands behind his waist. "No lir," he declared. "Is that what makes 
the difference? You want me to come alone?" 

Nothing answered him. 

The challenge faded away. Aidan sighed, smearing one palm against his brow 
hard enough to stretch flesh. He was twitching from exhaustion, both mental and 
physical; he had not slept very well in the three nights at Clankeep. "-tired," he said 
aloud. "Will you never let me rest?" 

In dim light, gold gleamed. 

Go, he told himself. Just go, go to bed-turn your back on this idiocy. Think of 
something else. Dream of something else. Imagine yourself with a woman-

But the chain transfixed his eyes, washing him free of all thought except the need 
to touch it. To hold it in his hands. 

I think I begin to hate you-

But nothing could make him ignore it. 

Wearily Aidan mounted the dais steps. He halted briefly before the Lion, rubbing 
absently at gritty eyes, then slowly knelt. The motion was awkward and painful; his ribs 
still ached. He placed both hands upon the curving, carved armrests and gripped the 
Lion's paws. The throne was dead to him. A thing of wood; no more. He sensed none of 
its power or the ambience of its age. 

Burning eyes locked on the chain coiled against dark velvet. "So," he said 
unevenly, "I shall put out my hand to touch it, and the gold will crumble to dust." 

Aidan put out his hand. Fingertips touched gold. He waited for it to crumble, but 
the chain remained whole. 

"Something," he breathed, "is different." 

Nothing answered him. Silence was very loud. 

He waited. He knew what had to happen. It happened without fail. It had always 
happened. 

He clung one-handed to the Lion. "This time, something is different." 

The hissed declaration filled the hall. He heard himself breathing; the uneven 


rasping of air sucked through a throat nearly closed off by emotions. He could not name 
them all, only two: a slowly rising despair and a burgeoning exhilaration. 

They were, he thought, contradictory emotions, even as he felt them. How could a 
man experience exhilaration and despair, both at the same time? From the same cause? 

He allowed his fingers to move. Now the palm touched the chain. 

Cool, rune-scribed metal. No different from that on his arms. Solid, substantial 
gold. 

"I know you," Aidan challenged. "You entice me, you seduce me, promising 
fidelity-the moment I pick you up, there will be nothing left but dust." 

Nothing answered him. 

Sweat prickled flesh. He ached, yet felt no pain, only a brittle intensity. A 
growing, obsessive hunger. 

Aidan dared to close his fingers. The chain remained solid. 

He laughed softly into the darkness. "Such a sweet, subtle seduction… if I but 
pick you up-" He suited action to words. 

Links rang softly, chiming one against another. 

Aidan knelt before the Lion. One hand steadied himself. The other held up the 
chain. It dangled in the dimness, one perfect link clutched in rigid, trembling fingers. 

Jubilation crept closer, hand in hand with apprehension. Aidan stared, waiting. 
The hair stood up on his arms, tickled the back of his neck. He drew in a tenuous breath, 
taking care to make no sound. "What now?" he whispered. 

In answer, the link parted. Half of the chain fell, spilling across crimson velvet. 

Oh, gods-oh, no-not AGAIN


A blurt of sound escaped him: forlorn, futile protest. Sweat ran down his temples, 
tracing the line of his jaw. "So," he rasped hoarsely, "you tease me a little more-" 

Intrusion. He heard the scrape of silver on marble; the step of booted feet. 
Humiliation bathed him. If his father found him like this, or even the Mujhar-

Aidan set his teeth and turned, still kneeling, still clutching the remaining links 
against his bare chest. That much he had gotten, he had won… if he showed his father-if 
he displayed it to the Mujhar, or to anyone who asked-

Halfway breathed, breath stopped. The man was no one he knew. 

And yet, somehow, he did. He knew that face; had seen that face. The same tawny 
hair, now silvered. The same blue eyes, but no patch; both eyes were whole. Even the 
same remarkable physical presence, though this man, Aidan thought, was a trifle taller 
than the Mujhar. The breadth of shoulder was startling; that, and his expression. 

No, Aidan mouthed. And then, almost laughing: Aye. First Shaine, now-this. Now 
HIM-

Transfixed, he stared at the man. At the slow transformation in the features. First 
a quiet acceptance of his presence in a place not quite expected. Then the realization of 
what that place, and his presence, meant. Lastly the quiet joy, the subtle recognition of a 
man returned to his home after too many years-and deaths-away. 

It was not an old face, not as old as the Mujhar's, though the lines were similar. 
But there was an odd awareness of age, an eerie aura of knowledge far greater than 
Aidan's own, so well-tutored in heritage. This man was not Cheysuli, but clearly he knew 
the Great Hall. Clearly he knew the Lion. 

Unlike Shaine in his velvets, he wore plain soldiers' garb: ringmail over leather. 


Ringmail stained with blood; leather scuffed from usage. On his hand glinted the ring 

Aidan's grandsire wore. 

Ringmail in place of velvets. 

Aidan stared blankly, recalling Shaine, whose arrogance dominated. This man 
was as proud, but less of himself than of things that had occurred in a realm once his 
own. 

Aidan's lips were dry. A different kind of Mujhar-

The length of the hall, he came. Then stopped before the dais, before the throne, 
before the prince still kneeling in rigid silence, pale Erinnish flesh stretched nearly to 
cracking over unmistakable Cheysuli bones. 

"So long," the man whispered. "I thought never to see it again." 

Numbly, Aidan murmured, "This is Homana-Mujhar." 

The other man's jubilant smile was brilliant. "I know where I am. I know who you 
are. Do you know who I am?" 

Aidan wet dry lips. "I can make a guess." 

The stranger laughed aloud, in eerie exultation. "Then let me save you the trouble: 
my name is Carillon. That throne once belonged to me." He paused delicately. "And are 
you kneeling to me, or to your own tahlmorra?" 

Aidan did not move. "Carillon was Homanan. He knew nothing of Tahlmorras." 

Tawny eyebrows rose. "Nothing? Nothing at all? When it was my doing that the 
Lion Throne of Homana was given back into Cheysuli hands?" Blue eyes were assessive. 
"Ah, Aidan, have they neglected your history? Or are you merely being perverse?" 

"Homanans have no tahlmorras." 

"Oh, I think they do. I think they simply lack the imagination to accept them." 
Carillon's voice was kind, pitched to a tone of quiet compassion. "It hurts to kneel on 
marble. If I were you, I would not." 

Aidan put out a groping hand and caught at the Lion, dragging himself from the 
dais. He stared at his kinsman. His great-great-grandsire, with no Cheysuli in him. 

I am so tired-so confused-

He sighed gustily, trying to summon respect for a man dead so many years even 
though the pragmatic part of him suggested he might be so tired and sore he was merely 
dreaming the whole thing. "I suppose you have come with a message, much like Shaine. I 
suppose you are here to talk about this chain, much like Shaine." He held it up; it 
dangled. "The rest of it is in the throne… I am only worth half of it." He grimaced, 
shoving away the acknowledgment of pain. "But more than I was before." 

Carillon said nothing. 

Aidan looked down at his kinsman, taller than Carillon only because of the dais. 
He lacked the height of his father or the Mujhar, certainly that of the man-or fetch-he 
faced now. "Shaine mouthed nonsense. Have you come to do the same?" 

Now Carillon smiled. "I did not come: I was brought. By you, whether or not you 
know it. There is a certain need…" But he did not finish. "As for Shaine, he often 
mouthed nonsense. My uncle-my su'fali, as you might say-was a hard man to know, and a 
harder man to like. Respect, honor, even admire, aye-" 

"Admire!" Aidan's astonishment echoed. "The ku'reshtin began the qu'mahlin! He 
nearly extinguished my race!" 

Some of the fire dimmed in old/ageless blue eyes. "Aye, he did that. But I was 


speaking of the man before the madness. The man who was Mujhar, was Homana, before 
the fool who began a purge." Carillon sighed. Wan light glinted on ringmail. "He was a 
man of great loves and stronger hatreds. I will excuse him for neither; I did not 
understand him, save to serve him as an heir. And, as you know, even that was never 
intended; I was not raised to be Mujhar." 

"No," Aidan agreed, giving up the last vestige of disbelief. It seemed he was 
meant to have discourse with all manner of men and gods. 

"I was raised to be a soldier, and to inherit my father's title. Never my uncle's-that 
only became my place when Lindir ran away with Hale, and Shaine got no other heirs." 
Carillon glanced down at a lifted hand: blood-red ruby glowed. "So, I was made heir to 
Homana… and heir to travesty-" Abruptly he broke it off, smiling ruefully. "But you 
know all of this… I will bore you with old stories." Now the smile was twisted. "Finn 
would say it is my habit, to prate about history." 

"Finn," Aidan echoed. "Could he come here? Could I summon him, if what you 
say is true?" He paused. "Finn-and Hale?" 

After a momentary stillness, Carillon shook his head. "They were never Mujhars." 

"Mujhars," Aidan murmured. He looked at the chain in his hand. Realization was 
swift. "Mujhars-and links. Is that what this is about? Is that what the dreams are for?" He 
held out the portion to Carillon. His voice shook, even as his hand. "Is that it, my lord? 
Each of those links-" 

"-is a man." Carillon's voice was steady. "A man caught up in the game of the 
gods. But you should know that, Aidan. You should know very well." 

I know nothing at all… Aidan strung out the chain, touching individual links. 
"You. Donal. Niall. Here: my jehan." The chain ended abruptly. 

Suspicion blossomed painfully. So did fear. 

White-faced, Aidan swallowed. Looked at the Lion. Reached down and picked up 
the two halves of the broken link. They chimed in his hand. "And Aidan?" he asked 
softly, looking back at Carillon. 

His kinsman's gaze did not waver. "You know what you know. Now you must 
deal with other things: acknowledgment and acceptance. Knowing is not enough." 

Bitterness rose; engulfed. "I have been very well-tutored. Do you truly think I 
would not acknowledge nor accept? Do you think I could not?" 

Now Carillon's eyes were bleak. "We have each of us, in your birthline, done 
things we did not desire. Become what we did not want. We each of us chose our road, 
always cognizant of the choice… but none of it was easy. The gods gave us free will. 
Regardless of tutoring, refusal is always an alternative. The gods do not strike us dead, 
unless our time is done." 

The response was automatic: "If we say no to our tahlmorras, the afterworld is 
denied us." 

Carillion's tone was steady. "That is a choice, too. Teirnan made it; will you?" 

Aidan met the eyes of a dead Mujhar, only dimly surprised he could. Such 
miracles, now, were expected; they had, each of them, beaten belief into him. "I have to 
be what I am." 

Slowly, Carillon smiled. "Then the gods will be satisfied." 

In Aidan's hand, gold melted. At last he opened fingers. The chain flowed out of 
his hands and into nothingness. 


He looked up to ask Carillon why. He found himself alone. 

Chapter Seven 

«^» 

Aileen slammed down her goblet. Cider splashed over the rim. "Not so soon!" she 
cried, astonishing them all. "I'll not be letting you do it!" 

It stilled the room instantly. Servants with trays of food and pitchers of cider 
stopped dead in their tracks, staring at their angry princess, then cast furtive glances at 
one another to see what should or should not be done. 

The outburst came in the midst of the midday meal. It had, heretofore, been an 
entirely normal gathering uneventful in the extreme. The Mujhar and all his family-
excepting the absent Aidan-were halfway through the meal. 

Now it appeared one of them would not finish. Or possibly two of them; it was at 
Brennan she had shouted. 

The Prince of Homana, frozen in the act of lifting his own goblet to his mouth, 
also stared at Aileen. His astonishment rivaled that of the servants who, upon a subtle 
signal from Deirdre, melted out of the room. Food and drink could wait until the storm 
had blown over. 

Brennan, thawing at last, quietly put down his goblet. He did not spill his cider. "I 
only meant-" 

"I know what you meant!" Aileen's green eyes blazed. "D'ye think I'll sit here all 
mealy-mouthed and listen to such drivel?" 

Brennan's face tightened. "What 'drivel' do you mean? I was discussing our son's 
future." 

"Discussing his marriage, ye skilfin!" Aileen flattened her hands on the table and 
leaned down on braced arms. "I'll not allow it so soon. The boy deserves some time." 

"The 'boy,' as you call him, is twenty-three years old." Brennan very carefully did 
not look in Ian's direction. 

"Twenty-three years young," Aileen snapped. "The House of Homana is long-
lived-he'll be having time for marriage. Let him have time for himself." 

Now Brennan did cast a sharp glance around the table. He saw three carefully 
neutral expressions, which did not particularly please him. He had expected support-
except from Ian; clearly, they offered none. "Jehan," he appealed. 

Niall lifted both hands in a gesture of abdication. "I married off four of my five 
children. This is for you to do." 

Inwardly Brennan sighed. He looked again at Aileen. "This can be discussed 
another time-" 

"You brought it up," she charged. "Oh, Brennan, d'ye not know what you're 
doing? Can ye not see what might happen? D'ye want him to be like us?" 

Brennan lost his temper. "By all the gods, I love you! I have never kept it a 
secret!" 

The admission was not precisely what any of them had anticipated, least of all 
Aileen. She had expected a different issue. 

White-faced, she glanced at the tactfully averted faces of the Mujhar, his meijha, 
his rujholli. Only Brennan looked at her; no, he glared at her, with an angry, defiant 
expression. It belied the words he had shouted. 


"Not now," she said weakly, turning toward the door. "Not now; not here-" 

Brennan rounded the table and met her at the door, jerking it open. "Now," he said 
grimly. "But I will agree with the 'not here.' Shall we retire to our apartments and discuss 
this issue in private?" 

Color set her afire. What she thought was obvious. 

Brennan grasped her arm and steered her out of the room, lowering his tone. 
"That is not what I meant. I meant to discuss it; nothing less, nothing more. You know 
very well I would never shame you that way in front of kin and servants-that is not my 
way…" 

Aileen was not placated. "You are a fool!" she snapped, gathering heavy skirts as 
he pushed her up the stairs. "You see only whatever it is you want to see, being blind to 
people's feelings." 

"I am not being blind to anyone or anything," he retorted, ascending rapidly to 
keep up with his angry wife. "What I am is being careful." 

"What you are is being a skilfin, as always. You've lost whatever sense-and 
diplomacy-you might once have had." 

"Oh? I have never believed thinking about the future of one's realm-" 

" 'Tisn't your realm yet-here, will this do?" Aileen shoved open a door and 
watched it slam against the wall. "Is this sufficiently private?" 

Brennan advanced through the doorway. "It was a topic of discussion. It was not a 
royal decree. I was merely suggesting it might be time we thought of Aidan's future." 

"Aidan's future is Aidan's future. Let it remain so, Brennan." Aileen swung to face 
the doorway. "Give the boy-" She stopped. "Oh," she said weakly. "Have you heard 
everything?" 

Brennan turned abruptly. Their son stood in the corridor. 

"Enough," Aidan said calmly, folding hands behind his back. 

Brennan frowned. "When did you come home?" 

"Last night. Late." Aidan's crooked smile was private. "There was something I 
had to do… something to be resolved." 

"And was it?" Aileen asked. 

The smile became a scowl. "Not entirely," he muttered, then flicked dismissive 
fingers as he altered tone and topic. "Am I to be married, then?" 

Brennan swung back jerkily and walked directly across the chamber. It was a 
small room, no more; a nook for private withdrawal. Not unlike Deirdre's solar, though 
lacking amenities. It was little more than a cell, or an awkward, forgotten corner. 

A bench was against the wall. Brennan sat down on it. "Your jehana and I were 
discussing it." 

Aidan arched one eyebrow. "It was a loud-discussion. The servants were talking 
about it." 

Aileen's face flamed. "Your father is being a fool." 

Brennan sounded tired. "At least I know that word. You have never translated 
skilfin." 

She had the grace to look abashed. " 'Tis n't a polite term." 

"I had gathered that." Brennan looked at his son. Aidan did not, he thought, 
appear particularly disturbed by the topic. He was, as usual, keeping himself detached 
from the emotions he and Aileen battled, as if he feared to share them. "Well? Will you 


come in and give us your opinion? It is your future, as the Princess of Homana has taken 
great-and loud-pains to point out." 

Aidan smiled lopsidedly. He came through the doorway, lingered idly a moment 
near his mother, then drifted farther into the chamber. Brennan thought his expression 
odd. There was distance in his eyes; and an eerie otherwhereness that Brennan found 
unsettling. 

"Come back," Brennan snapped impatiently. "You had best attend this." 

Aidan glanced sidelong at his father. "I fell off my horse," he said 
inconsequentially. Then, smiling wryly, "No-I was swept off. It does somewhat make a 
difference." 

Aileen made a sound and moved as if to go to him, but a lifted hand kept her 
back. She contented herself with a question. "Are ye hurt, then? I thought it was dirt; 'tis a 
bruise, then, there on the side of your face." 

Aidan briefly touched a cheekbone. "A bruise, aye-so it should be." Then, as if 
shaking himself, he looked more clearly at his father. "Do you want me married, then?" 

There was only the slightest hint of Erinn in the inflection. It made Brennan 
smile; his son sounded, on occasion, very like his mother. "I want you content, though 
undoubtedly your jehana will not agree that I would consider your feelings." 

" 'Tisn't sounding like it," she muttered. 

Brennan cleared his throat. "I want you content, Aidan. I want you settled. I want 
you less disturbed by whatever it is that disturbs you." 

Aidan laughed. "And marriage is the answer? With yours as the example?" 

Brennan nearly gaped. The question had been so blatant-and so keenly on the 
mark. As if he reads my thoughts… 

Aileen's face flamed red. "D'ye not care?" she demanded. "He'd have you wedded 
and bedded before nightfall, if he could-and all for the Lion, he says." 

"Well, perhaps it is." Aidan went over to the bench occupied by his father and sat 
down at the other end. He looked tired, worn through, clearly thinking of something else. 
"I have no objection." 

The negligent tone and manner set Aileen's eyes to blazing again. "No objection, 
have you? To being pushed this way and that? For being made to take a wife?" 

Aidan scowled briefly, then wiped it away instantly. His tone, usually circumspect 
and polite, was pitched to cut through them both, as if he knew just where to aim. "I am 
not you, jehana. I am not and never have been in love with the wrong person. Nor am I 
my jehan, so badly hurt by an Ihlini witch's meddling." He cast a glance at Brennan, 
mouth twisted, as if to ask his pardon for speaking of private things. "I am not in love at 
all, so it really makes no difference." 

His parents, stunned, stared. Aileen roused first. "It should!" she snapped. "The 
woman you'll be taking will share your bed for the rest of your life. D'ye think that makes 
no difference?" 

Aidan sighed wearily, murmuring beneath his breath. Then, more clearly, "After 
the events of four days ago-when I got this bruise-I think debating the merits of marriage 
is the least of my concerns." He slumped against the wall and yawned, then straightened 
as if the position hurt. Indifferently, he asked, "Have you a woman in mind?" 

Aileen stared at her son. Dark red hair tumbled into his face, until he flung it out 
of his eyes like a horse tossing his mane. It was, as usual, badly in need of cutting; he was 


lazy about such things. Thick lashes screened his eyes, but that did not disturb her. His 
eyes were like his father's; she could not read his, either. Aidan was a trifle paler than 
usual, and the bluish bruise was temporarily disfiguring, and he acted as if his ribs hurt; 
all that aside, he seemed perfectly normal, she thought-except for a sharper, more 
pronounced detachment that was, even when weighed against Aidan's customary feyness, 
something out of the ordinary. 

"What events?" she asked suspiciously. 

Aidan shrugged slightly. "Nothing worth the telling." He scratched gingerly at the 
bruise. "Have you a woman in mind-or are you simply wanting to argue?" 

It was Brennan's turn to stare, albeit from a more awkward position. He frowned, 
marking the bruise, the pallor, the unfeigned detachment that spoke, to him, of boredom. 
Aidan was often detached, but rarely ever bored. 

Brennan glanced at Aileen, seeking an explanation. Clearly she was as baffled by 
Aidan's demeanor. In that they always agreed. "No," he answered finally. "It had only 
just come up." 

"Brought up by your father." But Aileen's tone was less than hostile. "D'ye really 
not care?" 

Aidan smiled at her. "You cared because you loved Corin. Jehan cared because he 
knew it, and because he thought you might be worth the loving." He glanced briefly at his 
father, then back at his mother. "It makes no difference to me. There have been women in 
my bed, but none I want to keep there. If you have a candidate for eternity, I am willing 
to listen." 

Aileen glanced at Brennan. "Hart has four daughters." 

"And Keely, one." Brennan pulled at a lobeless ear, reaching for a long-absent 
earring. "Maeve has a daughter. Maeve has two." 

Aileen's tone was odd. "Legitimate, if you please." Brennan scowled; Maeve was 
his favorite. "Maeve's daughters are legitimate. She and Rory are married." 

Aidan's tone was amused. "She wants a princess for me." 

Aileen folded her arms. " 'Tis better for a prince." 

He grinned, laughing in silence. "Very well, five princesses to pick from. Unless 
you take bids from other kingdoms, such as Ellas and Caledon." 

"No," Brennan said thoughtfully. "There is the prophecy to think of. We now 
know the four realms mentioned… we need add no other blood." 

"No," Aidan agreed. "Only the Ihlini." 

Brennan looked at him sharply. "No son of mine-" 

"Of course not, jehan." Aidan's tone was dryly deferential as he stretched out 
booted feet and planted both heels. "So, am I to choose sight unseen?" 

Aileen frowned. " 'Twas what was done for us, your father and I. We saw naught 
of each other." 

"And look at the result." Aidan's smile was so charmingly disarming, neither of 
them could respond immediately. "You are both of you fools-or skilfins," he continued, 
ignoring their stricken stares. "The Prince of Homana at least has the courage to admit he 
loves the Princess… she might do as well. Old wounds do heal-if you give them the 
time." He looked straight at his mother. "Twenty-four years is a long time. I'm thinking 
the two of you might be happier if you started all over again." 

"How can you-" Aileen cut it off. Color waned in her face. "Oh, no," she 


whispered dazedly. "Deirdre said it might be true-she did say it might show itself…" 
Even her lips were white. "How long have you known how I feel? How your father 
feels?" 

Aidan frowned. "I have always known how you feel. How either of you feel. How 
everybody feels." 

"Always?" she echoed blankly. 

Brennan sat erect. "What are you talking about?" 

Aileen's hand was on her throat. "Kivarna," she murmured. "Oh, Aidan, after all 
this time… and none of us knowing-none of us thinking-" 

"Knowing what?" Brennan asked testily. "What are you talking about?" 

"Kivarna," she repeated. "Oh, gods, Aidan-is that what it is? All this time-is that 
what this is?" 

Her son and husband stared. 

Aileen pressed rigid fingers against her face. "All those things we've felt, the both 
of us, and you knowing them all-" She squeezed shut her eyes. "And you not knowing 
why-" 

"Aileen!" Brennan said sharply. "What are you talking about?" 

"Aye" Aidan agreed, detachment shredding abruptly. "Jehana-" 

Aileen's face was white. Hands shook as she clasped them tightly in her lap. She 
tried to smile at Brennan, but it faltered. "Kivarna," she said only. "Your son is Erinnish, 
too." And with that she went out of the room. 

Brennan stared after her. He had not seen her so distraught in years. Not since 
Aidan was young, and troubled by the dreams. 

Frowning, he turned to his son. Aidan put up his hands. "A word, nothing more. 
But I am Erinnish, aye; I have been all my life." He grinned. " 'Twas her doing, I'm 
thinking." 

"But what is it-?" And then he gave it up. "Agh, gods-" Brennan collapsed once 
more against the wall. "Perhaps I should give you more time-sharing your life with a 
woman is never an easy thing." 

Aidan, like his father, leaned against the wall, but took more care to settle still-
sore ribs. "She really does love you. She always has, in her way. But she has never 
admitted it to herself; certainly not to you. She thinks of Corin, and feels guilty. She 
believes you deserve better, and so she blames herself." 

Brennan sat in silence. Something pinched deep in his belly. Something that 
whispered of dread; of a thing left unattended to fester in someone's spirit, shaping a life 
for too many years. 

He swallowed tightly and rolled his head against the wall to look at his son. "This 
is what she meant? This-kivarna?" 

Aidan shrugged. "The word is as foreign to me. I have never heard it before." 

Brennan, tensing, sat up a little. Very carefully. "But-you can do this? Always? 
This reading of people's thoughts?" 

"Not thoughts. Feelings. And only bits of them. I thought everyone did." Aidan 
carefully felt his discolored cheekbone. His tone, now, was deliberate: he wanted to 
change the subject. "Have you ever come off your horse?" 

"Many times." Brennan's thoughts were not on enforced dismountings. "Aidan-" 
He frowned. "You have been able to do this since childhood?" 


Aidan lifted a single shoulder. "It began very young. I cannot say precisely 
when." 

Gods, he can be cold-"-young," Brennan echoed. "Such as a night in the Great 
Hall, with the Lion… and a chain." 

Aidan turned his head deliberately and looked into his father's eyes. What 
Brennan saw made him cringe. "I thought everyone felt it. That it required no 
explanation." 

"I should have listened," Brennan rasped. "I should have listened then. Even Ian 
sees it." 

"Jehan-" 

"How is a child to trust when his parents give him no chance to say what troubles 
him most?" Brennan shut his eyes. "Gods, I have been a fool… and I have made you this 
way." 

Aidan's tone was tight. "What way, jehan? What 'way' am I?" 

"Different." The answer was prompt. "Private. Withdrawn. Guarded. As if you 
trust none of us." The pain tore at his vitals. "I did that to you." 

"If you are concerned that I know everything you think, everything you feel-" 

"No." Brennan cut him off. "What you know, you know; how much does not 
matter. What matters now is that you have this ability… and that you dream dreams." 

Aidan's smile was wintry. "Everyone dreams." 

"Gods-" But he let it get no farther. His mind was racing, running back over the 
years, over the memories, drawing from the deepest part of the well the things that 
glittered most brightly, like the keen edge of a new blade. "You were ill so often, and for 
so long…"It was not an explanation. It was not a just excuse. It was nothing more than a 
father's plea for understanding from a child he has turned away through misinterpretation. 
"You spoke to the Mujhar." 

Aidan's tone was closed. "I spoke to my grandsire." 

"But not to me, nor your jehana." Brennan's jaws clenched. "I suppose we 
deserved it, your meticulous privacy. But it was so long ago-did you never think to try 
again?" 

Aidan's gaze was unflinching. "I sense feelings. At first, I knew you were only 
frightened, worried for my welfare. But you changed, even as I did. You began to realize 
a child's fancies were being carried over into adulthood." Aidan's expression was taut. 
"Your feelings were all too blatant: you questioned my sanity. My worthiness for the 
Lion." His mouth warped a little. "How many children, even those in a man's body, care 
to discuss it with a jehan who wonders such things?" 

Brennan's face was ravaged. "If you had told us of this ability-" 

Aidan's tone sharpened. "I did not know what it was." 

"If you had said anything-" 

"You gave me no leave to try." Unsteadily, Aidan straightened. "But now you 
have, and I have said something of it. Enough. It has a name, now… better we leave it at 
that." 

"How? There are things to be settled…" 

"Such as marriage?" Aidan smiled. "Perhaps it is not such a bad idea." 

Again, he changes the subject. And perhaps I should let him. Brennan made a 
dismissive gesture. His tone was conciliatory. "Perhaps your jehana has the right of it. 


Perhaps I do move too soon, pushing you this way and that-" He broke off, sighing, to 
look at his son. "There are times I think too much about what will become of the Lion, 
when the throne is not even mine. I look back at our history and see how tenuous is our 
claim-how vulnerable our race. We are still badly outnumbered… if the Homanans ever 
turned against us again…" But he let it trail off. Aidan was not listening. "Aidan…" He 
waited. "Aidan, I want to do right by you. If now is not the time-" 

Aidan's response was detached. "It makes no difference." 

Brennan held onto his equable tone with effort, knowing instinctively that to press 
his son now was to lose him. "Marriage is a large step for any man. For a prince-" 

"It makes no difference." Aidan insinuated careful fingers into the folds of his 
jerkin, as if testing for soreness. "Perhaps a change such as this is precisely what I need, 
after everything else." 

Concerned, Brennan frowned. "Aidan-" 

His son smiled lopsidedly and raised a preemptive finger. "First you suggest I 
marry, now you attempt to talk me out of it. Which do you want?" 

Brennan stirred restlessly; Aidan was, as usual, cutting too close to the bone. "I 
want you content." 

Aidan's smile faded. He stared blankly at the door, distance in his gaze. "Perhaps 
that is not my tahlmorra. Perhaps, instead-" But he waved it off without finishing. 
Detachment faded, replaced by dry irony. "A wedding will change many things." 

If he wants to let it go… Brennan forced a smile. "A wedding usually does." 

The tone altered oddly. "And if it changes everything-" Yet again Aidan did not 
finish, but his expression was intense. 

Brennan's smile faded. Something cold touched the base of his spine. "Are you all 
right? Is there something troubling you?" 

Aidan did not answer, staring fixedly into the distance. 

He is not here, Brennan thought. In the flesh, perhaps, but not in the mind. He 
goes somewhere-else. "Aidan," he said aloud. Then, more urgently, "Aidan!" 

His son stirred, clearly startled. And then he sighed, scrubbing at a wan, 
discolored face. "I am-confused. Forgive me… I have not been paying attention." 

Brennan leaned forward. "Then tell me. Share it with me. Let me be the jehan I 
should have been years ago." 

Aidan weighed his words, then sighed in resignation. His crooked smile was, 
Brennan thought, oddly vulnerable. "More than confused-irritated. There are things in 
my life I cannot understand, and no answers are forthcoming. No matter who I ask-" He 
sighed heavily, fingering the bruise. "Have you ever spoken with a god?" 

It was an odd tack. "To them; many times." 

"One particular god?" 

He strived for lightness; to keep his head above water. "No. I generally address 
my comments-or petitions-to as many as possible, just to improve my chances." Brennan 
waited for laughter. When he heard no response at all, he dismissed forced levity. His son 
was revealing more of himself than ever before. This time the jehan would listen. "Why? 
Do you speak only to one?" 

Aidan sighed. "I had never thought it necessary-like you, I spoke to them all. But 
now-" Abruptly he broke it off and rose, heading toward the door. "If there are five 
princesses to be considered, perhaps I should go to see them." 


He is gone-I have lost him-

Nonplussed by the abrupt change in subject and his son's implicit dismissal, 
Brennan rose hastily. "But none of them are here." 

Aidan paused in the doorway, arching ruddy brows. "Then perhaps I should go 
where they are." 

Chapter Eight 

«^» 

The fire had died to coals. The horses, a few long paces away, were hobbled for 
the night, tearing contentedly at the now-sparse grass surrounding their plots. Food was 
packed away, bedrolls unfurled, skins of wine unplugged. Sprawled loose-limbed against 
saddles, two Cheysuli warriors stared up into star-peppered darkness and shared the 
companionable silence. 

Eventually, Aidan broke it. "Tomorrow," he mused idly, scratching an itching 
eyelid. "Solinde in place of Homana." 

His companion grunted absently, fingers stroking the huddle of chestnut fur 
slumped across most of one leg. 

"It will feel good to leave Homana behind awhile. It will give me a chance to start 
over again," Aidan mused. Then, thinking he had given too much away, he sighed and 
rolled his head to grin at his great-uncle. "Escort enough, I'm thinking… Teel, you, and 
Tasha." 

"Certainly more comfortable; I prefer it this way, myself." Ian's answering smile 
was wry. "But Aileen nearly won the battle." 

Aidan swallowed wine, mopped up a few spilled drops dampening his chin, then 
shook his head in detached irritation. "Why do women insist on so much ceremony? 
There is no need to send me into Solinde trailing a hundred men in my wake… and as for 
that chatter about protection, I say it is nonsense. We are at peace with Solinde-we have 
been for tens of years-Teirnan's a'saii have disappeared, and even the Ihlini are silent. 
What is there to protect me from?" 

Ian's smile faded. The tone was carefully neutral as he stroked the huge cat at his 
side, chin resting on his thigh. "From yourself, perhaps?" 

Aidan's contentment spilled away. The aftertaste in his mouth turned sour. "She 
wasted no time, did she? Or was it jehan, instead?" He shifted irritably against the saddle. 
"I should have said nothing of it. It is private, personal… it should make no difference-" 

"That you know what others feel?" Ian tipped his head. "You must admit, harani, 
it is a powerful gift-" 

"Is it?" Scowling, Aidan cut him off. "I did not choose to have it. I do not choose 
to use it. I only know what I know, what I feel-" 

"-and what others feel." Ian's tone remained affable. "I only remark on it because 
it may be an explanation-" 

"-for why I am so different?" Aidan twisted his mouth. "No man is like another." 

"No." Ian drank from his wineskin with less spillage than Aidan; he had had much 
more practice. "And that very differentness is something all Cheysuli must deal with, 
when faced with an unblessed Homanan trying to comprehend how we can shapechange. 
We are alien to them, trading flesh and bone for fur… but this Erinnish gift you 
apparently have augments even that. And so I begin to see why we confuse the unblessed; 


you confuse me. You confuse us all." 

Aidan's hand stole to his belt. Fingers touched the heavy link looped over leather 
next to his buckle. He stroked the gold absently. I confuse myself. 

"But it does not matter." Ian settled more deeply into his blanket pallet, adjusting 
to Tasha's weight. "You are you, and I am I; we are what the gods decree." 

Something thrummed across the lir-link: a feather-touch of amusement. Aidan 
glared hard through the darkness at Teel, perched upon a pack slumped on the other side 
of the fire. The raven said nothing, but Aidan translated the silence. He had had years of 
practice. 

Gods, indeed-Abruptly, he was restless. He sat upright, slinging aside the 
stoppered skin, and swung on his knees to face his kinsman. "I am different," he said 
intently. "But no one knows how much. No one knows who I am. No one knows what I 
am…" 

The light from the coals was dim. But Ian's expression was visible: Aidan's 
vehement outburst had clearly startled him. "Aidan-" 

Everyone says I should speak, to divulge what I think; that it will do me good… 

He did not necessarily think so, but was willing to try. There was too much 
pressure inside, too much apprehension. He needed to share it with someone other than a 
lir who couched so much truth in obscurity. 

If only they could listen


"I talk to gods, su'fali. To gods-and to the dead." 

Ian's hand stilled on Tasha's head. 

Aidan smiled a little. There was no amusement in it. "Ten nights ago, I met with 
Carillon. Before that, it was Shaine." 

"Shaine," Ian echoed. 

"The father of the qu'mahlin." Aidan shifted slightly, relaxing the tautness of 
bunched thighs. "Then, of course, there was the Hunter, the god himself…" He let it go 
unfinished. "But you could argue that it was the fall I took-that it addled my wits, and I 
merely dreamed all of it." Aidan's tone was elaborately dry. "But how would that explain 
seeing Carillon? I did not dream that. He was as real as you, standing before the Lion. He 
made the Great Hall his own, even with me in it. Even dead so many years… however 
many it is." 

"Sixty-six," Ian murmured. "Have you learned nothing at all?" 

Aidan looked at him sharply. Ian still lay stretched out against his saddle, one side 
engulfed by Tasha. His expression now was calm, but the mouth smiled a little. The eyes, 
so eerie a yellow, gazed serenely into the heavens. 

"You believe me?" 

"I have never known you to lie." 

Now he distrusted the truth, certain no one could understand so easily, or in such 
a calm frame of mind. "But it was Carillon I saw! Carillon I spoke with!" 

"And what did he have to say?" 

Aidan frowned. He had expected startled reassessment, the mention of possible 
madness. Even though Ian had always given him the latitude to be himself, Aidan had not 
believed it could remain so. Not in light of his revelation. 

But now something else caught his attention. "You knew him," Aidan said. "You 
knew him personally." 


"Carillon?" Ian grunted amusement. "In a manner of speaking. I was four years 
old when he died." 

"He was killed." 

"In battle, aye. Actually, after a battle; the Atvian king killed him. Osric himself." 
Ian drank again. His tone was meditative. "A long time ago." 

Aidan reached out and recaptured the skin he had tossed aside, dragging it across 
grassy ground. "What was he like?" 

Ian quirked an eyebrow. "I thought you said you met him yourself ten nights ago." 

Aidan waved a hand. "Aye, aye-I did… but how am I to know if he was real or 
not? You met the real man. The warrior Mujhar who won Homana back from Solinde and 
the Ihlini." 

"Your great-great-grandsire." Ian smiled, tugging Tasha's tufted ears in 
absentminded affection. "I remember little enough. I was three the last time I saw him… 
to me he was little more than a huge man dressed in leather and ringmail, glinting and 
creaking when he moved. He was entirely Homanan, in appearance as well as habits… to 
me, that was what counted. Carillon the Homanan: my jehana made it so. He was 
Mujhar, aye-but I was taught to be aware his blood was different from mine." 

"But you were kin to him." 

Ian shrugged. "My granddam was his cousin… aye, we were kin, but the link was 
never explored. There was something else that took precedence-" He shifted against his 
saddle, resettling Tasha's weight. "I was the bastard son of Donal's Cheysuli light woman. 
I was not entirely approved of by the Homanans, who knew Donal was pledged to marry 
Carillon's daughter." 

"Aislinn," Aidan murmured. 

"Aislinn of Homana." Ian sighed and thrust one arm beneath his head. Gray-white 
hair, in the darkness, was silvered by the moon. "My jehana was half Homanan herself, 
but she hated it. I remember her petitioning the gods to let her spill out the Homanan in 
her blood many times-whenever my jehan left the Keep for Homana-Mujhar." Ian was 
silent a moment. "Eventually, she did… in the Keep across the Bluetooth, she spilled all 
of her blood. Homanan as well as Cheysuli." 

Aidan made no comment. The history was his own, and well-learned in now-
distant boyhood, but hearing it from Ian made it come alive. His great-uncle had known 
those people. Carillon, Finn, Donal-even Alix herself, who had proven to be the catalyst 
for the resurgence of the Old Blood. Others carried it, aye, but it was Alix who, by 
bearing a son to Duncan, breathed new life into the prophecy. 

Who put new blood into the stable-Grimly, Aidan smiled. When the old blood 
grows too weak, the new blood makes it strong. 

But his thoughts did not linger there. From his great-uncle, as with others, the 
emotions were tangible things. Aidan sensed shame, regret, grief; a tinge of bitterness. He 
put aside his own. 

"Su'fali," he said softly, "has it followed you so long?" 

Startled, Ian glanced over. His eyes asked the question. 

Aidan answered it. "She killed herself, your jehana. She brought dishonor to her 
name, expunged her rune-sign from the birthlines… but that does not destroy the memory 
of the mother in the mind of her son." 

"No." Ian's tone was rough. 


With care, Aidan proceeded. "Once a year you carry out i'toshaa-ni-" 

Ian cut him off. "That is my concern." 

Aidan drew breath and tried again. "I think it is wrong for one man-one warrior-to 
assume responsibility for things he had nothing to do with." 

"And you think that is why I carry out i'toshaa-ni?" Ian's eyes in the darkness 
were black, save for the rim of feral yellow. "You do not know everything, regardless of 
your 'gift.' " 

Aidan gestured placation. "No, perhaps not-but I think that is a part of it. As for 
the rest, there is also the knowledge of what Lillith did to you, and what your child on her 
became." 

Ian plugged the wineskin abruptly, squeaking the stopper home. "These are 
personal, private things." 

"So is what I feel. Yet everyone wants to know." 

Ian's motion to toss down the wineskin was arrested. Then, in silence, he set it 
carefully by his saddle. "Aye," he said finally, "everyone wants to know." 

Aidan wet dry lips. "And yet when the taboo topic is raised, everyone turns 
away." 

Ian's silence was loud. 

"Taboo," Aidan repeated. "Even mere contemplation that a Cheysuli warrior 
might lie with an Ihlini woman." 

Ian was, if nothing else, a man of much compassion. Yet now the emotions Aidan 
sensed were anger and bitterness. "We have little reason to consider such a bedding a 
benevolent thing," Ian declared. "Look at Lillith-daughter to Tynstar himself, half-sister 
to Strahan… servant of the Seker." He sighed, rubbing at tired eyes; age, all of a sudden, 
sat heavily on him. "Lovely, lethal Lillith-who, holding my lir, ensorcelled me so well I 
had little choice in the matter… and then bore me abomination." 

"Who then bore my father a daughter." Aidan stroked back hair. "You see, su'fali, 
it has been done before. And children have been born." 

"But children who are not Firstborn." Ian's voice was emphatic. "Now, more than 
ever, we must be vigilant. The Ihlini have proved we can be tricked, even into bed… they 
have proved they have the power to alter the prophecy. It is only our good fortune the 
bloodlines were not whole…" Abruptly, his tone altered. "Aidan, if ever a child of the 
Lion sires a child for the Seker, everything is undone. Everything is undone." 

Tension was palpable. Aidan sought to break it. "Do not fret about me, su'fali. I 
may be bound for my wedding, but she will not be an Ihlini." 

Ian's face was taut. "There is danger in complacency." 

"Aye," Aidan agreed. "But even if I should fail, the gods will tend to the 
outcome." 

"Do not-" But Ian broke it off. 

Aidan nearly laughed. "You were intending to suggest I not trust so much to the 
gods? But that is heresy, su'fali. And you a devout believer." 

Ian fought to retain his composure. "This is not a topic for jest and mummery. We 
have dedicated our lives to the prophecy, devoted all honor and commitment to the gods" 


"-with whom I speak." Aidan shrugged correction. "Or, at least, with one." 

"Aidan-" 


"Fate," Aidan declared. "The Homanan word for tahlmorra. If it is meant to be, 
surely it will be. And nothing I do can change it." 

Desperation underscored Ian's tone. "But it can be changed. By me, by you, by-" 

"-Ihlini?" Aidan nodded. "Certainly they may try. And perhaps they can win-the 
gods gave us all free choice." 

Staring in dismay, Ian slowly shook his head. "Does it make no difference to you? 
Does any of it matter?" 

Aidan sighed. Weariness swept up out of the darkness and threatened to swallow 
him whole. "Su'fali, I do not mean to be contentious or perverse. But I have these 
thoughts, these feelings-" He shook his head, dismissing it. "I promise-all of it matters to 
me. But as for making a difference…"He collapsed against his saddle, too tired to stay 
upright. Through a yawn, he said, "-we shall have to wait and see." 

The day dawned bright and warm, with no hint of rain in the air. They rode in 
companionable silence, taking comfort in mere presence, and lost themselves in the 
season. It was very nearly midday when Ian pulled his gray to a halt atop a hillock. 
"There," he said. "Solinde." 

Aidan, reining in his dun, squinted across the distance. "How can you tell?" he 
asked. "It looks the same as Homana." 

"There speaks ignorance." Ian grinned. "Is this land the same as the land around 
Mujhara?" 

"No, of course not-" 

"Is this land the same as that we left yesterday?" 

"No, no-of course not-" 

"And while there are similarities between this patch of ground and that, there are 
also differences." Ian resettled reins, unthreading tangled gray horsehair from red-dyed 
braided leather. "Just as there are in people." 

Aidan forbore to answer. His great-uncle was being obscure. 

No more than you, reminded Teel. The raven was a black blot against blue sky, 
swinging back from the border to return to his lir. 

Aidan scowled into air. "How much longer to Lestra?" 

Ian shrugged. "A six-day or so… I am not certain. The only time I went there was 
in lir-shape. It changes the measure of distance." 

Aidan nodded vaguely. He sat quietly a long moment, soaking up the sun, then 
relaxed into the saddle. The depth of his relief was unexpected as well as welcome. Then 
he sat rigidly upright, thrusting arms into the air to cloak himself in the day. "Gods-I can 
breathe again!" 

Ian's question was quiet. "Has it been so very bad?" 

Aidan shrugged, lowering his arms. He was unwilling to discuss it. Not now. Not 
here; he did not want to destroy the new freedom he was feeling. "Not all of the time. But 
now it does not matter. I am no longer in Homana, hounded by gods and fetches, but in a 
new realm. And beginning a new life-complete with a cheysula." He grinned at his 
kinsman. "Four daughters," he laughed. "Hart must be hungry for sons." 

"Hart is hungry for nothing except the means to wager." Ian's tone was dryly 
affectionate. 

Aidan laughed. "Jehan said I will like him." 


Ian nodded agreement. "Everyone likes Hart… until he wins their coin." 

Lir. It was Teel. Lir, there comes a storm. 

"Storm?" Aidan spoke aloud. "The sky is blue as can be-" 

Look behind you, lir. There the sky is black. 

Aidan, sighing, twisted in his saddle to glance back the way they had come. "Teel 
says there is a storm…" He stopped speaking to gape inelegantly. "Where did that come 
from?" 

"Tasha, too-" Ian also broke off. Then, with exceeding mildness, "I think we had 
better run." 

Behind them the world was dark. Aidan glanced back toward Solinde-summerclad 
Solinde-then back again to Homana, wearing wind-torn robes of black and gray, 
edged with a hem of lightning. "How do we outrun that?" 

"By trying," Ian suggested, setting heels to his horse. 

Aidan wasted a moment staring at the storm sweeping inexorably toward them 
both, rolling out of Homana like a wave of brackish ocean. It was impossible to believe; 
where they were it was warm, bright, still. 

Then stillness began to move. Brightness began to fade. 

By trying, Aidan agreed, then followed Ian's lead, sending his dun after the gray. 
Above him the rising wind buffeted Teel, who cried his displeasure. 

"There is no cover!" Aidan shouted ahead to his kinsman. "The border is too 
barren… there is no place we can go!" 

"Just run!" came Ian's reply, tossed back over a shoulder. 

Aidan hunched down over the dun's neck, recalling the last storm-flight he and 
the gelding had shared. Then it had proved disastrous; he feared now might be the same. 
There were no trees with which to collide, but the scrubby grass of the borderlands could 
hide all manner of holes. A horse, falling in flight, could easily break his neck. 

Or the head of the man who rides it-

He chanced a glance over a shoulder, squinting back stinging hair. The sky was 
indigo-black. He could not see the horizon. "Teel!" he shouted. Lir-

Here, the raven answered. This wind disturbs my feathers. 

Aidan peered upward, reassured to see the raven. Teel was battling wind and 
winning, though his pattern was erratic. 

We need trees, Aidan sent. Trees-or better, a croft-Too late-Teel cried. 

The curtain of darkness caught up, then settled its folds about them. It turned the 
day to night. 

The dun was laboring. Fear dotted a line of sweat across summer-slick shoulders, 
brown in place of dun. Cold, clammy wind bathed exposed flesh. "Su'fali-" Aidan 
shouted. "We cannot run them forever!" 

The first bolt of lightning broke free from the sky and struck the ground in front 
of them, blasting apart the earth in a rain of dirt and grass. The brilliance blinded Aidan. 
The explosion of thunder was deafening, buffeting his skull. 

The dun gelding screamed, then tried to bolt. That he did not was only because 
Aidan used all the strength and skill he had to hold the horse in place; a blind man tipped 
off a frightened horse was surely bound for death. He fought even as the horse fought, 
spitting dirt from a gritty mouth, and blinked burning eyes repeatedly, trying to banish 
blackness. 


-not blind-I am not


"Teel!" he shouted. "Su'fali-" In thunder-bruised ears it was merely noise. 

No rain, only wind. The darkness was absolute. It muffled the world around him 
like swaddling cloths on a corpse. 

Teel-Through the link. 

Lightning plunged into earth before him. The air stank and sizzled, raising the 
hair on his arms. Silhouetted against the brilliance was the shape of a man on horseback. 

"Ian-" Aidan screamed. "Oh, gods-no-not him…" 

The gelding thrashed and reared, as blinded and deafened as Aidan. 

"Wait-wait, you thrice-cursed nag from the netherworld-" 

But the dun chose not to wait. He shed Aidan easily and galloped off into keening 
darkness. 

Aidan landed hard, one arm crooked awkwardly, but scrambled up without 
thinking about his own discomfort. Somewhere before him was his great-uncle and the 
gray horse who had fallen. 

Teel, he sent frenziedly. Lir-where is he… ask Tasha-

Through the link came the familiar tone, naked of customary bite. Six paces 
ahead, no more. 

Six paces… Aidan counted. And nearly tripped over Tasha, huddled by Ian's side. 

"Su'fali-? Su'fali-" 

Ian offered no answer. 

"Oh, gods, not like this… please, do not be dead-" 

Eyelids twitched. "No," Ian blurted. "No-not like this… agh, gods, harani…" The 
voice was tight with pain. "How-is the horse?" 

Aidan looked, scraping hair out of his face. The wind was merciless. "Where-oh." 
The gray stood exhausted on three legs; a shattered foreleg dangled. Aidan looked back 
to his kinsman. "Broken leg," he answered tersely. "Su'fali-what of you?" 

Ian's smile was faint, then spilled away. "Broken, too…" he gasped. "But I think 
hip in place of leg…" One hand hovered over a hip. "The horse fell, and rolled… gods, I 
will shame myself-" 

"Because it hurts?" Aidan loosened Ian's belt gently. "You can cry, if you like-do 
you think I will complain?" 

Ian's face was gray. His bottom lip bled from where teeth had broken through. 
"First, tend the horse. He has been a good mount." 

Aidan did not answer, squinting against the wind and grit and hair as he peeled 
the waistband from Ian's abdomen. 

The weak voice gained authority. "Harani, I will wait. The horse deserves a good 
death." 

"And you, none at all." But Aidan knew his kinsman; he went to tend the horse. 

It was not an easy task. He cared for horses as his father cared: with every bit of 
brain and body. But a broken leg was a death sentence, requiring immediate action. 
Aidan, with his Erinnish gift, sensed bewilderment and pain as the gray attempted to 
walk. 

In Erinnish, he tried to soothe; the language was made for horses. He eased saddle 
and packs from the mount, then stroked the sweating neck. "Shansu," he whispered 
gently, sliding long-bladed knife from sheath. "The gods will look after their own." 


He went back to his kinsman wet with blood, then knelt at Ian's side. Tasha 
growled a warning. "Shansu," Aidan repeated, one hand brushing her shoulders. Tasha 
growled again, ears flattening. 

Ian's eyes were closed. In lightning, his years showed clearly, sharp bones 
protruding beneath aging flesh changed from bronze to linen white. Blood smeared his 
chin. Thunder boomed distantly. 

"How can I move you?" Aidan pleaded, mostly of himself. "The pain alone could 
kill you. And if not that, what is to say the movement itself will not?" Wind whipped 
gray-white hair across Ian's face. Aidan peeled it back. "Su'fali, what do I do?" 

Ian's eyes opened. From pain, they were nearly black. "Bones grow brittle with 
age," he remarked. "Take ten years away, and I would only have bruised." 

Aidan tried to smile, because Ian wanted him to. "Su'faili, what can I do?" 

"Be true to yourself," Ian murmured. "Be true to the blood in your veins." 

"Earth magic," Aidan said numbly. "But-I have never required it. I have never 
even attempted-" Futility was painful. "I'm not knowing how to do it!" 

"Ask," Ian said raggedly. "You are Cheysuli-ask-" 

Aidan flung back his head, searching black sky for a smaller blackness. Lir-he 
appealed. Teel-

Would I tell you any different? Use what you have been given! 

Beside her lir, Tasha wailed. 

"-time-" Aidan muttered. "Gods-give me the time-" 

You waste it! Teel told him. What are you waiting for? 

Aidan did not know. Courage, he thought dimly; assurances of success. 

Tasha's wail increased. 

The raven's voice intruded. Old men die of this! 

Old men, Aidan echoed. And looked again at his kinsman, who once had known 
Carillon. 

Tasha's tail beat the ground. Angry eyes glowed dimly. The storm raged unabated, 
buffeting them with wind. It keened across the land, spitting dirt and grass and dampness. 

"Now-" Aidan murmured, digging fingers into soil. "Let us see who is Cheysulilet 
us see what gods can do-" 

The lightning came down a third time and blasted him apart. 

Chapter Nine 

«^» 

He stood before a door. The door swung silently open. 

"Come in," the woman invited, and put her hand on his arm. 

She drew him into the croft, where no croft had existed before. It was small, 
thatched, lime-washed white, smelling of warmth and wool. He saw three cats: the black 
on the hearth, the brown on a stool, the white-booted silver tabby curled in the tangle of 
colorless yarns piled in haphazard fashion on the floor. In the center of the room stood a 
loom. 

She shut the door behind him. And, when he tried to speak, closed his mouth with 
her hand. "No," she said quietly. "Ian will be well. There is no need to fear." She gestured 
toward a chair. 

He did not intend to sit, but found himself obeying. And staring at her in wonder. 


She was unremarkable. A small, fragile woman with callused hands, graying hair 
snugged back in a knot pinned against her head. She wore a woolen skirt of many 
patches, as if she added a swatch of weaving each time the skirt wore thin. Over it was a 
tunic the color of winter grass: dull and lacking luster. A single colorless stone shone on 
her buckle: lone, unwinking eye. Her own eyes were blue, faded with time, and the flesh 
of her face was worn. 

Aidan stirred sluggishly, coming out of disorientation. Urgency made him curt. 
"Lady, I have no time-" 

"You have as much time as I give you." 

Her serene certainty filled him with trepidation. Aidan tried again, exerting more 
authority. "There is the storm, and my kinsman-" 

Her composure remained unruffled. "Ian will be well. The storm is of my 
sending." 

"Your sending-" He stopped, banished shock, summoned anger on Ian's behalf. 
"Lady, he is harmed-" 

"He can be healed." Quietly she lifted the cat from her stool and sat down before 
the loom. The cat found a home in her lap, collapsing once more into sleep. She reached 
out and took up the shuttle. 

Aidan, staring at her, knew it was the only answer he would get until she chose to 
give another. Nothing he said would shake her. She was not the kind touched by 
emotions; her concerns lay in other directions. 

Impatience will not serve… With effort, Aidan banished it. He turned instead to 
the quiet courtesy Homana-Mujhar had taught him. "What do I call you, Lady? The first 
one was the Hunter." 

"You may call me the Weaver." Her smile was luminous. "Come to my work, 
Aidan. Come and look upon the colors." 

He did as he was bidden, dragging himself from the chair. A part of him denied 
what was happening, recalling the blast of lightning; a part of him counseled patience. He 
had met Shaine, Carillon, a god; now he met a goddess. 

"Teel," he murmured dully. The link was empty of lir. 

"Teel is very patient… come look upon the colors." 

Aidan moved to stand before the loom. He was aware only dimly of the warmth 
of the croft, the purring of the cats, the scent of fresh-spun wool. She was gray, gray and 
dun, weaving gray and dun homespun-and then he looked at the loom. He looked upon 
her colors. 

He could not name them all. He had never seen such brilliance. 

The Weaver worked the shuttle. Back and forth, to and fro, feeding dullness into 
the pattern. Aidan thought it sacrilege-until he saw the truth. 

The colors came from her. As she carried the shuttle through, each strand took on 
a hue. 

"There is a thing you must do," she said quietly. "A task to be undertaken, but one 
you will deny. It is a task of great importance, of great necessity, but we cannot be certain 
you will do it. We gave humankind the gift of self-rule, and even gods cannot sway those 
who choose not to hear." In renewed silence, she worked the shuttle. "We make things 
easy; we make things hard. Humankind makes the choices." She stilled the shuttle, and 
held it. "Look into the colors. Tell me what you see." 


He swallowed to wet his throat. "A man," he said huskily, "and a chain. The chain 
binds him, binds his soul… but it is not made of iron-" Aidan shut his eyes. When he 
looked again, afraid, the colors were brighter yet. "Gold," he said hoarsely. "Gold of the 
gods, and blessed… but there is a weakness in it. One of the links will break." 

The Weaver's smile was sweet. "There is sometimes strength in weakness." 

He fought down the urge to run. "Am I to fail, then? Am I the weak link?" 

"Not all men succeed in what they desire most. As for you, I cannot say; your 
road still lies before you." 

"And my-task?" 

"The time has not come for you to make your decision." 

"But-this-?" 

"This is only a prelude to it." 

Aidan shivered. "Why did you send the storm? Why did you send him pain?" 

The Weaver looked at him. Her eyes were no longer kind. "If a man will not 
listen, we must make ourselves be heard." 

"It was not necessary to harm him-" 

Her voice was a whiplash of sound. "You are meant to go alone." 

"By the gods-" he began, then stopped. Incongruously, he laughed. "Aye, well, so 
it is…" Aidan rubbed a stiff face. "You will forgive me, I hope, if I consider your actions 
unnecessary. He is a devout, committed Cheysuli-" 

"One who will be rewarded." The Weaver's tone was gentle. "This is your 
journey, Aidan. Your task. You are meant to go alone." 

"You might have asked-" 

"Gods often ask. Too often, we are ignored." She gestured again to the loom. 
"Tell me what you see." 

Wearily, Aidan looked. The colors, oddly, had faded, except for the chain of 
wool. Its hue was still brilliant gold, the gold of purest refining, glinting in firelight. 

As he always did, Aidan put out his hand. He knew he would touch wool; when 
he touched metal, he promptly dropped it. 

The link fell. It rang dully against beaten earth, then lost part of itself in wool. 
Dull, colorless wool. 

Slowly Aidan bent down and peeled back the strands. The link was real, and 
whole. 

He rose, clutching the link. Then fumbled at his belt, undoing leather and buckle, 
threaded the belt through. He slid the new link to the old. They clinked in harmony, 
riding his right hip. Aidan rebuckled his belt. 

He looked at the tapestry. The colors, for him, were faded. "What tahlmorra do 
you weave me?" 

The Weaver smiled: small, gray-haired woman with magic in her eyes. "You will 
weave your own, Aidan. That I promise you." 

He opened his mouth, closed it. Then opened it again. "Am I worthy of this?" 

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." 

Aidan closed one hand around the links. Edges bit into his palm. It was all he 
could do to keep the frustration from his tone. "Is this how I am to spend my life?" 
Control frayed raggedly: now the frustration was plain. "Jerked out of the day or night to 
trade obscurity with gods-and goddesses-who play a private game? Am I to do your 


bidding like a tame little Cheysuli, never questioning this unknown task?" Anger replaced 
frustration. He shouted aloud in the croft. "Do you know what it is like having everyone 
think you are mad?" 

Silence as the shout died. For a moment, he was ashamed. Then knew it had been 
required. Too much more locked away would make him lose the balance, and what would 
he be then? 

The gods made us this way. They gave us the gift of the shapechange as much as 
the curse of knowing the loss of balance is loss of self. 

"Do you know?" he repeated, because he needed an answer. 

Tears glistened in the Weaver's eyes. "Do you know what it is like having to 
ignore petitions and prayers? To let a child die even though others beg for its life?" 

Aidan was dumbfounded. "Why do you ignore such things?" 

"Because sometimes the greatest strength comes out of the greatest pain." 

"But a child-" 

"There is reason for everything." 

Aidan's tone slashed through her words. "What reason in the death of a child? 
What reason in the destruction of a race?" 

The Weaver set down her shuttle, the cat, and slowly rose to face him. Aidan was 
much taller; it did not diminish her. "The world is complex," she told him. "The bits and 
pieces of it are very hard to see, even if you have eyes. The eyes of humans are blind." 

It was not enough for Aidan, full to choking on obscurity. "I think-" 

She did not allow him to finish, silencing him with calm. "Some see more than 
most. You see more than most; it is why we gave you the task. But if you saw it all, if you 
saw every piece, surely you would be mad." 

He felt helplessness gathering. "Then a tahlmorra has no bearing on how we live 
our lives." 

"There is a fate in everything. People choose not to see it. They see only the 
immediacy; they demand gratification even in their grief." The Weaver drew a breath. "If 
no one ever died, the Wheel of Life would stop. It would catch on the hordes of people, 
and eventually it would fail." 

Aidan's tone was bitter. "Blood greases it." 

"The Wheel of Life must turn." 

"If it stopped, would you die? Would the gods disappear?" 

The Weaver's eyes were bleak. "We disappear every day." 

Helplessness crashed down. Aidan stretched out his hands, angered by impotence. 
"What am I to do? How am I to serve? You tell me you kill children, yet you expect me 
to do this task, which you then refuse to divulge. Is this how the Wheel turns? Is this how 
our worth is judged?" 

Her expression altered. The eyes now were masked. "Is it cruel to keep the child 
from jumping off the wall because she believes she can fly?" 

Irreverence bubbled forth. "If the child is Cheysuli, perhaps she can fly…" But 
the irony spilled away. "You make it black and white." 

"Choices often are." 

"But what of the gray choices? What of the subtleties?" 

Her voice was implacable. "To a man who does not care, there are no subtleties. 
But there is no compassion, either. There is no empathy." 


He let his hands fall slack. "I cannot deal with this." 

"Every man deals with this. The result is not always pretty; the result is often 
bloody. But every man deals with this. Every man makes his choice." 

It was too much, too much; he was incapable of comprehension. He smelled wool, 
cats, himself; he tasted futility. 

Aidan scrubbed his face, warping syllables. "I have to go-there is Ian… I have to 
go from here-" 

The door swung open in silence. "Then go," the Weaver said. 

Aidan lay sprawled on the ground, stunned by the force of the lightning. His head 
rang with noise, filled up with tight-packed wool. Vision was nonexistent. Flesh writhed 
on his bones; all the hairs on his body rose. 

He blurted something and thrust himself up, clawing into the daylight. Blood and 
dirt was spat out; he sucked in lungfuls of air. Links chimed at his belt. 

Links-? Aidan caught them. And then he looked at Ian. 

The aging face was wasted. "I saw it," Ian gasped. "I saw the lightning strike-" 

"No. No-su'fali-" 

"I saw it-" Ian repeated. "You lit up like a pyre, and when it died you were gone. 
When it died, you were gone-" 

Aidan began to tremble. Shock and fatigue were overwhelming. "You would not-
you would not believe-" Dazedly, he laughed. "You would never believe what happened" 


"Aidan, you were struck-" 

"You would never believe what I saw-" 

Ian's hand clutched Tasha's neck. "You would never believe what I saw!" 

Aidan tried to stifle the laughter. He knew very well he walked much too close to 
the edge. "What I saw-what I saw-" He smothered his face with both hands, stretching the 
skin out of shape. "Oh, gods-" More laughter. "Oh, su'fali, if only I could tell you-" 
Abruptly he cut it off. "She said you would be well. She promised you would be well." 

"Who-?" Ian's eyes widened. His silence was absolute. 

Aidan, on hands and knees, moved to crouch by his kinsman. He ignored the cat's 
snarl. "Then I am meant to do it-she left this task for me…" 

Ian still said nothing. 

"She said you would be well, so I will have to do it." Grimly, Aidan smiled. "But 
I'm still not knowing how." 

"Oh, gods," Ian murmured. "No wonder they whisper about you-" 

"You will have to go back, su'fali. I am to go alone." 

Ian shut his eyes. The lir by his side growled. 

Teel? Aidan appealed. 

The raven's tone was amused. All one must do is ask. 

Aidan asked, and was given. 

PART II 

Chapter One 


«^» 

The city of Lestra, unlike Mujhara, was situated on a series of hills. None rose 
much higher than its brother or sister, but there were distinct prominences scattered 
throughout the city, each capped with clusters of buildings like curds of souring milk. 

It gave Lestra a scalloped look, Aidan decided, as he wound his way through the 
warren of cobbled streets, each turn more confusing than the last. He asked directions to 
the palace several times, each time receiving an answer distinctly different from the last, 
and despaired of ever finding his way to his su'fali's home. 

Teel's contempt was dry. Shall I find you the way? 

It was, of course, the simplest method of all, except Aidan preferred, at this point, 
to find the palace himself. He disliked giving Teel any more reason to feel superior than 
was absolutely necessary, as the raven took especial care to point out Aidan's human 
shortcomings all too often as it was. 

Except they seemed to be lost-or he seemed to be lost-and he saw no help for it. 

Aidan sighed and shifted in the saddle. All right. I give in. Go find us the palace. 

Teel, perched on the saddlebow, did not leave at once. You might find it yourself, 
if you gave up this useless horse. Why you persist in riding when you have the means to 
fly… In the link, Teel sighed. 

I persist in riding because, as I explained to the Hunter, there is a marvelous 
freedom in such things. I persist in riding this particular horse because, if you will recall, 
Ian refused to accept him in place of his own. 

Teel ruffled one wing. Because he went home in lir-shape, instead. Like any 
sensible Cheysuli. 

Aidan smiled grimly. I am what you have made me. 

The raven demurred. I made nothing. I bonded, no more, in order to give you the 
aid all warriors require-though you do, I will admit, require more than most. Teel's eye 
was bright. Moreover, you are much too stubborn to accept anyone's guidance, god's or 
otherwise. You have made yourself. 

Aloud, Aidan suggested: "Then render me aid, lir: go find the palace." 

The raven did, taking much less time than Aidan had hoped, and reported explicit 
directions that led Aidan-and his horse-directly to the front gate. Aidan tried to give his 
name and title to the guards, but they merely waved him through. He then tried to find the 
duty captain-who would, of course, carry word into the palace, then return with the 
proper summons-but was yet again waved along. Bemused, he rode through the outer 
bailey into the inner one without being challenged at all. And when, in growing 
frustration, he tried to pay a horseboy to carry word into the palace, the boy merely 
grinned and bowed his head, then took his horse away after nodding at the front door. 

Teel, on the nearest wall, suggested Aidan go in. They seem a welcoming sort, 
these Solindish. 

After an aimless hesitation, Aidan approached the massive front door. My su'fali 
is not Solindish, as you well know. He climbed the first flight of steps. Could you at least 
send word through the link to Rael? I think it would be best if someone knew we were 
coming. 

Why? 

Common courtesy. Aidan climbed the second flight. As well as a proper defense… 
if I were an enemy, I need only walk through the door. 


You are not, and there is the door. 

Aidan paused, glancing back. Are you not coming in? 

Later. For now, I prefer the sun. 

So Aidan left Teel upon the wall, in the warmth of a summer day, and entered, 
unannounced, his su'fali's unguarded front door. 

It was not, Aidan soon discovered, guarded any better inside than out. He stopped 
inside the front door, lingered politely a moment as he waited for servants to come 
running; when no one at all came, even walking, Aidan at last gave up. He headed down 
the first hall he could find. 

No one appeared to ask him who he was or what he wanted. Disgruntled, he 
began opening heavy carved doors. All the rooms were empty. If I were bent on 
assassination, surely I would succeed. He boomed shut yet another door and turned again 
into the hall. Then again, perhaps not-I cannot find anyone to kill! 

Sound interrupted disgust. Aidan stopped walking at once, listening expectantly, 
hoping for someone at last who might be able to guide him to living bodies, or at least tell 
him the way. 

Echoes threaded corridors. Over Aidan's head arched wooden spans in scalloped, 
elaborate beamwork, drooping from ancient stone. The immensity of the palace dwarfed 
and warped the sound, distorting clarity. 

I could die in here, Aidan thought in wry disgust. I could starve to death on this 
very spot, and all anyone would find would be my dessicated corpse-

A voice. A young, childish voice, raised to a note of possessive authority. He 
could not make out the words, but recognized the tone. Someone was put out. 

And then the words came clear. "It was me he made eyes at, Cluna! Not you! He 
did not even look at you!" 

"You!" scoffed a second voice, very like the first. "Why would he look at you 
when I am there? You only wish he would look at you!" 

Aidan, smiling, folded arms across his chest, found the nearest pillar to lean 
against, and waited. 

"It is me he likes, not you! He gives me sweets whenever he can." 

"Sweets are no way to judge a man. Words are how you judge-" 

"But you never give him a chance to speak, Cluna! How would you know what he 
says?" 

"Oh, Jennet, just because he was polite to you does not mean he really cares. He 
was only being kind-" 

"Kind to you," Jennet rejoined. "While, as for me-" 

But they came around the corner and into Aidan's hall. Seeing him, they stopped. 

"Oh," said one. 

"Ummm," said the other. 

Aidan merely smiled. 

They scrutinized him closely, marking clothing and ornamentation, especially the 
lir-gold on his arms. Clearly he was more than a servant, while something less than what 
he was, if using Homanan rank. They had learned, even as he had, how to judge others by 
subtleties, trained not to jump to conclusions when the conclusion might offend. 

Which told him who they were, even though he already knew. 

"China and Jennet," he said. "Which of you is which?" 


Two sets of blue eyes glinted. "Whichever we choose to be." 

"Ah." Aidan nodded. "A riddle, then, is it? I am to guess?" 

Two heads nodded. Expectantly, they waited. 

They were identical. Both fair-haired, blue-eyed, a little plump, with a sturdy 
femininity. One wore violet-dyed skirts and tunic, pale hair tied back in a matching 
ribbon with gem-weighted ends now straggling down her back much as loosened hair 
did; the other similar garments-and tattered ribbon-in pale blue, but the colors told him 
nothing. He did not know the girls and therefore could not judge the small things, such as 
a lift of the chin, a tilt of the head, the level set of small shoulders, but there was no need 
to judge. For the first time in his life, Aidan used his Erinnish kivarna to answer specific 
needs. 

"You," he said to the one in violet, "are Jennet. And you, of course, are China." 

Identical mouths dropped open. It was Cluna, in blue, who spoke. "No one has 
gotten us right. Not on first meeting!" 

Jennet assessed him closely. "How did you do it?" 

"Easily," he answered. "To the stranger, you look very much the same. But two 
people are never truly one. You think differently, feel differently… you want different 
things." 

They stared. First at him, then at one another. Then once more at him. Cluna 
shook her head. "No one else thinks so." 

Aidan shrugged. "Because no one else is truly twin-born, not as you are. Even 
your jehan is different-twin-born, aye, but he and my jehan are quite dissimiliar in 
appearance and temperament. No one expects them to be the same. But they do expect it 
of you, and so neither of you is given the leave to be individual." 

"He knows!" Cluna gasped. 

Jennet reassessed him. "Your lir is telling you that." 

Aidan laughed. "No, my lir is at this moment perched outside in the sun." 

Blue eyes narrowed as she absently tugged her tangled ribbon. "Then how can 
you know?" 

He forbore to explain the gift. "I understand feelings," he said, thinking it enough. 
"Now, as for you-" 

"Are you Aidan?" Cluna asked. 

Jennet cut off his answer. "He cannot be Aidan," she declared, flipping violet 
ribbon behind a shoulder. "Aidan is very sickly. Everyone says. He is not expected to 
live." 

It was a sobering summation. Aidan eyed both girls a moment, then sighed 
faintly. "There was a time I was sickly," he agreed. "There was even a time they feared I 
might die. But not anymore." 

Jennet lifted pale, inquisitive brows. "Well, then," she began, "who are you going 
to marry?" 

Cluna was horrified. "Jennet, you cannot ask him that!" 

"Why not? It is a fair question, I think." Jennet twined a lock of fallen hair around 
one finger. "We are thirteen now and there has been talk of betrothing us into this 
kingdom or that. Even Homana has been mentioned." 

"Oh, has it?" Aidan's tone was bland. "I'm thinking I might yet have something to 
say on that order." 


Jennet was speculative. "I doubt they will let you. It makes them feel important to 
decide how we should live." 

"Jennet!" Cluna wailed. 

Her sister did not respond. "Have you come for a wife?" 

Aidan smiled. "Perhaps." 

Cluna's face was burning. "He will never have you," she asserted. "A queen must 
know her place-" 

"I do know my place!" Jennet snapped. "As any fool can see, we are of 
marriageable age and excellent family." 

A new voice intruded. "But not of excellent manners." A young woman advanced 
on them quickly, yellow skirts gathered in both hands. "I could hear you screeching all 
the way to my chambers. That is not how our lady mother desires you to behave… you 
are princesses, not street urchins-though you look more like the latter with your hair all 
pulled awry." She glanced briefly at Aidan, then back to the girls. "Jennet, have you no 
sense at all? You tax a stranger with inappropriate talk…" She cast a polite smile at 
Aidan, smoothing yellow skirts and the amber-studded girdle binding a narrow waist. 
"You will forgive them, I hope, if they spoke too plainly. Jennet has cost herself more 
than one friend by such bold talk." 

"Not Tevis," Jennet declared. "He likes such talk." 

Cluna disagreed. "Tevis is merely polite. He has no wish to offend our father." 

"Enough," the woman chided. "Have you no sense of decorum? This man is a 
stranger!" 

"Cousin," Janet supplied. 

It stopped the other at once. For the first time she gave Aidan all her attention. 
She was as unlike her sisters as could be, but by color and age he knew her. The oldest of 
all Hart's brood: Blythe, only months younger than he himself. 

She was, he thought, magnificent. The heavy velvet gown, dyed a rich, warm 
yellow, set off her dusky Cheysuli coloring, though the eyes were blue instead of yellow. 
Her face was much like the faces of the Cheysuli women in Clankeep, formed of 
arresting planes and angles. There was little Solindish in her; that was Cluna's and 
Jennet's province. Blythe's black hair had been twisted and looped against the back of her 
head, showing off an elegant neck. 

She was worth coming for-Aidan cut it off. He had spent too much time with 
women of lower rank, who encouraged his attention. He had become adept at dealing 
with them, and at judging their worth very quickly. But this woman is not like them… 

Blythe's gaze was level. "Are you truly Aidan?" 

He gazed back at her. SHE could make me forget. All the dreams, the chain-Again 
he cut himself off. "Aye," he offered calmly. "I was not expected, so I hope you will 
forgive me for arriving without a warning. My jehan did not think Hart would turn me 
away." 

"Of course not. You are well come to Lestra." Blythe's Homanan was accented 
with the nuances of Solinde. Aidan found it attractive. "But you must promise me you 
forgive these little magpies, croaking about private things." 

Both magpies glared at their sister, then turned their attention to Aidan. 
Summoning gallantry, he assured them he would. 

Jennet banished contrition. "Have you come for a wife?" 


Blythe's eyebrows rose. "What has possessed your tongue to be so heedless? Do 
you think Aidan came all the way from Homana simply to look for a wife?" 

Aidan opened his mouth, shut it, scratched eloquently at his scalp. 

"See?" Jennet challenged. 

Blythe's eyes widened. "Have you, then?" 

"See?" Jennet repeated. "You want to know as much as we do." 

Aidan maintained a neutral tone. "There is some possibility-" 

"Queen of Homana," Jennet considered. 

Cluna glared at her. "Not for years and years. First there is Princess of Homana-" 

Blythe's turn. "And that not for years," she declared. "There is one of those 
already: Aidan's mother, Aileen." 

Cluna smiled shyly. "Jennet may be older, but I am nicer." 

Jennet eyed her askance. "And Blythe the oldest of all. She comes first in 
everything." 

"Enough!" Blythe cried, before full-scale war was begun. "All of you, come with 
me. Aidan must meet jehan." 

Jennet twitched at skirts. "He is playing Bezat with Tevis. He sent us out when 
Cluna knocked over the bowl and scattered all the pieces." 

"It was an accident!" Cluna cried. "And it was really your fault-if you had not left 
the bowl so close to the edge of the table-" 

"And if you had kept your sticky fingers out of it-" 

"Never mind," Blythe said ominously. "I know where Tevis is. I know where both 
of them are. And I know where you are going." Blythe locked a hand over Jennet's 
shoulder and steered her down the hall. "Cluna, you also. And Aidan-" Blythe's smile was 
both beautiful and beseeching. "Will you come with us?" 

Aidan was a man who had grown up with no sisters. He liked women very much, 
but the ones he had spent most of his time with had been quite different. Looking at his 
kin, allied against refusal, he doubted he could do otherwise. Not in the face of so many 
females bent on a single thing that had nothing to do with bed. 

Chapter Two 

«^» 

The round room was tiny but comfortable, lime-washed white for brightness, and 
tucked into a corner tower of the castle. A handful of casement slits let in the light of a 
fading day, painting the room in muted stripes. There were stools, chairs, tripod candle 
stands; one low table. At the table were two men: a Cheysuli in indigo leathers, gold 
gleaming on dark arms, and a younger, more elegant man dressed in russet velvet doublet 
over brown hunting leggings. 

Aidan knew the elder, though they had never met. He was very like his own 
father. 

Lost within their game, neither man looked up. Blythe sighed, exchanging an 
amused glance with her newly-arrived cousin, then silenced Cluna and Jennet with a 
raised finger. With eloquent, purposeful gravity, Blythe made the introduction. 

A pair of heads lifted and turned, displaying startled expressions. Hart stared, then 
abruptly suspended movement in the midst of drawing a bone-colored stone from a rune-
wrought silver bowl. Blue eyes at first were stunned; then disbelief entered. "No," he said 


only. 

Aidan, amused, grinned. "Aye." 

Hart frowned. His eyes were shrewdly attentive as he made a brief, alert 
assessment, marking hair, eyes, gold; the shape of facial bones. Then the frown faded. 
Doubt shaded his tone. "Aidan of Homana?" 

"Not Aidan of Falia." Aidan's tone was dry. "Am I to spend the rest of my life 
reassuring my kinfolk I am well and truly alive?" 

"Brennan's son," Hart murmured, the slow smile stretching his mouth. And then 
he was on his feet, dropping the forgotten Bezat stone. "By all the gods, Aidan!" 

The fleeting thought was ironic. By all the gods indeed-But then Hart was 
hugging him, pulling him into a kinman's proud embrace, and Aidan had no more time 
for thought. 

Hart said something in the Old Tongue, something to do with prayers answered 
for his rujholli, then released Aidan. Blue eyes were very bright. "You must forgive my 
doubt… all those years everyone feared for your welfare, and now you stride into my 
castle every inch the warrior!" 

Aidan indicated his hair. "Except, I think, for this." 

Hart waved a dismissive hand. "Aye, well… you have noted, I am sure, two of my 
own children lack the Cheysuli color." He grinned at his fair-haired daughters. "It comes 
from outmarriage. First Aileen, then Ilsa. If we are not careful, we will lose the coloring." 

But he did not sound particularly concerned by the dilution of true Cheysuli 
characteristics. Aidan, looking at Hart's face, saw the same bones his father had, and hair 
equally black-or once equally black; now equally threaded with silver-but Hart's eyes 
were blue. Blythe looked very like him. 

Blythe. Aidan glanced at her. Upon making the introduction, she had crossed the 
room to stand beside the young man in russet velvet. He waited in polite silence, 
displaying only a profile, and idly stirred the stones. Blythe reached down and took the 
wine cup by his elbow, murmuring in a low tone. 

Aidan felt a flicker of unexpected apprehension. He was very accustomed to 
seeing approval or invitation in the eyes of attractive women. Blythe was different, but he 
found he wanted the same reaction. Yet her thoughts, clearly, were with another man. 
And Aidan, for all his experience, knew the rules were different. He had come looking 
for a wife, not a bedpartner of brief duration. 

Apprehension mounted. Am I too late for Blythe? 

Hart's ebullient voice overruled thinking. "How is my royal rujho? And jehan? Is 
Mujhara the same, or has it grown? Has Deirdre-" 

But Jennet and Cluna, freed now of requested silence, began chattering at their 
father. 

"Not now," he said above the high-pitched din that was, to Aidan, indecipherable. 
"There are too many things I have to ask of Aidan-" Then, in affectionate exasperation, 
"Not now; I have said. You will have Aidan thinking I spoil you." 

Aidan, who had already seen he did, smiled privately. Across the room Blythe 
glanced up, caught his expression and smiled back. They shared the tiny moment of 
acknowledgment, then Blythe set down the cup and came away from the table. 

"Jennet," she said, "enough. And you, Cluna. There will be time for your chatter 
later… for now we must host our kinsman and treat him with Solindish honor." She 


flicked eloquent fingers. "You know where the kitchens are. Send for food and wine." 

Jennet's mouth pursed mutinously. "If he has come to find a wife, it concerns me. 
I should be allowed to stay." 

At the low table, the young man stopped stirring stones. 

"A wife?" Hart echoed. 

"Not now," Blythe told Jennet. "Settling a marriage is something done by adults, 
and you have yet to prove you are anything more than a child. Go, and take your sister." 

Brief rebellion from quieter Cluna. "But he might choose me." 

Blythe pointedly opened the door. "He might even choose Dulcie." 

Two mouths dropped open. Two voices chorused, "But Dulcie is only a baby." 

"All the better," Blythe told them briskly. "Babies are easier to train." She smiled 
at Aidan, then motioned her sisters out. Eventually, they went. 

"A wife?" Hart repeated. "But Brennan has said nothing of that in any of his 
letters." 

His father and Hart corresponded often, Aidan knew, trying to compensate for the 
separation. Too distant even for the lir-link, the twin-born princes took what solace they 
could from parchment. 

Aidan shook his head. "It came up of a sudden. They discovered, jehan and 
jehana, that I was twenty-three… apparently there is some significance attached to the 
age." He smiled at Blythe, not so much younger than he. "It must be a family custom than 
no man or woman be allowed to reach twenty-four without having married." 

Blythe's color darkened. She turned jerkily to her father. "Perhaps I should go… 
perhaps I should accompany Cluna and Jennet-" 

"Cluna and Jennet will do very well without you." Hart waved her back, then 
glanced across at the table. "No, Tevis-sit down. There is no need for you to go." 

"But-my lord-" The young man was standing. He was tall, dark-haired, handsome, 
filling out leather and velvet with an elegance edged with power. Aidan recalled Cluna 
and Jennet were quite enamored of him. "If you truly intend to discuss a royal marriage-" 

"Not now," Hart declared. "By the gods, not now. I am a man with four 
daughters… there will be time aplenty for that. And time aplenty to speak of family 
matters." He kicked another stool over toward the table, looking expectantly at Aidan. 
"Do you play?" 

"Not that. I have heard of Bezat; I thought it best to avoid it. It carries-
consequences." 

"All games carry consequences." Hart reseated himself. "If you mean my missing 
hand, that had little to do with Bezat. It had to do with being a great fool… since then, I 
have learned better." He motioned impatiently. "Sit down, Aidan. Talk of marriages can 
wait… there is a game to learn!" 

Aidan hesitated. "I was warned about you." 

"All true," Hart agreed cheerfully. "Shall we add to the stories?" 

"Jehan," Blythe said warningly. "You know what jehana will say if you stay up 
all night again." 

"Your jehana, at the moment, has more to concern herself with than what time I 
come to bed. She would more likely prefer me out of it…" Hart's eyes were bright as he 
grinned at Aidan. "Sit you down, harani. How best do we meet one another save over 
wine and a game?" 


The gaming continued until dawn. Tevis, yawning, gave up at last and excused 
himself, pushing all of his coin across the table to Hart. His bloodshot eyes were red-
rimmed. 

"No more," he murmured sleepily. "You have all my wits and now my coin… I 
am for bed, my lord. You promised me one last night." 

Hart leaned back on his stool, rolling a stiffened neck. Black hair touched his 
shoulders; the silver was in his forelock. "There is always a bed for you… if I refused, all 
four of my daughters would ply my name with curses." He grinned, working shoulders. 
"Even Dulcie adores you." 

"She has excellent taste." Tevis rose, rubbing absently at thick hair. It was so 
brown as to verge on black, cut closely to his head. Equally dark brows arched smoothly 
over ale-brown eyes, defining the bone of the forehead. "Of course, at all of two, her 
allegiance is easily won." He yawned, stretched briefly, looked down at Aidan. "My lord. 
If you yet have the wits to think, you might consider ending this travesty. He will have all 
of your coin, too." 

Aidan grunted and reached for wine, then thought better of it. "I am a careful 
man." 

"So was I, once." Tevis bowed briefly in Hart's direction, then headed for the 
door. 

Hart waited until it was closed. "He is here to marry Blythe." 

Wandering wits snapped back at once. Aidan blinked. "Ah." 

"Of course, nothing has yet been settled-nothing has been said… but it is why he 
came." Hart rose and walked stiffly to the nearest casement and shoved the shutter open 
to let in pale pink dawn. "He is of one of the oldest and finest families of Solinde… a 
jehan, prince or no, could ask for no better match." 

Aidan recalled Blythe's subtle intimacies, the expression in Tevis' eyes when the 
subject of marriage had come up. He had suspected as much, though he wished it were 
otherwise. "You must do what is best, su'fali." 

"No." Hart strode to another casement, pushed open another shutter. "No, I must 
do as my daughter desires." Aidan watched in startled silence as Hart opened shutters at 
two more casements, then swung to face his audience of one. "You should understand the 
need." 

"I?" 

"Of course." Hart's nostalgic smile was lopsided. "Aileen and Brennan married 
out of duty, and out of honor for a betrothal made without their consent. Before they were 
born." 

"Ah," Aidan said. 

"I was the middle son, the son whose disposition was not so important as 
Brennan's… no one linked me to anyone, Ilsa and I married for the sake of Solinde, but 
by then the point was moot. We were already bound." Hart leaned against the sill, folding 
arms across his chest. Lir-bands gleamed. "Given the choice, Aileen never would have 
married Brennan. She wanted Corin. But he left for Atvia, so Brennan got his cheysula." 
Hart's expression was blank, his tone carefully bland. "I will give my daughter the 
choice." 

Aidan sighed, staring blankly at the bowl of bone-colored stones. "A man come to 


sell his horse would list its obvious assets. I am to be Mujhar, one day…" Aidan lifted his 
head. "But that makes no difference, does it? Not to you. The stories I have heard say you 
were always the least impressed by titles and rank." 

Hart shrugged. "The only thing that impressed me was a man's willingness to 
wager." But he said it without smiling. Wearily, he threaded the fingers of his remaining 
hand through fallen hair and scooped it back from his brow. The gesture displayed a dual 
circlet of lines graven deeply into the flesh. Age sat lightly on him, as lightly as on 
Aidan's father, but nonetheless it encroached. "You have my permission to ask her, if you 
choose-that much I can give you… but it will be Blythe's decision." 

Aidan lifted one shoulder in self-conscious concession; they both knew what she 
would say. 

Hart's voice was neutral. "If it is kin you want, to keep the bloodlines whole-I 
have three other daughters." 

Aidan shrugged again. "By now, the blood is everything we need to fulfill the 
prophecy, except…" He let it trail off; the ending was implicit. 

Hart said it anyway. "Except Ihlini." He sighed and rubbed absently at the flesh of 
his left forearm where the leather cuff bound the stump. "Aye, there is that… but who of 
us will take on the distasteful task?" Black brows arched curiously. "You are the likeliest 
one." 

Aidan shook his head. "Not I, su'fali. Iam not my jehan." 

Hart's expression stilled. "Brennan was tricked." 

He did not like being reminded. He protects my jehan as much as jehan protects 
him. Even now. Aidan made his tone light. "Aye, so he was; I do not hate him for it, or 
think him due less respect. He was not the first… it happened even to Ian." 

"And Ian still pays the price… I think my rujho does, too." Hart stopped kneading 
his arm, changing the topic abruptly. "There are the other girls. Young, I know… but 
such things are not uncommon when House marries House." 

Aidan thought of Cluna and Jennet. Thirteen-year-old hellions. The other was 
Dulcie, age two. He was a man who wanted a woman, not a child to raise. Not girls who 
thought they were grown, not knowing what else was expected. While it was true he 
would not inherit the Lion for many years yet, he wanted those years spent properly, not 
waiting for a girl-wife to discover she was a woman. 

There is one last thing… He rubbed gritty eyes. "You have no son," he said softly. 
"What will you do for an heir?" 

Hart did not smile. "Are you promising me one in exchange for persuading 
Blythe?" 

Aidan sighed. "No." 

Hart pressed himself off the sill and came to the table. He poured himself fresh 
wine, lifted his cup and sipped. Then set down the cup again. "Ilsa is in bed because she 
is very near to term. In a week, possibly two, I may yet have an heir." 

The words rose unbidden: "Ru'shalla-tu, su'fali. Tahlmorra lujhalla mei wiccan, 
cheysu." 

"You sound like a shar tahl." Hart smiled. "Leijhana tu'sai, harani. I, too, hope it 
is so." 

"So." Aidan rose, kicking back his stool. "There is yet a princess left-an older 
princess-Keely's daughter, Shona. She is-nineteen? Twenty? Perhaps I should go at once, 


to set Blythe's mind at ease. She knows why I am here, as does Tevis. It would discomfit 
them to think I mean to come between them." 

"Stay," Hart said. "There is no need to go in such haste. If Blythe and Tevis 
cannot survive your presence, they cannot survive a marriage. Stay at least until the birth. 
You can give the kinsman's blessing." 

Aidan grinned. "And keep the hellions busy?" 

"They will keep you busy." Hart eyed him consideringly. "Are you awake enough 
to ride?" 

Aidan blinked. "Now?" 

"Dawn is my favorite time, and Rael will be glad of flight. Will you come with 
me?" 

He had been thinking of bed. But the morning air would refresh him after a night 
spent in a game, so he agreed readily. Teel would approve, also. 

"Good. Mounts are always waiting; the privilege of rank." Hart swung open the 
door. "I will show you Lestra as Lestra should be seen." 

Chapter Three 

«^» 

Hart led Aidan back through empty halls and corridors, striding purposefully 
without pause, and out into the bailey. He waited, smiling faintly, and after only a 
moment horseboys came running from the stable block. A tall black stallion was brought 
to Hart, saddled and waiting; a bay was given to Aidan. 

"I have a horse," he said. 

Hart's voice was bland. "Undoubtedly weary from the journey. Try this one 
instead." He swung up and gathered reins into the only hand he had, looking down 
patiently at Aidan. "What is it?" 

Aidan sighed and gave in. "The way you keep your castle… su'fali, you know I 
mean no disrespect, but when I came here no one seemed perturbed by a stranger's 
presence. No one even asked if I was here to see you, or merely a tradesman come for 
business." He stroked the bay's nose. "And when I went into the castle-" 

"-no one even bothered to ask who you were," Hart finished. "Aye, is it not 
soothing? No servants underfoot, no 'my lord' this, 'my lord' that before you can even 
think." He smiled down on Aidan. "I am not much like the Mujhar, drowning in too-
helpful servants, and little like my rujho, so weighed down by responsibility that he can 
barely breathe. Protocol I find tedious… oh, I do what I must when I must-Ilsa sees to 
that-but I am happiest with my children and the freedom to be what I am." He swung the 
stallion gateward. "Do you plan to wait all day? Dawn only lasts so long." 

Hastily Aidan mounted, settling into the bay. The stallion had a fiery eye, but his 
manners were excellent. Aidan smiled with pleasure and turned him after the black. 

Hart led him through the winding streets without apparent confusion-Aidan 
expected none-and up toward the line of hills on the western outskirts of the city. When 
at last they climbed to the summit, Aidan was suitably impressed. Whitewashed buildings 
damp with dew glittered in the sunrise, pale pink and silver-gilt. Skeins of woodsmoke 
drifted from gray stone chimneys, knotting and tearing apart; Aidan was abruptly 
reminded of the Weaver's colorless yarns and the brilliant tapestry. 

He shivered. One hand touched the two heavy links depending from his belt. Still 


there. Still real. He had dreamed none of it. 

"There," Hart said. 

With effort, Aidan took his hand away from the links. His palm was damp, but 
oddly warm, as if the metal had warmed it. The sensation was unsettling. Surreptitiously 
he wiped his hand against a leather-clad thigh, and looked for what Hart indicated. 

At first he saw nothing; then a blot against the dawn. He squinted, trying to 
distinguish pale blot from new daylight. White wings clove the air in powerful, graceful 
sweeps, then flattened gently to soar. 

"Rael," he murmured aloud. 

The dark-eyed hawk was magnificent. White edged with jet, each feather 
delineated. He swept through the air with deceptive ease and grace, riding the currents of 
dawn. 

Through the link there came a sardonic whisper. Aidan smiled, tilting his head. 
"And there." 

Frowning, Hart glanced over. "Where?" 

"There." Aidan pointed. "Not so large as Rael, perhaps, but feathered nonetheless. 
His name is Teel." 

Hart looked, smiling. "Brennan wrote me when you received him… somewhat out 
of the ordinary, I think-there has not been a raven lir for more than one hundred years. 
They tell stories about him." 

"Lorcha," Aidan agreed. "His lir died in the qu'mahlin. And as for stories, 
well…"He grinned. "I think Teel will inspire more. If not, he will make his own." 

Hart tipped his head back as Teel, following Rael, sliced through the air. Then he 
looked at Aidan. "How is my rujho?" 

"Very well-" Aidan began dutifully, then dismissed the platitudes. Hart knew 
Brennan better than any. "Settled," he said quietly. "The rank is heavy, aye, but he likes 
the responsibility. You know how he is… it makes him feel needed." 

Hart's smile was faint. "He would make a good shepherd." 

At first he was astounded. Then Aidan laughed out loud; he had never heard his 
father's competence phrased in quite that way. "Aye, so he would… and the flock would 
prosper for it." He shifted in the saddle, leaning forward on braced arms. "I know what 
you ask, without asking it." He did. "How does the marriage go? Is my jehan happy? Is 
he content within himself?" 

"All of that, and more." Hart sighed, hooking reins over the pommel. The leather 
cuff rested on one indigo-clad thigh. "He writes, of course, and often-but it is not the 
same. There was always a private place in Brennan, a place where he went away from 
everyone." 

Aidan was startled. "Even away from you?" 

"I think he believed I could not-or would not, more likely-understand what he 
felt." Hart's expression was momentarily ashamed. "And I admit, I was not the most 
perceptive of rujholli. Twin-born, I understood him better-but not everything. Brennan 
and I are different. He was always the shepherd-" briefly, he grinned "-and I always the 
black lamb wandering too far from the flock." 

"And Corin was the dog?" 

Hart laughed. "Corin? No, not the dog… more like the fox in the henyard, making 
trouble for the cook." 


Aidan shrugged. "Well, Kiri is a fox." 

Hart's tone was solemn, though his eyes glinted amusement. "The gods are always 
wise." 

Aidan looked for Teel, found him; the raven still circled, even as Rael. Are they? 
he asked intently. 

Teel's tone was bland. You know them better than I. 

"So," Hart said, "he and Aileen have made their peace at last." 

Pulled back out of the link, Aidan shrugged. "They were never at war." 

"No, but-" 

"But?" He raised ruddy brows. "Do you want me to tell you things my own father 
has not told you?" 

Hart was unabashed. "If you know those things." 

To delay, Aidan plaited mane. He felt odd discussing his parents, even with his 
uncle. The thing he now knew as kivarna made him far more perceptive than anyone else, 
yet also more intrusive. And now Hart wanted answers to questions Aidan found 
discomfiting. 

"They are content enough," he said finally. "Jehana would be happier if there was 
another son, or two… but I am in no danger of dying-at least, not as I used to be-and I 
think Council is no longer so vocal about the Prince of Homana looking to another 
princess." 

Hart was aghast. "They would have asked it of him?" 

"They did. When I was young, and ill for the thousandth time." Aidan sighed and 
looked across Lestra, frowning in recollection. "No one meant her disrespect, of course… 
they promised a courtesy title and a generous yearly pension, and all the honor due her. I 
think they hoped she would take herself back to Erinn, so things would not be so 
awkward-" 

Hart's laugh was a curt bark of sound. "Brennan would never stand for that." 

"No. Nor did he. And now they know better." Aidan shrugged. "But I know it 
troubles her. There are things other than a sickly childhood to threaten the Prince's heir. 
Niall had three sons; everyone, I think, would be happier with that." 

Hart said nothing for a long moment. The morning was loud with silence. Then, 
quietly, "It must be especially difficult for you." 

Aidan looked at him sharply. 

Hart shrugged. "To know so many people crowded around your cradle, fearing 
you would die… and even when you outgrew that, they still attached the question-" He 
sighed and rubbed at red-rimmed eyes. "When they discussed your jehana, did no one 
think of you?" 

It was an odd thought. "Why should they think of me?" 

Hart looked squarely at him. "I grew up without a jehana-a true blood jehanabecause 
she was sent away. But it was made clear, at an early age, that Gisella was quite 
mad. That she had done the unspeakable and tried to give her sons to Strahan. Exiling her 
was just." 

Uncomfortable, Aidan waited. 

Hart's voice was very quiet. "But you grew up differently. You had a jehana-a 
true blood jehana-more than fit to claim the name. Yet they thought to send her away 
because she bore only one son. And that devalued you. Surely you must have known it



must have felt it." 

Surely he had. 

Aidan looked away, staring down into the city. After a moment, he cleared his 
throat. "No one knew I knew. No one thought about the servants, talking among 
themselves. I was very young… no one knew I was there." 

"Did you ever say anything to Brennan?" 

"No." Aidan unplaited the mane. "No. What was there to say?" 

"To Aileen?" 

"No. To no one." Except to the Lion. And, later, of course, to Teel. 

"No, neither would I." Hart smiled at Aidan's startled glance. "We all of us have 
our secrets. I will leave yours to you." He shifted in the saddle, resettling himself. "For all 
they may have believed in the need for more princes, they overlooked the obvious. Niall 
had two other realms to portion out to extra sons. Brennan lacks the luxury, now that 
Solinde and Atvia have Cheysuli on the thrones. He would find it much harder if there 
were more boys than you to place, like a hound keeper with a litter much larger than 
expected." 

Aidan smiled back. "As hard as you do with four girls to marry off?" 

It hit home. Hart grimaced with a wry twist of his mouth. "Blythe would have 
been enough… but after her there were the twins who died in the summer of sweating 
fever-both girls-and then Cluna and Jennet. Next, Dulcie." Hart smiled as a wisp of wind 
ruffled hair. "I would trade none of them-but how does a man deal with four marriageable 
girls?" 

"Well, Dulcie is a bit young to count as marriageable." 

"Not when it comes to royal fledglings." Hart sighed. "You have been very 
fortunate. The eldest son-the heir-is always the most important in the scheme of who 
marries whom. My poor rujho was betrothed to Aileen before either of them were born." 

"And Keely to Sean." Aidan nodded. "There was never any pressure… never any 
discussion-at least where I could hear. Until now." He grinned. "But I am amenable. They 
have let me have my freedom with never a whisper of duty. Perhaps the time is right." 

Hart's stallion stomped and pawed at damp turf. He caught up loose reins with his 
hand and quieted the horse with a single spoken admonishment. "Well, regardless of 
common practice, I will not offer Cluna and Jennet even to Homana. They are too 
young." He laughed at Aidan's expression, part guilt and part relief. "Even if they were 
older. They are hideously willful girls." 

Aidan's tone was elaborately mournful. "Which leaves only Blythe, and she is 
already promised." 

"Not promised," Hart said quietly. "As I said, nothing is settled-" 

Aidan shrugged, dismissing levity. "It does not have to be. You can see it in their 
eyes." 

Hart sorted out reins, resettled his weight, stroked the black satin neck. Then 
stared down at his city and sighed his resignation. "It would go far toward healing old 
wounds." 

It startled Aidan. "Why? I thought them all healed with your marriage to Ilsa." 

"There was a man," Hart said quietly. "A proud, strong man, dedicated to Solinde. 
He disliked Homanan usurpers. He wanted the throne for Ilsa, so he could be Consort. So 
his son could become king. The first Solindish king since Carillon killed Bellam." 


Old history. Older enmity. "A patriot," Aidan said. 

"A true-born Solindishman of one of the oldest lines." Hart shifted again in his 
saddle. "I had him executed." 

Aidan, who sensed old grief in his uncle as well as a trace of shame, looked at 
Hart's cuffed stump. "Do you mean the man who cost you your hand?" 

"Dar of High Crags; aye. Tevis is his nephew. Son to Dar's youngest sister." 

Astonishment overrode caution. "And do you mean to say you will give Tevis 
Blythe to pay him for Dar's death? To wash your guilt away, even though none is 
deserved?" 

"Aidan-" 

"The man cost you your hand… and very nearly your life! It was Dar who gave 
you to Strahan-do you think my jehan has said nothing of it?" Aidan, appalled, shook his 
head. "He told me all about it. Dar deserved to die. It was the only thing you could do." 

Hart's face was tight. "Do you think that is the only reason for this marriage? It is 
politically expedient, aye-I have learned something of kingcraft-but it is not the sole 
concern. There is Blythe and Tevis also… and you have seen that yourself." 

Aye, so he had. He had even said so to Hart. "Aye. Aye, su'fali…" Aidan sighed. 
"But my marriage is politically expedient also… Blythe is my age, and half Cheysuli, and 
everything else as well-except Erinnish, but I have that." He scraped hair back from his 
face. "I left Homana to find a bride. One who would serve the role as well as the 
prophecy." He slanted a glance at Hart. "Do you blame me, su'fali? Your daughter is 
beautiful." 

Unease evaporated. Hart's grin was brilliant. "I thought it might come to that!" 

"She is." Aidan felt no shame. "What man alive would be blind to a comely 
woman… especially when he needs to put a cheysula in his bed?" He paused. "And on a 
throne." 

Hart frowned a little. "You did not come expecting to win her, did you?" 

"I thought my chances good." Aidan smiled disarmingly. "I am your twin-born 
rujho's only son, the only one there can be, and heir to the Lion Throne. Part of the 
prophecy." 

White teeth shone in a dark face. "Stooping to kinship pressure, are we? Thinking 
to convince me through bloodlink alone?" 

Aidan arched brows. "It was certainly worth the try. And there had been nothing 
said of this Tevis of High Crags in your letters to my jehan… how was I to know?" 

"Aye, well… Tevis only came to Lestra four months ago. He grew up in northern 
Solinde, high in the mountains… the mountain Solindish are different from the rest of us. 
They keep themselves isolated." 

" 'Us'?" Aidan echoed. 

Hart made an acknowledging gesture. "I am their lord, after all. And different 
enough already, as I am often reminded. There is no sense in rousing old griefs… this is 
my tahlmorra, Aidan. And there is Solindish in me as well as all the other bloodlines." 

"Not all of them." Aidan grinned, then felt the amusement die. "I thought you told 
me Tevis came to marry Blythe. If he did not know her already-" 

"You did not." 

"No." He refused to be turned aside. "But you made it sound as if they had known 
one another for years." 


Hart reined in a restless stallion, pulling the fine black head away from the bay 
Aidan rode. "Did you know this is Bane's son? I sent the mare to Brennan four years ago 
for breeding, and this is the result. I am quite pleased… he is a willful young lad, but 
worth it." 

Aidan liked and respected his kinsman, but something inside would not allow him 
to hide from the knowledge Hart was all too human. Although Aidan was, by everyone's 
reckoning, fully an adult, in his eyes his older kin were above reproach. Yet the kivarna 
showed him reproach was due his elders as much as anyone else. 

The kivarna, Aidan thought, showed him entirely too much. 

Quietly, he said, "You are avoiding the issue, su'fali." 

Hart glanced at Aidan, then sighed in surrender. "Tevis' jehan died ten months 
ago in a fall. Ilsa, being distant kin as well as queen, sent a letter of personal condolence 
to the widow. They began to correspond, and soon they traded news of various children, 
including Tevis and Blythe." Hart shrugged. "It is what jehanas do." 

Aidan nodded. "And so eventually Tevis was sent in person to win the hand of the 
princess." 

"There was no reason for him not to come. He had bided for many years in the 
fastness of High Crags… he was due a visit to Lestra to see his lord-" 

"-and his lord's eldest daughter." 

Hart's tone was even. "There is nothing to stand in their way." 

And you do not want me to. Aidan laughed at Hart, lifting hands in surrender. 
"Aye, aye, I understand… no more said of it." He covered a yawn with one hand. "Dawn 
is done, su'fali. Time for me to sleep, before I fall off my horse." 

"You are too good a rider, and he too good a mount. You have that of Brennan; 
the horse has it of me." Hart looked for Rael. "There. Shall we go?" 

Aidan nodded after a moment, turning the bay southward to wind back down the 
hills. Pleasure in the morning was now tinged with empathy. He had seen the brief 
wistful expression on his uncle's face, the subtle tensing of flesh by blue eyes as Hart 
looked for and found his lir. But he sensed more than wistfulness. He felt more than 
relief. 

Hart wanted to fly with every ounce of his being. 

With every fiber of the missing hand that denied him the chance. 

Chapter Four 

«^» 

Aidan rolled over in bed. Sheets were tangled around him; with effort, he stripped 
them away. He frowned into unexpected daylight, blinking still-gritty eyes clear. What 
am I doing in bed at this time of day? 

And then he remembered. A full night spent over the game, the dawn upon a 
hilltop. He vaguely recalled falling at last into bed when everyone else was waking. 

How long-? He looked at the hour-glass. Four hours abed; barely time to recall his 
name. 

A long, elaborate stretch succeeded in reminding his body it had a purpose other 
than lying sprawled in bed. Then something moved upon the canopy. Aidan glanced 
roofward quickly, momentarily startled, then grinned relief and self-derision and relaxed 
into the mattress once more, rubbing a stubbled jaw. On the canopy frame perched the 


raven. 

So, Teel remarked. Half a day gone already. 

Aidan yawned noisily. Not quite half… half of a half, perhaps… Yet another 
yawn. A growl from his belly stopped it; he clapped one hand to flesh. How long since-? 
he began, then remembered the cheese he had eaten while drinking Solindish wine. 

And the wine remembers me… He rolled out of bed and stood, scrubbing a sleep-
creased face. He wondered what he most needed: bath, food, more sleep. And in which 
order. 

No time, Teel mentioned. The lady has sent for you. 

For one irrational moment Aidan thought his lir referred to the Weaver. Then 
realized what he meant. "Now?" he asked aloud. 

The raven contemplated. Perhaps later, he suggested, which told Aidan how 
badly he looked. 

He promptly ordered a bath, and food to go with it. Then he would see the lady; 
likely she would thank him. 

Ilsa of Solinde. 

Aidan had heard all the stories, the songs and verses extolling her beauty, but such 
things, he had learned young, were often exaggerated. And when it came to feminine 
beauty, he knew very well what one man believed was beautiful was often not to another. 

Ilsa was beautiful. 

Ilsa was glorious. 

One unwavering glance out of long-lidded, ice-blue eyes, and he was half in love 
with the woman wed to his uncle. The other half of him felt awkward as a boy in the first 
flush of young manhood only just discovering women, and what they could do to a body. 

Inwardly, he reminded himself, She is forty years old, or more. 

Ilsa's luminous smile mocked him, as did the fine-boned features. "Aileen had 
nothing to fear." 

Aidan blinked, gathering wits with effort. He was not thinking of his mother, 
though Aileen and Ilsa were very close in age. Ilsa was not his mother, any more than he 
her son. 

This woman could not be old enough to have borne Blythe or the twins. 

Her Homanan was flavored with the delicate Solindish accent he had first heard in 
Blythe. He had liked it in Blythe, finding it attractive. Now he heard the same in the 
mother. "Wasted years, the worry. The crop stands tall in the field." 

He understood her then. "But the harvest not yet begun." He smiled, inclined his 
ruddy head, gave her the honor rank and beauty were due. "Cheysuli i'halla shansu." 

"Resh'ta-ni," she answered, though the accent was bad. Ilsa laughed at his 
expression, much as he sought to hide it. "Hart taught me some of the Old Tongue, but 
nothing of the accent. Forgive my poor attempt." 

He would, as any man, forgive her anything. He very nearly said so, then 
swallowed it back. It was, he assumed, something she had heard all too often. He wished 
for once he had a gift for eloquent phrases, the ability to flatter with a smile, a gesture, a 
word. But he was not a courtier, disliking much of the game. His kivarna made him wary 
of false words when he understood most of the feelings. 

Ilsa, still smiling, stroked back a stray wisp of hair from the winged arch of one 
brow. Her hair, he knew, had always been white-blonde, because they told stories about 


it. The pearlescent sheen was unchanged, and likely would remain that way. No one 
would be able to tell the difference, once she dulled into true white. It was a boon others 
would kill for; she accepted it gracefully. She wore it in two heavy braids bound with thin 
gold wire. It glistened in the daylight. 

That she was abed, he had known; this close to labor, Ilsa took no chances. Hart 
had said her delivery of Dulcie was not easy, and she was no longer young enough to 
carry easily. No one wanted to risk the child who might yet be an heir, or the woman who 
was queen. 

The chamber was flooded with daylight. No shuttered casements for Ilsa; she 
welcomed in the midday sun and granted it the freedom to go where it would. The 
curtains on the bed were drawn back and tied to testers, looped with gold cord. 

Ilsa eyed him critically. "He kept you up all night." 

Aidan laughed, smoothing fingers across his jaw. The bath had worked its 
miracle, as had a shave and food. But Ilsa was too discerning; she had had years of 
practice. "Aye. But I slept earlier." He did not tell her a lifetime of troubling dreams had 
accustomed him to less sleep. 

Slender, elegant hands stroked the pearl-studded blue coverlet mounded over her 
belly. Padded bolsters sheathed in satin braced her upright. "I have told him, time and 
time again, not everyone is as suited to days without sleep," she said, sighing resignation. 
"Even he is not… but I have given up remonstrating with him. He does what he will do. I 
should have known better than to think he would ever change." 

There was no-bitterness in tone or words. Not even faint resentment. No matter 
what she said, he knew what she thought. Even without the kivarna, Aidan understood 
very well how strong was the bond that made Hart and Ilsa one. 

"But you have," he countered. "I have heard how bad he was as a young man… 
how he refused all responsibility to lose himself in the game. I have seen him with his 
daughters. I have heard him speak of duty. Regardless of the cause, he is not the same 
man." 

Ilsa smiled. Delicate color crept into her face. "In many ways, he is. And I would 
have it that way. Why banish what you love?" 

He thought of his grandsire and Deirdre. What they shared was as strong, in 
different ways, as the thing between Hart and Ilsa. As a child he had been nebulously 
aware of something intangible linking Niall and Deirdre. Once older, having lain with a 
woman, he understood more of it. Lust was one thing, love another; the warmth and 
underlying respect Niall and Deirdre shared made the relationship invulnerable to outside 
influences. He sensed the same thing in Ilsa and Hart. But never between his parents. 
That they cared for each other, he knew. And were afraid to admit it. 

"Why indeed?" he agreed, thinking of himself. Who will share my life? Will it be 
as good as this? 

Ilsa's skin was translucent, pale as a lily. The eyes were luminous. In her he saw 
the twins, fair-haired Jennet and Cluna; and Blythe, who lacked the fairness, but had the 
slender, tensile strength with its powerful allure. How had Hart felt the first time he had 
seen her? 

How did I feel the first time I saw Blythe? 

One day before. Inwardly, he grimaced; a lifebond took more time. He had grown 
too accustomed to winning a bedpartner with a warm smile or a gesture. The women of 


Homana-Mujhar and the city responded readily to the title as well as himself, hoping for 
various rewards. Before coming to Solinde he had thought of women as pleasant 
diversions, or an escape from harrowing dreams. This circumstance was different. It was 
foolish to expect anything more than the first stirrings of attraction. 

Although those I admit to freely. Blythe is magnificent… but I think Tevis' 
presence will make things difficult. 

Ilsa gestured. "Will you sit?" 

Aidan glanced at the indicated chair near the bed, then shook his head. "My 
regrets, but no. I have no wish to tire you." 

She waved a gently dismissive hand. "They have kept me in bed a month. 
Listening to you speak will not prove onerous." 

He glanced at the mound of bedclothes over her belly. She had borne six children, 
though only four survived. And now bore another to give her lord an heir. 

It came out unexpectedly. "What if it is a girl?" 

He had not meant it. He had barely even thought it. Embarrassment burned his 
face. 

Ilsa's laughter cut off the beginnings of an apology. "No, no-do you think you are 
the first to ask it? You are only the most recent… just last evening one of my ladies asked 
the same." 

"It is none of my concern-" 

"It is everyone's concern," she corrected gently. "It has been from the beginning… 
this will be my last child." 

He opened his mouth. Then shut it. 

"Hart's decision," she said. "And perhaps a little of mine. It was difficult with 
Dulcie, though I was in no danger. The physicians suggest precautions, so I have taken 
myself to bed." She spread eloquent hands, then let them rest again on the bedclothes. 
"Boy or no: the last. And perhaps it is time." Ilsa tilted her head and smiled. "Instead of 
having children I would rather have grandchildren." 

His answering smile was vague. "Blythe." 

"And the others, eventually." The light in her eyes faded. "Hart spoke to me 
earlier. I am sorry, Aidan… I wish we had known a half-year ago. Then we might have 
looked to Homana instead of northern Solinde." 

Aidan shrugged. "Hart explained it all." 

"But if I do not bear a son…"A turn of her hand was eloquent. "A grandson could 
inherit." 

Aidan thought of Dar, looking to marry Ilsa to put his son on the throne. Now that 
son could be born to Hart instead. And the nephew of Dar of High Crags would rule in 
place of Cheysuli. 

He shifted weight self-consciously. "Lady, I will go. I have been asked to stay 
until the child is born, to bestow the kinsman's blessing. After that, I am for Erinn." There 
was no sense in staying. Here, Blythe was the only option; now there was none at all 
unless he looked to Erinn. 

Ilsa's smile was kind. "Keely's girl is older than my two fair-haired halflings. And 
undoubtedly more polite. I think you will do well." 

He sensed relief in her, that he did not protest the marriage between Tevis and 
Blythe. He knew very well a match between Homana and Solinde would solidify the two 


realms and undoubtedly please the Homanans, while displeasing the Solindish. Hart had 
been Prince of Solinde in truth as well as title for more than twenty years, and yet it was 
all too obvious he was not fully certain Solinde wanted him. Ilsa was their queen. For her, 
they suffered Hart. 

Her son they would accept, for her sake. He will have acceptable blood, if tainted 
with Cheysuli. I wonder if they 

think to get the throne back someday, when Hart is in the ground and his son-
Ilsa's son-sits in the father's place? 

Ilsa was Solindish. He did not really blame her for wanting a Solindishman for 
Blythe-he might desire the same for his daughter, were he a Solindishman-but he wished 
blood might play a less important role. His own life was ruled by merging the proper 
bloodlines, and now it also entangled Blythe, who should be free of it. Solinde was 
Solinde-and yet now they made it Cheysuli. 

He closed his hand on the two links dangling from his belt. Perhaps that is the 
reason for this service. By merging the blood and begetting the Firstborn again, there no 
longer is any need for dividing up the realms. Four realms become one; six races the 
same. Something cold stroked his spine. And the lir for none of us? 

"Aidan-?" Ilsa began, but the opening of the door cut off the rest of her words. 

Cluna and Jennet, of course. Crowding into the room to plead for their mother's 
attention. Behind them came Hart with a small girl in his arms: black-haired, yellow-eyed 
Dulcie, Cheysuli to the bone. 

Aidan smiled at the girl. Something in him answered the fey look in her eyes. 
Blood calling to blood? He took a step closer. "A lovely girl, su'fali." 

"My little Cheysuli," Hart declared, pausing a moment to let Aidan look at her, 
then moving past to Ilsa. "The gods finally condescended to let one of us look the part." 

Cluna and Jennet were chattering at their mother, both mindful not to press too 
close. Pale hair, as before, straggled; Ilsa was gently chiding. Hart too stood close, then 
sat to bring Dulcie down where Ilsa could touch her, stroking fine black hair into 
neatness. 

Aidan found the chamber crowded. He was not accustomed to children, and as 
unaccustomed to kin. A twitch from deep inside told him what he wanted: the freedom to 
fly the skies. 

Hart, he knew, would understand, requiring no explanation. The others mostly 
ignored him, but something was due Ilsa. 

Aidan paused at the door and looked back at her. Her bed was full of daughters, 
except for her oldest one. The one he most wanted to see. "May the gods grant you a 
son." 

Ilsa glanced up from her crowded bedside. Her lovely face was alight. "Leijhana 
tu'sai, kinsman. May your words carry weight with the gods." 

As Aidan stepped into the hall, he wondered if they could. 

Chapter Five 

«^» 

He was waiting for her, as she had asked. In shadow, in a chair, hands resting 
unquietly on the downward sweep of each armrest. A ring glittered on one finger: 
sapphire set in silver. On yet another, jet, rimmed with delicate gold. 


Blythe shut the door quietly, looking at him in concern. The flesh was drawn too 
tautly over the bones of his face. It made him look almost feral. "It may be nothing," she 
said. She had already said it twice, on the way to meet him in private. 

He did not move at all, not even to agree, or to shake his head. He was angry, 
frightened, confused, but afraid to admit it. Afraid he had no right. She saw it in his eyes. 

She walked slowly across the chamber to stand in front of the chair. The man 
seated in it did not look into her eyes, but stared as if transfixed at the girdle spanning her 
waist. Silver chimed as she moved, swinging with her skirts. It stopped even as she did; 
the silver sang no more. 

She could hardly bear to look at him without touching him. It had been so from 
the beginning, from the very first time they had met. She had put no credence in such 
tales, consigning them to silly serving-girls dreaming away the hours, but then Tevis had 
come down from his mountain exile bearing an invitation from Ilsa to spend as much 
time as he liked. They were of an age, she and Tevis, and like-minded about many things. 
The instant attraction had flared into something far more physical; and yet the knowledge 
they dared not fulfill what they most desired increased the tension tenfold. That her 
parents approved was implicit in Ilsa's invitation; it was, Blythe knew, their way of 
telling her Tevis was suitable in all the ways that counted for kings and queens. 

The last way was hers to decide: could she love and live with the man? 

He filled her days and nights. She judged every man against him, comparing the 
shape of facial bones, the set of eyes, the line of chin and jaw. Even the way hair grew; in 
Tevis, easy to see because he cropped it short. She thought him everything a man should 
be to light up a woman's world. The chatter among the serving-girls and court women 
told her she was correct; he lighted more worlds than her own, or would, had he the 
chance to stray. 

But Tevis had never strayed. 

He was a man, even as men judged one another. And yet sensitive as a woman. It 
was the contradictions in him that appealed to her most: the quietude that spoke of 
privacy and deep thought; the understated power of personality that, allowed to flare, 
might consume them all. 

Blythe drew in a breath and released it carefully. She put out both hands and 
locked them into his hair, palms pressing against his head as she threaded fingers tightly. 
Near-black hair was cropped short, displaying the elegant shape of his head. At the back 
of his neck it was longer, trying to curl; thick springy waves seduced her. 

Slowly she drew him forward. It was a measure of her own apprehension and 
anguish that she touched him as she did, forcing the intimacy they wanted so badly, but 
had not shared. Neither of them had dared. Now, she knew, they had to. 

His breath caressed the girdle; she pressed him closer yet, turning his face against 
her pelvis. The arch of his cheek, through the velvet, was hard. 

She fought to keep her voice even. "We cannot be certain-" 

Lean, long-fingered hands clasped her hips. His words were muffled by skirts, but 
she heard them. "Aye, I think we can." The hoarse tone was firm, but underscored with 
despair. '"He has made no secret of it: the heir to Homana has come to Solinde to find a 
wife." 

She felt the flutter of trepidation in her breast. Her hands in his hair tightened. "If 
you were to go to my father-" 


"He already knows." 

Desperation rose. "And have you spoken to him? Have you actually told him you 
want to marry me?" 

He withdrew from her sharply, taking his hands from her. A spasm twisted his 
face. "No. Of course not. How can I? He is the Prince of Solinde, and I am-" 

"-kin," she finished flatly, "-to the Queen of Solinde." 

It was a tangled sovereignty. Hart still used his Homanan title, forgoing the loftier 
Solindish ranking until his father died, when he would inherit fully. But Ilsa was 
Solindish, the highest of the highborn, and the Solindish Council had bequeathed her the 
title when she married Hart. Their petty revenge, Blythe knew; she knew also it did not 
matter. Her father did not care. 

Just now, it might help. 

He rose and moved away from her. The room was her own, a private sitting 
chamber adjoining her personal apartments, and they both knew it unwise. She was 
allowed great freedom, but only because of trust. She wondered if they would betray it. 

He turned. In the dullness of late afternoon, ale-brown eyes were dark. His face 
was expressionless, but she knew how to peel back the mask and look at the man beneath. 

Steadily, he said, "He will make you Queen of Homana." 

Blythe lifted her head. "Will he, then? Even without my permission?" 

The flesh by his eyes twitched. "What woman would not want-" 

She did not let him finish. "The woman who would rather live in Solinde, in the 
high northern fastness of High Crags." 

He shut his eyes briefly. Fleeting pain ruined his brow; it smoothed almost 
instantly. "You are Cheysuli," he rasped. "I have heard of the prophecy." 

For a moment, all she could do was stare. Her heritage everyone knew-they had 
only to look at her father-but it had never been an issue. Not with Tevis. He had come 
down out of his mountains knowing nothing of her race, and had no reason to fear it. 

Nor to remind her of her duty. 

She controlled her emotions with effort. "I was born in Solinde. Iam of Solinde. I 
would rather serve my home than a collection of foreign words." 

For a moment, he only stared. And then laughed aloud. "A 'collection of foreign 
words'!" Tevis laughed again. Blue 

and black glinted on his hands; the two rings were his only vanity. "Do you know 
what your father would do if he heard you blaspheme so?" 

She felt strangely calm. "I imagine he would be somewhat put out with me. I 
imagine he might even take it into his head to instruct me in Cheysuli history; certainly I 
would be told yet again about the tahlmorra in us all." Briefly, Blythe grimaced. "But it 
has nothing to do with me. I am much more than merely Cheysuli." 

Brown eyes were black in the shadows. "Much more," he agreed softly, reaching 
out to touch her face. The fingers barely brushed the curve of her chin. Another step, and 
he touched her mouth; a third, the sweep of temple meeting cheekbone with a caress that 
burned her flesh. 

Blythe leaned into it. Tension sang between them. 

Abruptly he let her go. "I know what I am. Do you?" 

She did not soften it. "The nephew of a traitor." 

The curves of his face hardened. "They will say it is my revenge." 


Blythe smiled. "Perhaps it is." 

"You are the eldest," he said, "and there is no male heir." 

"Within a week, that could change-" 

"And if it does not," he persisted. "If the child is another girl, and the queen bears 
no more-" 

"There will be no more." 

It stopped him instantly. 

"No more," she repeated. "It has been decided. This is the last, boy or girl… if it 
is a boy, Solinde has an heir." 

"And, if not-?" 

A bubble of laughter broke. "You said it yourself, did you not? I am the eldest. 
From me will come the next." 

Bitterness pinched his tone. "They will say I planned it." 

"Does it matter?" she asked. "I must marry someone." 

"Then why not Aidan?" 

"Because, you ku'reshtin, he is not the one I fancy." 

Tevis did not smile. "They could force you." 

She shook her head. 

"If Aidan demanded it-" 

"He is too proud to do it." 

"Pride has little to do with marriage when a prince desires a wife." 

She smiled. "You know nothing about his life. The last thing Aidan would want is 
a wife who loves another. Believe me, I know." 

His hands closed over her shoulders. "If I lost you now-if they took you from me" 
"No." She shook her head. 
"But they could. Blythe, have you no wits? You are too valuable to waste on a 

crude mountain lordling when there is a prince in the offing!" 

Blythe unclasped her girdle. Silver dripped from her hand, then spilled onto the 
floor. "Then I will rid myself of value. No prince can afford to marry a woman whose 
virtue no longer exists." 

He caught her hands and held them so tightly she gasped in pain. "Not like this!" 
he hissed. 

"I want it. You want it; you would not dare deny it!" 

"No," he rasped. "No. You know better than that." 

Blythe pulled her hands free and cupped his jaw in her palms. "Then forget 
everything else. Set everything else aside. Let this merely be us, because we want it so 
much." 

"They can execute me for this!" 

One wild laugh escaped her. "In this, I will be Cheysuli. I will invoke my 
heritage." 

"Blythe-" 

"Clan-rights!" she hissed. "I give them freely to you. Now let them argue with 
that!" 

Aidan shed himself and flew. Each time he exulted, as he exulted now, in the 


magic that gave him another form and the chance to ride the sky. He could not 
comprehend what it was like to be earthbound, tied to the ground with so much freedom 
all around, and no chance to know it. Even the other warriors, gods-gifted all, were 
trapped by earth-bound lir. 

He had asked his father, once, what it was to be a mountain cat, trying to 
understand that a lir was a lir and none of them better than another. But he had failed. 
Brennan's explanation had been salient enough-only another Cheysuli could fully 
comprehend the all-encompassing joy of lir-shape-but somehow lacking. No man, Aidan 
believed, could truly experience freedom without the ability to fly. 

What was it like for Hart? Once lord of the air, even as Rael: now trapped forever 
by the loss of the hand that destroyed his raptor's balance. In human form, merely 
hindrance; in lir-shape, absolute prevention. Too much of him was missing. 

Was it one reason, Aidan wondered, he loved Ilsa so? Did he compensate the loss 
by turning to wife and children? 

The denial was emphatic, much as he longed for its absence. Deep in his soul he 
knew nothing could compensate a warrior for losing the gift of lir-shape. Rael lived, and 
therefore Hart was in no danger of going mad, but the inability to fly must come close to 
causing madness. He was whole, and yet not. Aidan could not begin to imagine what 
such torture would be like. 

Be grateful, Teel said. Do not take for granted what the gods give you. 

The raven, he knew, could be referring to Hart's loss and Aidan's wholeness. But 
he might also be referring to the task set for him, mentioned by the Weaver. A task he 
could yet refuse. 

He had not, since arrival, been troubled by dreams of the chain. He wondered if it 
had anything to do with holding two of the links. They were real now, tangible evidence 
of gods; their presence could mean he did have a task, or that he was going mad. Even 
with a lir. 

Air caressed his wings. He adjusted them slightly, dropping down through sky to 
enter another layer of the air that carried him. Tiny muscles twitched and flexed, altering 
his flight. Beside him, Teel followed. 

If I could share this with Blythe-

He cut it off instantly. 

Tevis cannot give her this. 

He twitched in irritation. Neither could he. 

Why would you want a cheysula who wants another man? 

Why did his father? 

It hurt. It hurt so sharply he stopped breathing. Lir-shape, abruptly, was 
threatened; with effort, he found his balance. 

Down, he told Teel. 

Aidan stumbled on landing because he took back human form more quickly than 
usual. Booted feet struck earth and he fell, digging an elbow into turf. For a moment he 
held his position, awkward though it was, then rolled over onto his back. The day was 
temperate and bright, the turf immensely comfortable. He was sleepy and disinclined to 
get up quite yet. So he linked hands across his abdomen and stayed where he was, 
casually crossing ankles. 

"I am a fool," he said aloud. "I set out to look for a wife, and decide I want the 


first woman I see. I think nothing of asking, because I have never needed to ask: I am, 

everyone tells me, destined to be the Mujhar of Homana." 

Teel perched on Aidan's boot toe, saying nothing. 

"She is beautiful rather than plain, which only sweetens the cookpot. I look at her 
and see a woman I would like to take to bed, which makes her more attractive. And then, 
in addition, she is a woman I could like… a woman I do like…" Aidan sighed deeply. "It 
is too much to hope for a cheysula I could like and love, and a woman who pleasures my 
bed. Princes and kings only rarely find such things . . Hart did, with Ilsa, and I assume 
Keely as well, from what they say of her… but what room is there for me? Blythe loves 
Tevis." 

"Blythe loves Tevis." He realized, as he said the words, the pain was already less. 
It had been foolish of him to care so much, even though that care had been more for 
finding a woman whose potential suited him. Blythe would have been perfect, but Blythe 
was no longer free. And that, he realized unhappily, had made him want her so much. 
Had she been free of Tevis, it might not have been the same. 

He had wanted the unattainable, which had made him want her the more. 

Some men, he knew, would hunt her nonetheless, counting the game much 
sweeter for her unwillingness to be caught, and the fillip of competition. But that was not 
Aidan's way. 

To Teel, he grinned sardonic amusement. "I want it simple," he said. "Of all the 
royal fledglings hatched in fifty years, I may be the most suited to an arranged marriage. 
And yet I am left free to choose." He laughed aloud. "How many of my kin would have 
traded places with me?" 

But the amusement faded quickly. He knew at least one: his mother. Left to her 
own devices, she would have married Corin. And he, born to them, would have been heir 
to Atvia instead of heir to the Lion. 

But I would not have been me. I would have been different-and therefore my 
tahlmorra, and the prophecy as well. 

It sobered him. Unsettled, Aidan sat up even as Teel lifted from his boot toe. He 
had managed, in contemplation, to remind himself of things too great for him to ignore. 

Of Hunters in the woodlands and Weavers at the loom. And gold links on his belt, 
growing heavier by the day. 

Aidan pressed himself up from the ground. Time he went back to Lestra. 

He blurred into lir-shape. Time the baby was born, so I can go on to Erinn. 

Chapter Six 

«^» 

Aidan knew it the moment he saw them. Kivarna or no, he knew. They gave it 
away in the tiny intimacies of bedmates: a brief, burning glance exchanged, a lingering 
touch, the small alterations in movement. In Tevis he saw a muted victory, the pride and 
satisfaction of a man who has won the woman he wanted; in Blythe, the languid, sensual 
movements of a woman now truly a woman, and the soft new warmth in her eyes. 

He sat down at the common table, troubled, and looked at once to Hart. This was 
no time to speak of it-all kin, save for Ilsa and Dulcie, were present at the meal-but then 
he was not entirely convinced it was his place to speak of it at all. Nothing official had 
been said regarding his potential suit, and therefore Blythe's virginity did not really 


concern him as a successor to the Lion. But as a kinsman, it did. 

With a flicker of disgust, he reached for cider. Even as a kinsman it was not his 
concern; Blythe was a free woman unbound by betrothals and arrangements, as well as a 
Cheysuli. It was her parents' place to determine the rightness or wrongness of her actions, 
and even then she remained Cheysuli. Hart would be denying one of the foremost tenets 
of the clans-that of free choice in bedpartners-if he protested. And Ilsa had made it plain 
Tevis met the requirements for marriage into royalty. They had done nothing wrong, only 
precipitated the ceremony. 

Cluna and Jennet sat down on either side of Aidan. Warily, he kept an eye on 
both; they giggled, paid him elaborate courtesies, attempted to play the part-albeit shared-
of chatelaine in lieu in Ilsa, whose place it properly was. In Ilsa's absence the role fell to 
Blythe, but her attention to duties was sorely preempted by Tevis. 

Hart seemed oblivious to it all, and there was reason, "Ilsa believes the child 
could be born tonight or tomorrow-she should know, after six children-so I have set in 
motion the preparations for a proper celebration. The gods willing, we will be swearing 
homage to a new prince of Solinde before the week is out." 

Aidan raised his cup. "Gods willing, su'fali." 

Tevis and Blythe, most conspicuously, did not look at one another. 

Aidan cleared his throat. "Where is Dulcie?" 

It was Jennet who answered for her father. "Oh, she cannot come to meals yet. 
She makes too much of a mess." 

"So do you," Hart said mildly. "You have just spilled jam on your tunic." 

Jennet, undismayed, scooped it off with a finger. "When are we going hawking?" 
she asked. "I heard you speaking about it last night." 

Hart sipped cider. "I thought after the meal. I have already ordered the horses and 
hawks prepared." He glanced at his eldest. "I do not mean to rob you of the day, but 
perhaps it is best if you stayed with your jehana. She may have need of you." 

Blythe opened her mouth as if to protest, but closed it almost immediately. Aidan 
saw the glance at Tevis, the dusky color in her face. Had she thought to spend the day in 
bed with the man? 

"Not fair," Cluna put in. "Rael always sees the game first, and always makes the 
first kill." 

Hart smiled, eyes bright. "Then I will tell Rael not to stoop, and let the rest of you 
compete." 

Tevis, who sat directly across from Aidan, smiled. It was a strangely triumphant 
smile, full of subtle nuances and knowledge, but Aidan understood it. As Tevis met his 
eyes, he understood it all too well. The competition for Blythe, though unacknowledged, 
was over. Whose hawk killed first was of no importance to Tevis, who had already won 
the hunt. 

In silence, Aidan lifted his tankard and slightly inclined his head. Something 
flickered briefly in Tevis' eyes-surprise? disbelief?-and then he smiled, lifted his own 
tankard and acknowledged the salute. Beneath the table, Aidan knew, fingers touched, 
then linked. 

In Cheysuli leathers, leggings and linen tunics, Cluna and Jennet were towheaded 
warriors riding out of the Keep; in this case, the Keep was Lestra. Outdoors, well free of 


the confines of the castle-and the preferences of their mother-they could lose themselves 
in the freedom of the Cheysuli half of their blood. Both girls reveled in it, shouting aloud 
their excitement. Both rode spirited horses, managing them with ease. 

Hart, looking after them with Dulcie perched in the saddle before him, smiled as 
they rode by Tevis to fall into the lead. 

"They chafe at walls," Aidan remarked, "though they may not know it yet." 

Hart nodded. "The Cheysuli in them. Ilsa often forgets-no one thinks of my 
shapechanger blood with blue eyes and Ilsa's hair-but I never do. They are as Cheysuli as 
I ever was; they only lack the color." 

Tevis rode abreast. "Will they have any lir of their own?" 

Hart shook his head. "Unlikely. It is mostly a gift given to warriors, though 
occasionally a woman can speak with the lir, or shift shape. My rujholla, Keely, can, but 
it has yet to show itself in my line." 

Tevis' eyes were on Dulcie. "What of the smallest one? She, of all your children, 
most resembles a true Cheysuli." 

Hart laughed. "Aye, she does-even more than Aidan or me. As for the lir-gifts, 
who can say? She is too young yet to show them, even if they are hers." 

"Would it matter?" Aidan asked Tevis. "What if Blythe were blessed?" 

Tevis did not hesitate. "I do not care what she can do, or what her blood is made 
of. I do not care who she is, only that she be mine." He paused. "Should the Prince of 
Solinde be willing." 

Well, Aidan reflected, now it is out in the open. 

Hart's left arm was wound around Dulcie, holding her against his chest. Right-
handed, he guided his mount. Not Bane's black son, but a quieter, more mannered bay 
mare. Faintly, he smiled. "It is for Blythe to say." 

"But-my lord-" 

"For Blythe," Hart repeated. "If you were not worthy of her, you would not be 
sharing her roof." 

Or her bed? But Aidan shook that off; Hart could not know. And now it is official. 
If Tevis has been waiting for some sure sign of parental approval, he need not doubt 
anymore. 

Shrieking, Cluna and Jennet went tearing across the meadow. Aidan nearly 
winced. "They will scare the game that way." 

"Did you come expecting to catch some?" Hart asked in surprise. "No… we will 
see little enough with those two riding free. But it is an excuse to get away. No one 
begrudges it." 

Aidan nearly laughed. "Then the walls chafe you." 

"Aye," Hart agreed fervently. "I have never become accustomed… a holdover, I 
think, from the days we lived in Keeps. Walls bind our souls…" He looked at Tevis, 
riding quietly beside Aidan. "Do the mountains ever chafe you? High Crags is so 
isolated… do you ever wish for something else?" 

Something indefinable flared in brown eyes. Then Tevis looked at the hooded 
hawk riding quietly on his saddlebow. "Always," he said quietly. 

For one moment Aidan's kivarna came to life. And then died away to ash, telling 
him nothing of the man. Tevis was closed to him. 

Why not? he wondered sourly. He has what he wants. What else is there to read? 


"There," Hart said urgently. "Rael has seen something." 

The hawk spiraled lazily, then drifted downward. Aidan was about to remind Hart 
that the hawk was not to hunt first, but a piercing scream broke the air as Rael abruptly 
stooped. 

"Cluna!" Hart cried. He caught Dulcie against his chest in one firm arm and set 
his heels to the mare. 

Teel took to the air as Aidan went after Hart. Tevis brought up the rear, though 
the hawk he carried on his saddlebow screeched and rang jess-bells in protest. They could 
hear Jennet shouting. 

Cluna was huddled against the ground, crying. Close by, Rael drove again and 
again at the speckled snake, dodging the reptile's deadly strikes. The hawk was too large 
to be maneuverable, but his attempts distracted the snake from Cluna. 

Hart tried to dismount, cursing, but Dulcie's clutching arms tangled his efforts. 
Jennet, silent now and white-faced, stood nearby with the horses, too frightened to go 
closer. 

Cluna wailed something in Solindish Aidan did not understand. But he could tell 
by the way she held her left arm cradled against her chest the snake had bitten her. If they 
did not kill it and reach her quickly, it could be too late to save her. 

Teel, he said through the link, swinging off his mount even as Hart finished 
dismounting. Tevis, too, was on the ground, saying something in Solindish. 

"Wait!" Aidan snagged Hart's arm and pulled him back. "Let our lir do the 
work… too many of us might spoil their chance. And there is Dulcie to think of-" 

Jennet wailed something, still clutching reins. Hart's head snapped in her 
direction. "Did it strike you? Jennet-did the snake bite you also?" 

Wordlessly she shook her head. Tears streaked her face. "No-no-only Cluna-" 

Teel danced around the snake, seducing it this way and that. From behind came 
Rael, snatching at the place behind its head. Talons sank deeply, locking, and then Rael 
rose to fly clear of them all, dangling the writhing snake. 

"Here-" Hart thrust Dulcie into Aidan's arms. 

Even as he did so, Tevis was at Cluna's side. The knife flashed in his hand as he 
cut into the soft underflesh of her forearm, bisecting fang marks already swollen and 
discolored. Cluna whimpered but otherwise held her silence, and Tevis set his mouth 
over the cuts to suck the venom from her arm. The knife, forgotten, fell to the grass. 

Jennet deserted her post with the horses and came to Aidan, reaching out to clutch 
a hand in hers. He felt her trembling through his own flesh; through his kivarna he sensed 
shock, anguish, shame, and a spirit full of fear. 

In Solindish, she said something. Aidan put a gentle hand on her blonde head. 
Hair, as always, straggled out of its braid. "I have a poor grasp of your tongue, meijhana. 
I am sorry." 

She gulped a swallow and tried again in Homanan. "I am afraid-" 

"No need," he told her quietly. "Your jehan is Cheysuli, remember? He need only 
call on the earth magic." 

Her face was very pale. "But he only has one hand-" 

"Shansu, meijhana-I promise, it makes no difference. Your jehan is not crippled." 

"But he cannot be a warrior. Not a real one, because of his hand. He said so." 

In the daughter he heard a measure of the father's shame and anguish. Aidan's 


hand tightened briefly on her head, then slipped to cup a shoulder tightly. "Your jehan is 
as much a warrior as any Cheysuli I know. He is denied clan-rights through old-fashioned 
ignorance, not a failure on his part. I promise you, meijhana, your rujholla will be well." 

Cluna, crying silently, reached for Hart as he knelt to her. Tevis moved away as 
the father scooped up his daughter. "Bleeding-" she quavered. 

"For the best," Hart told her. "Come, meijhana-I will take you back to the castle. 
There I can summon the earth magic." 

"Why not here?" Aidan asked. "I can give you whatever help you need." 

"My thanks, but no. It will be frightening enough for her, even as it heals. It will 
be better done in her own room, where she will feel safer. Tevis has bled her quickly 
enough… the rest can wait that long." He approached the horses, cradling Cluna in both 
arms. "Jennet?" 

She broke away from Aidan, twisting hands into tunic. "My fault," she whispered. 
"The horse was afraid of the snake. Cluna fell when he sprang aside, and the snake bit 
her-" She lost her Homanan entirely and slipped again into Solindish, speaking too 
quickly for Aidan to decipher. But he saw Hart's compassion as he paused briefly by her 
side. 

"No, meijhana, it is not your fault. Now mount your horse-you will come back 
with us." He glanced at Aidan. "Can you and Tevis bring Dulcie?" 

"Of course, su'fali." Aidan smiled as the girl twisted in his arms to reach a fist in 
her father's direction. "I would not give her up when I have only just met her." 

Tevis rose from where he had knelt to bleed Cluna. "I will bring her horse." 

Distracted, Hart nodded and turned to his own mount. He set Cluna up into the 
saddle and hastily mounted, gathering her in against him as he hooked the cuffed stump 
around her abdomen. Her head tipped back against his shoulder, displaying a too-pale 
face. Dulcie, who had held the place first, protested in Aidan's arms. 

Hart looked at Jennet. "Hurry," he told her, sending her flying to her mount. In a 
moment both horses and the great hawk were gone. 

Aidan looked at Tevis. "No doubt he will remember to thank you when Cluna is 
settled. Until then, accept my gratitude." 

Tevis' smile was faint. "For Cluna, if not for Blythe?" 

Aidan sighed. "Aye, well… I will not contest it. You know as well as I that if I 
did, it would make no difference. I am neither blind nor a fool… you have won, Tevis. 
Be proud, but not too proud; she is still my kinswoman, and Cheysuli. When you marry 
one of us, you marry us all." 

"If I wanted a red-haired Cheysuli as my kinsman, I would have bedded you." 

Holding Dulcie, Aidan froze. And then he heard the quiet irony in Tevis' tone as 
the High Crags lord turned to gather up the reins of Cluna's mount, patiently cropping 
grass. 

He smiled crookedly. Once I rid myself of regret over Blythe, I may even like the 
man-

Something glinted in the grass. "Wait." Aidan bent to pick up Tevis' knife. "Hereyou 
have forgotten." He held it out. 

Tevis felt at his sheath, found it empty, put out his hand with a murmured word of 
thanks. Aidan set the knife into Tevis' outstretched hand, and in that brief moment of 
contact the kivarna flared to life. Tevis was open to him. 


Hostility. Pride. Barely suppressed ambition. Impatience that he must wait, when 
so much was his for the taking. 

Aidan nearly gaped. "You do want the throne! The throne and everything else!" 

Ale-brown eyes were smoky. Tevis did not even bother to ask Aidan how he 
knew. "Aye," he said harshly. "I want it back. I want everything back." 

"Back," Aidan echoed. "But it was never yours-" 

Tevis cut him off. "Not mine, but it would have been Dar's. He was heir to 
Solinde, even heir to Ilsa… but the shapechanger came here and took it, took her, took it 
all-" 

"He inherited," Aidan declared, "from his father, the Mujhar, who inherited it 
from his father, who was bequeathed it by Carillon." 

"Do you think I care about Homanan history? Cheysuli history?" Tevis stepped 
close. His hand gripped the knife. 

"By all the gods of Solinde, shapechanger, what do you think I am? A young boy 
content to sit in silence while his homeland is given over to the usurper? We are not so 
different as that, shapechanger blood or no… I know you well enough to say with 
complete conviction that you would do the same." 

Aidan thought it best to ignore the latter, since he was grimly aware how closely 
Tevis came to the truth. Instead, he focused on what he knew to be patently false. "It was 
hardly usurped, Solindish. Carillon won it in battle. It was his to bequeath as he wished, 
and it was to my kin it came. Solinde is ours, now." 

"Mine," Tevis said flatly. "Or, more like, my son's." He smiled as he saw Aidan's 
start. "What-did you think I meant to do murder? Do you think I want Blythe merely to 
serve my own ends? No, shapechanger… I want Blythe for Blythe's sake, and for the 
sake of Solinde. The throne is not meant to be mine-I honor my ancestor-kings too much 
to count myself worthy of it-but if the shapechanger gets no son on the queen, then the 
task falls to me. I will sire the heir… and in my lifetime, if not Dar's, I will see a High 
Crags man on the throne." 

Aidan held Dulcie more tightly as she squirmed. "And if the queen bears a son? 
What then, Tevis? Your plan is in disarray." 

Lips parted as if Tevis intended a blistering retort. But instead he smiled. It was a 
crooked, twisted smile, altering his intensity into rueful acknowledgment. "If there is a 
son born to Ilsa, then my hopes are vanquished. AH my ambitions fail." His eyes did not 
waver. "My lord of Homana, I am neither a fool, nor ignorant. I want what is best for 
Solinde. So did Dar, even if he was unfortunate enough to go about it the wrong way-" 

Aidan's tone was vicious. "He cut off my uncle's hand and then gave him to the 
Ihlini. To Strahan himself, who nearly destroyed him." 

Tevis gestured acknowledgment. "Aye, well… that was Dar. I have been told he 
was impetuous and obsessed-" 

"And you are not?" 

Muscles flexed briefly in Tevis's face. "I mean no harm to you, or to the man who 
calls himself Prince of Solinde. There is such a thing as a peaceful revolution, my lord… 
if I marry Blythe and sire a son, the revolution is accomplished without bloodshed. That 
is how I fight." 

Aidan shifted Dulcie against his shoulder, focus fragmented by her presence and 
her pettish discomfort. She wanted her father, not him; Aidan did not blame her. 


He sighed. "Then you fight more wisely than your kinsman." 

Tevis smiled faintly. "Then perhaps I will succeed where he failed." 

Resentment boiled up. Aidan wanted to hit him. He did not. "Did you come here 
for this? Did you come down from your mountain fastness to seduce a king's daughter?" 

And realized, as he asked it, he might ask it of himself, while changing the words 
a little. It had all been so simple: he would go to Solinde, setting aside the desperation, 
and find himself a wife. It would satisfy everything: rank, title, body, even the need for 
escape. 

But there was Tevis to be faced. "Did you?" he repeated, more intensely than 
before. Now it applied to them both. 

Tevis turned his back. Fluidly he swung up into the saddle, then looked down on 
Aidan. "The seduction was accomplished long before I came. It was done in writing, my 
lord of Homana… a courtship between two mothers desiring the best for their eldest 
children. They made it easy for me… I saw my chance, and I took it. Only a fool would 
have refused." 

Aidan felt impotent. "If Blythe suffers for tins-" 

Tevis gathered reins, then bent to catch Cluna's horse. "She will not," he said 
flatly. "I am a patriot, Homanan… a loyal Solindishman. But I am also a man. What man, 
looking at her, would ever want to hurt her? What man, sharing her bed, would want to 
drive her from it?" 

Aidan could offer no answer. Holding Dulcie, bereft of speech, he watched Tevis 
ride away towing Cluna's horse behind him. 

When he was gone, Aidan sighed and pressed a cheek against Dulcie's head. "Oh, 
Dulcie-meijhana, what do we do now?" 

Overhead, Teel croaked. Go back to the castle, he said. There is nothing to do, 
here. 

Disgruntled, Aidan went to his horse and mounted, taking extra care with Dulcie. 
Then he turned back toward Lestra. 

There was nothing to do, here. But plenty to do, there. 

Chapter Seven 

«^» 

Aidan found the castle in an uproar when he rode in with Dulcie. He believed at 
first it was because of Cluna; he discovered almost at once Ilsa was in labor. 

A nursemaid came immediately for Dulcie, releasing him from his unexpected 
duty. The girl was glad to go, but not before she latched onto a handful of ruddy hair and 
tugged; Aidan, wincing, carefully peeled fingers away and freed himself, then bent and 
kissed Dulcie briefly on the forehead. 

The nursemaid, smiling, told him he was to go at once to the prince's private 
solar, where the rest of the family gathered. Aidan took his leave, giving Teel his freedom 
to do as he wished, and went to find the others. 

Hart was in a chair, perched stiffly on the edge with braced legs spread, elbows 
resting on thighs. Absently he massaged the skin of his forearm at the edge of the leather 
cuff. He hardly glanced up as Aidan entered. His dark Cheysuli face was taut and biscutgray. 


"What of Cluna?" Aidan asked. Only Blythe, Hart, and Tevis were present. 


Hart shifted slightly. "In bed. The healing is done. There is a slight fever, but it 
will pass." 

Aidan closed the door. Though he asked the question of Hart, he looked directly 
at Tevis. "And the queen?" 

Tevis, seated with Blythe standing next to him, said nothing. 

Hart abruptly thrust himself deep into the chair, stretching one side of his face out 
of shape as he scrubbed at it one-handed. "It will be hours, always hours. Blythe was an 
easy birth-" He glanced briefly at his eldest, smiling absently, then shifted in the chair as 
if he could find no favored position, "-but the others have been more difficult." 

Quietly, Tevis unwound himself from his chair and leaned forward to pour wine. 
He rose, brought the cup to Aidan, handed it to him. He said nothing, but his gaze was 
direct and unwavering. 

He wonders if I will say anything to Hart. Aidan accepted the cup. "Leijhana 
tu'sai." 

If Tevis understood the Old Tongue, he made no indication. He merely waited. 

Inwardly, Aidan sighed. Much as he disliked the situation, he saw no reason to 
add to Hart's concerns at the moment. Imperceptibly, he shook his head at Tevis. Once 
more he surrendered the war. 

Something indefinable entered clear brown eyes. For a moment there was a 
reassessment, then an odd respect. Tevis smiled faintly. The sunlight slanting through the 
casements fell fully on his face, limning good bones and fine skin, shining in thick dark 
hair. He would, Aidan thought, sire handsome sons; the daughters, with Blythe as mother, 
would be beautiful. 

As imperceptibly, Tevis inclined his head in thanks. Then abruptly swung on his 
heel and went directly to Hart. "My lord, there is something I must say." 

Aidan, frowning, watched him closely. He heard the subtle deference in the High 
Crags dialect. He had never heard it before. Tevis was, he realized, a man of eloquent 
charm. Aidan began to believe he was capable of anything. 

Hart merely glanced at him in distraction. "Let it wait." 

"No, my lord. It cannot." 

"Tevis?" Even Blythe was nonplussed. 

He lifted a silencing finger without looking at her. His eyes were locked on Hart. 
"My lord, I must admit to you I have not been the man you believed I was. And while it 
is quite true I love and honor your daughter and wish only to make her happy, there is 
something more. I will not lie any longer." 

Aidan stood very still. He plays a dangerous game. 

Hart's eyes were steady as he looked into the taut face. "You mean to tell me you 
covet the throne of Solinde." 

Color drained from Tevis. "My lord… you knew-?" 

From Blythe, a blurt of shock. 

Hart merely shrugged. "I have known it for some time." He glanced briefly at 
Aidan, then straightened in the chair. His voice was perfectly even. "You are not the first, 
and will not be the last. I have three other daughters." 

"My lord-if you knew-?" 

"-why did I allow you to remain?" Hart looked at Blythe. "Because my daughter 
loves you. And you, in your way, love her. What sense is there in ending something 


desired by you both, merely because you are ambitious?" 

Tevis smoothed the velvet of his doublet over one arm. "Even if those ambitions 
could threaten your sovereignty?" 

Hart stroked his bottom lip with a finger, contemplating the young man standing 
before him. Eventually, he smiled. "When you are young, it is quite easy to believe in 
personal convictions. It is quite easy to be completely committed to a thing, as you are to 
Solinde. A zealot blinds himself, as he must, in order to succeed. But in that blinding, he 
cuts off a part of himself that makes the difference between success and failure." 

"My lord-?" 

Hart smiled. "The key to your strength lies in my daughter. But if you should 
come against me, she will turn on you. And you will then have nothing, even as Dar did." 
He paused delicately. "With the same result." 

Blythe's face was white. Tevis said nothing. 

Hart smiled again. "You can have what you want without forcing the issue… if 
the queen bears me no son." 

Tevis still said nothing. 

Hart sighed. "Do you think I want Solinde to stay mired in internal bickering? I 
know very well there are still factions who desire me ousted, and who might turn to 
violence to accomplish it. Executing Dar of High Crags-a known traitor-silenced his 
followers for a time, but it will not last forever. The peace of this realm rests entirely with 
Ilsa-unless it rests with you." 

"Me," Tevis said numbly. 

"A son out of Ilsa is of Bellam's line. That line has more claim than any you can 
muster… High Crags is, after all, an isolated mountain domain with geographically 
limited power." Hart tilted his head. "If she gives me that son, the factions are undone. 
But if she does not, then the succession falls to another. To Blythe, as you well know-
through the son she could bear." Hart smiled. "It will not put you on the throne any more 
than it would have put Dar there… but then fathers often gain power through the 
manipulation of their children." 

Blythe was looking at Tevis. Brief hope flickered in Aidan. If he has lost her with 
this… 

Hart's voice was soft. "If you marry her, you stay here. You give up your claim on 
High Crags and become a vassal to me." 

Tevis shut his eyes. Then opened them and quietly knelt before the Prince of 
Solinde. "My lord, I have wronged you." 

Hart smiled. "You underestimated me." 

The tone was heartfelt. "Aye." 

"Ah, well, I have spent the last twenty-two years of my life being underestimated 
by the Solindish. Someday perhaps they will look past the gold I wear-and the hawk who 
answers my bidding-and see the man instead." 

"Aye, my lord. I have no doubt they will… if they have not blinded themselves 
completely." 

The dry irony surprised Aidan. But then it was not in Tevis to be completely 
undone; he was, if nothing else, a survivor. For all his thwarted ambitions, he probably 
would make a loyal vassal. 

And a good example for the others. Aidan smiled. Su'fali, I, too, underestimated 


you. Perhaps one day your kin will look past the follies of your youth to the king you have 
become. 

Hart flicked a hand. "Go. There will be another time for the oath. Take my 
daughter and go… I think there are things you have to say to one another-in private." 

Tevis wet dry lips and rose, turning to look at Blythe. For a long moment he said 
nothing. Then, very quietly, "Will you come?" 

Color flared in her face. "I am, if nothing else, daughter to my father. Do you 
think I would allow you to harm him in any way? Do you think I would let you dare?" 

"No," he answered quietly. "That I have always known." 

"Then be reminded of it!" she snapped. Blythe looked at her father, then briefly at 
Aidan. Color stained her face: shame, embarrassment; Tevis had been unmasked before 
the man most likely to gloat. She glanced back at Tevis. "Indeed, I will come. And we 
will talk, my lord of High Crags. About everything." 

Aidan moved aside as Blythe swept out of the chamber. Tevis followed after a 
brief bow in Hart's direction. The door thumped closed behind them. 

Hart looked at his nephew. "I have had him watched from the beginning. The. 
reason Dar nearly succeeded was because I did not take him seriously, and because I did 
not know what he was doing. This way, Tevis does nothing without my knowledge." 

"Commendable, su'fali." 

Hart smiled faintly. "But you think I am wasting my daughter when there could be 
another man more suited to her… a man more suitable for the throne." 

Aidan moved to the nearest chair and sat down, sipping at last from the wine 
Tevis had given him. He shrugged. "I will have a throne, su'fali. Do I need another?" 

Hart laughed. "The Lion has proved most selfish in the past. I doubt it would 
change now." 

In companionable silence, they took up the Bezat bowl set on the table between 
them and began to play. There was nothing to do, but wait. 

Aidan looked at his uncle, whose bowed head as he studied the game pieces hid 
much of his expression. We wait, he reflected apprehensively, on the future of Solinde. 
And then, as Hart drew from the bowl, Was it this difficult for my parents, waiting to see 
if I would live or die? If the Lion would have an heir? 

Hart turned over the piece. It was blank on either side. 

"Bezat," Hart said quietly. "You are dead." 

Aidan put down the winecup. His taste for the game was gone. 

He was very nearly asleep when at last the servant came. The hours, as Hart had 
promised, were many; it was evening, well past dinner, and they had drunk too much 
wine. Aidan did not have a head for so much, and wanted no more than to go to bed. But 
Hart had desired company to pass the time, and they had shared the hours in discussion of 
all manner of things. Aidan could only remember part of them. 

He was jerked into wakefulness as the servant opened the door and murmured 
something to Hart, who was less circumspect. The Prince of Solinde leaped to his feet, 
moved to buffet Aidan's muzzy head in an excess of joy and emotion, and told him there 
was a son. 

"A son," Aidan echoed dutifully, but by then Hart was gone. "A son," he said 
again, brightening with comprehension, and pushed himself out of the chair. 


Most of the family and a few servants gathered in an antechamber near Ilsa's royal 
apartments. Tevis waited by a deep casment, leaning into the sill, as if trying to hide 
himself in shadow. Blythe, uncharacteristically, was not with him; instead, she waited 
nervously by the door even as Aidan entered. Cluna was not present-probably sleeping 
out the fever-but Jennet was. She, like Tevis, stood very quietly out of the way, half lost 
in the shadows. Her bedrobe was clutched in two rigid fists. 

Aidan knew at once. He crossed the chamber to her. "Come," he said gently, and 
led her to a chair. She sat down as he asked, then stared blindly at him as he pulled over a 
stool for himself. Aidan took her hands into his own. "Speaking of it will help." 

There was none of the pert forwardness in her manner he had come to expect. Fair 
hair was loose for sleeping, shining palely in candlelight. She wore a white linen nightrail 
and rich blue woolen bedrobe, tangled around her ankles. Her hands in his were cold. 

Jennet drew in a very deep breath. "I am glad there is a son. A prince for Solinde." 

Aidan nodded. "But you believe his coming will make your jehan blind to you." 

Jennet's mouth trembled. "It will." Another breath. "He has Blythe. She was 
always his favorite. And now he has a son, and there will be no more room for Cluna and 
me." 

"You have asked him this, of course." 

Blue eyes widened. "No!" 

He affected mild surprise. "Then how can you know?" 

"I just do." 

She was not Erinnish. There was no kivarna in her, only fear and loneliness. 
Aidan squeezed her hands. "It is better you do not put words in his mouth or feelings in 
his heart, unless you know them for fact. It would hurt him deeply if he knew you felt this 
way." 

"But-what if he does?" 

"I promise you, he does not. On the life of my lir, Jennet-and you know how 
binding an oath that is." 

Clearly, she did. But her misery was unabated. 

Aidan squeezed again. "You yourself are a princess, meijhana. You are old 
enough to understand that a realm needs a king, and the king an heir to follow. For too 
long Solinde has been without that heir. But princesses are important as well. Solinde has 
need of them also." 

Jennet's mouth flattened. "Only because jehan can marry us off to men he wants 
to please." 

The bitterness far surpassed her years. Aidan looked at her with renewed 
attention. "Has someone told you that?" 

She shrugged. "I heard Blythe say something like to Tevis earlier." Blue eyes 
flickered. "She was angry." 

Aidan did not smile. "Aye, so she was." 

Jennet's worried expression came back. "I do not understand. Blythe has always 
wanted to marry Tevis. From the beginning." 

Aidan could not help himself. "Does she not anymore?" 

Jennet shrugged; Blythe was not, at the moment, her concern. "She told him she 
would… that between them they had made certain she would have to." She frowned. "I 
did not understand that." 


"No," Aidan agreed, thinking it was best. "I think you need not worry about such 
things yet. And I think, when the time comes, you will have even less to worry about-I 
think no one could force you to marry a man you did not wish to." He smiled. "Now, as 
to the new prince… I will not lie to you, Jennet. It may seem your father has forgotten 
you at first, in the newness of having a son, but it will pass. Your jehan will never replace 
you with anyone. He could not; not one else is Jennet." 

She studied him solemnly, judging the worth of his words. "Do you promise that 
on the life of your lir?" 

She was, he thought, a true daughter of royalty, seeking assurances in everything. 
He smiled, released her hands, touched her head briefly as he rose. "I promise." 

Hart came into the chamber from the adjoining apartments. As he saw them he 
smiled, eyes alight. "Solinde has a prince," he announced with quiet pride, "and a healthy 
queen." 

Jennet threw herself across the chamber and climbed into his arms as he caught 
her. He laughed aloud; so did Jennet. She shed the burgeoning maturity Aidan had seen 
and was merely a child again, at peace in her father's arms. 

Aidan looked at Tevis and found him looking back. The young lord of High Crags 
wore an odd expression, and once again Aidan found his feelings masked. The kivarna 
was silent. 

Tevis smiled. It was a smile of bittersweet defeat; of comprehension and 
acceptance. Something glittered in his eyes. A brief, eloquent gesture told Aidan Tevis 
fully understood the import of the boy's birth; his hopes for the throne, through his son, 
were extinguished. All Blythe could give him now was a nephew, much as he was 
himself. A royal nephew, perhaps, but absent from the line of succession. 

Aidan looked at Blythe. She also watched Tevis, as if judging him even as Aidan 
did. Her expression was unreadable. 

Reflexively, Aidan went into the link to Teel. Do you think there may yet be a 
chance? 

But then Blythe crossed the chamber to Tevis, who cupped her face in his hand. 

Aidan sighed. No. 

From Teel there was nothing, who undoubtedly had known. 

Chapter Eight 

«^» 

In three days' time, Hart called for an official naming ceremony. Cheysuli custom 
decreed the father must examine the naked infant for physical flaws, after the ancient 
ways mandating wholeness in a warrior; then, finding him unblemished, name him aloud 
to the gods and those kin assembled. 

But for the newborn prince there was more: according to Solindish custom there 
must be named a second-father, a man bound to keep the child from harm should 
anything befall the natural parents. So Hart assembled everyone in a private audience 
chamber to appease both halves of the child's heritage. 

Hart, with Ilsa beside him, stood on a low dais. On a polished perch behind them 
was Rael, jet-and-white in sunlight. The infant boy was cradled against his father's 
leather-clad chest in strong, dark arms shining with lir-gold. Hart had never looked 
happier, Aidan thought, as he smiled down into the baby's sleeping face. His pride was 


manifest, and yet Aidan wondered if the Cheysuli portion of the ceremony would bring 
unexpected anguish. Hart would be required to examine his son for physical flaws before 
he could name him, yet he himself was kinwrecked, expelled from the clans because of 
his missing hand. It was a harsh reality once required in times of hardship, yet no longer 
necessary. Brennan had tried to have the custom changed by appealing to Clan Council, 
but had failed to sway the men who declared too many of the old ways already had been 
lost. 

It is Ilsa who keeps the pain at bay, Aidan reflected, gazing at the woman who 
stood at Hart's left side. 

One pale, slender hand gently rested on his arm. The trace of fatigue in her face 
was tempered by a transcendent joy illuminating her already considerable beauty. There 
was an elegance in the woman unmatched by any Aidan had seen. He was, as always, 
taken aback by it. Even the glittering jeweled clasps fastening the coils of pale hair to her 
head could not compete with the brilliance of her eyes as she gazed out upon the people 
called to witness the naming of her son. 

Blythe stood quietly with Tevis; Cluna, mostly recovered, stood with Jennet. 
Dulcie resided in Aidan's arms, though a nursemaid waited nearby to release him from 
the duty should the child prove tiresome. For the moment she was fascinated by the 
torque around his neck; smiling, Aidan unwound thin fingers from it and tried to bribe 
her with a coin so she would not tug quite so firmly. 

Hart smiled brilliantly at them all. "This child is a child of two realms and two 
heritages, and both should be honored. No man should turn his back on any part of 
himself, for it is the sum of those parts that makes him what he is. So we have assembled 
you today to name this child after the fashion of Solinde and Homana, so no gods may be 
offended, and no race be overlooked." 

Aidan glanced at Tevis, standing quietly to one side, and wondered how much it 
chafed the young lord of High Crags to see his hopes dashed so publicly. Tevis' face was 
expressionless, save for a brightness of his eyes as he looked at his liege lord and 
newborn prince. He gave nothing away of his thoughts. 

Hart's voice jerked Aidan's attention back to the dais. "A Solindish child-and 
particularly a royal one-must have a second-father. It is not so different from the Cheysuli 
custom of a liege man in Homana, set to ward the Mujhar from physical threat… a 
second-father also tends the welfare of the child." 

Hart settled the infant into the crook of his left arm and carefully peeled back the 
linen wrappings, unfolding the child from his cocoon. When he was free of the wrappings 
and entirely naked, Hart counted aloud the fingers and toes, looked into the tiny, flat ears, 
examined the unfocused eyes and made certain the small manhood was intact. Then he 
displayed the child to all of them. 

"Before the gods of Homana, who are everywhere, I declare this child whole and 
free of blemish, acceptable to kin and clan. There is no taint in flesh or blood. By this 
naming he becomes a true Cheysuli, destined for a lir and loyal service to the prophecy." 
He drew in a breath and steadied his voice; even across the chamber, Aidan felt the 
upsurge of emotion. "I name this child Owain, son of Hart and Ilsa; now known as Prince 
Owain, heir to the throne of Solinde. I do this with the full blessing of the gods, and can 
only hope they gift him with a worthy tahlmorra." Briefly, he looked at Aidan. "No man 
may choose his, and certainly not a child." 


Aidan turned as the nursemaid came forward and settled Dulcie into her arms. 
Then he stepped forward to bow his head in brief homage to Hart. Carefully he took up 
Owain's tiny right hand and kissed it. In his heart he murmured the words of a private 
kinsman's blessing, wishing health and happiness on the child; aloud he spoke similar 
words in the Old Tongue, feeling the weight of two gold links at his belt as he did so. 

Finished, he inclined his head once again, made the Cheysuli gesture of 
tahlmorra, and turned to face the others. 

"This child is a child of the gods. His tahlmorra is theirs to impart; their service is 
his to perform. Tahlmorra lujhala mei wiccan, cheysu. May the gods grant this child a 
perfect service to the prophecy of the Firstborn, and to the people of Solinde, whom one 
day he will rule." 

He waited. The expected response came from those who knew it: "Ru'shalla-tu." 
May it be so. 

Aidan smiled. His part in the ceremony was done. He returned to his place, took 
Dulcie back, waited. 

"Leijhana tu'sai," Hart said quietly, eyes aglint, then rewrapped the newly-named 
Prince Owain. He left one hand and arm free. "It is a second-father's duty to care for this 
child, should something befall the natural parents. It is his duty to raise this child as his 
own, treating him as his own, sparing him nothing he would not spare children of his own 
body, giving him no more or less than he would give children of his own body. 

"Upon reaching manhood the child shall go out of the second-father's house and 
make his own. But he will forever honor that man as his true-father-his jehan-with all the 
honor he would also give to the gods." Hart's face was solemn, but something lurked in 
his eyes. "The choosing of a second-father is never undertaken lightly. It is an honor 
bestowed a man who has proven himself strong and loyal. It is a mark of respect and 
trust, and is never undertaken without the full understanding of its responsibilities." 

Hart's eyes rested briefly on Aidan. "A kinsman is often chosen, because there is 
like blood flowing in the veins and blood binds a man to another man more firmly than 
anything else. But others are honored as well." Hart smiled. "Tevis, Lord of High Crags." 

Clear brown eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "My lord." 

"Will you, as second-father, swear to raise Prince Owain as your own? Will you 
take an oath to serve this child as you would serve the Prince of Solinde, and any child of 
your body? Will you accept him as your liege lord, caring for his needs as he requires it, 
never failing this trust?" 

Tevis, oddly, was pale. "My lord-you have spoken of a kinsman… what of Prince 
Aidan?" 

Hart did not look at his nephew. "Aidan's tahlmorra takes him in another 
direction. We would have you for our son's second-father." 

Next to Tevis, Blythe's face was alight. Aidan understood very well why Hart did 
as he did; it was, he thought, very clever. And undoubtedly would prove extremely 
fortuitous. 

Tevis drew a deep, slow breath. "My lord… my lord, I will do anything you 
require. It will be my honor to serve Prince Owain as second-father." 

Ilsa's smile was luminous. "We are honored by your oath." 

Blythe pressed Tevis' arm. He approached slowly, head bowed in homage. When 
he stood before the dais, he knelt so as not to lift his head above that of the infant. 


"Rise," Hart said. "Take his hand in yours." 

Dazed, Tevis rose and reached out for the tiny hand. He stared at the baby's silk-
smooth, fragile skin; the crumpled, sleep-creased face. "I swear," he said quietly. "I swear 
to raise you as a child of my own body. I swear to serve you. I accept you as my liege 
lord. I will care for your needs as you require it, and I swear I will never fail your trust." 
Tevis bent his head and kissed the tiny hand. 

Blythe, Aidan saw, had tears in her eyes. Cluna and Jennet were solemn-faced, 
big-eyed; they understood full well the gravity of the ceremony. Ilsa, still clasping Hart's 
arm, looked on Tevis with great pride shining in her lovely face; Hart himself wore an 
expression of many things, not the least of them satisfaction and a quiet, contented 
triumph. 

Inwardly, Aidan laughed. Oh, aye, su'fali, you know exactly what you have done. 

Hart looked over Tevis' bowed head. His gaze met Aidan's. A new peace entered 
his eyes. 

Aidan nodded acknowledgment. He has his son… his future… and his 
immortality… 

Tevis stepped away. He bowed briefly, then returned to Blythe's side. His eyes 
were strange. He appeared singularly moved, but Aidan sensed no specific emotion 
through the kivarna. The gift, as always, was fickle. It would not be manipulated. 

But Tevis, as if sensing Aidan's look, turned. For a moment his face was quite 
still, and then he smiled a genuine smile. 

Aidan smiled back blandly, but inwardly he felt a tremendous sense of relief. 
Perhaps, after all, he will be content with this. 

It was evening, in Hart's solar. The light was gone from the day, but candles filled 
the lack and set the chamber alight. They had succeeded in chasing the women from the 
room so they could forget the talk of new babies and turn their minds to other things, 
such as good wine, tall tales, and wagering. 

Hart laughed aloud and leaned forward to scoop the winnings into his already 
impressive pile. Tevis swore mildly, counted what he had left, glanced to Aidan on his 
left. "Someone will have to stop him, before he robs us all." 

Aidan grunted. "Not I. You see how little is left to me-you have more than I." 

Tevis looked again at his stack of red-gold Solindish coins. It was much 
diminished, but he did have more than Aidan. He nodded to himself, took up his goblet of 
wine, drank half down. 

Hart pointed. "There is that." 

Aidan put a shielding hand over his heavy topaz ring. "This is my signet ring." 

"Aye, well… it never stopped me. A man true to the game does not let such petty 
things as personal possessions stand in the way of a good wager." 

Ruddy brows shot up. " 'A man true to the game'? Do you mean a man who has 
lost control?" 

Hart scowled. "No." 

Aidan could not resist it. "A man true to himself wagers nothing of importance." 

Hart's scowl deepened. "Then what of those links on your belt? They serve no 
useful purpose." 

Tevis nodded briefly. "I had wondered myself." 


A hand locked over the links. "No." 

"Why do you wear them, harani? Not for ornamentation-" 

Aidan waved a hand. "I wear them because I want to. Here, if you are so hungry 
for a wager…" He pushed out the few remaining coins he had. "There. That will do. 
Small, perhaps, but a wager." 

Hart sighed and rattled the Bezat bowl. The game was run through; the result, this 
time, was different. 

"Hah!" Tevis cried. "You see? The face of fortune turns at last to one more 
deserving." 

Glowering at the young man, Hart pushed the proper amount of coin back across 
the table. The sapphire ring on his finger glittered with icy fire; beside it rested the fiery 
ruby signet of the kings of Solinde. Save for the gold on his arms and in his left ear, the 
rings were the only jewelry Hart affected. The sapphire's setting matched that of Aldan's 
topaz, worked with tiny runes, and he recalled with a start that Hart was still considered a 
prince in Homana. 

Aidan glanced at Tevis as he reached out to gather the coin. Like Hart, he wore a 
sapphire ring; were they fashionable this year? But his was not so massive, and the 
setting very new. The jet ring looked far older, set firmly in ancient gold. 

Hart looked at Aidan intently. "You will have to play again." 

"But I lost, su'fali… and that was the last of my coin." 

Hart grunted. "Brennan gives you a light purse." 

Aidan laughed and poured more wine. "He gives me all I need. I am not a 
profligate spender." 

"Well?" Tevis asked. "How many in this game?" 

"All three," Hart declared. "I will stake Aidan to more gold." 

"Just so I can play? Su'fali, I swear, it is not that important to me-" 

"You are my guest, and you will play." Hart's smile was charming. "I refuse to be 
the sole loser on my son's naming day." 

Aidan dutifully lifted his cup. "To Prince Owain, may the gods grant him a good 
tahlmorra." 

Hastily, Tevis raised his as well. "Prince Owain," he echoed absently, looking into 
the Bezat bowl. "Shall you stir?" He passed the bowl to Aidan. 

Thus invited, he stuck two long fingers into the bowl and stirred the contents, 
rattling etched ivory against the rim. The game had mostly lost its appeal, since he now 
risked another man's coin, but it was good manners to continue when his uncle had been 
so generous. He only hoped he could win back enough to cover the loaned coin, since he 
hated being in debt. 

"Here." Hart waited for Aidan to set down the bowl, then dipped in to draw out a 
piece. 

They played mostly in silence, commenting briefly on the draws, or muttering 
dissatisfaction. Tevis' gaze was fixed on the bowl, but Aidan thought he did not really see 
it; his eyes had the dazed look of a man lost in thought elsewhere, no longer aware of his 
actions or surroundings. The skin of his face seemed tauter than ever, as if he was ill or 
under strain, but there was no other indication of his inattention. 

"Tevis?" Hart said. 

Tevis twitched on his stool. "My lord?" 


"Yours is the next draw. For Aidan." 

"Ah." He reached in, dug out the stone, turned it from one side to the other. 
"Bezat," he said blankly. "The deathstone." 

Hart laughed at Aidan's resigned expression. "You lose! Now Tevis and I must 
play this out-" 

The door was flung open. Dulcie's nursemaid stripped loose hair from her eyes. 
"My lord-you must come at once-" 

Frowning, Hart pushed his stool away and rose. "Helda, what is it?" 

"Oh, my lord-the baby-" 

Hart threw down his winecup. It rang against the table even as it spilled a blood-
red puddle onto polished wood. Aidan stood up so abruptly he overset his stool, and went 
after Hart; Tevis, white-faced, dropped the death-stone into the spreading wine and 
followed. 

Aidan arrived in the nursery but a moment after Hart pushed his way through the 
crowding women. Ilsa was on her knees next to the cradle, clasping the linen-swathed 
infant to her breast. Her eyes were empty of everything save a harsh, horrible grief. 

"Not again," Hart murmured, and then swung frenziedly on them all. "Out!" he 
shouted to the women. "All of you, out. At once." 

Aidan and Tevis moved aside as the women departed raggedly. Night-clad Blythe 
arrived even as they left. "What is it?" she cried. Then, looking past to her mother, "Oh, 
gods-not Owain-" 

Ilsa murmured down into the still bundle, seemingly unaware of Hart's presence. 
It was not until he knelt down and touched her that she raised her eyes. 

"Meijhana-" 

"Dead," she said only. 

With trembling fingers, Hart peeled back the wrappings. He touched the face. 
"Cold," he murmured blankly. "Cold and white as death-" 

Blythe's face was as white. "But he was well… earlier, at the ceremony… he was 
well-" 

Hart's hand shook as he cupped Ilsa's head. "Oh, meijhana, there is nothing I can 
say to make the pain softer for you…" 

What of you? Aidan wondered numbly. What of your pain, su'fali… a son and 
heir, born and unborn in the space of three days… 

Tevis murmured something. Then, more loudly, "He was my son. Mine, too… I 
was second-father." 

Blythe reached for his arm, but he withdrew it. Slowly he moved toward the 
huddled, grieving queen and the Cheysuli who knelt with bowed head, one large hand 
grasping the tiny fingers of the son who would never rule in his father's palace. 

"Oh, no," Blythe said brokenly. "He should not… he is not Cheysuli, and does not 
understand about private grief-" 

Aidan did. He moved at once to intercept the Solindishman. "Tevis, no. Let it 
wait. Come away, for now-" He put his hand on Tevis' arm. "Let the first grief pass-" 

Fingers closed, then spasmed. It ran through Aidan like fire, setting bones ablaze 
even as his blood turned to ice, still and dark and cold, so cold


"You," he croaked. "You-" 

Tevis' eyes were black. "Put no hand on me." 


"You-" Aidan choked. 

Even Hart was drawn from his grief by the sound of Aidan's horror. He turned, 
rising, clearly distracted. 

The kivarna was blazing within him like a pyre. In that moment Tevis' intentions 
were clear. "You killed the child!" 

Blythe's voice was shrill. "Are you mad? Why would Tevis-?" 

Hart grabbed Aidan's arm and jerked him around. "What are you saying?" 

"It was Tevis," Aidan declared. The truth was so clear to him-could none of them 
see it? Feel it, as he did? "It was Tevis-" 

The Solindishman's face was white. "I am his second-father. I am sworn to him, to 
protect him-and you say I killed him?" 

Hart's voice was harsh. "Aidan, this is nonsense… Tevis has been with us for 
hours." 

Aidan was shaking. "I know it. I know it. I feel it-" The final shred of disbelief 
dissolved the remaining vestige of Tevis' shield. "By the gods-Mini-" 

"Are you mad?" Blythe cried. 

The barriers were gone. Aidan sensed the seething ambition and raw power in the 
man, the tremendous upsurge of so much power, barely bridled; and hatred, so much 
hatred; too much hatred and power and absolute dedication to the service of a god no one 
else dared worship. 

Tevis lifted a hand. Around his fingers danced the faintest glow of flame, cold 
purple flame; godfire at his fingertips, revealing all too clearly what he was. As, now, he 
intended. 

"Wait," he said softly. 

Perversely, Aidan wanted to laugh. "Ihlini," he said again, wondering at his 
blindness. How could he not have known? How could the Cheysuli blood in him not 
know, or the Erinnish kivarna? He of all people


"Aye," Tevis spat between his teeth. "Child of the gods; child of prophecy-like 
you!" 

"He was a baby!" Hart shouted. "A helpless infant! What purpose does it serve to 
end his life?" 

"Because I must end all the lives," Tevis snapped. "Each and every life I can find-
each and every seed-" 

"Tevis," Blythe whispered. 

"-until there are no seeds left, save ours." Tevis cast a malignant glance at Hart. 
"Had you left his son unborn, you would not now know this grief. It is your fault, my lord 
of Solinde… to save the lady this pain, you had only to do one thing." 

Aidan heard the sluggish distraction in Hart's voice. Shock was starting to 
distance him from a reality he could not face. "One thing-?" 

Tevis smiled. "Name me your heir, my lord. Put me on the throne after you-" 

"No!" Blythe cried. "Oh, gods-no-NO-" 

"Ah," Tevis remarked. "She has only just realized the man she slept with is Ihlini. 
A Cheysuli and Ihlini, in carnal congress… just as the prophecy warned." 

Ilsa, forgotten, rose slowly. Her face was ravaged by grief, but it diminished none 
of her intensity. "Your war has been with adults, Ihlini-always. Why now do you turn to a 
child? What harm could he do you?" 


An elegant shrug. "Now, very little. But it is important to me that no seed survive. 
Asar-Suti has made it quite clear that if the Ihlini are to regain dominion over the world, 
we must first destroy the Cheysuli and anyone who serves them." 

"How?" Aidan asked. "You were with us. How could we not know? How could 
you touch this child from afar?" 

Tevis displayed the sapphire. "A token from your father, my lord of Homana… 
something he gave my aunt many years ago. It has served us very well in the meantime. 
Anything once worn by man or woman contains an essence of that person-combined with 
Ihlini arts, we make a shield, so we may walk freely among you and the lir. As for 
touching him from afar, a simple thing to do with an infant. I merely thought on a tiny 
heart, quite still, and wished it into truth." He smiled. "A fortunate thing, this ring-
Brennan should have known better than to give it to Rhiannon." 

"Your aunt," Hart echoed. "Rhiannon?" 

The smooth, urbane expression of a Solindish nobleman faded. Aidan heard 
Blythe's stifled denial; saw the draining of Hart's face. Tevis was no longer precisely 
Tevis. His features were much the same, but more refined, more feral. In his mind's eye, 
Aidan made the eyes a lighter brown, almost yellow; the hair a shade darker, now black. 

"Oh, gods," Aidan blurted. "Strahan had a son." 

Blythe's voice was a travesty. "Where is Tevis, then? Was there a Tevis?" 

"Most certainly," Strahan's son agreed. "I killed him." He displayed the black ring 
on his other hand. "I killed Tevis and his father in High Crags, when I knew he was 
coming here. The father's body I left-there was no need of it-but Tevis' I required in order 
to arrange the proper glamour." He smiled. "Those who knew Tevis, saw Tevis when 
they looked at me. Those who did not, saw me. So, aye, meijhana, it was also Tevis you 
lay down with… at least, as much Tevis as remains of him, in this ring." 

Blythe, trembling, pressed both hand against her mouth. Her face was ashen with 
comprehension. 

Ilsa took a single step, then stopped. Against her breast she still cradled the 
murdered child. "I curse you," she said simply. "I am of the oldest House in this realm, 
Ihlini. With all that I was, I am, and will be-I curse you." 

Tevis smiled at her, gently inclining his head. Then he looked at Hart. "I have 
killed the son," he said. "Now I must kill the father." 

Something glittered in his hand. Silver, not purple; the godfire was gone. Not a 
knife, but its edge as deadly. Aidan had heard of the slender silver wafers with curving, 
elegant spikes. He had also heard the name: Sorcerer's Tooth. It flashed from the man 
they had known as Tevis and sliced across the room. 

"Lochiel," he said softly, "so you will know me as you die." 

Without thought, Aidan moved. He meant to knock down the Tooth; to block Hart 
from the lethal wafer. But he knew, even as he thrust out the hand to catch it, he had 
made a deadly mistake. 

The entry was painless. It sliced into his palm, then through it, severing muscle, 
bone and vessel as the spikes rotated through the fine bones of his hand and exited the 
other side. Fingers closed once, spasming, and then vision turned inside out. 

Hart caught him as he fell. And as he fell, he recalled the Ihlini forged their Teeth 
in poison. 

Blythe screamed. And then she stopped. 


Or he did. 

Chapter Nine 

«^» 

Where he was, it was cold. So cold he ached with it. He could not move; could 
not see; could not hear or speak, but his awareness flickered with something akin to life 
even though he knew he was dead. 

Someone had placed him on a barge. He lay on a bier, covered with a silken 
shroud, and his flesh was dead on his bones. 

He floated in perfect silence on a lake of glass so clear he could see the darkness 
of the depths. He was alone. No one steered the barge. No one held the vigil at his side. 
No one wailed or keened or grieved, as if his death made absolutely no difference at all to 
anyone, even to his lir. 

Teel. 

He was alone. He felt a vague distress that his life could have so little meaning 
that his death would hold even less. He was prince, warrior, child of the prophecy, in line 
for the Lion; it was as if he had never been. The barge floated silently upon the waters of 
the glass-black lake, and he was still alone. 

Teel. 

He heard the ripple in the water. It was faint, so faint he believed it imagination, 
but the rippling slowly increased until he became convinced it was real. Someone-or 
something-approached him through the water. 

Teel? 

He struggled to open dead eyes. And again, this time to move an arm; neither 
answered. His flesh was still and cold and heavy, so heavy; Aidan began to understand 
death, and to know the futility and helplessness of a live spirit trapped within dead flesh. 

The rippling became a splashing. Aidan, blind still, heard something grasp the 
edge of the barge. He felt no fear-he was dead-but curiosity overrode helplessness. With 
all the power remaining to him, he snapped open his eyes and looked. 

A man. A warrior: Cheysuli. He wore leather and gold, clan-worked all, and his 
coloring was true. In his planed, feral face was a strange, eloquent sorrow. Softly he 
pulled himself out of water he did not displace, and then stood upon the barge. Aidan saw 
he was dry. 

Lips and throat answered him. "Did you not swim?" 

The other smiled. "I swam. But where I am, water cannot touch me." 

Aidan, staring, saw the sword in his left hand. A true, two-handed broadsword of 
steel and gold, with a massive hilt bearing the rampant lion of Homana. In its heavy 
pommel, to balance the heavy blade, was a blood-red ruby. Down the length of the blade 
walked runes. 

Two links Aidan possessed. Two Mujhars: Shaine, and Carillon. And now the 
third before him. 

"Donal," he breathed. 

The warrior smiled. "Aye." 

Aidan looked again at the ruby. Huge and brilliant and red; the Mujhar's Eye, he 
knew… and no longer in existence. 

Donal saw his expression. "Niall returned it to me." 


"But-you were dead. And he threw the sword away… he went into the Womb of 
the Earth and threw it down the oubliette." 

The voice was very gentle. "The sword was made for me, by Hale, my grandsire. 
When I have need of it, it answers." 

Aidan wet dry lips; a thing he had believed impossible, on a dead man. With great 
deliberation he pushed himself into a sitting position. Silken shroud-crimson and black, 
the colors of Homana-slid down to his hips. He shivered, for he was naked beneath the 
fine silk. "There was no chain," he said. "I did not dream of a chain. Always before it has 
been the chain first, and then the Mujhar." 

Donal's austere face softened. "Are you so certain?" 

Aidan looked. Gold glittered in silk. At his feet, upon the bier, lay the chain. The 
links, as always, were solid, perfect… deadly. 

He very nearly laughed. He knew the pattern now. "What have you come to tell 
me?" 

"Do I have to tell you something?" Donal gazed across the lake into the setting 
sun. "No. I will let the others speak for me. The gods have set me a different task." 

Aidan shivered, though he was not cold. "What task?" 

"You may call me a steersman, for now." Donal moved to one end of the barge 
and lifted the sword as a man would hold a staff. Long brown fingers closed on steel; by 
rights, it should cut. 

Astonished, Aidan saw the sword reshape itself. The steel and gold flowed in 
either direction until it stretched, lengthening, and when it stopped he saw it was no 
longer a sword, but a golden pole, a steersman's pole, and as Donal slid it into the water 
Aidan saw the ruby send forth a starburst of brilliant light. 

"To ward off the Darkness," Donal explained. 

Aidan looked at the setting sun. He believed, in that moment, that his life or death 
would be decided by what he agreed-or refused-to do. 

Quietly, Donal steered. "Your journey has been interrupted. I am here to put you 
back on the proper path." 

"Then-I am not yet dead." 

"Not as I know death. But neither are you alive, as the living know it. It is best to 
simply say you are elsewhere for the moment." 

Aidan said nothing. 

"Men die," Donal said. "Even Cheysuli die. But occasionally the gods see to it 
that a certain man-or woman-does not, because they have a use for him." 

"Use," Aidan echoed. "A weighty word, I'm thinking." 

"Most words are." Water splashed softly. "They sent me; therefore I am assuming 
they have some use for you." 

Aidan thought about it. He recalled the things he had been told by the Hunter, by 
the Weaver, and by the two Mujhars. "And have they given you leave to tell me what this 
use is, or am I to guess?" 

Donal looked at him. The setting sun illuminated his face. It was a face similar to 
his own, Aidan realized, though the color was much darker and all the angles sharper. 
The Erinnish in him had softened hue and hardness, redefining the wildness into 
something more civilized. It was easy to see why the Homanans, seeing a clan-born 
Cheysuli, had been so willing to name them alien. 


This is what I might have been, instead of what I am. Had my line not looked to 
outmarriage… 

He touched a strand of ruddy hair. The eyes in his head were right, but certainly 
not the hair. He did not know whether to be grateful or sorry for it. 

Donal's tone was muted. "It would do little good for me to tell you all the 
answers, Aidan. Men are men, not gods; they often shun the knowledge of a better way. 
Men are willful, but the willfulness is what the gods gave them. And so the gods bide 
their time, waiting to see if the man will follow his proper tahlmorra, or turn away from 
it." Yellow eyes were strangely calm. "What of you, kinsman? Which path do you 
choose?" 

"All Cheysuli follow their tahlmorras," Aidan answered automatically, and then 
knew how foolish it sounded in view of Teirnan's actions, and those of the other a'saii. 
Quickly he asserted, "I intend to follow mine." 

"Freely, or because you are constrained by blood and heritage?" 

"Freely, of course." Aidan spread his hands. "But the choice is hardly a true one… 
what other path is open to me?" 

"Many paths are open to you. Any number of them will seem easier than the true 
path awaiting you. Your life is very young, Aidan… do not judge what has gone before 
as the measure of what will come. You may despise the gods before your time on earth is 
done." 

Aidan disagreed politely. "I think not, kinsman." 

Donal arched black brows. "Innocence speaks hastily." 

Disgusted, Aidan scowled at him-this meeting with yet another dead kinsman was 
as obscure as all the others-then marveled that he dared. Donal had been dead for many 
years. "I have been properly raised, my lord Mujhar. You need have no fear your son has 
failed in his duty, nor his son… I will do whatever the gods ask of me." 

"And if they ask your life?" 

"They asked yours," Aidan retorted. "And you gave it." 

Sorrow altered Donal's face. He briefly touched a lir-band-wrought gold depicting 
wolf and falcon-then let the hand fall away. "I gave it. But my lir were dead… I wanted 
no empty life, no madness. Better to die whole, knowing, than die a lirless madman." 

Aidan shivered, though he was not cold. Out of habit he moved to pull the shroud 
to cover his nakedness, and as he did so he heard the chiming of links falling. He stopped 
himself from touching the chain. 

He looked squarely at Donal. "You are my great-grandsire." 

"Aye." 

"Then I ask a kinsman's boon." Aidan took a deep breath. "Tell me what I must 
do. Tell me what I must become." 

Donal, backlighted now by sunlight, though the barge had not turned, was only a 
silhouette. Aidan could no longer see his features. But he saw the pole shrink, swallowing 
itself, until it was a sword in the hand of its master. The point was set through one of the 
links; lifted, the chain dangled. Aidan stared, transfixed, as the chain was carried closer. 

Donal tipped the sword. The chain slid off steel and landed in Aidan's silk-
swathed lap. "I cannot tell you what to do. The gods constrain me from that. But I can tell 
you what you must become." 

Aidan wrenched his gaze from the chain so close to his manhood to the shadowed 


face of his kinsman. "Tell me, then." 

Donal's eyes were oddly serene. "You must become Aidan," he said gently. "Not 
Aidan of Homana; Aidan the prince; Aidan, son of Brennan, grandson of Niall, great-
grandson of Donal." He smiled. "You must simply become yourself." 

"But I am all those things! How can I not be?" 

"That is your choice." 

Aidan put out a shaking hand and touched the chain in his lap. "Is it?" he asked. 
"Is it my choice… or the gods?" 

But when he looked up, hoping for an answer, a word, anything, Donal-and the 
sword-was gone. 

He jerked awake with a gasp. His chest felt heavy, empty, as if it had been sat 
upon for a very long time. He shuddered once, gulping air spasmodically, then opened his 
eyes and saw Hart's haggard face. 

Breath flowed slowly back into his body, filling his chest until he thought he 
might burst. Then he swallowed forcibly, working his flaccid mouth, and managed to ask 
a question. 

At first, Hart only stared. And then he muttered several things, including a 
leijhana tu'sai Aidan understood was for the gods, rather than for him, which he found 
oddly amusing. Quietly, he waited. 

"Do you know," Hart said shakily, "I had composed it in my head? But the idea of 
putting it down on paper…"He shook his head, then abstractedly pushed silvering hair 
out of his eyes. "How could I tell Brennan? How could I make the words?" 

Aidan smiled faintly. "No need now." He swallowed. "How long, su'fali?" 

"Four days," Hart answered raggedly. "I thought we had lost you. I thought both 
of you-" He wiped his hand across his face, older now than before. "How could we have 
been so blind to him? To bring him into our home, into my daughter's bed-" He stood 
abruptly and turned rigidly away, as if he could not face Aidan. His voice was muffled. 
"Blythe swears she will kill herself." 

Shock and revulsion turned Aidan cold. Suicide was taboo. 

The dignity was stripped from Hart's voice, leaving behind a father's fear and 
anguish. "She swears the only way to undo her transgression is to destroy the body 
itself." 

Aidan sighed wearily. "Then she is a fool indeed, and not fit to be Cheysuli." 

It jerked Hart around. "How can you say-?" But he understood at once. "Oh. Aye. 
Perhaps if she looked at it that way…" He resumed his seat once more. "I think-I hope-
once the shock has passed she will be more rational After all, both Ian and Brennan 
survived-" 

"-and Keely." Aidan was oddly light-headed. "Su'fali-four days?" It felt like only 
an hour. It felt like four years. 

Hart nodded. "At first I thought the earth magic too weak to destroy the poison. 
But this morning the fever broke." 

Aidan reached for an itchy face and felt stubble. He grimaced in distaste; he 
detested his propensity for growing a beard. It felt oddly unclean. Or perhaps merely too 
foreign, evoking his other bloodlines. 

Hart's smile was strained. "The Homanan in you. Brennan and I are smooth as a 


baby-" He broke it off. Only the closed eyes gave away his grief, and then he opened 
them again. New lines etched his flesh. 

Aidan glanced around. He was in the guest chamber allotted to him. The room 
was empty save for Hart, who sat in a heavy chair beside the bed. 

Teel. 

Here. The raven briefly fluttered wings; he perched, as always, on the canopy. 
Rest yourself, lir… I am here. 

Awareness reasserted itself; Aidan looked sharply at Hart. "The Ihlini?" 

"Gone. Blythe's scream brought servants… Tevis-no, Lochiel-dared not remain. 
Too many Cheysuli." Hart's tone was grim. "He took his leave as so many of them do: in 
smoke and purple fire." 

Aidan was, abruptly, in the audience chamber, holding a tiny infant only barely 
named. He recalled the insignificant weight; the crumpled, sleeping face; the hope for 
continuity. 

He recalled also the look of pride and peace in Hart's face as he had named Tevis 
second-father. 

The pain was greater than expected, because it was twofold. The kivarna gave 
him that; he experienced his own grief while also echoing Hart's. 

Aidan drew in a deep breath. He could think of no words worth the saying. So he 
said the obvious ones. "I am sorry, su'fali." 

"I know." A slight gesture closed the topic. A right-handed gesture, since he had 
no left. 

And suddenly Aidan's fear and anguish was for himself. He thrust his left hand 
into the air, staring at it fixedly. It was swathed in bandages. He remembered, with 
unwanted clarity, the vision of steel piercing flesh, slicing too easily through skin and 
blood and muscle, dividing even bone. 

"Is it whole? Oh, gods, su'fali-is it whole?" 

Hart drew in a deep breath. "Whole," he said, "but damaged." 

"How damaged?" All he could see was the old pain in Hart's eyes whenever he 
spoke of a clan no longer his. Would he share it, now? "Will I have the use of it?" 

"I cannot say." 

Aidan struggled upright. "Cannot, or will not? Are you trying to save me grief? 
Trying to save me the realization-?" 

Hart's face hardened. "I told you the truth, Aidan. No one knows. The hand is 
whole, but damaged. You may or may not recover the use of it. I promise you nothing at 
all." 

"A maimed warrior has no place in the clans," Aidan quoted numbly. 

Pain and anguish flared afresh in Hart, with such virulence that it smashed 
through Aidan's awareness like a mangonel stone. "No," he agreed. 

Aidan slumped back against bolsters. Strength and fear and comprehension 
spilled out of him like a bag of grain emptied. He had not wanted to pass the pain to Hart 
yet again. Ihlini poison had left him weak. "But," he said quietly, "I am still a prince, as 
you are, with a place at the Lion's side, with a hand or without." 

When he could, Hart smiled. "Aye." 

"The gods will have to be content with me as I am-they gave me the burden." 
Aidan's eyes drifted closed. "Where are my links?" 


"Your links?" 

Eyes remained closed. "The links on my belt." He was naked beneath the coverlet, 
as he had been on the bier. 

"They were put away. Do you want them?" 

"No. Just to know they are safe." Because there will be a third to come. There 
must be; I met Donal. 

"Aidan." 

All he could do was grunt. 

"Shall I arrange to send you home once you are feeling stronger?" 

It made sense. He wanted to go. He had very nearly died-he would like to see 
home again, and all of his kinfolk


-but his great-grandsire Donal had come to set him back on the proper path. 

"No," he managed to whisper. "There is Erinn yet to see." 

So, Teel observed, you did not lose all of your wits. 

Sluggish irritation. Only the use of a hand. 

Teel, to do him credit, did not respond to that. He merely tucked his head under a 
wing. 

Blythe came, as he expected. She came as he put the last of his possessions into 
his saddle-packs, and stood just inside the door. Even in her bleakness, he thought her 
beautiful. 

Right-handed, he closed the flap on the saddle-pack and looped the thong loosely 
through the buckle. Then he looked at Blythe. 

Her hands, in skirts, were rigid. He wished he could do the same. "They said-" 
She stopped. "They said it does not move." 

"The hand moves," he corrected. "Even the thumb, a little. But the fingers are 
mostly useless." Aidan forbore to look. He knew what it was, under the bandages. He had 
examined it most carefully when it was clear the healing was done. 

She lifted her head a little. "Will it make you kin-wrecked?" 

It took everything he had to answer casually, so as not to display the fear. 
"Probably." 

Color flared in her face. "How can you sound like that-as if it makes no 
difference? As if you hardly care? You have only to look at my father to know what it 
means… the pain he has to live with-all because of a gods-cursed ancient custom in a 
race too blind to see that a man can be a man even if he lacks a hand-" 

"I know," he said tightly. 

"Then how can you stand there and shrug so elegantly, wearing all your gold, 
when you know what they might do-and to the man who will be Mujhar!" 

"I know," he said again. 

Tears glittered. "Know what?" 

"How badly it hurts." 

Blythe had cut her hair. She clawed at it now; it barely touched her shoulders. "He 
told me what you said. That I was not fit to be a Cheysuli. Not worthy of the taboo." 

"No. Only a lirless man can accept the death-ritual, or there is no honor in the 
death." 

"Honor!" she snapped. "What honor is left to me? I have been defiled-" 


Aidan shook his head. "All you were, was tricked." 

"I lay with an Ihlini!" 

"Do you know who he is?" 

Blythe blinked. "What?" 

"Do you know who he is? The man you believed was Tevis?" 

Clearly, she did not have the slightest idea what he meant. "Of course I know who 
he is. He told us: Lochiel." 

"Strahan's son," Aidan said, "who is nephew to Rhiannon, who is our great-uncle's 
daughter." 

"What?" Blythe snapped. "What has this to do with anything?" 

Aidan shrugged. "I thought I spoke clearly enough." 

"But none of this makes sense-" 

"Does it not?" He shrugged again. "I thought I had just named off a generation or 
two of our birthlines." 

"Aidan-" 

Sympathy dissipated. "By the gods, Blythe, you are not the first Cheysuli-or the 
first of our line-to lay with an Ihlini! Ian did it first. Then Brennan, my father… then 
Keely, my aunt. And all of them tricked, Blythe. D'ye hear what I'm telling you?" 

She shouted back at him. "Do you expect me to like it? Do you expect me to be 
proud? Do you expect me not to care?" 

"No," he said softly. "I expect you to survive." 

She swallowed painfully. "He wanted me for the throne." 

"And for a son," he told her. "I know, Blythe-I know it hurts to realize you have 
been tricked, been used… but it could have been much worse." 

"Worse?" She was aghast. "He killed a three-day-old baby!" 

"But not you. Not Dulcie, or the twins. Not your mother or father. Think again, 
Blythe… it could have been much worse." 

"He would have killed us all. You were there. He wanted my father first-" 

"Because he was discovered." Aidan sighed; he still tired easily. "Had I not 
uncovered who he was, Owain's death would have been remarked as a sad, tragic thing-
no true-born heir for Solinde. But Hart made it clear there was an alternative-your child, 
Blythe… your son by Tevis of High Crags. Lochiel did not come here planning to murder 
everyone for the throne, but to marry for the throne." 

Her lips were pressed flat. "Is that supposed to please me?" 

Aidan picked up the saddle-pack. "Perhaps not, just now. Perhaps all you can see 
is the humiliation you feel because you bedded an Ihlini." 

Anger flared forth. "Save your compassion, Aidan. You do not know what it was 
like." 

"What it was like?" He threw down the saddle-pack. "I'll tell you, then, so we'll 
both be knowing about it: you bedded him willingly. It was probably your idea, so you 
could be putting an end to the unwanted suit of an unwanted kinsman come from 
Homana to find a bride. And that, my highborn Solindish, is why you're so angry now!" 

Color peeled away. White-faced, Blythe stared as the tears ran down her face. Her 
chin trembled minutely. "I am ashamed," she whispered. "Oh, gods-so ashamed!" 

For the first time since he had arrived, Aidan touched Blythe. And the kivarna 
remained silent. 


"I know," he said as softly, as she moved into his arms. "Shansu, meijhana-I 
know." 

"I want to die," she whispered. "Oh, gods-I want to die-" 

He stroked her ragged hair. "Your parents have lost three children. Are you 
wanting to steal another?" 

A shudder wracked her body. "I want it back the way it was. The way it was 
before he came." 

"The Wheel of Life has turned." 

With a quiet, deadly vehemence, "Then the gods are very cruel." 

Aidan looked over her shoulder at the hand that would not work. "Sometimes," he 
agreed sadly. 

Thinking of the Weaver, who let so many die so the Wheel could turn again. 

PART III 

Chapter One 

«^» 

He rode westward, bound for Andemir on the wild coast of Solinde battered by 
the Idrian Ocean. There he would take ship to Kilore, where the Aerie of Eagles perched 
upon the white chalk cliffs of Erinn, overlooking the Dragon's Tail. He had heard much 
about Kilore from his mother and from Deirdre; he wondered if it would fit. 

Teel flew overhead. Will you not marry the girl? 

Aidan frowned skyward, but thick trees screened the raven. The plains were far 
behind; all he could see was forest and the track stretching before him, sheltered by 
foliage. Blythe? No. At least, not just now. There is the possibility of a child… all of us 
agreed it would be best to wait. He paused, thinking of Blythe as she had been, alive with 
love for Tevis, and the Blythe he had seen at the last, devastated by Lochiel. She needs 
time. The worst thing for her would be to enter into a marriage just now. She associates 
me with Lochiel. Once I am back from Erinn, and if there is no child, then we might think 
of marriage. 

Are children not desired? 

Aidan wondered how he might explain things to a raven, whose understanding of 
human things was not always perfect. The lir were very wise, but not omniscient. 

Finally he gave him an answer. Preferably my own. 

There is the prophecy, Teel said lightly. Two magic races united… 

Ruddy eyebrows ran up under hair. Are you saying I should marry Blythe, even if 
she bears an Ihlini halfling? It was the last thing he expected a lir to advocate. 

Should, or should not, Teel said, is your choice to make. 

As always. Aidan scowled in the raven's general direction. Why should that 
change now? 

Teel made no answer to his lir's irritation, though smugness thrummed through 
the link. 

Aidan thought about it. Two magic races, indeed. How else to merge the 
bloodlines than by bedding an Ihlini? 

Inwardly, he quailed. For Ml he had offered solace to a frightened, angry cousin, 


he did not wish what had happened to her to be a thing he faced. 

"That gods-cursed ring," he said suddenly. "I should have gotten it from him. 
Somehow. Some way. That gods-cursed ring of my jehan's has been the bane of us all." 

He looked down at his left hand. He wore no rings on it, because he saw no sense 
in ornamenting a useless finger. No longer bandaged, the hand was obviously a hindrance 
rather than a helpmeet. The fingers had begun to curl as severed tendons died, but not all 
equally. The Tooth had sliced through vertically, so that the cut ran across his palm from 
fingers to heel. He had partial use of his thumb, and a bit in the smallest finger, but the 
other three were too damaged. Each day they twisted more tightly. Eventually what had 
been a hand would become an awkward claw. 

Aidan tucked the hand into one thigh, trying to ignore it. But his belly squirmed 
unpleasantly. The fear he had fought back since learning of his injury rapped yet again at 
tightly sealed shields. 

I am not so brave, he thought hollowly. All my studied nonchalance when Blythe 
shouted at me was nothing but affectation. I do care, almost too much-I do not want to be 
kin-wrecked. I do not want to be Hart, left outside the clans. I lack his kind of courage-

Almost against his will, he tried to fist the hand. All it did was spasm and send 
pain the length of his arm. 

"I cannot go home," he said aloud. "If I do, they will know-everyone will know… 
and then they will take my name off the birthlines in Clankeep. A kin-wrecked man, I'd 
be-what kind of Mujhar is that?" 

Lir, Teel asked, do you ever plan to stop? Or will you ride through the night? 

"Through the night!" Aidan snapped, then cursed himself for a fool. What good 
would it do to rail at his lir? Teel knew as well as he how helpless he felt, how frightened 
he was of being kin-wrecked. 

Lir. Teel again. The sun is going down. 

So it was. The woods were alight with sunset, gilding trunks and trappings. If he 
did not stop soon, he would lose all of the light and be left to make camp in the darkness, 
in a wood he did not know. 

Aidan sighed. "All right, fir. Your point has been made. Go off and catch your 
meal-I will make a camp." 

But once he had settled on a sheltering thicket of saplings, Aidan discovered how 
he had taken for granted things such as two whole hands. It was nearly impossible to 
unsaddle his horse, and he realized it was the first of many things he would be unable to 
do well one-handed. The acknowledgment came painfully. At first he tried to ignore it 
and go on as he always did; in the end, completely defeated, he swore at intricate buckles 
done up for him in Lestra, cursing thoughtless horseboys; then humiliation followed. So 
much depended on two hands, on eight fingers and two thumbs; he offered one of the 
latter and only four of the former. 

He could not undo the final buckle. Frustration welled up. Its power stunned even 
Aidan. "Is this some kind of test?" he shouted, staring up at the tree-screened sky. "Or 
merely ironic coincidence, something worth laughing about?" 

There was no answer save the clattering of gear from a horse only half unpacked. 
Aidan's ruined hand dropped away from the trappings as he leaned against the horse, 
brow pressed into saddle. Frustration and fear and futility were suddenly overwhelming. 
He felt very much as he had facing the Lion as a child, railing at a chain that existed only 


in dreams. 

"Why?" he murmured into leather. "Why did it happen to me? What did I do to 
deserve this?" He knew, even as he asked them, the questions were unworthy. They were 
also selfish and petulent, but at that moment he did not care. He was angry and very 
frightened, and very much a child. 

Aidan squeezed his eyes closed. "Oh, gods-I will be kin-wrecked… I will have to 
go before Clan Council and tell them what happened, and display my infirmity…" 
Humiliation writhed deep in the pit of his belly. "They will do all the things they did to 
Hart-" He sucked in a deep, noisy breath, trying to ward away panic. "Unless-unless I 
insist… I am not Hart, who was meant for Solinde… I will be Prince of Homana, and one 
day Mujhar-if I insist they change the custom-" Aidan pressed himself from the horse, 
new resolve hardening. "I will insist. I will. How can they deny me? One day I will be 
Mujhar-" 

But even as he said it, Aidan felt the infant resolve waver. 

To stand before Clan Council and denounce one of the oldest traditions of his race 
was not a thing he wanted to do. His father had asked, had petitioned; had even, he had 
been told, shouted at Clan Council, but it had changed nothing. Even for the Mujhar's 
middle son, the tradition could not be altered. Too many things had been changed. Now 
the older warriors, abetted by shar tahls, hung on to the old customs to keep new ones at 
bay. 

"Fools," Aidan said aloud. "Blind, arrogant fools… what use is it to waste a 
warrior now? We are no longer hunted, no longer at war… they would do better, all those 
shar tahls, to look to the future instead of to the past." 

The horse shook his head. Still saddled, he was unhappy. It renewed Aidan's 
anger. "Fools, all of them… had I any influence, I would change things." 

Teel's tone was severe. Questioning your tahlmorra? 

Was hunting so bad you are back already? Aidan abruptly drew his long-knife 
and cut the strap in two. "Why not question?" he asked aloud. "If they did not mean us to, 
they would not have given us words with which to ask them." 

Cutting that will not help you when you pack the gear tomorrow. 

No. Anger spilled away. "Too late," Aidan muttered, dragging saddle and packs 
free. Teel was right, of course. Teel was usually right. 

But then if you went in lir-shape, buckles would not matter. 

Aidan stopped moving. He had been afraid to ask; now he knew he had to. "Do I 
still have recourse to lir-shape?" 

You did not lose the hand. It merely changed its shape. 

The answer made him weak with realization. He released a gusty breath, mixing 
laughter with heartfelt relief. "Leijhana tu'sai, for that." 

Teel uttered a croak. And for other things as well. 

Aidan grinned and settled the gear, then tended to the horse. He felt better 
already, knowing he still could fly. Being kin-wrecked was bad enough, but not being 
able to fly-

Aidan put it out of his mind. Instead he thought of his grandsire, Niall, who 
lacked an eye. He bore scars worse than Aidan's. No one called him half-man, or a 
failure. All knew better. 

If he could become like Niall



"So," he said aloud, "if I do not think myself crippled, I will not be crippled." 

Much better, Teel remarked. You are bearable now. 

Aidan knelt to lay a fire. "Leijhana tu'sai, again." Couched in exquisite dryness. 

Fix enough for two. 

Aidan stopped moving stones, peering through twilight at the raven-shaped 
shadow perched in a nearby tree. "Was hunting that bad?" 

Not for me-for him. 

Aidan dropped the rock and spun, moving from knees to feet in one quick motion. 
He hand was on his long-knife, but he forbore to draw it. 

"Wise," the man applauded. "At least you are not overhasty." 

The prickles died from his flesh. "If you do this often, someone will be." 

"Oh, no… I think not. The others do not hear me as a man. They hear me as the 
wind, or an animal, or something else offering no threat. You see?" 

The stranger moved out of the sheltering trees. His gait was awkward, ungainly; 
he leaned upon a crutch thrust under an arm. His right leg was missing from below the 
knee, yet he moved almost noiselessly. He sounded nothing like a man. 

Aidan took his hand away from the knife. "I have enough for two." 

"You see? Being crippled is not so bad… it softens another man's soul." 

Aidan stared as the stranger made his way out of darkness. He was old, though 
not truly ancient, with a fringe of white hair curling around his ears. The top of his head 
was bald. The rest of it was a face comprising the map of Homana; Aidan cut off the 
impulse of looking for landmarks he knew. The stranger deserved better, and he was 
better mannered. 

Dark brown eyes glinted from under bushy white brows. "A fine young man," he 
said. "Well-mannered… and well-born?" He nodded to himself before Aidan could give 
him an answer. "There is the look of a fox about you: red hair and yellow eyes… would a 
fox be your lir?" 

Only a flicker of surprise; Cheysuli were no longer strangers. "No," he said, "a 
raven." He thought of his other uncle. "Though a kinsman claims a vixen." 

"Oh, aye; of course." He wore rough woolen homespun tunic belted over equally 
rough-made trews, and a single brogan shoe. The half-trew on his right leg was knotted 
beneath the stump. 

Uneasily, Aidan thought of Tevis who was not Tevis at all, but Lochiel in 
disguise, using subterfuge to bring down a king. This was Solinde, after all; the homeland 
of the Ihlini. But his kivarna told him nothing, and neither did his lir. 

The stranger levered himself down and sat beside the fire that was not, yet, a fire. 
He smiled up at Aidan. "You did say food, did you not?" 

"Aye," Aidan knelt to resume his work. When the ring was built and kindling laid, 
he drew out flint and steel. 

And realized almost at once it would take two hands to light. 

The heat of shame set his face ablaze. He gritted his teeth tightly and refused to 
look at the man. He thought briefly of asking him-the stranger had two hands-but then 
realized it was folly. He would not always have someone to help. He needed to learn 
what to do. 

Eventually, he managed. A twist of useless hand, pressure from new sources, 
careful concentration. The fire was lighted at last. Sighing, Aidan turned, wiping 


dampness from his forehead, and saw the stranger nodding. 

"The patience will come," he said gently. "So will the acceptance." He gestured to 
his stump. 

Helplessness spasmed. "When?" Aidan blurted. "All I can think of now is what I 
was before!" 

"Natural, that. I have done it, myself." The old man slapped the palm of his hand 
against one thigh. "The bitterness will fade, along with the helplessness. There are worse 
things in this world than lacking a bit of flesh." 

Aidan's grunt was politely noncommittal as he added fuel to the fire. 

Dark eyes glittered. "Do you count yourself less than a man?" 

Aidan, piling on wood, wanted not to answer. There was no way he could fully 
explain what it was to a man like himself, warrior-born and bred. But a glance at the 
stranger told him the man wanted an answer. 

Do not blame him… do not punish him, either. Aidan sighed and schooled his 
tone into patience and tolerance. "You are not Cheysuli… it is difficult to explain, but our 
law forbids a maimed man from remaining part of the clan. The warrior is expelled, cast 
out… in Old Tongue, he is kin-wrecked." 

"Why?" the stranger rasped. "Why throw away a warrior because he lacks a useful 
hand?" 

Aye, Aidan agreed. But retreated from bitterness into an explanation. "In the old 
days, when we were hunted, it was necessary that each warrior be able to fight. If he 
could not, he could not protect his kin, or his clan… he ate food better given to someone 
who could." 

The stranger scratched at his stump. "A harsh law, that. But there are times in a 
man's life-or in the life of his people-that hard decisions must be made. When it comes to 
survival…" Again he gestured at the stump. 

Aidan's mouth twisted. "I am less sanguine than you. This is but two weeks old." 

"Then I will ask it again: do you count yourself less than a man?" 

He was, at first, angry: who was this old man, this stranger, to ask him such a 
thing? But then anger spilled away. He knew he spoke the truth, though part of him tried 
to deny it. "No. This is not me. Not a hand. Not a leg. What I am comes from somewhere 
else… somewhere in here." Aidan touched his breast. 

The stranger nodded. "But you would rather have it back." 

Aidan thought of Hart, and quailed. "Who would not want it back?" 

"And what would you give up to have it?" 

Aidan looked into the eyes. They were expressionless in the darkness, but oddly 
purposeful. He no longer doubted the stranger was more than merely a stranger, come 
upon him by coincidence. 

Not here. Not in Solinde. Not where Lochiel yet roams. 

His hand went to his knife. He thought again of Hart, offered reattachment of his 
still-whole hand at the Gate of Asar-Suti, in the depths of Strahan's fortress. He had heard 
the story. The cost was service to Strahan. The cost was the weight of his soul. 

Resentment faded. So did bitterness. Certainty replaced both, and an unexpected 
resolve. "It is only a hand," he said clearly. "Not worth the price you want." 

"But to be whole again… a true warrior… not to be kin-wrecked-" 

Aidan laughed at the man. "Not for any price will I risk my tahlmorra." 


Firelight made the old man young. His eyes were dark as pits. He sat upon his 
rock with his good leg stretched before him and the crutch at his side. He rubbed the 
knotted stump. "Think again," he suggested. "Think twice, or thrice, or more." 

Aidan shook his head. 

The old man smiled. Once more he touched his stump, save now the leg was 
whole. "Come here," he said. 

Aidan knelt down before him. 

"Give me your ruined hand." 

Aidan offered the god his hand. "What are you called?" 

"In this guise, I am the Cripple." He studied Aidan's hand, examining curled 
fingers, the two-sided scar. "He struck well, the Ihlini. But it was not at you he struck." 

"No." 

"You took what was meant for someone else." 

"He was a kinsman. And a king." 

"Kings are men, too. Men die; kings die. How do you know it was not his 
tahlmorra to die?" 

He had not thought of that. "But-I had to. I could not let him be struck down. I 
had to. There was no choice." 

"Perhaps it was tahlmorra. Perhaps it was yours, Aidan." 

He dared a glance at pit-black eyes. "Was it you who sent Donal?" 

"I sent him. I could not allow you to die just yet, even as you could not allow your 
kinsman to be struck down. And so you live." He shrugged. "For now." 

Aidan shivered. He tried to suppress it; could not. "Can you tell me what you 
intend for me? Am I always to travel blind? I will serve you willingly, if you only give 
me the chance." 

"No." The Cripple's tone was cold. "No man accepts everything willingly. 
Sacrifices must be made. Too often a man knowing the sacrifice would never be willing 
to make it, just as you were unwilling to let the Ihlini kill your kinsman." 

"But-" 

"You will know what you must when the time is come. Now, as for this…" 

Aidan looked down. The twisted hand was still cradled in the hands of the god, 
but liquid spilled out. At first he feared it was blood, but it was rich and gold and heavy. 

"Open your hand, Aidan." 

A part of him wanted to laugh. But he knew better, now. He no longer thought to 
question. 

The fingers, tendons reknitted, answered his bidding. The liquid congealed, then 
formed itself into a shape. Across his unscarred palm lay a heavy rune-worked link 
perfectly matched to the other two. 

The god smiled on him. "You sacrificed no portion of your tahlmorra. The price 
for your hand was honesty; that, you gave tenfold." 

"Donal," Aidan said, staring at the link. 

The god did not answer. The Cripple, with his crutch, was gone. 

Aidan laughed. He wanted to cry. But he thought the laughter best. When he was 
done, he looked at the link. Then he looked at his hand, perfect and whole and 
unblemished. 

"Why?" he asked of Teel. 


The shadow that was his lir fluttered feathers briefly. He asked you questions. You 
answered them. I think you might be wise to assume you said what he wanted to hear. 

"But what do they want from me?" 

They are gods. Who can say? 

Futility possessed him. "Teel-please-help-" 

When at last the raven spoke, his tone was more gentle than Aidan had ever heard 
from him. I do what I can. It is all a lir can do, certainly all I can do… the gods made us, 
too. And even the lir cannot predict or explain a tahlmorra that is still on the loom. 

Aidan gripped the link. "Why me, Teel? What do they see in me? Why do they 
come to me?" 

Through the lir-link he heard a sigh. I cannot say, Teel answered. No one has told 
me, either. 

Chapter Two 

«^» 

Crying out, Aidan awoke abruptly, thrusting himself upright into the dawn. For a 
long moment he did not know where he was, only that he was somewhere… and then he 
realized he was not in the Great Hall of Homana-Mujhar, trying to touch a chain in the 
lap of the Lion; nor was he in Lestra, staring in shock at a hand sliced nearly in two by 
poisoned Ihlini steel. 

"Agh," he said aloud, "they are starting again!" 

Teel, in a tree, fluttered. What are starting again? 

"The dreams." Aidan rubbed his face, stripping dew-dampened hair out of gritty 
eyes and being glad all over again he could use both hands for the motion. He lowered his 
recovered hand and examined it critically again, as he had every morning since meeting 
the Cripple. Five days, now. The relief had not passed. 

Neither had the dreams. 

He wore three links at his belt, rather than two. They chimed as he rode, 
reminding him constantly of dreams and gods and tasks. He slept poorly and woke too 
often during the night, trying to banish the dream-chain long enough to get a proper 
night's sleep. He could not recall a time when he had felt so confused, so disoriented. At 
least before the gods had come to him, he had believed himself merely fanciful. Now he 
believed himself mad. 

Sighing, Aidan peeled back blankets and kicked legs free. "Time to go, lir. Erinn 
gets no closer while I lie here in skins and wool, thinking about dreams." 

It gets no farther, either. 

Aidan forbore to answer and commenced packing his horse. He had long since 
learned commenting on Teel's remarks made no difference. The raven was cleverer than 
he; his best wager was to ignore him altogether, because then there was no clear-cut 
victory. 

Of course, it meant the contest continued. 

But it was better than nothing at all. 

When he came across the wagon with its bright-painted canvas canopy, Aidan 
gave it a wide berth. He was ready to pass it by and forget about it, as travelers usually 
did on the road; often, it was safest. But the woman on the seat was so vivid she caught 


his eye and turned his head quite literally; Aidan nearly stared. 

Her answering smile was so warm and guileless he could not simply ignore it-not 
if he desired to name himself a man for he rest of his life. He slowed his horse at once 
and waited for her team to catch up, then fell in beside her. His greeting was in accented 
Solindish; hers in the same tongue, though flawless. Much as he had expected. 

Black hair fell in tight, tangled ringlets all the way to a narrow waist. She wore a 
chaplet of bright gilt dangling with false pearls that framed a heart-shaped face, and 
copper hoops in both ears. Black eyes were bold but also shy, as if she longed to be a 
bawd but had not yet learned how to do it properly. She was not truly beautiful, not as 
Ilsa was, but she had a burning liveliness of spirit that put Aidan in mind of his mother 
and Deirdre. 

He glanced beyond her shoulder to the closed canvas canopy. "You should not be 
traveling the road alone." 

"No," she agreed gravely, though her eyes were bright with mirth. "It would be a 
very bad thing. And it is why I do not do it." Her hand parted the bright canopy, baring 
the face of a young man so remarkably beautiful Aidan thought it might do better on a 
woman. 

"A very bad thing," the young man said, crawling through the canopy to take his 
place on the seat beside the woman. "But then we know better than to allow Ashra to go 
anywhere alone… there are men who would stoop to stealing her to share more than she 
might care to." 

And men who would steal you… But Aidan's manners would not allow him to say 
it. 

Like Ashra, the young man had black hair, though he lacked her length or 
ringlets. The bones of his face were truly beautiful, and the skin smooth and dark and 
unblemished. Something in his expression and the assemblage of bones reminded Aidan 
of his own race, though he had never seen a Cheysuli with such magnificent purity of 
features, or green eyes. And yet there was something else as well. He was most like Ilsa, 
Aidan decided finally, though dark instead of light. His suppleness bespoke exceptional 
grace, and his speaking voice was firm, yet melodious. 

Green eyes assessed Aidan. "I am Tye, singer by trade. Ashra dances. And the old 
man, Siglyn, is a magician." He gestured toward the canopy. "Travel is harsh on old 
bones; he will be well enough, but he requires rest." Briefly he eyed Aidan's saddle-
packs, the travel-stained brown cloak drawn over both shoulders. "Where are you 
bound?" 

"Westward to Andemir." 

Ashra laughed. Her voice was low and, to Aidan, attractive. "Andemir for us, 
also. Perhaps we shall be road-partners." 

"Ashra," Tye said quietly, with a quick warning gesture from one hand. 

She laughed again, tossing back ringlets and shrugged a supple shoulder. "Your 
turn to drive, Tye. I will question this stranger, since you are so mistrustful." 

"With reason," Tye said grimly, as she handed over the reins. "Which you know 
as well as I." 

Obligingly, Aidan gave them his name, though omitting his rank. He had learned 
if a man truly wanted to know what others thought, he would do well to keep quiet about 
heritage and titles. People spoke more freely if they believed themselves of a kind. 


He meant to ask them more about themselves, but Teel interrupted by alighting on 
Aidan's left shoulder. Ashra cried out in delight. "A tame raven!" 

Aidan grinned. "Only sometimes." 

"And other times?" she challenged. 

Tye flicked her a warning glance, which she did not see. Aidan frowned. "For a 
troupe of players making a living off the road, you seem uncommonly wary." 

Tye's austere expression-far too restrictive for the fluid lines of his face-relaxed, 
but only slightly. "With good reason, stranger-we were accosted three days back by a 
band of brigands who took what little coin we had. The old man was injured-struck on 
the head-and I have since learned to be suspicious of everyone." He looked at the raven. 
"But none of them had a bird, or the likelihood of wanting one, so I doubt you are one of 
them. Forgive my bad manners." 

A line knitted Ashra's black brows. They were heavy and oddly straight, but 
Aidan found the look exotically attractive. "If the raven is tame only some of the time, as 
you say, what of the other times?" 

"The other times he is most annoying," Aidan answered truthfully. "But to be fair, 
he is not tame… Teel is a lir." 

Black eyes widened. "Lir are blessed of the gods…" She looked more sharply at 
Aidan. "But you are not Cheysuli. What are you doing with one?" 

He felt a brief flicker of surprise that she should know anything about who did 
and did not consort with the lir, but answered her question easily enough by throwing the 
cloak back from his shoulders to display the gold weighting bare arms. A hooking of hair 
behind left ear brought the raven-shaped ornament into daylight. 

Even Tye frowned. "A red-haired Cheysuli?" 

Aidan smiled. "My mother is Erinnish. This is her legacy… left to my own 
devices, I might have preferred black." He affected a negligent shrug. "But I do have my 
father's eyes." 

For confirmation, Tye looked. And nodded, patently unimpressed. "Yellow as a 
beast's-" He grinned. "Aye, aye… no insult intended. I only tease, shapechanger." 

Ashra raised level brows. "He would make a most handsome beast." 

Tye grunted. "You are a woman. Women are often overly imaginative." 

She stroked back a ringlet, retucking it under the chaplet. "Solinde is ruled by a 
Cheysuli." 

"The usurper," Tye agreed, then laughed as Aidan stiffened. "Have you no sense 
of humor? I tease, shapechanger… does the animal in your blood keep you from enjoying 
the quips and jests of others?" 

"When they are at my expense." Aidan smiled blandly. "Too often such words are 
meant, Solindish… do you mean yours?" 

Tye sighed. "If I meant them, I would not now allow you to ride with us to 
Andemir." He paused. "If you desire to ride with us." 

"He might if you sang," Ashra suggested. 

Tye flicked her a quelling glance. Aidan began to wonder if they were brother and 
sister, or husband and wife. He hoped it was the former. 

"When do we stop?" called a querulous voice from within the canopy. "Or will 
you rattle my bones into dust?" 

Teel departed Aidan's shoulder, slapping his face with one wing. Aidan, 


muttering, rubbed at a stinging eye as Ashra laughed. 

Tye nodded. "We stop, old man. Soon." He shot a quick glance at Aidan. "Will 
you share our food?" 

He blinked the sting away and nodded. "My thanks. I have wine." 

Ashsra's boldly charming smile flashed out again. "So have we." 

Camp was established off the road in a cluster of sheltering trees. The sun, sliding 
down the line of horizon, painted slats of light and shadow across the canvas canopy. 
Aidan thought it much like the pavilions at Clankeep, bright blue painted with equally 
vivid figures: a dancer dressed in red and green and gold; a singer with wooden lute; a 
magician conjuring smoke and fire from the air. The wagon itself was of dark wood, but 
its wheels were painted red, lined with yellow on inner rims and spokes. Altogether it 
provided a most tempting-and visible-target to brigands. 

Tye tended the horses as Ashra assisted the old magician from the wagon and 
escorted him to the patchwork cushion by the fire Aidan had laid. He was a very old man 
dressed in gray wool robe over time-faded indigo linen draperies. A plain leather belt 
with tarnished silver buckle snugged a narrow waist. The robe hung loosely, swirling a 
half-torn hem about swollen ankles. His feet were shod in crushed leather slippers. He 
scuffed through turf and fallen leaves as if movement were very painful. 

Aidan went to him at once, offering a second arm. A pair of rheumy blue eyes 
fixed themselves on his face, weighing him against some inner measurement. But they 
were proud eyes, and freely disdained Aidan's arm. The thin mouth tightened as his grip 
on Ashra increased. 

Aidan relinquished his offer at once, stepping away with a slight inclination of his 
head. Ashra helped the old man sit down on the cushion, then pulled his robe closed. 

"Siglyn," she said softly, "his name is Aidan. He is bound for Andemir, as we 
are." 

"What is that on his arms?" the old man asked harshly. "He carries enough wealth 
to bribe all the brigands in the world away from us." 

"Hush," she chided gently. "He is Cheysuli, from Homana. That is the lir-gold a 
warrior receives when he becomes a man." Black eyes flicked in Aidan's direction, 
silently apologizing. "He is not a brigand come to rob us, or a man offering unwanted 
charity. Look at him again; you will see what he is, merely by looking into his eyes." 

"Faugh!" The old man glowered as she bent to make certain he was comfortable 
on his cushion. His hair was white, very thin, very long. A matching beard straggled 
down the front of his robe. But his eyes, for all their agedness, were sharp as he glared at 
Aidan. "Come, boy," he ordered brusquely. 

Aidan bit his tongue. Never in his life had he been treated so rudely or 
disrespectfully. Nevertheless he did as ordered and moved closer. He stood quietly, 
unwilling quite yet to bow, though undoubtedly it was what the old man wanted. 

Siglyn eyed him. "Shapechanger, are you?" The flesh of his face creased. "Aye, 
perhaps you are, for all the fire on your head… you have the look in your eyes." 

Aidan blinked. "The-look?" 

"The wildness, boy! The feyness. Arrogant as an eagle, in its aerie above the 
world… and a wolf at bay betimes, mistrusting the selfsame world." Siglyn bared 
yellowed teeth. His fingernails were clean, but cracked; idly, he chewed them. "I've lived 
a long time, boy. I've seen many things. Not so long ago your race and mine were at 


war." 

Aidan smiled; the old so often shortened time. "Long enough." 

Siglyn frowned and removed fingers from mouth. "I fought in the wars with 
Carillon… you lack the accent, boy." 

Ruddy brows rose. "Which one?" 

"The one I heard, when we took prisoners." Nastily, the old man grinned. "You 
speak it differently." 

Aidan shrugged. "I am from Mujhara. There are dialects-" 

"Hah! Mujhara is the king's city." Siglyn sighed thoughtfully. "Never been 
there… never been out of Solinde. Been to Lestra, though, and she's a king's city." Blue 
eyes sharpened once more. "Why are you come to Solinde?" 

Inwardly, Aidan sighed. But he had been taught to treat the elderly with great 
respect, regardless of the treatment received in return. "I am on my way to Erinn. To 
Kilore. I will take ship from Andemir." 

Siglyn gifted him with a malignant stare. "You could have done that from 
Hondarth. Why are you come to Solinde?" 

Aidan cleared his throat, maintaining a neutral tone. "I have kin in Lestra." 

Tye came back from hobbling and graining horses. He pushed an arm through 
thick black hair and dropped down to tend the fire Aidan had been called away from. 
"Lestra," he said lightly, as if tasting the word. "Shapechanger kin in Lestra." He fed in a 
length of wood, then slanted a glance at Ashra and the old man. "Not many can claim 
that." 

"A few." Aidan, glad to turn from Siglyn, knelt also and added wood. 

The old man had not given up. He raised his voice preemptorily. "How is the 
Mujhar?" 

Aidan laughed and dropped another faggot on the flames. "The last time I saw 
him, he was quite well. But you will not trap me like that, old man… I am not in hiding. 
You have only to ask, instead of wasting your time-and mine-hinting." 

The magician laughed unpleasantly. "I like hinting," he said. "Not much left for an 
old man's nights." 

Ashra knelt down next to Aidan and put a hand on his arm. "Who are you?" she 
asked. "Siglyn is not usually so bad… are you someone he knows?" 

Aidan laughed once. "Only someone he thinks he knows, because he is a 
busybody." He looked at Ashra. In firelight, her bold features were softened. "I am 
grandson to the Mujhar." 

Her mouth slackened slightly. Then she threw back ringlets with a toss of her 
head. The hand was gone from his arm. 

Tye grunted. "I thought you looked too soft for a man of honest blood… and yet 
you ride with no servants." 

Aidan sighed in resignation. "We do not all move about the countryside with 
great trains of servants in our wakes." Although his mother would have liked it. "It is not 
a Cheysuli custom to be dependent on others." 

Tye laughed, one winged black brow rising. "Is that so? Well, I am surprised. I 
had thought all of royal birth had blood so thin they required propping up by the labor of 
others considerably less blessed." 

Aidan grunted. "There speaks ignorance. Had you met your own lord, you would 


never say that." 

Tye's tone was dry. "People such as we only rarely meet his like." 

Aidan's tolerance was gone. He rose, wrapping the cloak around his arms. "I 
offered you wine; you may have it. But perhaps you would be more content without my 
company." 

Ashra was at his side instantly. "Oh, no!" she cried. "Forgive him, my lord… Tye 
is often overhasty when he speaks, but never when he sings. Only wait, and you will 
hear." She cast a glance at the magician. "As for Siglyn, he is old. He forgets what he 
says. Bide with us the night." 

The old man, thus invoked, stirred testily. "Don't speak for me when I have a 
tongue yet in my head! I say what I wish, and to whom I wish, no matter what they like." 

Ashra grimaced, then smiled tentatively at Aidan. "Will you stay? You would be 
safer with a group… and we would no doubt be considerably safer with a Cheysuli." 

Tye grinned. "Prove to us I am wrong. Show us you are worthy of our respect." 

Aidan opened his mouth to refuse, but Teel was in the link. Why not? he asked. It 
might prove less tedious than a night without argument. 

I have you for that. 

One bright eye glinted. A lir is many things, but a lir is not a woman. 

Aidan very nearly laughed aloud, but good manners kept him from it. It was 
discourteous to stay in the link any longer than was necessary, with the unblessed around. 

He looked at Ashra. He thought about Teel's comment. And smiled. "I will stay." 

When Aidan discovered the Solindish entertainers had little enough to eat, he 
offered to share his own rations in addition to his wine. The offer was accepted only after 
a brief discussion-in Solindish-that Aidan barely followed because of the dialect: Tye was 
uncertain they should place themselves so heavily in a stranger's debt, while Siglyn 
muttered about brigands who starved an old man by stealing food from his mouth; Ashra, 
who was hungry, said both of them were fools and she would eat shapechanger food even 
if they would not. 

Scowling, Tye gave her leave to accept the offer. Ashra thanked Aidan prettily, 
black eyes flashing beneath lowered lashes as she dipped a graceful, if unstudied, curtsy, 
but it was Siglyn who ate more and faster than any of them. Aidan wondered idly where 
it showed itself on the old man, for he was thin and stringy almost to the point of 
emaciation. 

When the food was gone, the wineskins were passed more frequently. Siglyn had 
his own and was disinclined to share, saying the vintage was a personal favorite, but Tye 
was companionable enough as he handed his skin to Aidan. Ashra drank sparingly, but 
high color came into her face as she stared transfixed at the fire. 

Tye settled himself more comfortably against a rolled blanket thrust beneath his 
neck. "What is it like?" he asked, when he was done swallowing wine. "What is it like to 
take on the shape of an animal?" 

Having done his share of damage to a wineskin, Aidan was not irritated by Tye's 
disrespect. He lay propped against his saddle and smiled. "You are asking the wrong 
man. There are others better suited to explaining the lir-shape, which is very personal-and 
others better suited to understanding." 

For a long moment only the crackle of flames broke the heavy silence as Tye 


considered the irony. Then he smiled, lifted a wineskin in wry tribute, nodded his head at 

Teel, perched atop the wagon canopy. "Try to explain. I will try to understand." 

Aidan shrugged, vaguely discomfited. He did not quite know where to start. 

Tye frowned. "Do you not change? Do you not become him?" 

Answering was easier. "No, not him. I become another." 

"But a raven." 

"Aye, a raven. That is how you know the shape we become: by the lir who 
accompanies us." He shrugged. "No matter what the stories say, we are not free to 
become anything-or anyone-we desire. We are not monsters, or creatures of darkness. 
The gods made us, Tye… and they made the lir." 

Ashra's tone was detached as she stared transfixed into the flames. "Why did you 
choose a raven?" 

"The choosing was not mine. It is never the warrior's choosing… there is more to 
it than that." Aidan squirmed into a more comfortable position, hugging wineskin 
between elbow and ribs. "When I was fourteen I fell sick-the lir-sickness, we call it-and 
knew only a great and terrible need. There is no cure for the sickness, no relief for the 
need, except to go out into the forest and find a lir. And so I did." 

Tye's doubt was manifest. "Alone?" 

Brief irritation flickered. "Of course alone… it is not a thing for another to share." 

"They let a fourteen-year-old-boy-one who would one day be king-go out alone 
into the forest?" 

" 'They,' as you call them, are also Cheysuli. No one would stand in my way, least 
of all Cheysuli kin." 

Tye frowned thoughtfully. "And so you found him." 

Aidan shrugged. "Teel and I found each other. For the lir it is much the same: 
they know a need, and they fill it. A Cheysuli with no lir-and a lir with no warrior-is 
incomplete. Once linked, we are whole." 

"With the ability to shift your shape." 

Aidan nodded. "But only into whatever shape the lir represents. If I had two lir, as 
did my great-grandsire, Donal, I would then be able to assume two different forms. But I 
have only Teel… the gods are sparing with gifts." 

Tye's laughter mocked. "The gods, when they do anything at all, are sparing with 
everything. Especially good fortune. Only the bad flows generously." 

Aidan grunted mild disapproval. "They will hear you." 

Tye made a derisive sound of dismissal. "The gods hear nothing. Why should 
they? Do you think they care? Do you think they pay the slightest attention to any of us?" 

Ashra stirred. "Hush," she said quietly. "You offer offense to our guest." 

The singer put out a hand to touch Ashra's arm. She sat close by his side, and 
Aidan had decided, with regret, they were not brother and sister. "You have already told 
him I am overhasty when I speak," Tye reminded her. "Why should I hide it now?" 

She slanted him a glance from the corners of her eyes. "Offense should never be 
given a guest. Think what you like in private… there is no need to speak it." 

Aidan waved a hand. "No need to bother yourself, Ashra-I think Tye and I will 
never be reconciled about much of anything." 

Siglyn spoke for the first time since the meal. "Do you think only you are right, 
then, in what you believe? Because of your birth?" 


Aidan sighed heavily. "My birth means nothing at all. Why do you dwell on it? In 
the clans only the blood matters, and its continuation, not in what flesh it flows. Do you 
see? I am Cheysuli first: child of the gods. I am then a warrior, and I honor my 
tahlmorra. I am a prince last of all." 

"That," Tye declared, "is not possible." 

Aidan, sliding into an Erinnish cadence, fixed him with a baleful eye. "I'd be 
venturing, my pretty lad, 'twould be far easier for me to shed my royalty than for the likes 
of you to gain it." 

Ashra laughed, not in the least taken aback by Aidan's verbal attack on Tye. "Well 
said!" 

"Indeed," Siglyn agreed morosely. 

Tye, unaffronted, merely grunted. "Most probably. But I have no wish to be a 
prince." 

Aidan nearly laughed; his kivarna bespoke the lie. "No man never wishes he were 
a prince, Solindishman. Had you the chance-" 

"-he would accept it instantly," Ashra finished. "And you would, Tye." 

Tye grunted again. "But it is bootless. There will be no chance for me to find out. 
I am only a singer, and a poor one." 

Ashra was instantly outraged. "Poor! You are the best I have ever heard!" 

Tye grinned at her. "And how many have you heard?" 

Color stained her cheeks. "Enough," she said softly, touching fingers to his face. 
"Enough-and more-to know." 

The old man tightened his robe around thin shoulders. "What magic do you claim, 
shapechanger?" 

Aidan, considering, recalled Siglyn's trade was in magic, and fashioned his 
answer to suit it. "Nothing to rival yours, old man." He smiled disarmingly. "All I claim 
is lir-shape." 

Siglyn grunted. "Nothing more? No more than that?" 

Aidan shrugged, making light of his answer. "We can heal, when required." 

Rheumy blue eyes narrowed. "And?" 

Aidan put off answering by unplugging the wineskin and drinking, then carefully 
squeaking the cork home. "Some say there is a third gift," he admitted frankly. "But it is 
only rarely used. We do not care for what it does to a man's soul." 

The old man smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. "And what does it do to a man's 
soul, that you would quail from it?" 

Aidan's gaze did not waver. "It takes," he answered flatly. "It overpowers. It sucks 
away a man's will and leaves him with nothing at all save what the other tells him." 

Siglyn's eyes shone. He grunted approval, as if vindicated. "I thought so. I've 
heard it said many a time the Cheysuli have he power to be demons, if they choose." 

Aidan's tone was clipped. "We do not choose," he declared. "We understand too 
well what compulsion can do to a man, and we choose otherwise. The power to be 
demons is reserved by the Ihlini. It is what they practice." 

Tufted white brows jerked upward. "Do we?" Siglyn asked. "Is that what we 
practice?" 

Even as the purple flame shrouded the old man's fingers, Aidan was on his feet. 
The knife was in his hand, but Ashra was at his side instantly, touching his wrist. 


"No," she said softly. 

Siglyn laughed. It had a rusty, creaking sound, as if only rarely used. "I have 
taken you by surprise." 

Aidan, whose immediate testing of the lir-link told him there was no interference, 
frowned at the old man. "Aye," he said abstractedly. "But-I can reach my lir. And he said 
nothing-" 

"Does it matter?" Ashra asked. 

"He should have warned me. A lir always gives warning of an enemy." 

Her fingers turned the knife downward. "That should tell you something." 

Aidan barely heard her. He stared across the fire at Tye, whose green eyes were 
odd in the flickering light. "And you?" 

Tye smiled. "I am, as you are, many things. Solindish: aye. Ihlini as well. But also 
a singer. My teacher was Taliesin." 

"Taliesin has been dead for more than twenty years!" 

"I am older than I look." Tye sat upright, setting aside his wineskin. "You are not 
a fool, Aidan of Homana. Why act like one now?" 

Bitterness welled up. "Am I a fool to be wary of the enemy?" 

Siglyn glared. "How quick you are to assume the worst of us. Aye, you are a fool! 
You have not wit enough to ask your bird if we mean you any harm. And yet only 
moments before you condescended to inform us a prince is no different from any other." 

Teel? Aidan asked. Why was I not warned? You should have told me… and I 
should have sensed the interference in the link-His belly tightened.-unless they also have 
something of a Cheysuli for use in making shields-

Teel sounded disgusted. Are you so blind as that? Or have you become a lackwit? 

I am no lackwit because I prefer to know who my enemies are-Aidan broke it off 
laggardly, belatedly comprehending. Is that it? Solindish, Ihlini, or no-they are not my 
enemy? 

In the link, Teel sighed. There is hope for you yet. 

Irritated, Aidan glared again at the old man. "Do you blame me for being 
dubious? Our blood has been at war for centuries. You yourself fought-" He frowned. 
"And if you fought Carillon, it means you fought with Bellam." 

"Of course it does," the old man snapped. "I was a loyal Solindishman-" 

"-a loyal Ihlini-" 

"-and dedicated to my land." Siglyn glared. "You are rude. You have no respect 
for the aged-" 

"You have no respect for me-" 

"Because we fooled you?" Siglyn grinned, baring old teeth. "You fooled yourself. 
Because we did not declare our race, as you do with all your barbaric, ostentatious gold-" 
he made a rude gesture all too dismissive of the lir-gold "-then we are obviously 
tricksters out to spill your blood." Siglyn indicated the knife still clutched in Aidan's 
hand. "Of course, you have the weapon…" He sighed, glancing at Tye. "The Cheysuli 
spend much of their time telling gullible Homanans that we are all demons and servants 
of Asar-Suti, the Seker-without once considering our feelings." 

"Your feelings!" Aidan was astounded. "You are the enemy-at least, some of you 
are…" He scowled blackly at the old man, disliking the morass he was, from all 
appearances, walking into on his own. "Too many of you are. Do you know how many of 


my race-of my kin-your kind have killed? Do you know that Strahan's son only weeks 
ago murdered a helpless infant, and then tried to kill your lord?" 

"What baby?" Ashra asked. "We have been long on the road, and news travels 
slowly…" A vertical line drew heavy brows together. "What baby, Aidan?" 

"My cousin," he answered curtly. "Lochiel murdered him in his bed without even 
so much as touching him." 

She exchanged a glance with Tye. Neither of them spoke, but Aidan sensed they 
were not pleased by the news. Ashra squeezed his wrist briefly in a gesture he interpreted 
as sympathy. 

Siglyn shifted on his cushion, clearly annoyed. "Strahan was a puffed-up, arrogant 
fool with delusions of godhood… must you judge us all by him?" 

"It is a bit difficult not to, when he has been so dedicated to destroying my race. 
And now his son as well-" 

"But we are not his sons, or his daughter," Ashra said quietly. "We are merely 
Solindish-born Ihlini, trying to make a living in a land gone mad from war." She sighed, 
removing her hand from Aidan's wrist. "Strahan has done more damage to his race than 
any other, save for Tynstar. It was he who began it all." 

Siglyn grunted. "You know nothing about Tynstar, girl. I knew him personally-" 
But he broke it off, waving a hand at Aidan. "Sit down, sit down. If you are to hear the 
truth, you should do it with cloth beneath your rump and good wine close to hand." 
Tufted brows rose. "Sit down, boy!" 

In the link, Teel suggested it might be wise. No sense in standing when one could 
sit and be more comfortable. 

Aidan sat. But was not comfortable. 

Chapter Three 

«^» 

"First," he said, before any of them could speak, "I want to know how. And why." 

Ashra, who added fuel to the fire, cast him a puzzled glance across one slender 
shoulder. Ringlets writhed. "What do you mean?" 

"I should have known you. AH my life I have been told a Cheysuli can tell when 
an Ihlini is near, because of the interference in the lir-link. And the lir always forewarns-" 
Aidan grimaced, not looking at Teel, "-usually forewarns." He sighed, shifting the 
wineskin in his lap. "None of us knew Lochiel because he had a ring once worn by my 
father. It has been bespelled for years, ever since he gave it, unknowing, to an Ihlini 
witch. Rhiannon." He dismissed her with a gesture. "Lochiel has the ring now, and he 
used it. Is that how Teel and I did not know you? Have you a like item?" 

Tye shook his head as he settled down against his rolled blanket. "Have you met 
none of us before?" 

Aidan nearly smiled. "No Ihlini has come into Mujhara-or Clankeep-for many, 
many years." 

Ashra was clearly startled. "And you have been nowhere else?" 

Her unfeigned astonishment at first puzzled him, until he realized she had most 
likely spent her life on the road, and could not comprehend a man who lived only in two 
places. 

And then he considered how that sounded, even to him: he had been nowhere in 


the world save Mujhara and Clankeep. Even though one day he would rule a realm it took 
weeks to ride across. 

Tye grinned. "All unknowing, she strikes true." He squirted wine into his throat, 
swallowed, then plugged the opening. "You did not know us because there was nothing 
to know." 

"You are Ihlini-" 

"-and kin." Tye's green eyes were odd in the light. "Without your gold and your 
lir, would another Cheysuli know you as Cheysuli?" 

Aidan gestured. "I may lack the color, but-" 

Siglyn cut him off. "Answer the question." 

Aidan waited a moment, marshaling his courtesy, then did as Siglyn ordered. 
"Without my gold and my lir, it is possible he would not… but if you knew how to look 
for other things-" 

Tye sighed in disgust. "He will not cooperate." 

"Aidan." Ashra's voice was soft. "You did not know we are Ihlini because we are 
kin. It is true all Cheysuli bear certain similarities in color and shape of bones, but past 
that there is only what resides in here." She touched one breast. "We are less obvious than 
Cheysuli, lacking a uniform color and the lir, but our hearts are the same, and our blood." 

Aidan avoided her eyes, looking instead at his healed hand. There was no scar, 
but he remembered all too well the pain, the shock, the acknowledgment of Lochiel's 
intent. 

Siglyn's voice was harsh. "It's an easy enough answer, boy: we did not drink of 
the cup. We are uncommitted Ihlini-save to our land-and therefore Asar-Suti is not in us. 
Our blood is ours, not his… have you or any of your kin ever known a hostile Ihlini who 
was not one of the Seker's?" 

Aidan, who had known none at all, could only think on the stories he had heard. 
His uncles had known Ihlini, but all had served Asar-Suti. Keely's contact had been with 
Strahan and his minions, all sworn to the Seker. There was Rhiannon, but she, too, 
belonged to the Seker. Every Ihlini, save for one, had meant his kin harm. 

Then he stirred, recalling. "There was Taliesin." 

Tye shook his head. "Taliesin repudiated the Seker. It was why Tynstar made him 
drink of the blood, so he would live forever knowing what had been done in the name of 
his race… and it was why Strahan destroyed his hands." 

Aidan stared into flames. "Then I have never known-or known of-a hostile Ihlini 
who did not serve the Seker." 

"To drink of the blood is to bind yourself to Asar-Suti," Siglyn said. "The bond, 
once forged, cannot be broken, save by death. Taliesin eventually was cast out-but an 
uncommitted Ihlini always knows one of the Seker's, just as a Cheysuli does." 

Tye's lips peeled back. "There is a stench," he said clearly, "that clings to 
everything they touch." 

Aidan drew in a breath. "And so you are saying they are different from you?" 

Ashra smiled. "They have always been different." 

He found breathing difficult. He wanted to laugh, but there was nothing to laugh 
at, save the memories of lessons taught so carefully in Clankeep. Lessons all Cheysuli 
learned, believing implicitly, because the shar tahls said so. If it was said by a shar tahl, 
it was so: everyone knew that. The shar tahls were the guardians of the prophecy, of the 


old ways, making certain tradition remained untainted and the service continued 
unbroken. 

"Untainted," Aidan murmured, "by such things as the altering of a custom called 
kin-wrecking, even though the need is gone." 

"What?" Siglyn snapped; the old man, regardless of revelation, was unchanged. 

Aidan swallowed painfully. "What if they are wrong? What if, after too many 
years, it has become habit to hate Ihlini-habit to name them enemy, suitable only for 
killing? Do you see? We are taught it very young: to hate, and fear, and kill…" He shut 
his eyes and rubbed wearily at his face. "The prophecy says we must unite two magic 
races, and yet the shar tahls tell us time and time again we should have no congress with 
Ihlini, because Ihlini want to destroy us." 

"They do," Ashra explained. "Those of the Seker do-but not the rest of us." 

Tye's tone was oddly gentle. "Teachings can become twisted. There may be no 
intent, but it occurs… and eventually the twisting becomes unchanging tradition." 

Aidan stared at them all. "Are we wrong? Are all the teachings twisted?" 

A glint showed in Tye's eyes. "Why ask us? We are Ihlini. The enemy. And this is 
merely a clever game played to cause you grief, confusion-and doubt." He smiled 
crookedly. "Ask your lir, Cheysuli. Ask your other self." 

Aidan did it through the lir-link, because there was no interference. Because he 
could, in spite of Ihlini presence. Because he was afraid not to, as if asking aloud 
cheapened the lir-bond his kind revered so much. 

Tell me, he said. Are all the teachings wrong? 

Teel did not answer. 

Tell me, Aidan repeated. Are we blinded by the very thing that all Cheysuli serve? 

The lir-link quivered briefly. Teel's reluctance to answer was manifest. 

Aidan forsook the link. "Tell me!" he shouted. "I have conversed with gods… do I 
not deserve an answer from the lir they gave me?" 

Teel's tone lacked his customary acerbity. The times demand harsh truths, he said 
at last. And sometimes harsher falsehoods. 

Falsehoods. Aidan clamped his teeth shut. Are you saying all of it is a lie? 

They have taught what had to be taught. 

Why did it have to be taught? 

Ignorant men do ignorant things. 

Such as ignoring prophecies. 

After a moment: Aye. 

And ignoring the prophecy results in no Firstborn. 

Feathers were fluffed. Aye. 

You have us, Aidan said intently. You have us, and the Ihlini. Are we not enough? 
Why must there be the Firstborn? 

Because they were firstborn… and the gods want them back. 

Suspicion roused itself. Firstborn-bestborn? Is that what it is? The gods gave us 
self-rule, and the bloodlines fragmented because of Ihlini ambition. So the only way of 
restoring the balance-of regaining the bestborn children-is to make them out of the bits 
and pieces culled from all the lands. 

Not all. Teel sounded himself again. Not all-only four. Four realms and two 
races. 


Aidan felt rage building. With effort, he damped it down. If they want them so 
badly, why not simply make them? It was what they did in the first place! 

Teel sighed faintly. They gave their children self-rule. Self-rule perpetuates 
itself… none of you are what you once were, and the gods can force nothing. They can 
only ask, and suggest, and guide-

Gods are gods! Aidan cried. Gods can do anything! 

Even create a being greater than themselves. 

Greater-? 

There is nothing a god can do that you cannot do. 

But there is-

All that a god can do can be done by the children. Only the ways and means are 
different. 

Teel-

The raven sighed.. There is intellect, and freedom, and skills beyond belief. They 
gave you everything. They made you what you were-you made you what you are. 

I do not know what I am, anymore. 

Amusement touched the link. Child of the gods. What more is there to be? 

It was too much to contemplate. Aidan withdrew from the link and sat motionless 
near the fire, staring sightlessly into flames. Light burned first into his eyes, then into his 
brain. 

"Times have changed," he murmured. "Everything has changed." 

No one said anything. 

"It was a means." Aidan stirred a little. "A means, nothing more. A way of 
communicating. Too often one man will not listen to another, no matter how wise he is… 
but if a god says it-" Oh, gods. "-if a god says it, one or two may listen. Then one or two 
more. Until eventually a grouping becomes a clan, and a clan becomes a people." He 
sighed heavily. "We serve a collection of words. And the words have become twisted." 

Ashra's voice was soft. "Then set them straight," she said. "You have it in you, 
Aidan." 

His laughter was bittersweet. "I have nothing inside me now save a profound 
emptiness." 

Green eyes glinted. "Fill it," Tye suggested. 

Aidan sighed and slung aside the wineskin. "I need sleep. I need a true sleep, not 
this pale mockery filled with too many dreams…" 

"Everyone dreams," Tye said. 

"Not like this. Not as I do." Aidan spread his skins. "Not so vividly, or so 
unsettlingly." 

Ashra was very calm. "Siglyn speaks dreams." 

"He speaks-?" But Aidan shook his head. "No insult intended, but I do not need a 
road magician's tricks-" 

"And I'll give you none," snapped Siglyn. "I speak truths, not falsehoods." 

Truths and falsehoods. Much as Teel had mentioned. Aidan looked across the fire 
at the old man. Shadows and firelight warred in his face, making planes and hollows and 
creases. The rheumy eyes were bright. The challenge in them implicit. 

Aidan nodded once. "Speak my dreams," he said. "Divide the falsehoods from the 
truths." 


The old man smiled. "First there is Tye, and Ashra. Then I will speak your 
dreams." 

Chapter Four 

«^» 

Tye brought his lute from the wagon and seated himself on his blanket across the 
fire from Aidan. The instrument was delicate, of a pale blond wood with ivory pegs and 
inlay. In firelight, fragile sinew strings glowed gold. 

Slender hands caressed the wood and strings though no sound was emitted. The 
lute waited. "Will you hear me, Homanan?" 

Not Cheysuli. Frowning, Aidan nodded. 

"Will you listen, Homanan?" 

He wanted to protest; did not. He nodded yet again. 

Notes ran from the lute like water, clear and cool and sweet. It sang of tenderness 
and joy, love and dark hatred, astonishment and acceptance. The sounds pinned Aidan to 
his skins, then flayed him until his spirit vibrated with the richness of its song. And then 
the lute-song, dying away, became nothing more than accompaniment to the human 
instrument. 

Tye sang in a true baritone almost at odds with his beauty, for Aidan had expected 
a tenor. But the baritone was clear and effortlessly eloquent, swinging down to caress the 
top range of a skilled bass, then soaring upward to drift across the sweet register of the 
finest tenor. Tye's magic was manifest. 

Aidan stared into the fire until it burned away his sight. He saw colors inside his 
head. And then a shadow crossed his vision, blotting out the fire, and he saw Ashra begin 
to dance. 

She wore bright layered skirts of green and red and gold, and a snug black leather 
jerkin that displayed full breasts and narrow, curving waist. She knotted slender hands in 
tangled ringlets and lifted them until they cascaded down her shoulders and back. She 
tipped back her head, baring an exquisite throat, and Tye's song abruptly turned from the 
grace of illusion to the driving notes of seduction. When Ashra danced, the Wheel of Life 
stopped turning. 

Aidan found he could not breathe. A brief, warning tickle touched the back of his 
consciousness, reminding him Ashra was Tye's woman, but he was vividly aware of a 
new and perverse side of his nature promising him he could brush Tye aside like a gnat. 
He had been intrigued by Ashra from the first, from the very first; he had respected the 
bond between singer and dancer, but that respect was coming undone as he watched her 
now. He could not help himself: he wanted Ashra badly. 

She came to him. Hair hung to her waist, tumbling as she moved, clinging to 
breasts and hips. She bent, touched him, took his hands into hers. Her touch set him afire. 

Black eyes promised him all he wanted and more. Ashra's smile was for him, for 
him alone; Tye no longer mattered. And when she drew him up, first to his knees, then to 
his feet, he allowed it; he wanted it; needed it. 

"Come," Ashra whispered. 

She led him from his pallet of skins to the bare earth before the old magician. 
Dully, Aidan stared down at him; he wanted, at this moment, nothing to do with Siglyn or 
his dream speaking. He wanted only Ashra. 


"Come," she said again, and took him to the ground. He knelt there willingly, 
because she requested it. 

The old man's eyes were very bright. "Sit you there," he said. "Do nothing, save 
what I tell you." 

Aidan, still lost in lute-song and lust, merely nodded. 

Ashra withdrew. The old man put his hands on Aidan's head, cradling his jaw as 
one might a child's, or a woman's. The palms were rough-textured from age, but the wiry 
fingers were strong. Aidan stared into rheumy blue eyes, because he had no other choice. 

"Son of the forests, son of the cities, son of the sunlight and darkness," Siglyn said 
softly. "Warrior and prince, skeptic and adept. You are more than many, and less than 
what you must be. And you dream…" 

Aidan sucked in a sudden breath, because he had forgotten. He was aware the 
music had died, and Ashra no longer danced. She stood behind him, while Tye sat silent 
as stone upon his blanket, holding the moon-bleached lute. 

"You dream of chains," Siglyn said. "Chains that bind a man; chains that set him 
free. Bound, the life continues; broken, it is freed. Which do you seek?" 

"It breaks," Aidan blurted. "Always. I have only to touch it-" 

"Do you wish it to break?" 

"Wishing makes no difference. It simply breaks-" 

Siglyn's hands tightened. "Chained warrior; chained prince; chained raven. That is 
what I see." 

Aidan swallowed painfully. "If I broke it… if I broke the chain, would I be free?" 

"That is not for me to say." 

"But you said the life is freed if the chain is broken." 

Siglyn removed his hands. "Did I say such a thing? Or did you perceive it?" 

Aidan's blurted laugh was hollow. "I could not even begin to tell you." 

"But I can begin to show you. And if you wish it, I will." 

Aidan's head came up. "What is the cost?" he demanded. "There always must be a 
price." 

"Of course there is," Siglyn agreed. "Nothing is gained without risk; nothing is 
learned without cost; nothing is given without a price. The gods exact a heavy toll." 

"And you, old man? What do you expect?" 

The old man laughed. "Paying the price without knowing the cost is a part of 
learning. The choice-and the risk-is yours." 

Aidan knelt in dirt with the fire-and Ashra-at his back, conscious of an almost 
overpowering sense of futility. He could not deal with this; could not comprehend the 
riddles he was expected to anticipate and answer. He could only sit helplessly before an 
old Ihlini magician and shake his head. 

"Tell me," he rasped. "Show me. I will accept the cost." 

Blue eyes narrowed. "Willingly?" 

He drew in a deep breath and blew it out as quickly. "It is a part of my tahlmorra. 
I am required to do it willingly." 

"Tye," Siglyn said, but his eyes never left Aidan's face. 

Tye rose, set down his lute, and crossed the fire's shadow. He knelt at Aidan's 
side. Briefly he worked at his belt, a snake of hammered links lying flat against his hips, 
gilded by firelight. He gave it into Siglyn's hands. 


The belt was of poor workmanship. Aidan, looking at it, saw where the hammer 
had crushed a link too flat, beveled another too crooked, crimped the gilt entirely. Even 
its gilding was false, shedding itself in Siglyn's hands. 

But the old man smiled. He lifted the belt and threw it into the fire. "Fetch it out," 
he said. 

Aidan blinked. "Out of there?" 

"You agreed to do as I said, no matter what the cost." 

"And this is the price? I am to burn the flesh from my bones?" 

"Do as I say." 

The vestiges of distrust rekindled. "How do I know this is not an Ihlini trick?" 

Siglyn's teeth showed. "You do not." 

Aidan glanced at Tye, who knelt next to him. The smooth dark face was 
expressionless, the green eyes averted. Tye merely waited. 

Ashra moved from behind Aidan and walked to Siglyn's side. Like Tye's, her face 
was curiously blank, but her eyes were not averted. They bored into Aidan's. They did 
not beseech, but he knew himself seduced. 

Briefly, he considered lir-shape. A raven might slip into the flames quickly and 
retrieve an object without risking much of himself, but Aidan knew the belt was too 
heavy. The only way he could fetch it out, as Siglyn required, was to reach into the 
flames and lift it. 

He turned, and knelt on one knee by the fire. It was not so large a fire that it might 
threaten his life, but nonetheless it would hurt. If he were quick enough, he might singe 
only the hair on his hand and arm, but the hot metal would surely sear his hand. And he 
had only recently gotten back the use of both. 

I was told there was a task. Perhaps this is it. 

Aidan set his jaw so hard his teeth ached. Then he reached into the fire. 

He plunged his left hand down through the flames into coals, grabbing for the 
belt. His fingers found the heated links and caught them up, dragging the belt from the 
fire. He spun around and dropped it in the dirt in front of Siglyn, nursing his hand against 
his chest. 

"Are you burned?" the old man asked. 

Aidan opened his mouth to shout of course he was burned-and then realized there 
was no pain. He held out his hand and saw unblemished flesh. He had not singed a single 
hair. 

Siglyn nodded. "You put your hand into the flames, fully expecting it to be 
burned. It matters little the flames were not real… only that you believed them real-and 
still performed the task." He nodded again. "There is some hope for you yet." 

Aidan stared at Tye's belt in the dirt. The cheap gilt paint had burned away, 
leaving base metal bared. It was, he thought bitterly, analagous to himself. 

Siglyn reached down and lifted the belt. He took an end into either hand, 
stretching it, then snapped the links flat. Metal cracked, then flaked away. In silence, the 
old man tied knots in the cheap metal belt. Four of them. And as he snapped the knotted 
belt a second time, the knots became joined links of purest, flawless gold. 

Aidan nodded. Of course. 

"Chained warrior; chained prince; chained raven." Siglyn smiled. "Your choice. 
To break it, or make it whole." 


Aidan unbuckled his leather belt and slid the three matching links into his hands. 
A brief examination told him they were of the same making as the joined links in Siglyn's 
hands. 

"How?" he asked. "How do I make it whole?" 

"That is your choice?" Siglyn asked. 

"Aye: to have it whole." 

"Be certain of it." 

He smiled. "I am. I would have it whole." 

Siglyn's eyes were very still. "Give one link to Tye. One to Ashra. The last to 
me." 

Aidan did so. 

"Name them." 

Aidan looked at the link in Tye's hand. "Shaine," he said quietly. "Shaine the 
Mujhar." 

"And?" 

"Carillon." He looked into Ashra's emotionless face. "Carillon of Homana." 

The link glittered in Siglyn's hand. "The last?" 

"Donal, who was Cheysuli." 

Siglyn nodded once. "The links are distributed. The chain is for you. The joining 
is for you." 

Slowly Aidan knelt in front of the old man. From him he took the chain of four 
joined links. He touched the one he had named Donal to the single link Siglyn held, and 
in the snapping flash he squinted, knowing the joining complete. 

He repeated the ritual with Ashra, then Tye. Four links were joined to three: the 
chain at last was whole. 

Aidan waited, staring fixedly at the fifth link. Waiting. When it remained 
unbroken, he smiled joyously at Siglyn. "Whole," he exulted. "Not shattered. Not broken. 
Its name is not Aidan!" 

Relief was overwhelming. Aidan cast a glance at Tye, at Ashra, looking for some 
sign of acknowledgment, but they gave him nothing more than silence. It did not matter. 
Aidan laughed at them all, then yawned a tremendous yawn into Siglyn's face. 

"Forgive me" he said, when he could. "I did not mean to do that." 

"Magic does tire a man," the old Ihlini said gravely. "But not so much as dealing 
with gods." His hand was on Aidan's head. "Sleep, child of the Firstborn… and dream 
your dreams in peace." 

He slept dreamlessly, knowing peace for the first time in too long. When he 
awoke he fully expected to be alone. But the wagon still stood by the tree, and Ashra sat 
by the fire. 

Memory rushed back. Aidan sat up, pushing a hand through tangled hair. "I 
thought-" But he broke it off raggedly, no longer certain what he thought. 

Ashra smiled. "You thought you would be deserted. No. Not yet." 

He looked beyond her and saw Tye with the horses, hitching them to the wagon. 
Siglyn was absent; probably in in the wagon. Teel, perched on the canopy, croaked a 
morning greeting. 

Aidan looked back at the girl. "Why?" he asked roughly. "What was all of it for?" 


"You should know, by now." Ashra tossed her head and sent ringlets flying. 
Copper hoops in her ears flashed. "It is because of you we are here." 

Certainty increased. "But you are not gods." 

"No." Her smile was sweet. "We are what you see: Singer, Dancer, Magician. But 
we are servants of the gods, as you witnessed last night. We do their bidding." 

Aidan recalled too well what had occurred the night before. "Are you real?" 

"As real as can be, as the gods made us." Ashra's bold eyes were bright, full of 
unself-conscious awareness of what her body had promised. "We are as you wish us to 
be. It remains for you to decide." 

The image of her dancing rose before his eyes. He recalled her supple, seductive 
movements; the bright promise of her eyes. And the burning of his flesh as she put her 
hands upon him. "Real," he said hoarsely. "I want you to be real." 

Her smile enveloped him. "Then I am." 

His traitor's body betrayed him. "And if I said I no longer wanted you to share 
Tye's bed?" 

Ashra laughed aloud. "I have shared Tye's bed since before you were born. Since 
before your father was born, and his. I think it very likely I will go on sharing his bed." 

It hurt. "Then there is no hope for us-" 

"No," she agreed solemnly. "That is what dreams are: wishes, and the illusion of 
reality. And truth. If you lay with me, you would never know if it were real or false. And 
that would not satisfy you." 

A dry irony shaped his tone. "For a while, it might." 

She laughed again and rose with the supple motion of a born dancer. The chaplet 
in her hair gleamed against black ringlets. 

"Wait." He put out a hand to delay her. "If none of this is real, why did you let it 
go so far? Last night…" Shrugging, he let it go. "I am not a celibate man, nor a boy 
misinterpreting a woman's intent. I have seduced women myself, and I have been 
seduced. You lured me last night with promises of coupling. Why, if you meant nothing 
of it?" 

A graceful hand swept across breasts, then down to touch curving hips. So easily 
she seduced him, though her eyes were serious. "Because you are a man," she said, "and 
a man must recognize his own mortality, his own weaknesses and flaws, before he can set 
them all aside. Desire is one of the strongest of all emotions. A man cannot always 
control it. He cannot always set it aside when it must be." 

He thought of countless times he had allowed himself to lose control. Much of it 
had been genuine desire. But as much had been the need to lose himself in something to 
forget what drove him so. 

"I have slept with many women…"It was a statement of truth, not a boast. He had 
never been that kind. Women to him were special, because of the kivarna. He knew what 
they felt in his bed. It deepened his own pleasure, to know what it was for the woman. 
But he had used the women… 

though very considerate, he had not looked for anything more. 

Ashra's exotic face softened. "I did not tease you out of cruel perversity. I did it so 
you would see how easily it is done, so it would not lead you into misfortune. You are a 
man, not a god, and you must know it always. Even when you might believe yourself 
more gods-blessed than most." 


He grunted skepticism. "Am I?" 

Her smile was slow, serene. "You are many things, Aidan. But you must be only 
one, before you understand." 

Tye came up beside her, slipping an arm around her waist. "How fares the 
lesson?" 

She smiled and squeezed him briefly. "He does not yet understand." 

Tye nodded. "The learning will come of its own time and place. We have done as 
much as we dare… it is time we moved on." 

"Siglyn?" she asked. 

"In the wagon." Tye kissed her on top of her head. "Go and see to his comfort, 
while I bid our prince farewell." 

Ashra moved away. Aidan looked at Tye, bitterness lacing his tone. "Have I 
amused you?" 

Tye's face was solemn and inexpressibly lovely. It was not womanish after all, 
Aidan decided, merely the work of a master's hand. "The struggles of a man never amuse 
me," Tye said quietly. "I have seen too much to laugh at anything. Ashra, Siglyn and I 
have been about this for a very long time… you are not the first, and certainly not the 
last. But for now, as you travel toward your tahlmorra, you will feel yourself quite alone. 
Quite apart from the rest. But never think yourself better." His green eyes were level. "Do 
you understand?" 

"I think I understand nothing," Aidan admitted truthfully. 

Tye laughed. "It will come." He briefly inclined his head. "Nothing is done 
without purpose. Remember that, Aidan." 

Aidan watched the singer walk toward the wagon. Tye climbed up onto the wide 
seat and took up the reins. Beside him sat Ashra, chaplet glinting in the dawn. The wagon 
jolted into motion as Teel lifted from the canopy. As it trundled away, the mists closed 
around, muting the canopy's brilliant colors. In a moment the wagon was gone. 

Aidan looked down at his pallet of skins and wool. The chain lay there. A whole, 
unbroken chain, as he had made it the night before. 

He knelt down and touched it. Took it into his hands. And knew, for the first time, 
the journey he undertook would lead him to different roads, and to choices rarely offered. 

It was up to him to make them. 

Chapter Five 

«^» 

The first thing Aidan noticed about Kilore was the scalloped line of chalk cliffs 
thrusting upward out of the seashore like a mailed, white-gloved fist. Atop the fist, he 
knew, perched the Aerie of Erinn, where all the proud eagles were hatched. His own 
mother had been. It seemed odd to think of it, so far from Homana. But this was Aileen's 
home. Homana was his. 

The second thing Aidan noticed about Kilore was the pungent smell of fish. Its 
pervasiveness was oppressive; he grimaced quiet distaste as the ship was carefully 
docked. He deserted it at once, walking hastily onto the dock, and promptly tripped over 
a tangle of net and kelp as he twisted his head from side to side in a bid to see everything. 

He made an effort to recover his balance with some show of aplomb; 
nevertheless, he was embarrassed. He was half Erinnish himself, with sea-blood in his 


veins. Surely it meant something. 

But no one seemed to have noticed; if they had, no one cared. The day was nearly 
done. Fishing boats were coming in brimming with the day's catch. No one had time for 
him. 

Aidan left the docks and went into the city proper, a tumbled collection of 
buildings clustered between ocean and cliffs, meticulously avoiding dray-carts and 
baskets full of fish and effluvia. He soon found himself in the markets where the catch 
was fully displayed. Here the stench was worse. 

"I come from this stock," he muttered. "I had best get used to it." 

Why? Teel asked. Are you planning to live here? 

Aidan laughed. Not if I can help it. He paused, looking around. How do I find the 
road to the castle? 

Easier done from up here. 

Aidan glanced up. Teel, in a flock of seabirds, was black against cream and white. 
Where do I go? he asked. Your view is better than mine. 

Teel agreed benignly. You might try going up. 

Aye, but I meant which road-Aidan grinned, comprehending. Aye, lir "up." 

He went up, and up again, reveling in lir-shape and the ability to fly. He might 
have stayed an hour or two longer, drifting about the fortress, but it made no sense to do 
so when his business was within. Regretfully, Aidan took back his human shape at the 
head of the cliff path, and walked the rest of the way across dampened ruts to the massive 
gates of Kilore. 

Unlike Hart's castle, Sean's was properly guarded. Aidan was required to show his 
signet as proof of identity, then was taken at once through the baileys into the fortress 
itself. Dark stone was wind-scoured smooth, even on the corners, giving the blocky 
fortress a soft, rounded appearance Aidan knew was deceptive. No one had ever taken 
Kilore. The fortress was unbreechable, perched on its clifftop aerie all warded about with 
stone. The walls were spiked with iron. 

A servant escorted him to a private chamber and gave him leave to enter. Aidan at 
first thought it odd that he would be so summarily sent in to face his aunt and the lord of 
Erinn-Liam, Aidan's grandfather, had died four years before-but the servant merely 
smiled and opened the door. Aidan stepped in. 

A man stood just inside of the door. His broad back was to Aidan; he leaned on a 
longsword, nodding from time to time. As he heard the door shut he glanced back briefly, 
showing a strong-featured face, then returned his attention to the other occupants. 

It was a practice chamber, Aidan saw in surprise. Not the private chambers of a 
lord and his lady, but a chamber reserved for learning the use of weapons. Racks filled 
the walls, full of swords, spears, pikes, halberds and other deadly things. The room itself 
was plain, with no illumination save for torch brackets set high in the walls, spilling light 
into the chamber. On steel, it ran like water. 

Two people sparred in the chamber, scuffing across smooth stone. Aidan paid 
them little notice as he quietly shut the door, then stepped up next to the man just before 
him and made the mental adjustment to change languages. He had learned his Erinnish 
from Aileen and Deirdre and spoke it passingly well, but with a Homanan accent. 

"My lord?" he began diffidently. 

The other barely glanced at him. "A moment," he said briefly. "They'll be done 


soon enough." 

Aidan looked. A man and a woman. To himself, he smiled: he knew without even 
asking who the woman was. Only Keely knew the sword, and was so steadfast in its art. 

But nothing in their sparring led him to believe she and her teacher would be done 
any time soon. They seemed well matched, and neither in any hurry to end the bout. They 
led one another into traps, parried expertly, patiently began again. Faces were flushed and 
breathing was loud, but both were obviously supremely fit and not in the least winded. 

This might last all day… Except the man at his side-Sean, he assumed-had said it 
was nearly done. Aidan glanced sideways at the big man by his side. "How can you tell?" 

The other smiled. "I'm the sword-master. I'm supposed to be knowing these 
things." 

Surprise stole diffidence. "You are the sword-master?" 

The man grinned, showing a gap in one side of his upper teeth; an eyetooth was 
missing. "Aye. Did you think I was the lord?" 

Aidan slanted him a glance. No, now that he knew better. He was too rough, too 
worn for lordship. And certainly too old; Sean was, he knew, closer to fifty than to forty. 
This man was older yet. 

Intently, he glanced back at the couple. "Then that, I take it, is Sean." 

"Aye. And yon woman the lady." The sword-master grinned. "If he's not careful, 
she'll have him. And then we'll be hearing all about it for at least a seven-day." 

"He's too big," Aidan protested instantly, with no prick of reproval for discounting 
Keely so quickly. "Much too big-how could a woman beat him?" 

The older man cast Aidan a considering glance. "You're not from Erinn, lad, in 
spite of your Erinnish-or you'd be knowing the answer." 

It stung. "I am of Erinn. That woman is my aunt-your lord is my uncle." 

The sword-master grunted. "The House is a large one… I'm not knowing which 
one you are." 

Aidan blinked. "Homana," he answered. "Grandson to the Mujhar." 

It earned him another glance, but this one was equally unimpressed. "There's 
another of those here." 

Aye, so there was: Keely's son, Riordan, if Aidan recalled correctly. "Aye, but-" 
He broke off, staring. "She will beat him!" 

"Aye. She has before." The sword-master grinned. " 'Twill be a noisy meal." 

Aidan was astonished. He had heard of Sean's legendary size and prowess from 
his mother and others. He had expected to find Sean smaller in fact, since stories were 
often wrong, but this time it was the truth. Sean of Erinn was a very large man of very 
obvious strength… and yet Keely was beating him. 

Until Sean hooked her foot and dropped her like a stone. 

"You ku'reshtin!" She glared up at him from the floor. "It was to be a true bout, 
not a wrestling match!" 

Sean grinned down at her. "I wanted to win, lass. To do it, I'll be doing whatever I 
must. So will any man with a bit of a brain in his head." 

"Ku'reshtin," she muttered, more quietly. She hitched herself up on elbows, 
wincing elaborately. "I would have had you, and you know it." 

"I know it," Sean agreed cheerfully, leaning on his sword. "Why d'ye think I 
cheated?" 


"A Cheysuli would never have done-" 

"A Cheysuli most likely wouldn't have a sword in his hand in the first place." 
Sean reached down. "Here, lass, catch hold-I'll not leave you on the floor." 

"But you'll throw me there." Keely caught his hand and let him pull her up. She 
wore snug Cheysuli leathers and soft, supple boots mostly suited for household use. 
Blond hair was braided back from a face no longer young, but striking for its spirit. She 
was tall, slender, fit. She was also past forty, but age sat lightly on her. She moved like a 
young woman as she bent to pick up the fallen sword. "So," she said, "you win. Next time 
will be different." 

" 'Twill always be different-next time." Sean cast a glance at Aidan, thick 
eyebrows sliding up beneath a tangle of curly hair. He was blond, bearded, brown-eyed, 
with shoulders fit for a plow. "So, lad, you're here. Are we to know who you are, coming 
so freely into our home?" 

Aidan smiled faintly, displaying his heavy signet. "I was brought here properly. 
And I did pass the test." 

Keely studied him. A frown knitted brows. "You have the look and the eyes… but 
that is not Cheysuli hair." 

"Erinnish," he agreed with resignation, wondering how often he would have to 
explain himself. "Aileen's hair, . though darker; Brennan gave me something." 

Keely's eyes widened. Aidan found it briefly amusing that she should remark on 
color; she was fair-haired, fair-skinned and blue-eyed, and no gold on her arms. He more 
than she had the right to invoke their race. 

"Not Aidan," she said. "You were a sickly child… Aileen said you had outgrown 
it, but I did not expect this!" 

Aidan nodded gravely. "I am better now. Instead of dying today, I will wait until 
tomorrow." 

Sean laughed aloud, sliding his sword back into a rack. Keely did not smile, 
though a spark in her eyes kindled. She studied Aidan closely, much as she would, he 
thought, a horse. "Brennan's son," she mused. "Are you as stuffy and pompous as he is?" 

Aidan sighed aloud, though inwardly he laughed. She was everything they said; 
probably more. He was looking forward to it. "He was hoping marriage had forced you to 
grow up… I'll be telling him the truth: you're obviously as bad as you ever were." 

Keely scowled. "Don't be giving me that Erinnish cant, my lad… you've never 
been here, boyo, and I've lived here very nearly longer than you've been alive." 

She had gained her own share of the cant. Aidan, grinning, offered her the 
courteous bow she would, he knew, scorn. It was why he did it. "They tell stories of you," 
he said. "Would you like to hear them now?" 

Sean's big hand closed on Keely's shoulder. "Not now, lad-we'll be due some wine 
and ale. Come into the hall with us; Keely will mind her tongue." 

"Then I will be disappointed." 

"Ku'reshtin," she said calmly, handing her sword to the man still waiting by the 
door. "Well? He beat me." 

"He cheated," the big sword-master said equably. " 'Tis the only way he can win. 
I've taught you that much, lass, in the years since you've come." 

Keely laughed and slapped a corded arm. "Aye, so you have-but perhaps you 
should look to a new lesson that teaches me how to cheat." 


Sean shoved open the door. " 'Tis n't in you, lass… you've too much Cheysuli 
honor." He waved her through impatiently, eyeing Aidan with great good cheer. "Have ye 
come for long, lad?" 

Aidan followed Keely. "Long enough to find a wife." 

His aunt stopped dead in her tracks, swinging to face him abruptly. "A wife," she 
said softly. "And would you be meaning my girl?" 

Aidan smiled blandly. "I wouldn't be meaning your boy." 

It was not, perhaps, the best way to put himself in Keely's favor, but then he had 
not come to give her the kindnesses and false courtesies she had, from all reports, always 
despised. He knew enough of her history to be fully aware she would be less inclined to 
consider his suit than Sean, who was, his sister said, a reasonable, intelligent man. Aileen 
had also said Keely was much the same, but could be difficult. Aidan did not yet know if 
marriage to Shona would be suitable, but there was no sense in lying about the reason he 
had come. Especially to Keely. 

Even now, as Sean led the way into the central hall and waved him into a chair 
and handed down a cup of Erinnish liquor, Keely's expression was stiff. "Does Brennan 
want this?" 

Aidan sipped, blinked surprise at the bite of the liquor, then raised the cup in 
tribute to Sean. All as he looked at Keely. "Not this particularly," he said, "but he wants 
me married, aye." 

A faint line etched itself between her brows. " 'Not this particularly,' " she quoted. 
"An odd thing to say. Does that mean my oldest rujholli argues against my daughter?" 

Sean snorted. "I doubt he'd be such a fool. 'Twould be a good match." He ignored 
the black glance Keely cast him and contented himself with settling his large body into a 
rough, iron-bound chair. Blond beard parted slightly to exhibit white teeth. "You married 
into Erinn, and Erinn into Homana. He'd hardly be a man for saying the lass isn't worthy 
of it." 

Keely, who remained standing very near Aidan's chair, tapped a booted right foot 
briefly. "No," she conceded. "All right, then, kinsman-what is your meaning?" 

Aidan did not answer at once, distracted by his surroundings. Kilore was not a 
place of much refinement. Certainly nothing like Homana-Mujhar, or even Hart's castle 
in Lestra. It was, first and foremost, a fortress. The casements were tall but very narrow, 
more like arrow-loups than windows, and the cavernous ceiling was broken up only by 
greenish, studded beams as big around as a man. Illumination was negligible, save for the 
blazing fire in the massive fireplace. 

"Well?" Keely prodded. 

Recalling her question, Aidan smiled. "He merely said he wants me married." The 
smile stretched into an ironic downward hook. "It is suggested the Lion might be happier 
with one more male in line to plant a rump in the wooden lap." 

Keely's mouth twisted. "How like him," she said lightly, then turned away from 
Aidan. She took up from a nearby table the cup Sean had poured her, then perched herself 
on the edge. "And does Aileen say the same?" 

"She says I should have more time." Aidan shrugged. "I doubt it will make a 
difference. The Mujhar is in good health, and my jehan is young enough to rule for 
decades after. If I take a cheysula now and get a son on her, or wait ten more years, I 


doubt the Lion would notice." 

Keely's gaze was steady. Pointedly, she said. "And yet you are here." 

Sean stirred in his chair. "Lass, the lad's not a child. Could be he's ready for a 
wife." Brown eyes warmed. "Though perhaps he'll think better of it once he's met our 
lass." 

Aidan smiled back. He liked Sean very much. "Is she much like her jehana?" 

Sean's brows rose. "Like us both, lad… a full plate, you might say." 

"She has a mind of her own," Keely declared. "No daughter of mine will ever sit 
behind a man when her place is beside him." 

Sean nodded blandly. "No daughter of yours would dare such a thing, with you to 
set her straight." 

Aidan laughed into his cup. "Aye, well… I did not set out for Shona. I went to 
Solinde first-" 

"Blythe," Keely said at once. She nodded consideringly. "There has been a 
Solindish-born Queen of Homana before… but very long ago." She frowned faintly. 
"Though there was grief of it-Electra betrayed Carillon by becoming Tynstar's light 
woman." 

"And bore him a child. Strahan." Aidan sighed, thinking of Strahan's son. "It does 
not matter so much any more… Blythe is not at the moment ready for marriage, to me or 
to anyone else." He frowned consideringly into his cup, then sorted out his words. 
Quietly he told them the story of what had happened. 

Softly, yet with a great malignancy, Keely cursed Lochiel when Aidan was done. 
And the man who had sired him. 

"So," she said viciously, "this time they strike at Solinde. If they cannot take 
Homana directly, they will try another way." She slammed down the cup. Wine sloshed 
over the rim. "To murder a helpless infant…" Three long, stiff strides carried her toward 
the fireplace. All Aidan saw was her back, and its eloquent rigidity. After a moment she 
turned. "It will be worse for Blythe." 

Neither man spoke, transfixed by her intensity. 

"Worse," Keely repeated. "For me, it was force. But Blythe bedded him willingly" 
Keely's face spasmed. "She will hate herself for that." 

Sean stirred, stretching out a hand. "Lass-" 

Keely shook her head. "You were right to leave her, Aidan. She will want nothing 
to do with marriage for now. Perhaps for some time to come. And if there is a child-" The 
lines of her face altered. She looked older, and tired. "She will have to make her choice, 
just as I did. Although, in the end, the gods saw to it themselves…" Keely sighed and 
thrust splayed fingers into her hair, stripping loosened loops back from her cheeks. "If 
Hart has any sense, he will show her the proper way of performing i'toshaa-ni." 

Aidan smiled faintly. "Hart has sense." He shifted forward in his chair. "Aye, I 
came to speak of Shona and marriage; even so, I am not convinced she is the only 
alternative… if we do not suit, I will not insist on it." He thought of his parents. "I know 
better." 

Keely's expression was odd. "I thought that long finished. In her letters, Aileen 
says they do well enough-" 

Aidan, who had no desire to bog himself down in a convoluted discussion of the 
feelings between his parents, interrupted smoothly. "Let us say I would prefer a match 


well-suited from the beginning. As yours was." 

Keely and Sean exchanged glances. Sean grinned crookedly, but swallowed more 
liquor rather than say anything. Keely's manner was brusque. "Aye, well… it speaks well 
of you that you are willing to consider Shona's feelings instead of politics. Aileen's doing, 
I'd wager; Brennan thinks too much of the Lion." 

"A common curse, among our kin." Aidan relaxed back 'into the big copper-
bound chair, hooking the foot of his goblet over his belt buckle. He was weary from the 
journey, but it was a good weariness. What he felt most was a deep, abiding contentment. 
It came, he sensed, from Kilore herself… and the couple who lived with her. 

Keely smiled for the first time since he had met her. "You look more suited to 
Kilore than Homana-Mujhar, or even Clankeep. There may be more of Erinn in your 
blood than Homana." 

He smiled back, unoffended. "My jehana has said that once or twice… until I 
come back from Clankeep, and then she says I am naught but Cheysuli, prickly pride and 
all." 

Sean grunted. "I am in a better place to judge, I'm thinking, not being biased." He 
ignored Keely's skeptical grunt. "And 'tis too soon to know… how long d'ye plan to 
stay?" 

Aidan opened his mouth to answer-he thought to stay until he and Shona knew if 
there was a chance, or no-but was interrupted by a treble voice piercing the hall as the big 
door, opened by a servant, disgorged an angry boy. 

" 'Tis n't fair!" he cried, marching across to hall to stop in front of his father. " 'Tis 
n't fair at all. She hasn't the right to be ordering me around, this way and that-and no right 
at all to take the bow away!" 

He was blond, like both his parents, and his eyes were Keely's blue. His skin was 
very fair, as Sean's must have been before wind and time had weathered it. If there was 
any Cheysuli in him, Aidan could not see it. 

"The bow," Sean said blankly. 

"My bow," the boy declared, and then had the grace to look abashed. "At least, 
'twould be my bow if you saw fit to let me have one." He slanted a blue-eyed glance at 
his mother. "Shona has a bow." 

Keely nodded gravely. "Shona is somewhat older." 

"But she's a girl," Riordan declared. 

Sean grinned. "A lad with eyes in his head, is it?" He sat forward in his chair, 
shifting a body much larger than that of his son's. Aidan wondered fleetingly which 
branch of the Houses Riordan would emulate: the broad bulk of his father's, or the 
slender fitness of his mother's. "When you're a mite older, lad, you'll be having your own 
bow. If Shona's told you no, 'tis because she tends your welfare." 

" 'Tis n't," Riordan retorted. " 'Tis because she thinks she's better." 

Keely sighed. It was, somewhat obviously, an old argument. "A Cheysuli warbow 
is not something a boy should play with, Riordan-" 

"I wasn't playing with it," he declared. "I was trying to shoot at a target, just as 
Shona does-just as you do-but she caught me at it and took the bow away." He sighed 
aggrievedly. " 'Tis bad enough already… now they'll be saying I'm a coward afraid of his 
sister." 

"Who will?" Sean asked. 


The small face was downcast. "All the other boys." 

Sean and Keely exchanged a glance. The interplay was subtle: Sean's arched 
brow, Keely's lifted shoulder. 

" 'Tis something we should be tending to, then, I'm thinking," Sean said quietly. 
"Tomorrow we'll see to finding you a bow-a boy's bow, Riordan, not a Cheysuli warbowand 
we'll set out to learn the proper way. I'll not be having them say you're a coward, but 
neither will I be having a boy too small for a warbow chance hurting someone else." 

Riordan, who had been all set to argue, saw he would lose even that much if he 
protested. So he did not. He merely grinned at both his parents, slanted a briefly curious 
glance at Aidan, then headed out of the room. His posture was one of irrepressible 
exuberance. 

"Nine," Keely said, before Aidan could ask. "And spoiled near to rotting by a 
much too permissive jehan." 

Sean sat back in his chair, smiling blandly. "Aye, well… I am the Lord of Erinn. 
Who is there to stop me?" 

Aidan watched the door thump closed. "Nine," he mused. "Too young yet for lirsickness, 
or any signs of it." 

Keely's mouth twisted. "He may never require a lir. The Erinnish blood, I have 
discovered, is thicker than our own… Shona has none of my gifts, and Riordan may miss 
as well." She flicked an unreadable glance at Sean. "But as it is Erinn he will inherit, 
there may be no need." 

Aidan did not answer. Keely had schooled her tone into a negligent matter-offactness, 
but his kivarna told him the truth. She had hoped Shona would share her own 
unique gifts, thereby asserting the Cheysuli portion of her heritage. The girl had not; now 
Keely hoped-and probably prayed-Riordan would make up the difference. It was true that 
in Erinn the need was not so great as in Homana-Aidan's grandsire, Niall, had gained a lir 
so late it made his claim to the Lion tenuous in the eyes of the clans-but undoubtedly 
Keely wanted to leave the mark of their race in Erinn's history. It was a natural desire; he 
felt it in himself. But for Keely, the need was stronger. 

She recalls too clearly what Strahan did to her… and the child she might have 
borne him. Dishonored, as Ian was-giving Erinn a Cheysuli lord will mitigate her guilt-

He broke it off. It was not his place to delve into Keely's feelings. They were 
private. Kivarna or no, he should respect them. 

Sean combed his beard with two fingers. "Shona is out on the headlands, with the 
dogs. 'Twould not be a bad thing to see her alone, rather than cluttered up by a 
household." 

Keely shot him a sharp glance. "She is not a woman for games." She turned the 
gaze on Aidan. "Tell her the truth of why you have come." 

Aidan smiled blandly. "If you like, I will wear a placard." 

His aunt scowled darkly. "I have good reason for what I say. Too many men tease 
and twist a woman. I'll not have it done with Shona." 

Aidan set down the goblet. "Su'fala, the last thing I would do is tease and twist a 
woman. I promise, I will be honest with Shona-I see no reason to play games with a 
woman I might marry-but I will not blurt out my reason for coming before the proper 
moment. What chance would I have then? If she is anything like you, she prefers honesty 
to lies, but there is room for diplomacy. Also courtesy." 


Keely's eyes narrowed. "Brennan taught you that." 

Aidan smiled calmly. "My jehan has taught me many things, aye… but I am no 
more my father than you are your mother." 

It was a telling stroke, as he meant it to be. Keely's mother-his granddame, Mad 
Gisella-had earned only contempt by her conduct with the Ihlini. The last thing Keely 
wanted was to be thought anything like her. 

Keely raked him with a sulfurous glare. Then her mouth twitched. "Ku'reshtin," 
she said calmly, flicking a hand toward the door. "Go. I will let Shona deal with you-you 
will find her a worthy match." Another dismissive flick. "On the headlands, as he said. 
Amidst a pack of hounds." 

Chapter Six 

«^» 

The turf was lush, thickly webbed, excessively green. None of the nubby rugs in 
Homana-Mujhar approached its thick texture, nor even the bear pelts in his own chamber, 
so far away. Erinn was much damper than Homana, and its flora responded with a 
vigorous, unrestrained growth. Everywhere he looked was green; even as he glanced 
back at Kilore, falling behind, he thought the mottled gray stones acquired a greenish 
hue, as if to blend in with the turf and trees and storm-gray skies. 

So far from home, he thought vaguely, feeling the brief pang of regret flutter deep 
in his belly. He had not, as he had so belatedly realized in Ashra's company, ever been 
anywhere. It had never seemed odd to him-he was sufficiently satisfied with life in 
Mujhara and Clankeep-but now he knew himself incomplete. There were places in the 
world he could not go, and therefore places in himself he would never know. A man who 
chained himself to his home drew a curtain over his eyes, blinding himself to all the 
majesty of the world. 

And yet he proposed, one day, to chain himself to a beast. The Lion of Homana, 
acrouch in Homana-Mujhar. 

Is that so bad? Teel's croak emanated from overhead; Aidan glanced up. A man 
could have a worse tahlmorra than to be Mujhar. 

Aidan was not disposed to argue. He could. 

Are you wanting dogs? 

He frowned briefly, momentarily nonplussed, then followed the raven's change of 
topic. More to the point: do I want the woman with them? 

Teel angled back toward Kilore. Meet her and find out. 

The raven departed swiftly. Aidan, laughing quietly, looked ahead. The headlands 
were flat, a green flood of turf edging toward the sea-except that the edge was sharp as a 
blade, dropping off to a chalky cliff. Somewhere along here, Aidan recalled, his grandsire 
had ridden a horse off the edge of the world, intent on escape. Deirdre had bidden Niall 
do it, to keep his honor intact; he had broken another part of his honor as he had broken 
his parole to Shea, Lord of Erinn, out the circumstances had required it. Had he not 
gone… 

Aidan smiled. Had he not gone, he would never have married Gisella of Atvia, 
nor sired four children on her, including my own jehan-

In the distance, something barked. And again. And Aidan, knowing how to read 
the nuances of such sounds, stopped walking and held his ground. 


The river, in full spate, poured across the turf. Ash-gray, smoke-gray, storm-gray, 
even palest silver. A handful of hounds-no, more-nine or ten; he could not count them all. 
But they clearly counted him, ranging themselves around him. None of them barked, 
now; the warning had been given. They waited. 

Bitches, most of them. Two or three half-grown males, still pups, awkward and 
gangly. And one huge male who stood hip-high to Aidan, massive shoulders tensed. 
Hackles bristled on neck, shoulders, rump; deep in his chest, he rumbled. 

How many men would test that? Aidan wondered in detachment. How many men 
would dare? 

Not he. He was no fool. 

The pups, he saw, were less interested in domination than in seeing who he was. 
But the big male-their sire, undoubtedly-was in no mood to allow anyone closer to Aidan, 
or Aidan closer to them. And the bitches-how many were there, again?-would not allow a 
stranger to harm their young. 

Impasse. Aidan sighed, wondering how long it would take Shona to release them. 
He could take lir-shape and escape this travesty, but he wanted to meet her as a man, on 
her terms; taking lir-shape would lend him an advantage he did not, just yet, want to 
display. 

Then he saw her. Distant yet, but approaching, striding along the edge of the cliffs 
with no apparent thought for her nearness to danger; hummocky turf curling over the 
edge could give and send her to her death. But Shona strode on easily, smoothly, without 
haste; could she not call to them? Or whistle? 

No. He realized that as she came closer yet. She was blatantly unconcerned with 
any discomfort or anxiety engendered by the wolfhounds. What concerned her were the 
hounds themselves. 

She came into their midst as one of them, a hand touching here, there; thick long 
tails waved. But none of the hounds moved, save to flick an ear, or thump her hip with a 
tail. 

Her language was Erinnish, as expected. Her tone cool, quiet, unhurried. He could 
wait as long as it took. He saw it in her eyes. 

Aidan assessed her. Tall. Very tall; she was, he thought in shock, at least as tall as 
himself. While he did not match the elegant height of most Cheysuli, he was easily six 
feet. So was Shona. 

And big-boned to match her height, with broad, level shoulders. There was no 
delicacy in her, or fragility, or anything approaching femininity. She was, quite clearly, 
Sean's daughter. Keely, next to Shona, would be shorter, slighter, leaner. 

A true-born Erinnish, big of bone and stature… 

Incongruously, he thought of Blythe. Slender, elegant Blythe, very much a 
woman. And while there was no doubting Shona's gender-no man would dare-there was 
nothing at all in her reminiscent of feminine Blythe. Whom Aidan had thought beautiful. 

No, he thought wryly, that is not in Shona's purvue. 

But something was. In movement, in posture, in expression, Shona's gift was 
presence. 

She was blonde, like Keely and Sean. A wild, unruly blonde, had she worn her 
hair cut short. But she did not, and so the curls were tamed. The long, heavy braid-thick 
around as his forearm-hung over her left shoulder, dangling to her hip. She had tied it off 


with a leather thong ornamented with amber beads. Their color matched her tunic; her 
trews were dusty ocher. 

Sean's daughter indeed: brown eyes observed him calmly. Her features, though 
perfectly regular, were not those he might have chosen, given leave. They lacked the 
elegant aquilinity of Blythe's. There was no delicacy. It was a strong, almost masculine 
face, devoid of beauty or elegance. Its statement was one of strength. And of unremitting 
power. 

Something tickled his belly. This woman was born for a throne… it shines out of 
her like a beacon-

He wondered what Teel would say. 

He wondered what Shona would say. 

"Enough," she said softly in a low, smoky voice. 

For one odd moment he thought she meant him; that she knew why he had come 
and was giving him his dismissal. But he saw the hackles go down; the male wolfhound's 
tail waved. 

The growling stopped. Aidan blinked. The sound had been so low, so infinitely 
soft, he had not truly heard it. But with its absence, the silence was absolute. The threat 
was dissipated; he felt himself relax. 

"So," she said, "you're here. What are ye wanting from me?" 

To marry you, he said. But only to himself. 

Blonde brows arched. "Are ye mute?" she asked. 

Until this moment, no. Aidan cleared his throat. "Handsome dogs," he said; the 
inanity amazed him. 

Shona considered him. "They'll do," she allowed gently. " 'Tis what I do, d'ye see? 
I bred the boyo myself, and all the lads and lasses… but not all the bitches, of course. 
The line must not get too tight, or the blood will ruin itself." 

Aye, he agreed fervently. Much like our own. 

Shona gestured briefly. "That one, d'ye see, came from over-island. And that one 
from Atvia…" She shrugged. "They're not known for their wolfhounds, there, but 'twas a 
line I admired. I brought the bitch in to shore up what was here." 

Why are we discussing dogs? Aidan smiled weakly. "I like that one there." 

Shona glanced briefly at his choice. Her contempt, though fleeting, was manifest. 
Her smile was barely polite. " 'Tis a judge of wolfhounds, is it?" 

"No," he demurred. 

Eyes crinkled. "Good; the man admits it. He's the worst of the litter, that lad. A bit 
crooked in the rear to run down a pack… but you'll be knowing that, I'm sure." 

"No," he said again. "I know nothing about wolfhounds." And less about myself; 
this is not a woman I would look at, in Homana-

Shona laughed aloud. It was a full, hearty laugh, more like a man's than a 
woman's. "So, it knows what it doesn't know-not so many men will admit such a thing, 
and fewer to a woman. You must be worth the knowing." She tilted her head a little. "Are 
you worth the knowing?" 

"Some days," he agreed. 

Shona smiled. It set her face alight. And then she turned to the wolfhounds, said a 
single word, and Aidan was engulfed. 

"There," she said, "they're free. And so are you, if you like; they'll none of them 


harm you now." 

Not intentionally, perhaps, but ten or twelve wolfhounds-even some only half 
grown-were enough to drag down a man even in polite greeting. 

The pups, of course, were uncontrollable, but the others were only slightly more 
reserved. Aidan found his elbows trapped in gently insistent mouths, and his manhood 
endangered by whipping tails thick as treelimbs. He did what he could to protect himself-
something deep inside laughed to consider Homana's future unmanned by a pack of dogs-
then one of the hounds reared up and put both front paws on Aidan's chest. 

Off-guard, Aidan stepped back, felt the paw beneath his boot and heard the 
anguished yelp; sought to move, and did: landing full-length on the turf. 

"Agh, get off the man… let the man breathe, d'ye heat-?" Shona waded in, 
slapping at hips and shoulders. Eventually the knot parted; Aidan saw sky again, instead 
of a forest of legs. 

He was laughing. He could not help himself. He had grown up with only cursory 
attendance by dogs-Cheysuli, having lir, did not keep pets-and knew little enough about 
the subtleties of unblessed animals kept as companions. He had known Homanans who 
trained dogs for hunting, or kept cats to kill the vermin, but he had never thought about 
what it was like. There had been Serri and Tasha in his childhood, and eventually Teel. 
Lir were very different. A man could reason with lir; now, in this moment, all he could 
do was laugh and fend off exuberant hounds. 

Shona urged them back, giving Aidan room. Eventually he sat up. He did not at 
once stand, thinking it might be easier to keep his balance on the ground. The dogs milled 
around him, snuffling at ears and neck. Noses were cold, damp, insistent; Aidan pulled up 
his cloak and snugged it around his neck. 

Shona laughed. "They're meaning you no harm. 'Tis their way of welcoming you." 

Incongruously, he thought of another welcome. The welcome of a woman for a 
man, home from hunting, or war. He saw Shona standing before a rude hillcroft, wild hair 
and homespun skirts ravaged by the wind, waiting for his return. He saw Shona bedecked 
as a queen, receiving foreign envoys who were agog at the height and bearing of 
Homana's queen; at the overwhelming strength that blazed within her spirit. And he saw 
Shona kneeling in soiled bedding, sweat-and blood-smeared, gently aiding a wolfhound 
bitch as she strained to pass a leggy pup into the world. 

He took no note of the milling wolfhounds. Only of Shona, in their midst; of the 
sudden excruciating acknowledgment that pinned him to the turf. 

This is what it is to recognize a tahlmorra-

Smiling, Shona reached down a hand. "You'd best come up from there, or they'll 
be making a rug out of you." 

Fingers linked, then hands. And Aidan, moving to rise, felt the power blaze up 
between them. 

Deaf. Blind. Mute. Flesh rolled back from his bones, baring the Aidan within. His 
body pulsed with a tangle of emotions so alien he felt ill. 

Shock… astonishment… denial… anger… fear… an odd recognition


-awareness, sharp and abrupt, of intense, painful arousal-

And comprehension so acute it cut like a knife. 

Shona. 

And then she tore her hand from his. The contact was broken. The clarity, the 


empathy, the comprehension was cut off, leaving him sweating and shaking and ill, bereft 

of understanding. All he knew was an unpleasant incompleteness. 

Much like a lirless warrior. 

Vision cleared. He found himself still half-kneeling on the turf, splayed fingers 
rigid. His breathing was ragged, noisy, as if he had fought a war and lost. 

Shona's face was white as the chalk cliffs. Like Aidan, she shook. "Who-?" she 
blurted. "Who are you-?" 

He tried to speak and could not. Unwittingly, his free hand groped for hers. 

Shona lurched back a step. "No-" 

The wolfhounds growled. 

"Wait-" he managed to croak. 

Three more steps. Then she whirled, braid flying, and ran. 

Chapter Seven 

«^» 

He lay supine, heels, buttocks, and shoulder blades pressed into cool turf. A 
mounded hummock pillowed his head. Wind blew down the headlands, rippling the folds 
of the cloak he had snugged across his chest. Hair teased his eyes, but he let it alone, 
ignoring it, until it crept between lashes. Then he stripped it away limply and tucked the 
hand back into woolen cloak. 

He did not know why he lay on Erinnish turf so close to the chalk cliffs, defying 
the vigorous wind, except that it brought him an odd sort of numbness. Not a true peace, 
for that required a contentment in spirit, but a certain detachment, a distance that allowed 
him to push away the acknowledgment of what had happened. 

He smelled salt, sea, fish, and a pervasive dampness. The rich earth of Erinn, 
supporting webby turf. But most of all he smelled emptiness, albeit in his mind. And a 
blatant futility. 

"I should go home," he said aloud. 

He had thought it several times since Shona had left him. But he had not said it, 
until now; now it took on the trappings of resolve. He would go home


"Lad." 

It took Aidan a moment. Then he realized the voice was quite real, not a figment 
of his currently turbulent thoughts, and he sat up. He intended to stand, but Sean waved 
him back down. The Lord of Erinn, wind-blown, wind-chafed, joined Aidan on the 
spongy green turf and, as Aidan, stared out into the sky beyond the edge of the cliffs. 
Sean had changed out of the plain woolens worn for swordplay into more formal tunic 
and trews of very deep red. Silver bands the width of Aidan's forearms clasped 
formidable wrists, worked with intricate knots of wire and thumb-sized bosses. 

Aidan drew in a breath, then sighed. "She told you." 

Sean continued to stared into the sky. His voice was a rusty baritone. "She told us 
a stranger came, giving her no name. And that when he touched her-when she put out her 
hand to help him up-the world fell into pieces." 

Aidan gritted teeth. "Not so much the world, for me. I fell into pieces." 

Silently, Sean put a hand to the turf and uprooted a plot with gentle violence. 
Then, as if realizing what he had done, he replaced it and tamped it down with broad, deft 
fingers. And laughed softly, acknowledging the fruitlessness of his repair. 


Aidan waited. He still felt empty, and numb, and bereft of something he had only 
briefly begun to understand, in that instant of physical contact. 

Sean's laughter died. His face was a good face, full of strength and character 
undimmed by nearly fifty years. The gods had been kind to him, gifting him with strong 
but well-made bones, and a spirit to match them. Aidan had heard stories of how Sean 
had come from Erinn to win Keely's regard, knowing full well if he lost he lost 
everything. He had won, in the end, but the battle had been duplicitous and dangerous. 
He was not, Aidan knew, a stupid man, or a fool; Sean of Erinn was an ally well worth 
having. And Aidan had hoped, for a very short span, Sean would also become a father. 

It was Shona's face, Shona's eyes, Shona's hair, underscored by masculinity. And 
it hurt with an intensity he had not believed possible. 

Sean frowned. "There is a thing of Erinn, my lad, very hard to explain. 'Tis a thing 
of the blood, much as your lir-gifts are… with something of the same price to be paid, in 
certain circumstances." 

Recognition flickered sluggishly. "Do you mean the kivarna?" 

Sean's eyes sharpened. "What are you knowing about it?" 

He shrugged. "Only that it exists, and that it gives some people the ability to 
understand how others feel." He paused. "And that I have it." 

Sean sighed heavily. "How long have you known?" 

"That it had a name?-a few months, no more. My jehana told me when she 
realized I had the ability…" Aidan's mouth twisted. "I thought it was something everyone 
had. I never even asked." 

Sean shook his head. "Not everyone, lad. 'Tisn't so prevalent as it once was-even 
then, 'twas mostly limited to the Aerie. We intermarried too much, in younger days…" 
He squinted into the sky. "Shona has it from me." 

Aidan frowned. "But even if she does, what difference does it make? Why does 
the kivarna have anything to do with what happened when we touched?" 

Sean did not look at him. He stared down at his hands, assiduously pulling up turf 
and shredding it. "When I came to manhood," he began, "I was no better than a rutting 
boar. What woman I wanted, I took, if she was willing… and she was. She always was: I 
was the Prince of Erinn." He looked at Aidan briefly, sharing the common knowledge of 
rank and title. "I was taught very young about kivarna, so I understood why I found it 
distasteful to pursue an unwilling woman, and why I was not a bully, and why it hurt me 
when someone else's feelings were hurt. 'Twas a difficult thing, as a child-but then, you'd 
be knowing that." His smile was crooked. "They say I sired half the bastards on this 
island, but no. There was the Redbeard, too… perhaps between the two of us, we 
accounted for half." 

Aidan, frowning, wondered why Sean was telling him the story of his youth. It 
was none of Aidan's business how many bastards Sean had sired, or that he had sired any; 
and it had nothing whatsoever to do with his kivarna. 

"My lord-" 

Sean lifted a silencing hand. "What I'm saying, lad, is I was very lucky, because I 
took care to be so. I knew I would one day be marrying the Princess Royal of Homana, 
and that if I was not very careful, I alone could turn the future of Erinn-and possibly 
Homana-into a travesty." 

Aidan's frown deepened. 


"Kivarna," Sean said softly, "has its own sort of price." 

Aidan reined in impatience. "My lord-" 

"A man who has kivarna is blessed in bed," Sean said bluntly, "because he knows 
what the woman feels. But that same man, lying with a woman who has the gift, seals 
himself to her forever. As she seals herself to him." 

Aidan stared at him, recalling all too clearly the results when he and Shona had 
touched. 

Sean drew in a breath. "Had I lain with a woman who had kivarna, I could never 
have lain with Keely. D'ye see? 'Tis a mutual binding… you may know up here you 
should lie with another woman, a woman who lacks the gift-" he tapped his head "-but 
the body says otherwise. The body refuses." 

"Refuses?" Aidan echoed. 

Sean's expression was odd. "There are more ways to geld a man than with a 
knife." 

"But-" Aidan stared at him blankly. "Are you saying so long as I lie with women 
who lack kivarna, I am in no danger?" 

"Aye, lad. And I'm assuming you've found that out already." One of Sean's brows 
arched sardonically. "Have you not?" 

Impatiently, Aidan waved a hand. "Aye, aye… I was never a rutting boar-" He 
stopped. "Perhaps I was, a little-but the reasons were different…" He saw Sean's private 
smile; he scowled and went on. "So, you are saying that Shona and I share this kivarna, 
and if we slept together we would be bound to one another." 

"Forever," Sean affirmed. 

"But you do not share this with Keely." 

The Lord of Erinn grinned. " 'Tis your way of asking if I'm faithful, is it?" Then, 
as Aidan tried to protest, Sean shook his head. " 'Twas never an issue, lad. She has no 
Erinnish, and no kivarna, but it doesn't matter. Keely is more than woman enough for any 
man, even a reformed boar." Then the humor faded. "D'ye understand what I'm saying?" 

"Aye." Oddly, jubilation welled up. Now he understood. Now it had a name. Now 
it had a purpose. Aidan smiled. "What is the problem? I came to Erinn to see if Shona 
and I would suit one another. Obviously, we do." 

Sean's expression was solemn. "Do you?" 

"Aye! Even this kivarna says we do." 

Sean nodded after a moment. "Aye. But there's something you're forgetting." 

Aidan spread his hands. "What?" 

"Shona. She's wanting no part of you." 

She paced, because she could not stand still. Back and forth, back and forth-until 
the dogs began to whine. Until her mother, rather more calmly than expected, told her to 
stop. 

Shona swung around. "Stop!" she cried. "You tell me to stop? 'Tis the only thing 
keeping me whole-" 

Keely's contempt, though subtle, displayed itself nonetheless. "There is no sense 
in allowing yourself to become so overwrought." 

Shona's eyes blazed. "And would you not be overwrought?" 

Looking at her daughter, Keely sighed. She had bequeathed the girl her own 


stubbornness and outspokenness-Shona disdained such things as polite diplomacy when 
bluntness would do, and she had little patience for convoluted courtesies. She was, Keely 
reflected, exactly as she had made her… and now her mother must live with it. 

But so must Shona. And just now it was impossible. 

They were in the central hall, where Shona had announced her arrival by 
slamming open the door before the startled servant could do it for her, with less drama. 
Shona's flamboyant arrival, complete with eleven wolfhounds, nonetheless was quickly 
forgotten in the shock of seeing brown eyes gone black in confusion and shock, and the 
pallor of her face. She had blurted out what had happened. Sean had at once dispatched 
himself to find Aidan; Keely dismissed gathering servants and shut the door personally, 
telling her daughter of Aidan's reason for his visit. 

Now the girl paced before the fireplace. The hounds, sprawled here and there as 
living, breathing carpets, watched her worriedly. Keely, lacking kivarna, nonetheless 
shared a portion of their anxiety. But she would not let her daughter see it. 

Shona turned on her heel and paced back the other way. "Married, is it? They 
might have warned me. They might have written. Even he might have; was he thinking 
I'd welcome him?" 

"Undoubtedly," Keely answered. "We give welcome to all our guests." 

Shona cast her an impatient scowl. " 'Twasn't what I meant… I meant he might 
have been thinking how I'd react, meeting him like that." 

"I doubt he anticipated the kivarna" Keely said dryly. 

"Aileen said nothing of it to me in any of her letters, and it was the last thing I 
expected. We all forget he is half Erinnish…" She sighed and chewed idly at a thumb. 
"And for all you were taken by surprise, I'm thinking he was, too. Are you so selfish to 
think only of yourself?" 

Shona had the grace to look abashed. She stopped pacing and threw herself down 
into a chair. It was her father's favorite, and engulfed her. Her expression altered slowly 
from fierce outrage to something akin to compassion. She smiled lopsidedly. "He was no 
more prepared for it than me. You should have seen his face…" Shona slung one muscled 
leg over the chair arm, settling into its depths. "I felt everything he felt, when we 
touched-it mirrored what I felt, throwing it back at me…" She frowned, squirming 
uncomfortably. " 'Twas not something I'm wanting to repeat… gods, but he was so open" 
Shona laced fingers into her braid and tugged, as if to distract herself. "And I knew, 
when he touched me, he was wanting me-needing me-" 

She broke off with a muttered curse, clearly embarrassed as well as frustrated. 
Keely waited, trying to sort out her own welter of emotions. 

Shona sat upright abruptly, unhooking the dangling leg and planting both booted 
feet on the floor. She leaned into her elbows and hid her face behind both hands. Her 
words were muffled, but the raw helplessness of the tone was undisguised. "Gods help 
me, but 'twas what I was wanting too-every bit of it, I wanted… I could not help myself-" 
She drew her hands away and cast an anguished plea at her mother. "What was I to do? I 
couldn't bear it, all that nakedness of feelings, all the knowing what he wanted, and me… 
all I could do was run away! Like a child, a wee bairn fleeing-" Self-contempt was plain. 
"And me knowing all the while if I gave in, it was over… if I even wavered-" She shut 
her eyes. "Gods, I feel so helpless… it made me feel so helpless-" 

Keely drew in a deep breath, trying to still her voice. "It was the kivarna-" 


Shona rubbed violently at her brow. "I'm knowing that, well enough… I just 
never thought-" She broke it off, rose, began to pace again. "How can I marry him? We're 
strangers to one another, knowing nothing about our habits and interests… how could he 
think I might be willing?" 

Keely lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "The way anyone thinks a man might be 
willing, or a woman, when they first meet." 

Shona stared blankly at the dogs, sprawled on the stone floor. Eventually she sat 
down by one of the bitches and began to stroke the narrow, wiry head. One of the pups 
came over and collapsed as near to Shona as possible, burrowing her head into her lap. 
Absently, Shona petted both hounds. 

" 'Twasn't that way for you and father." 

Keely grunted. "You know that story. I've told you." 

"So has he." Briefly, Shona grinned. "But you loved one another before you 
married. You've both said so." 

"Your jehan and I had less in common when we met than you and Aidan. There 
was no kivarna for us." 

Shona's cheeks reddened. "I'm wanting more than what we felt. That was little 
more than two children setting a broomstick alight-and having the rafters catch!" 

Keely smiled. "Aye, well… there is something to be said for passion, and 
something to be said for peace. Sometimes one outdistances the other, but eventually they 
catch up." 

Troubled, Shona continued to stroke the wolfhounds. "But I know the cost of 
kivarna. I'm knowing what it means. If we married, Aidan and I, and he died, I'd be left 
alone. Forever. With no man to love, or love me back." She looked at her mother. "What 
would you do if father died?" 

Keely drew in a long, painful breath, then released it. "Go on," she answered 
quietly. "He would expect it of me." 

Shona's eyes were steady. She was too much like her father; Keely found it 
difficult to answer that face. "What would you expect of yourself?" 

After a moment, Keely smiled. It was ironic and bittersweet. "Once, I would have 
told you no man is worth the loyalty of a woman, or her soul. That no man is so 
important his passing would leave a woman bereft; she has strength of her own, and 
worth, and should go on very well without him." She stroked a strand of hair back from 
her face. "But I have learned that a woman need not subjugate herself to live with a man, 
nor give up any part of her beliefs. A woman is free to love as she will, and therefore free 
to grieve." She looked at her daughter's intent face. "If your rather ever asked me to do 
something I was adamantly opposed to, I would refuse. No one has the right to expect 
another to compromise personal beliefs simply to accommodate the other. If he asked me 
not to grieve, I would laugh into his face. But if I thought he expected me to end my life 
when he died, I would leave him instantly." 

"Even if you loved him?" 

"I will always love your father. But I would leave him. And he knows it." 

Shona's face was grim. "It would be more difficult if there was kivarna between 
you." 

Keely gestured. "Perhaps. But because we had it between us, it might never come 
to that. Perhaps if more men and women shared a mutual kivarna, there would be less 


contention between them." 

The tone was argumentative. "So, you think I should marry him." 

Keely smiled calmly. "I think you should make the choice for yourself, and then 
live with it." 

Shona scowled. "That is easy for you to say." 

Keely laughed aloud, "Is it? Oh, my foolish lass, you're knowing nothing about it. 
Nothing at all about it." 

Shona looked affronted. "How can you say that? You're not in my position-" 

Keely stood up, tugging her jerkin back into place. "We all make choices," she 
said, "Man, woman, and child. And then we must live with them." 

Shona's voice rose as Keely approached the door. "But your choice isn't like mine. 
It never was. You loved my father. You're not knowing what this is like." 

Keely was at once swept back years to the bleakest portion of her life. To the 
hardest decision she had ever faced. To the knowledge that the child she carried was a 
child of rape, both physical and emotional, and the product of her most hated enemy. 
Knowing the child, if born, might have equal access to magics more powerful than any 
presently known, and that he or she might use them for evil. 

Swept back to the decision that she could not, would not bear the abomination, 
and would do whatever she could to miscarry it. Because it was, to her, the only answer. 
The only alternative. 

Keely drew in a breath. "There are people in this world who want to make 
decisions for you. Some of them even do it out of misintentioned goodness, of well-
meant kindness. They believe wholeheartedly they are doing you a service when they 
take away your freedom of choice, in the name of their morality. Who am I to take away 
your right to choose?" She spread her hands. "I will answer any question you have, and I 
will give you all the advice you want, but I will not make the decision for you. That is for 
you to do." 

Shona opened her mouth to protest. But she did not, and after a moment, she 
smiled. "Aye, so it is. And for that freedom, I should be grateful." 

"Aye," Keely agreed, thinking of Brennan and Aileen, who had known no 
freedom. 

And of their son, and her daughter, whose unexpected "gifts" might rob them of 
their share. 

Chapter Eight 

«^» 

Aidan stood beside his borrowed bed, contemplating his baggage. One set of 
saddle-pouches, carrying changes of clothing, preserved food, a few other oddments. A 
servant had been sent to unpack for him, but Aidan had thanked him and dismissed him. 
He was not yet certain he was staying long enough to unpack anything. 

Teel, perched upon a bedpost, fluttered blue-black wings, The least you can do is 
stay to the evening meal. Why run away on an empty belly? 

Aidan grimaced. I am not running away. Why stay where I am most obviously not 
welcome? 

The woman is the daughter, not the lady… let the others determine your welcome. 

He had left the door open. Someone stepped through. He knew before she spoke 


exactly who it was; the kivarna told him plainly. "So," she said coolly, "I'm thinking 

there's something to be settled." 

Aidan did not turn. "Aye. And I am settling it this moment." 

The smoky voice was curt; she did not understand his reference. "What?" 

He turned. She was everything he recalled: long of limb, broad of shoulder, 
impossibly strong of will. She blazed with determination. "Am I to go, or stay?" He 
gestured idly toward the unpacked saddle-pouches. "I have only to throw them over my 
shoulder and walk back down to the city. There will be a ship. And I can go home." 

Shona's assessive eyes narrowed. "You give in easily." 

"Give in?" He loaded the words with elaborate surprise. "I did not know we had 
even gotten that far." 

Now her tone was glacial. "We got nowhere at all, I'm thinking, except to 
recognize the kivarna." Her feet were spread, legs braced; she was poised for war, Aidan 
thought, in one way or another. Her jaw was tightly set. "Did you know what would 
happen?" 

He made a sound of disgust. "I know as much about kivarna as you do about 
having a lir." Abruptly he paused, thinking of Keely. If Shona were like her mother, his 
last comment bore no meaning at all. "You have no lir, have you? Or recourse to lirshape?" 


Muscles flexed in her jaw. "No." 

The kivarna flared briefly. He had touched a nerve. It was plain to him: Shona 
displayed no physical characteristics of her mother's race, nor the magic of the Cheysuli. 
What she was, most obviously, was Erinnish, complete with Erinnish kivarna. 

And she feels diminished because of it. 

Aidan shook his head, answering her more kindly. "No, I knew I had it, but not 
what it was. Nor what it could do." 

It seemed to mollify her. And he realized, with an unpleasant jolt, that the extra 
sense he relied on to tell him what people felt was her gift as well. Shona could read him 
as well as he read her. 

He was not certain he liked that. 

Unexpectedly, Shona laughed. "Aye," she agreed, "unpleasant. Unsettling, I'm 
thinking-and you. D'ye see what we'd be dealing with, day in and day out?" 

Rebellion flickered. "There is more to it than that." 

Derision was blatant. "Oh, aye. There's this, too. I'm thinking." And she strode 
across the room to catch both of his hands in hers, grasping tightly. "This, too, my boyo. 
D'ye think we can deal with this?" 

It flared up between them as strongly as before, but the emphasis was different. 
There was less of pure, driving need and more of anticipation, of promised pleasure, of 
warmth and exhilaration; of a certainty of completeness. There were layers, Aidan 
realized, even to physical need, buttressed by the spiritual and emotional. What lay 
between them was far more than a desire for mere physical gratification. With Shona, 
there was a future beyond a single night-or hour-in bed. 

Once, it might have frightened him. But now it was what he wanted. 

This time, Aidan broke contact, to show her that he could. Even as she tensed, 
intending to release him, he pulled his hands from her grasp. 

Aidan pointed at the bed. "There is more to life than that. And I want more." 


Color stood high on her face. This time there was no fear, no flight, no denial. 
This time there was comprehension, and control. And yet clearly she was as shaken as he 
by the kivarna. "I want-" Her voice was hoarse. She swallowed heavily. "I want the 
freedom to choose." 

"You have it." 

"Have I?" In the light, her features were harsh. "If we face this every time we 
touch, what choice is that? That, my lad, is helplessness-" 

He cut her off. "The first time you sat upon a horse and it ran away with you, that 
was helplessness. The first time one of your wolfhound bitches whelped you a dead 
puppy, that was helplessness. But you still ride, do you not? And you still breed dogs." 

Her face was very white. "I'll not be bound by this. I'll not give up my freedom to 
a whim of the gods, who no doubt find this amusing." 

Aidan very nearly smiled, thinking of the Hunter, the Weaver, the Cripple, but she 
would not understand. Instead, he appealed to her taste for confrontation. "Then prove 
yourself stronger. Vanquish it." Aidan turned to face her squarely. "If we believe a 
falsehood, it gains strength. So challenge this kivarna to a duel. Find out which of you is 
stronger." 

Level brows knit. "Why?" she asked. "You saw me but hours ago, and now you 
argue a commitment to something that could well destroy us. We're not required to 
marry… we're neither of us betrothed. 'Tis n't like your parents, or mine. We're bound to 
nothing at all." She shook her head. "How can you be so willing to set aside personal 
desires and chain yourself to a stranger in the name of kivarna?" 

He shrugged. "Because this kivarna may well be linked to my tahlmorra. Which 
is part of the prophecy…" Aidan sighed, scratching idly at his neck. "I am somewhat 
accustomed to doing what is expected, by gods and by parents." 

Shona grimaced. "Tahlmorras, prophecies-" She looked harshly at Teel, still 
perched upon the bedpost, then shook her head with an expression of impatient tolerance. 
"Oh, aye, my mother told me all about such things…" Tolerance faded abruptly. Shona 
turned away and took two paces toward the door before swinging back. "D'ye really 
believe such blather? I know my mother does; do you?" 

Aidan's right hand closed around the chain threaded onto his belt. "Aye," he said. 
"I do." 

She stared at him, judging his commitment. When she saw he meant it, her tone 
was incredulous. "And because of these beliefs, you're willing to pay the price of the 
kivarna? That if one of us should die, the other is sentenced to a life of abstinence and 
loneliness?" 

Aidan shrugged. "Considering the cost of the lir-bond, I find the kivarna's 
demands rather tame." 

Her tone was venomous. "And you're a liar, my lad." 

"Am I? I?" Aidan laughed at her. "You should know, my lass. Use your accursed 
kivarna." 

Brown eyes were nearly black. Her strong chin was thrust upward in challenge. 
"How am I to know you can't lie with it? 'Tis only a matter of feelings, not words. And 
even then I'm not knowing everything you feel-" 

"Words lie," he told her. "Feelings, even those well-hidden, tell only the truth." 

Shona swore. "Full of sweet words, are you? Forgive me if I don't swoon, but I'm 


not that weak a woman." 

"Good," he said flatly. "I am a man who wants a companion, not a serving-girl." 

Shona's contempt was plain. "Don't forget whose daughter I am. They neither of 
them raised a fool." 

Aidan scooped up his pouches. "Not a fool, " he agreed. "Just a stubborn, 
blinkered mule." He slung the pouches over his shoulder and walked by her through the 
door. 

Lir. Are you coming? 

Teel's tone was amused. I will go out the casement. The air is clearer, out of 
doors. He flew from bed to casement sill, then slipped out the narrow slit and into the sky 
beyond. 

Aidan turned to the right, heading toward the spiral stair leading down to the 
bottom floor. 

"Aidan. Aidan!" 

He continued walking. 

"Come back here, you skilfin. D'ye think I'd be letting you walk out of here like 
this?" 

His pace did not slow. 

She came up behind him. "What would my parents say if they thought I was the 
cause of you leaving without a proper welcome or guest-gift?" 

"You are," he answered briefly, into the corridor. "You may as well face them 
with the truth… or are you a coward?" 

"I'm not afraid of them. They give me no cause." 

"No. What you're afraid of is the kivarna itself." Aidan went down the winding 
staircase, attuned to her nearness. Her steps did not flag as Shona followed him down. 

For several moments all he heard were her footsteps, echoing his own. And then 
strong fingers caught in the wool of his cloak, clenching through to the leather jerkin. 
"Stop," she commanded. 

He stopped, even as she jerked her hand away, and turned. She stood two steps 
above, which made her tower over him. She braced either hand against the staircase 
walls, as if to hold herself in place. Loose cuffs fell away from her arms, baring strong 
wrists and sinewy forearms more suited to warrior that woman. The thick braid fell 
across one shoulder, dangling past her breast, her waist, and hip to brush the top of her 
wool-clad thigh. In the dimness of the narrow staircase much of her expression was 
muted, but he saw the set of her jaw; the fierceness of her eyes; the upward slant of 
cheekbones too blunt for Cheysuli elegance, yet striking all the same. The sheer power of 
her personality, reflected in expression, stature, spirit, stripped the words from his mouth; 
all he could do was stare. 

Shona came down one step. Palms scraped against the walls. "I am afraid," she 
admitted. "But you're knowing that. You have only to use what I use, when I want to 
know the truth of a person." One more step; her head was level with his. "I know the 
sword and the bow and the knife. I am more content with men's things than with 
women's-I have that of my mother…" Briefly, Shona smiled. "But there's more to me 
than that. There's another woman inside me, one who wants a man the way other women 
do… the way they dream about. The one who wants a man to love her, and to love him 
back-" She lifted a staying hand as he opened his mouth to speak. "No. D'ye hear? D'ye 


feel? What I'm saying is the truth: I want all of it, Aidan, the way the stories promise. A 
man and a woman meet, and they fall in love, and they marry…" Her mouth jerked 
briefly. "You give it to me twisted. You give it to me empty." 

After a long moment he nodded. "I never meant it to happen this way. I came so 
we could meet, to see if we suited one another, as friends first. I never meant to pressure 
you, or make you feel trapped. I promise you that. But when you reached out and took 
my hand, the choice was taken from me. The time the stories promise was stolen from us 
both-" 

"I know." Shona drew in a deep breath and released it heavily. " 'Tis a capricious 
thing, the kivarna; you're knowing that as well as I." She caught hold of the braid and 
flipped it behind her shoulder. "D'ye see? 'Tis n't right for either of us. You'd do better 
with a woman not so bound up by Erinnish magic-a Cheysuli woman, perhaps, or a 
Homanan-and I'm thinking I'd do better with an Erinnishman, a big, brawling islander 
who has no kivarna at all, so we neither of us will suffer." 

Which us? he wondered. You and your brawling islander? Or you and me? 

"Aidan." 

It was not Shona, who stared past him in open curiosity, but her father, who 
waited at the foot of the stair. Aidan turned. "Aye, my lord?" 

Sean's face was solemn. "You'd best be coming with me." 

How could they know already I intend to leave? He frowned faintly, trying to find 
the proper words. "My lord-" 

"Aidan, come with me. It has to do with Gisella." 

For a moment, the name was alien. Aidan stared at Sean. "Gisella-?" And then he 
knew. "My granddame?" 

Sean nodded. "Corin has sent word from Atvia. Gisella is dying." 

Keely's face was a travesty, a mask made of stone. Only the eyes were alive: blue 
and bright as glass, glittering with emotions. There was anger, shock, resentment, even 
hatred. But mostly there was a cold and abiding commitment to feel nothing at all, no 
matter how much she wanted to. 

No matter how much she had to. 

She waited as they came into the hall: Sean, Aidan, Shona. She stood rigidly by 
one of the chairs,, but did not sit; nor did her posture indicate any intention to sit. A 
folded, crumpled parchment lay discarded on a nearby table. In her hands she gripped a 
silver goblet. The pressure of her fingers against the metal turned them white. 

"So," she said, "it comes. Too many years too late, but at last it comes." 

Sean did not go directly to her. Instead he moved by her as if to sit down in the 
chair she disdained, and then paused. One big hand settled upon her right shoulder. A 
moment later the other shoulder was also engulfed. Very gently, he squeezed, and Aidan 
saw the tension of Keely's fingers relax almost imperceptibly. Now the goblet shook. 

Aidan looked at her face. Is it comfort he offers her? Or restraint? 

"So," Keely repeated. "Gisella is dying, and wants to see her kin." 

It startled him. Slowly Aidan sat down, conscious of Shona drifting toward the 
fireplace. His senses chafed at the distance, but he studiously ignored them. If this was 
what kivarna was, this strong physical tie, he was not certain he wanted to obligate 
himself to it. Understanding the feelings of others was bad enough. 


Aidan cleared his throat. "Will you go?" 

Keely's astonishment was blatant. "I?" 

"Aye. She is your jehana. If she wants her kinfolk, surely she means you." 

Keely laughed once, mirthlessly. She gulped from the goblet, then thunked it 
down upon the table. "Whether she means me or not makes no difference. She gave up 
any claim to me more than forty years ago, when she tried to hand my rujholli over to 
Strahan." Keely's face hardened. "I renounced her in life. Now I renounce her in death." 

Sean's hands remained on her, gently working the taut tendons stretched between 
neck and shoulders. "Lass, 'tis Corin you should be thinking of. 'Twill dishonor him if no 
one goes." 

"Corin will understand." Keely's eyes were hard as stone. "I thought perhaps 
Aidan might go." 

"Me!" He stared at her in surprise. "I have never even seen her. Gisella is nothing 
to me… Deirdre is my granddame, if only in name." He shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. 
"I have no desire to see a dying old woman." 

"Her blood is in your veins," Keely said. "It is what makes you a part of the 
prophecy, Aidan-" But she pulled free of Sean and strode away from them all, turning 
back awkwardly when she had gone three paces. "I cannot go. I cannot make myself go, 
even if I should. I have spent a lifetime hating that woman… she is old and sick and 
dying, and mad…" Wearily she rubbed her brow, stretching the flesh out of shape. 
"Someone should go, for Corin's sake if nothing else… and for Gisella's. But not me. I 
would look at her, and see the woman whose actions nearly destroyed me, and I would 
hate her. And no one, dying, deserves hatred. She deserves forgiveness-" Keely's face 
was frozen. Tears glittered briefly. "There is none of that in me." 

Sean's voice was quiet rustiness as he looked at Aidan. "She's seen none of her 
grandchildren, lad. I've no doubt she's a lonely old woman, now-it might ease her passing 
if she saw you." 

"I know, but…" Aidan sighed, giving up. "Aye. I understand. If nothing else, I 
can carry word home to my grandsire that the Queen of Homana is dead… it might be 
best from a kinsman, rather than a messenger." He pulled himself out of his chair. "I will 
go." 

"Wait." It was Keely. "If you go, there is something you must do." 

Aidan nodded, willing. 

Her gaze remained steady. "You must leave your lir behind." 

"Leave Teel! Why? How can you even ask it?" 

Sean's voice was placatory. "There is reason, lad." 

"I cannot leave my lir behind." 

Keely shook her head. "You must, Aidan, or risk losing him. In Atvia, ravens are 
death-omens. They shoot them whenever they can, so the birds cannot bear tidings of 
death to the next one meant to die." 

It was unbelievable. "But Corin rules. He is Cheysuli. Surely he has taught them 
what a lir is." 

"They understand," Keely told him. "But Kiri is the only one they know, and she 
is a fox. For centuries the Atvians have killed ravens. That sort of habit is not easily 
overturned, even by a king-especially a foreign one…" She sighed. "Is it worth taking the 
chance? Leave Teel here." 


He shook his heat. "If he remains here, I have no recourse to the lir-gifts. No 
shapechange, no healing-" 

"Will you need either, there?" Keely put her hand on his arm. "Stay a week. A 
ten-day, at the most. Then come back-" she cast an enigmatic glance at her daughter "and 
do whatever you must do to settle your affairs." 

Aidan looked at Shona. For a long moment their gazes locked. Then she turned 
her head, staring into the fire resolutely, and his reluctance to go to Atvia evaporated. 
Perhaps the best thing for them at this moment was to part, to put things in perspective. 
To better understand precisely what the kivarna meant, without feeling its presence so 
tangibly. 

Aidan looked back at Keely. "First I will speak to Teel, Then I will go." 

Sean's smile was faint. "No need to run, lad… stay the night while we feast you. 
I'll see you fetched across the Dragon's Tail first thing in the morning." 

Aidan nodded. Shona turned on her heel and strode out of the hall. 

Chapter Nine 

«^» 

Clearly, the Atvians had expected Keely, or someone of her household. When 
only Aidan arrived, a stranger unattended by even a single servant, or a message from the 
Lord and his Lady, they displayed polite bewilderment, then belatedly mustered the 
appropriate courtesy and ushered him into a chamber. To wait, he was told, for a proper 
personage. 

Aidan, left to ponder the wisdom of his coming, idly walked the room. Rondule 
was, much like Kilore, a fortress built to defend Atvia, not a dwelling designed to offer 
excessive comfort. There were chairs, tables, benches; three pelt rugs; a newly lighted 
fire. The beamwork was rough-hewn, hacked out of massive timbers, and left purposely 
crude. Not much like Homana-Mujhar's fine, silk-smooth beams, arching in graceful 
waves beneath the dark stone groins. 

Aidan sighed and halted by the fireplace, warming morning-chilled hands. The 
brief voyage across the Dragon's Tail had been accomplished with speed and skill, but he 
had a landsman's belly. He was pleased to be aground again. 

Over the mantel hung a massive wooden shield bossed with brass. The shield was 
obviously quite old, with an honor all its own; gouges pocked the dark wood and the 
brass was dented in places. Pieces were missing here and there, displaying the dark 
outlines of the original ornamentation beneath. Aidan knew better than to believe it a 
keepsake brought by Corin from Homana; more likely it was left over from the wars 
between Atvia and Erinn. 

It seemed odd now to think of it. But the enmity between the two island realms, 
separated only by a narrow channel, had forged a bitter rivalry into ongoing hostility, so 
that two peoples who might otherwise be much alike had spent generations killing one 
another. Now they were united in a peace forced by Corin's assumption of the Atvian 
throne and a treaty first with Liam, then with Sean, but Aidan knew better. People did not 
change their ways so quickly. Only twenty years or so before Alaric had ruled, pure 
Atvian of the old line, a man dedicated to making Erinn part of his domain. Corin, his 
grandson by Gisella, had ended that ambition by inheriting on Alaric's death; Sean, 
married to Corin's sister, had no wish to continue the battles that had, until Liam's time, 


stolen away a portion of Erinn's manhood every year. 

The door swung open. Aidan turned, expecting Corin; instead, it was a woman. 

She paused, then entered the room and shut the door behind her. Small Hands 
were clasped together in the folds of her deep russet gown. The color was most flattering 
against dusky skin. Dark brown hair was braided neatly back from delicate face and 
slender neck, then netted in gold and pinned to the back of her head. A rope of dark 
garnets bound her waist, then dripped down to the hem of her skirts. The dyed brown toes 
of slippers peeped under the hem as she moved toward him, smiling exquisite welcome. 

She was, most obviously, not a serving-girl. Aidan revised his greeting instantly 
and offered a courteous inclination of his head, explaining who he was and why he had 
come in place of Keely or Sean. 

Huge eyes reflected momentary surprise. Then, still smiling, she gathered 
swirling skirts in deft, graceful hands and swept into a curtsy. Garnets rattled briefly; then 
she rose and placed one flattened hand over her heart, dipping her head in eloquent 
acknowledgment. Beneath lowered lashes, Aidan saw brown eyes rich and expressive. 
The mouth, curving slightly in a delicate, fragile face of quiet loveliness, made no move 
to speak. 

She was thin, very thin, but with a tensile grace that belied the fragility of her 
body. The long, slender neck, set off by the netted hair, was exquisitely elegant. He 
thought of Shona, so tall and broad and strong, and realized next to this woman the 
Erinnish princess would resemble a sturdy kitchen wench, albeit one with a royal 
pedigree. But this woman's strength did not require a body so much as it required eyes; 
looking at her. Aidan found himself understanding her disability, and why it made no 
difference. 

The door swung open again. The woman turned, skirts swinging out, and Aidan 
realized she was only mute, not deaf. He saw her delicate face light up as the man 
entered, and then she went to him and took his hand, drawing him through. Her smile was 
luminous as she turned to Aidan, still grasping the man's hand; she put out her own, 
gesturing gracefully, and seemed to say everything necessary with that single motion. 

It was, of course, Corin. Aidan knew it at once. There were few men in the world 
who so strongly resembled the Mujhar, though Niall's stamp was somewhat diluted by 
the other blood in Corin's veins, and the Lord of Atvia was much younger. He was 
tawny-haired and blue-eyed, but bearded, like Sean. He also lacked Niall's tremendous 
height and weight, built shorter and slighter, though no one would name him small. He 
was, Aidan thought, at least as tall as Brennan and Hart, perhaps even a bit taller. He 
wore traditional Cheysuli leathers, which Aidan found unexpected in light of Corin's 
realm. There was gold on his arms and in his left ear, glinting through thick hair. He was 
nothing at all like his brothers, Aidan realized. But like his sister, aye. Keely was in his 
face and smile. 

Corin nodded thoughtfully, assessing Aidan rapidly. His tone was very dry. "Not 
so much of a weakling after all, are you? Was it Brennan's righteousness, or Aileen's 
stubbornness that made you defy all the doomsayers who predicted your death?" 

Aidan smiled politely. "And were you one of them?" 

White teeth flashed. "Hardly! You forget, haranir-I know your jehana. I never 
believed for a moment a son with Aileen of Erinn in him would give up so easily." 

Aidan had expected more. Sadness. Resentment. Perhaps bitterness, even after so 


many years. Instead what he sensed was pride, and an undercurrent of approval. It was 
almost as if Corin looked on Aidan as his own son, and was pleased with what he saw. It 
was not the reception Aidan had expected. 

"She is well," he offered quietly, looking for reaction. "She sends her greetings." 

"So does Brennan, no doubt." Laughter glinted in Corin's eyes. "I know what you 
do, harani. Doubtless all the servants fed you the tales… well, I imagine the follies of our 
youth do make good telling." He shrugged, smiling warmly down at the woman at his 
side. "But old wounds heal, Aidan. I loved her once, very much; now it is a pleasant, if 
bittersweet, memory." One hand guided the slender woman forward. "Pay your respects, 
harani. This woman is Atvia's queen." Corin's brows arched slightly. "In the Old Tongue, 
my cheysula. Her name is Glyn." 

Aidan opened his mouth, then shut it. He wanted to protest that of course the 
woman was not Corin's wife, because no message had ever arrived announcing the 
wedding. But who was he to argue? And why? It was well within Corin's power to marry 
whomever he chose, publicly or privately-and yet Aidan was left feeling oddly flat. After 
so many years and so many stories, he had come to believe Corin would never marry, 
because Aileen had married Brennan. It was almost as if Corin had betrayed his mother. 

He swallowed heavily and stepped forward, accepting the woman's fragile hand 
and bestowing the kiss of homage. Her warm smile and eloquent eyes soothed him 
immediately, dissolving the remaining resentment, until he smiled back at her. 

"Had I known, I would have brought a bride-gift." Delicately, he offered Corin 
reproach, and a chance to explain himself. 

Corin, unruffled and unrepentent, shrugged. "It was a private thing. I did not wish 
to share Glyn with anyone." His tone was very quiet as the woman returned to his side. 
"Few would have understood the Lord of Atvia taking a woman who could not speak." 

Perhaps not at first. But Aidan felt Glyn's muteness beside the point. One had 
only to look at her expression, as she gazed at Corin, to know what her world was made 
of. 

Corin's beard hid much of his crooked smile. "When a man stops railing at his 
tahlmorra, often the gods repay him with more than he deserves. After too many years of 
solitude, they sent Glyn to me. I have learned to leave the past behind, living instead in 
the present." A gesture dismissed the subject. "Now, I am assuming Keely refused to 
come." 

Aidan nodded. "She said you would understand." 

Corin grimaced. "I do. I wish she did…" The dismissive gesture was repeated. 
"Do you know, I think if Gisella had tried to give her daughter to Strahan as well as her 
three sons, Keely would be less bitter. But Gisella did not. Keely was dismissed as 
entirely unimportant, because she was a girl." He smiled faintly. "That is the definition of 
Keely, harani: she would rather be caught in the midst of some Ihlini vileness than be left 
out of it merely because of her sex." 

"And Shona is very like her," Aidan sighed ruefully, then set the topic aside. "You 
sent word Gisella wishes to see her kinfolk. Will I do?" 

Corin's expression was odd. His tone odder still. "That is the wrong question. It is 
not simply will you do, but whether you will survive with your dignity intact." He 
gestured toward the door. "Come with me." 


The room lay deep in shadow, for the casement slits were shuttered and only a 
handful of candles illuminated the bedchamber. The commingled scent of beeswax and 
death filled his nose as he entered. The door thumped shut behind him as the serving-
woman went out, leaving him alone inside the chamber. Corin had said Gisella was not 
strong enough for more than one visitor at a time. Aidan, lingering uneasily by the door, 
was not certain he was strong enough to visit. 

He had never been so close to death before. He had learned to fight, as he was 
expected of a man who would be Mujhar, but he had never been to battle. His kin were 
vigorous and strong; he had never watched the aged wither away until their spirits left 
them. 

He had not anticipated the smell. He had not expected the emotions. He faced the 
dying woman with a horrified fear of what he would see and feel, because he thought his 
kivarna might be the undoing of him. 

When his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw the faint outline of her 
body beneath the silken coverlet of the canopied bed. The fabric was a deep, heavy 
indigo, nearly inseparable from the dimness. Only after a moment of concentration could 
Aidan see the differentiation between coverlet and shadows. Gisella seemed to wear it 
like a shroud. 

She was propped up by bolsters and pillows. At first he could only barely see her 
face, blending with the dimness, then he saw the shine of eyes. Pale, feral eyes, like his 
own, fixed on him-on the intruder-with a fierce intensity. 

Gods-I see now why the unblessed fear us so much when they see us for the first 
time-Aidan swallowed painfully and wet dry lips. 

Her hair was mostly gray, dark, mottled gray, but her face was outlined by silver-
white. She wore it loose over thin shoulders; twin ropes of cord against indigo silk. Her 
skin, once Cheysuli-dark, had yellowed with age and illness, her face was all of hollows. 
Aidan, unsettled, wondered what illness would take her to the grave. Mere age only 
rarely ravaged a Cheysuli so virulently. Generally his race died gracefully. 

Aidan stopped at the foot of the bed. She is mad, he reminded himself. A sick, 
dying, mad old woman-

The pale eyes did not so much as flicker. "Which one are you?" 

The flat tone was colorless. Aidan did what he could to put life into his own. 
"Aidan," he told her. "Aidan of Homana; Brennan's son.'" 

Gisella smiled. Her teeth were displayed in a feral clenching. "Yet another son I 
have not seen." 

He was careful. "You have Corin." 

Her voice rasped. "Who?" 

"Corin." Aidan drew in a breath. "Your third-born son. Corin, now Lord of Atvia" 


"My father is Lord of Atvia. Is Corin my father?" 

Oh, gods-"Corin is your son." 

Querulous, now. "Who are you?" 

"Aidan." He began it yet again. "Aidan of Homana-" 

"Brennan's son; I know." Teeth showed briefly. "They tell me things, all of 
them… and then tell me again and again and again-do they think I am a fool?" 

"No." Aidan briefly sought a chair out of the corner of his eyes, then dismissed 


the impulse immediately. He did not wish to remain with Gisella that long. He wanted to 

leave as soon as he decently could. 

"And will you be Mujhar?" 

It snapped his attention back. "Aye. One day." 

Pale eyes glittered. "But Niall still lives. Still rules. Niall still rules…" Gisella put 
thin fingers to her mouth and stroked withered lips, as if recalling all too graphically once 
she had shared a man's bed. "Niall," she said softly. 

"My grandsire." Aidan surreptitiously glanced back toward the door. "Perhaps I 
should come back another time-" 

"Come here. Come here. Come closer. Come here." 

Against his will, he responded. 

Gisella stared up at him. He stood there, letting her look, and fought down the 
impulse to run. His kivarna was afire with the confused welter of her emotions, so 
tangled and black and incomprehensible. She was mad, all too obviously mad, but there 
was more to her than that. Underneath the layers of confusion was the girl she might have 
been, once, had Lillith not twisted her. A childlike, innocent girl, trapped in a woman's 
body, but nonetheless innocent. She was not and never had been fit to be queen. But 
neither had she deserved the meticulous, deliberate reshaping of her spirit. Lillith had 
destroyed the innocence. Lillith had destroyed Gisella in a quest to destroy Homana. 

Gisella pointed to him. "You." 

He waited. 

"Cheysuli," she said. "They told me. Lillith. My father. They told me-" She 
smiled. "Cheysuli, Atvian. Erinnish, Solindish, Homanan. All necessary to complete the 
prophecy." 

She was, uncannily, lucid. Aidan stared at her. 

"They bind the Houses and mingle the blood-my blood, your blood, their blood… 
to make the proper child. The child. The boy who will become king over all the lands; a 
man combining the blood of two magical races and-and-" She tilted her head, frowning 
faintly. "Peace." 

Aidan nodded. "The prophecy, granddame. Two magical races and four warring 
realms, united in peace." 

"Tahlmorra," she murmured. 

Again Aidan nodded. "We each of us have one." 

Her eyes sharpened. "Do you?" 

"Of course." 

Slowly, she shook her head. "No. No. No." 

"Granddame-" 

Gisella glared at him. "Lillith told me about it… a tahlmorra is nothing more than 
a binding made up long ago by men calling themselves the Firstborn so they could make 
people think them greater than everyone else." 

"Granddame, Lillith lied-" 

"Give them a prophecy, she said. Give them a fate and call it tahlmorra, 
something to bind them so strongly they will never break away… something to turn them 
into nothing more than servants, but leave them their pride so they will believe 
themselves better, better… better than everyone else so they will keep themselves bound" 



"No granddame-" 

"Lillith told me," she said plainly. "She told me the truth of it: the Cheysuli have 
been made what they are by the connivance of the Firstborn, who saw the power of the 
Ihlini and feared it. So they fashioned themselves an army-Lillith said-but called it a race, 
to use the Cheysuli as their weapons. They turned warrior against sorcerer; child against 
child-" 

Aidan overrode her. "Granddame, she lied." He waited until she stared at him, 
outraged. More quietly, he went on. "You are ill and angry and confused… granddame, 
Lillith did naught but lie to you, all these years ago-" 

"You are lying to me now." 

"No." Aidan sighed. "Granddame, I have a task, and a tahlmorra. Repeating lies 
Lillith told you will not turn me away from what I have to do." 

"The throne will never be yours." 

It stopped him in his tracks. 

Gisella smiled, tilting her head to one side. "Never." 

"Granddame-" 

"It denies you." She saw his shock, his recoil. "The Lion. I know, Aidan" She 
gathered the coverlet in thin, sharp fingers and leaned forward. Her voice was very soft; 
in its quietude, Aidan heard conviction, and the cant of prophecy. "Throneless Mujhar. 
Uncrowned king. A child, buffeted by fates he cannot understand…" She slumped back 
against the bolsters. "Touched by the gods, but ignorant… a man so touched, so claimed 
as one of their own, can never know peace as a king." Gisella smiled warmly, yellow 
eyes slight. "You will never rule Homana." 

Aidan blurted the first thing that came into his head. "Are you saying I will die? 
Granddame? Am I to die?" 

In a tiny, girlish voice, Gisella began to sing. 

Chapter Ten 

«^» 

He awoke near dawn, haggard and shaking and frightened. His chambers were 
cold with the light of false dawn, but even yanking the covers up in a convulsive gesture 
did not warm him. Aidan sat upright and cursed, rubbing viciously at grainy, burning 
eyes. 

Teel? 

But almost at once he recalled the raven was not with him. Teel waited for him in 
Erinn, near Shona; a sick, uneasy loneliness curled deeply in Aidan's belly. He was quite 
alone, too alone, even though his own kinsman slept within the fortress. 

So did his grandmother. 

"Another dream," he muttered in disgust, but this one had been much different. 

He recalled only bits and pieces: himself, seated on the Lion Throne in the Great 
Hall of Homana-Mujhar; himself, dead in the Lion, with blood running from mouth and 
throat; himself, mourned as a throneless Mujhar, an uncrowned king. No proper monarch, 
Aidan of Homana; merely a nameless prince all too soon forgotten. 

He stripped tangled hair back from his face, purposely pulling too hard, as if the 
discomfort might alter his memories. It did not. "A witch," he muttered. "An Atvian 
witch, trained to treachery by an Ihlini…" 


He was empty. Unwhole. Teel was too far even for the lir-link. 

And Shona too far for the kivarna. 

He needed one or both of them. He knew it with perfect clarity as she sat huddled 
in bed, shivering. Teel for the lir-link and all its gifts; Shona for the physical, the 
spiritual, the emotional. They were each of them tied into his tahlmorra, into his life; if 
he neglected either, or dismissed either, he destroyed a part of himself. 

Into his head came Gisella's declaration. He heard it again so clearly as if she 
stood beside his bed, bending over him as a mother over a child; as a grandmother over a 
grandson badly frightened by nightmares. 

But Gisella offered no comfort. Gisella offered fear and self-doubt. "You will 
never rule Homana." 

Aidan tore back the covers and climbed out of bed hastily, finding and pulling on 
fresh leathers, boots, his belt, a dark blue cloak. Then he paused by the saddle-pouches, 
reaching into one to draw out the chain of gold. The links were massive, perfect, heavy. 
Six of them he could name: Shaine, Carillon, Donal, Niall, Brennan, himself. But the 
others he could not. Undoubtedly one belonged to his son, and the others to the Mujhars 
after him. 

Aidan put a finger on the sixth link, his own, and wondered what sort of king he 
would be. 

And then wondered if he would be a king at all. 

Almost viciously, Aidan whipped off his belt. He threaded the leather through the 
links and put it on again. He could feel the weight and curvature of each link. A man 
would kill for such a fortune; Aidan pulled his cloak over the belt and left the chamber, 
pausing in the corridor just long enough to tell a servant he was well, but required air. He 
had sat up late with Corin the night before, trading news, drinking wine. No one would 
question a morning ride; likely he needed one. 

Without Teel, he was half a man, a shadow. He felt his spirit cut free from his 
body like a boat loosed from its moorings. It made him snappish and impatient; the 
horseboy, startled out of sleep, hastened to ready a mount even as Aidan apologized. 
When the horses were ready, he swung up quickly and rode clattering out of the bailey, 
intent on shedding the residual unease and bad temper as soon as possible. It was the 
dream, of course; he knew it. Since the chain had been made whole in Solinde, he had 
suffered none, sleeping soundly each night. But the nightmare he had experienced but a 
half hour before filled him with a nameless, increasing dread. 

Aidan left the city as soon as possible and rode up into the hills, skirting the 
headlands overlooking the Dragon's Tail. Below him the city was quiet. Smoke threaded 
its way from chimneys and spread a thin haze over the rooftops, but he could see little 
other activity. Just before dawn, he was truly alone atop the ramparts of the city, riding 
the back-bone of Atvia. The castle itself perched atop a jagged, upthrust stone formation. 
The knobby dome was called the Dragon's Skull. 

He saw the crumbled headland tower in the distance. It stood alone at the edge of 
a cliff, sentinel to the sea. Morning mist wrapped itself around damp gray stone, but the 
rising sun changed silver beading to saffron, altering the pitted, grainy texture to smooth 
ocher-gold. 

Aidan contemplated it, then shrugged. I have nothing better to do… 

He thought it a shell, until he rode closer; then saw the bench by the low door and 


the windows shutters latched back to let light into the tower. It was a curious dwelling. 
Once it had served as a vanguard against the Erinnish enemy's approach; now it was little 
more than a crofter's incongruous hut. Aidan, hungry, dismounted and threw reins over 
his mount's head. He left the horse to graze and went across the hummocky turf to the 
tower, hoping its inhabitant would share his morning meal. 

The door stood open, much as the shutters did. Aidan called out but received no 
answer; after an indecisive moment he ducked beneath the low lintel stone and went in. 
He had coin. He did not know a crofter alive who spurned good money, even from a 
stranger too hungry and impatient to wait for an invitation. 

The tower was round. So was the room. The walls were bare of tapestries, but 
whitewashed. Kindling had been laid in the rude fireplace, but the fire had gone out. 
Aidan, with flint and steel in his belt-pouch, knelt to tend it properly. 

In the gray light of dawn there was an air of desertion in the tower, and yet signs 
of habitation belied the feeling. A narrow cot was pushed against the curving wall. A 
table with only the merest slant to its legs stood in the center of the room. A stool was 
tucked under it. A rickety bench leaned against the wall by the door; on the other side 
was a twist of stairway, leading toward the upper floor, and the roof. 

Aidan heard a step in the doorway. Still kneeling, he turned. He thought the 
posture less threatening to the man who lived in the tower, especially with flint and steel 
in his hands rather than knife or sword. But the anticipated man resolved himself into a 
woman, Aidan rose anyway, hastily, and tucked the implements away. 

Mist was behind her, and sunlight. It clung to her roughspun gray cloak, 
shredding as she moved, dissipating as she smiled. Her unbound hair, snugged beneath 
the cloak, was black and glossy as a raven's wing. Something about her reminded Aidan 
of someone-black hair, wide black eyes; a vivid, alluring beauty. 

The thought came unbidden, shredding the residue of his fear. She could give me 
escape. She could give me release. 

So many women had. And this one expected it. He had learned to judge the eyes, 
the subtleties of movement. 

She can give me ease… 

He smiled as she came into the tower, and took the bucket of water from her 
hands. Their fingers touched briefly. 

Kivarna-and other things-told him the truth. She wants it as much as I. 

He set the bucket on the table, hoping the weight did not prove too much. The 
table held. So did her gaze, locked on his face. Her own was enigmatic. She did not 
question his presence in her tower; she did not appear frightened or dismayed by finding 
a stranger in her dwelling. She merely dropped the cloak from her shoulders and tossed it 
across the table, next to the bucket, and smiled. 

Her gown, incongrously, was crimson, bright as new-spilled blood. It was cut 
loose at the shoulders, loose at narrow waist. He saw that her hair, now freed of cloak, 
was completely unbound, falling nearly to ankles. Loose gown, loose hair; moist, smiling 
mouth. Aidan, drawing a difficult breath, felt the powerful response deep in his belly. 

He thought of Shona. Of Ashra. Of Blythe. Of women he had bedded, and women 
he had wanted to. Before this woman, all of them paled to insignificance. 

She will give me heart's ease, and banish Gisella's words. 

Black lashes were long, and eloquent. She knew how to use her eyes, her face, her 


body. Her tone was languorous. "Were you sent?" She paused, stroking back a strand of 

hair with a negligent, silver-tipped nail. "Or did you come?" 

"I-came." 

"Ah." She moved past him to the fire, loose grown swirling, loose hair swinging, 
and put out elegant hands. A curtain of silken hair fell forward across her right shoulder 
and hid her face from him. "My thanks for the fire, my lord." 

The earring was hidden by hair, the lir-bands by his cloak, as was his belt. There 
was nothing about him, he thought, worthy of attaching rank to him. "Why do you call 
me that?" 

Still her face was hidden. "You wear it like a crown." She turned, black eyes 
alight. "Do you know who I am?" 

Mutely, he shook his head. He did not really care. 

She laughed softly: a husky, seductive sound. "I am a woman and you a man. 
Perhaps that is all you need to know." Her smile was enigmatic. "I am a whore, my lord-
or so they would have you believe." 

His voice was rusty. " 'They'?" 

"The castle folk." She waved a graceful hand, indicating the distances beyond the 
door, the mist, the morning. "Your kind, my lord." 

"Are they? Are you?" He knew he did not care. Not in that moment. She was the 
most striking woman he had ever seen. She burned with a flame so bright he could feel it 
in his own flesh, creeping through to bones. 

She lifted both hands and threaded fingers into hair, pulling it up from shoulders, 
from neck, from face. It cascaded through slender fingers, defining the shape of her face 
and the elegant line of her spine. "Do you want me, my lord?" 

Aidan wanted to laugh, but could not. She was blatant in her actions, but he found 
he did not care. "If I lay with you, lady, it would mean what the castle folk say is true." 

More hair slipped through her fingers. "Do you care?" 

No. No and no. "What payment, lady?" 

Black eyes narrowed. As she took her hands away, hair curtained the sides of her 
face. "You could not pay it, my lord. And you might be grateful for it." 

Her thought not. He also thought she lied. A glance at the narrow bed, too narrow 
for two people, confirmed it. He did not know what she played at, or why, but he was 
tired of it. "I came in because I was hungry. I hoped to bargain for food… but I will 
leave, if you prefer it." 

It was the hardest thing he had done, when he wanted to stay so badly. 

She laughed. "No. I prefer no such thing. Your cloak, my lord… and I will give 
you food." 

He slipped it and gave it to her. Her eyes, marking lir-bands, widened briefly. 
Something else came into her eyes as he saw the links threaded through his belt. 
Something akin to avarice, and comprehension. Uneasily, Aidan began to wonder if she 
were a whore after all, and counting her price in advance. 

She fed him on barley bread and eggs, and when he asked where were her 
chickens she smiled and said she required none. He drank milk but forbore to ask about 
the cow, because he feared she might say she had none. She seemed to have very little, 
and yet gave it all to him. 

When he was done she took his hand and let him to the narrow stair behind the 


door, and took him up to her bedroom. 

No narrow cot was shoved against the curving wall. In the center of the chamber 
stood a wide bed draped with fine linens and lush pelts. There was nothing else in the 
room. Slanted light from a single wide casement illuminated the bed. 

He looked at her. He could not call her whore. Something in her eyes kept him 
from it, though he understood her now. She needed no cow, no chickens, no stock. She 
needed nothing but the continued attentions of any man who could pay her price. 

Surely he could. He would be Mujhar of Homana. 

"Can you banish dreams?" he asked. Then, more intensely, "No-can you banish 
nightmares?" 

The woman's smile gave him his answer. He put out his hand, and she took it. 

He awoke to the chime of gold. It rang repeatedly, as if someone counted coin; as 
he listened more closely he realized it was not coin at all, but links. And he sat upright in 
the bed. 

She was wrapped in his cloak. Bare feet and ankles showed at the hem; the rest 
was flung carelessly around the slender, magnificent body he had so thoroughly enjoyed. 
Her hair flowed to the pelt coverlets and pooled, blue-black on indigo. 

"Where is your fir?" she asked. 

He stared at her. Then her eyes moved from the chain to his face. Very softly, she 
repeated her question. 

"In Erinn," he said at last. "Does it matter?" 

Her lips parted in a glorious smile. "I think it might." She dangled the chain from 
one hand. It glowed in slanting sunlight. "How did you come by this?" 

He did not care for her manner. He altered his own to match it, hoping the answer 
might startle away her arrogance. "A gift," he said, "from the gods." 

"Ah." She nodded musingly. "I thought so," Once again the chain flowed back 
and forth from hand to hand, chiming. "Indeed, I thought so." 

Frowning, he asked her the question he was beginning to think he should have 
asked at the very beginning. "Who are you?" 

Something moved in her eyes. Something dark and dangerous and infinitely 
amused. "Lillith," she told him gently. "Lillith of the Ihlini." 

He felt his belly cramp, and something much deeper. Fear. Denial. Disgust. And 
comprehension. A terrible comprehension. 

Lillith's black eyes glinted. "I could not believe it would be so easy. I thought 
surely you must know me. I thought it was why you had come, to vanquish the 
sorceress…" She smiled. "Corin banished me, of course, and for a while I went… but 
Valgaard grows tedious without my brother, and Lochiel saw fit to go to Solinde to try 
his own workings…" She shrugged an elegant shoulder. The cloak slipped, baring satiny 
flesh. "So I came back here, to Atvia. For a while. To see, from afar, how Corin dealt 
with Gisella." Lillith smiled. "Poor, addled Gisella-has she begun to plague you, yet?" 

He could manage one sentence. "Gisella is dying." 

"Is she?" Lillith considered it. "Ah, well, it is the price of remaining entirely 
human… I, of course, serve Asar-Suti, and have an advantage." Her eloquent eyes 
assessed him. "Do you know how old I am?" 

Aidan drew in a tight breath. "Old enough to know better." 


Lillith laughed. The sound was free, unconfined, and it frightened him. "Aye," she 
agreed. "But how old am I really?" 

He had heard stories, of course. Lillith was Tynstar's daughter. Tynstar had been 
dead nearly a hundred years, and had sired Lillith hundreds of years before his death. 
And yet, looking at her, Aidan knew very well he could not believe the stories. She was 
young, beautiful, and infinitely deadly. 

He ignored the question, and asked one of his own. "What do you want from 
me?" 

Lillith thought about it. "Oh, a child, I think." 

Aidan recoiled. 

She nodded. "A child, such as the one I bore Ian. Rhiannon. To be used for Ihlini 
purposes." She looked at him consideringly. "Your prophecy rushes you toward 
reestablishment of the Firstborn. The Cheysuli may even succeed in accomplishing it…" 
Frowning slightly, she tapped a silver-tipped nail against one link. "We have, heretofore, 
failed to stop you. Perhaps it might be best if we aided you-only with a twist." Lillith's 
smile widened as she made a fluid gesture of explanation. "If we control the Firstborn, we 
control everything. One way to control them is to make our own." The faint smile 
dropped away. Her eyes bored into his. "You, my lord, are very important to me, and to 
all of us. You, my lord, have the proper blood. You are everything: Cheysuli, Homanan, 
Solindish, Atvian, Erinnish. All you lack is the required Ihlini blood." Tilting her head, 
she made another graceful gesture. "Do you see? A child conceived between Aidan of 
Homana and Lillith of the Ihlini would be a Firstborn. The prophecy would be 
complete… only it would be on Ihlini terms." 

For a long moment all he could do was stare. Her explanation was so clear, so 
precise. With unsettling matter-of-factness, she spelled out the doom of his race. 

Worst of all, for him, was the knowledge she could do it. In part, it had been 
done; first Ian, by siring Rhiannon; then Brennan, by siring gods knew what on 
Rhiannon. 

And what might he sire? 

A shudder wracked Aidan's body. "You make me vomit," he declared, knowing 
he as much as she was to blame for this situation. 

Lillith smiled. She put out a hand, drew a rune, and a chamber pot appeared on 
the floor beside the bed. "There, my lord. You need not soil the covers." 

The hollowness in his belly began to knot painfully. He knew very well she could 
do whatever she threatened. But he would not admit it to her. "Will you resort to rape?" 

Lillith laughed. "Rape, my lord? You only recently proved yourself more than 
capable of responding to me… and as for repeating the act, need I remind you your lir is 
in Erinn? You are, as Ian was, lirless and therefore powerless. You will do or say 
whatever I require." She shifted forward onto her knees, moving close to him. The cloak 
slipped, pooling across her heels. "You are quite helpless, Aidan-need I prove it?" 

She said the last against his mouth. He tried to pull away, to strip her arms from 
his body, but something kept him from it. She was pulling him down onto the bed, 
rousing him, taking away his control and sanity. 

She made him respond, taking him to the edge but no farther, even as he hated it, 
and then withdrew, laughing as he cursed himself, and her. She lifted the chain before his 
face, letting it drip from both hands. "Lirless man," she taunted. "Child of the gods, are 


you? More like child of the earth, of me-" 

His eyes fixed on the chain. Heavy links gleamed as she cradled it. He thought of 
the Hunter, the Weaver, the Cripple. He thought of himself, on his knees before the Lion, 
sobbing aloud as he put out his hands for a nonexistent chain. And yet here it was before 
him, whole, unbroken, untarnished, joined by his own hands in the ceremony presided 
over by Siglyn, witnessed by Tye and Ashra. 

Ashra, who had warned him a man might lose control of himself if a woman's 
arms proved too beguiling. 

I am a child of the gods… 

"No," he said aloud. 

Lillith laughed. "Ian said the same thing, many times. But that spell is weak. The 
binding always fails." 

"I said NO-" 

The chain moved in her hands. Aidan, transfixed, watched it coil upon itself. 
Lillith uttered a single cry of shock and tried to throw down the chain, but it clung to her 
arms like shackles. 

Godfire leaped from the tips of her fingers, then sputtered out. The chain wound 
itself around her right arm and began to work its way toward her shoulder. 

"Stop it!" Lillith hissed. "Stop it!" 

Aidan lunged from the bed and stumbled against the wall, feeling cold stone 
scrape against bare buttocks. 

"Aidan!" she cried. "Make it stop-" 

The chain crawled beyond her elbow. In the light from the casement, it glowed. 

"Aidan.'" 

The chain burrowed through hair and wrapped itself around her throat. 

Lillith gave up her entreaty of Aidan and resorted to a tongue he did not know. 
She shouted, hissed, chanted; calling, no doubt, on the noxious god she had served for so 
long. But the chain ignored her grasping, desperate fingers and settled snuggly around her 
throat, cutting off her voice entirely. All Aidan heard was a throttled inhalation. 

White teeth showed in a rictus grin. Lillith staggered up from the bed, clad only in 
hair and gold, and turned toward Aidan, pleading soundlessly. Her color was deepening. 
Black eyes protruded slightly. 

Aidan, unmoving, stood next to the casement. Lillith stumbled toward him, still 
wrenching at the chain, clutching at hair and flesh and metal. 

She saw the answer in his eyes. Comprehension convulsed her briefly. Then she 
turned from him, took two steps, and flung herself through the casement into the skies 
beyond. 

When he could move again, he dressed. Slowly, because he still shook. He 
waited, sitting slumped on the wide bed, and when his strength began to return he thought 
he could manage the stairs. Carefully he went down, taking up his cloak from the crooked 
table, and went out to find her. 

She lay sprawled on thick green turf, awkward in death as she had never been in 
life. He had thought she might have aged in death, showing her true features. But she was 
still Lillith. Still young, still beautiful-and still very dead. 

Her hands were locked around the chain. Distaste stirred sluggishly, but 


numbness replaced it. Aidan pulled her hands away and freed the chain, then unwound it 
from throat and black hair. He set it aside and shook out his cloak. 

When she was covered, save for the curtain of hair fanned out against the turf, 
Aidan walked out to the edge of the cliff. The chain dangled from one hand. He 
considered, for an angry moment, throwing it into the sea so far below, but did not. The 
anger dissipated. The chain was his, fashioned expressly for him by the gods themselves. 
It was so infinitely a part of him it even answered his wishes. 

Or did the gods? 

Aidan stared blindly across the turbulent Dragon's Tail to the clifftop Aerie of 
Erinn. And nodded his acceptance. 

"Resh'ta-ni," he murmured. "Tahlmorra lujhala mei wiccan, cheysu. Y'ja'hai." 

Chapter Eleven 

«^» 

When Aidan, still somewhat shaken, returned to the castle, he was met by a 
servant who said he must go to Gisella's chamber at once. Foreboding swept in from the 
distance he had built brick by brick in his soul as he rode down from the headlands, and 
he realized the delicately nurtured equanamity was nothing more than a sham. He 
understood the gods-or himself-no more than he had before Lillith's death, and now 
Gisella commanded his presence yet again. 

Corin met him just outside the chamber. His face, beneath the blond beard, was 
excessively stiff. Only the eyes gave him away. "She wants you," he said harshly. "The 
physicians say there is very little time…" He passed a hand over bloodshot eyes. "I think 
they have the right of it, no matter what she believes." His mouth flattened as he took his 
hand away. "She said she could sing to herself until you came." 

"Gods," Aidan blurted. "How have you stood it so long? She is mad, completely 
mad-how can you bear to look at her and know she is your jehana?" 

Corin shrugged awkwardly. "I learned years ago it was easier if I thought of her 
as someone else. Deirdre has always been my jehana-" He saw the expression on Aidan's 
face, the concurrence, and sighed, nodding. "Deirdre has been many things to very many 
of us. While Gisella has been-Gisella." He gestured. "Go in, Aidan. It will be the last 
time." A muscle twitched high on his cheek, beneath an eye. "This time I come, too." 

Aidan went in. He was aware of Glyn's presence almost at once, which somehow 
soothed him. She sat very still in a chair beside the door, keeping vigil. A queen, even 
cast off, deserved whatever honor could be offered at her death. And word must be sent 
to the man she had married so many years before. 

Glyn did not smile, though she looked up at him. Her eyes, so large and eloquent, 
seemed to offer strength, which he needed. He nodded gratitude almost imperceptibly, 
the moved slowly toward the bed. 

Gisella's breathing was audible. It caught, was throttled, then rasped raggedly in 
her throat, as if expelled from lungs too tired to function. Her color was a sickly grayish 
yellow. Her eyes were closed, but as Aidan stepped noiselessly to her bedside, they 
opened. 

Gisella smiled. "Do you know the story?" 

Wary, he said nothing. 

"The story," she repeated. "How I came to be mad." 


Oh, gods… Aidan swallowed tightly. "I have heard it." 

Her voice was thready, but unyielding. "She was a raven, my mother… not 
knowing it was a bad thing. Not knowing here, in Atvia, ravens are killed whenever they 
can be. They are a death-omen, you see." The cords stood out in her throat, like knotted 
wire. "My father saw her-saw a raven-and shot her out of the sky. Not knowing it was 
Bronwyn in lir-shape. Not knowing she fled him, meaning to go back to Homana… he 
shot her down. And as she died, she bore me." The yellow eyes were unflinching, 
untouched by the tale. "They say it is why I am mad." 

She did not sound it. She sounded perfectly lucid. Perfectly normal. And Aidan, 
looking at the fading old woman, wondered if Lillith's death had somehow broken 
through Gisella's addled wits to another woman beneath. To the real Gisella, sane as 
anyone else, and worthy of wearing a crown. 

Gisella's breath rasped. "The chain is broken." 

He twitched. "What?" 

"The chain. Lillith told me about it. She said she would break it. Destroy it. So the 
prophecy would die." 

Aidan frowned. "When did Lillith tell you this?" 

Gisella's face folded upon itself as she thought. "Days? Weeks? Perhaps months." 
She looked past him to Corin, who approached quietly. She forestalled his question. "He 
said he sent her away, but she came back. Lillith always came back. She loved me." 

Aidan nodded perfunctorily, unwilling to argue that Lillith's attentiveness had 
nothing at all to do with love. "Granddame-" 

"She broke it." 

The chain again. Aidan reached for patience. "No." 

"She said she would." 

"The chain is not broken ." He put his hand on one of the links. "Do you see?" 

Feral eyes stared at the gleaming links. Gisella attempted to push herself up in the 
bed, but failed. And Aidan, much as he longed to help her, could not bring himself to 
touch her. 

Gisella's mouth opened. "She said she would break it! She promised!" 

"She failed." Aidan glanced sidelong at Corin. "Lillith is dead." 

Gisella's eyes stretched wide. "No-" 

"All of them are dead. Tynstar. Strahan. Now Lillith. Do you see, granddame? 
Their time is finished. The prophecy is nearly complete. Everything Lillith told you was a 
lie. The chain is whole. I am alive. And the prophecy will be completed." 

"No." She glared up at him, trembling. "Throneless Mujhar. Uncrowned king-" 

"Granddame, it is over." 

"I talk to gods," she whispered. 

Aidan's belly knotted. 

"I talk to gods," she repeated. 

Corin murmured something beneath his breath. Something to do with madness, 
and dying. But Aidan knew better. Perhaps she did talk to gods. 

He drew a careful breath. "What did they tell you? That I am to die?" 

Her eyes lost their focus. "You are not to be Mujhar. The Lion wants someone 
else." 

It chilled him clear to bone. Aidan suppressed a shudder, shutting one hand 


around a link. For all he knew, it was his own; for a moment, it did not matter. 
"Granddame…" It took all his strength to sound very calm. "Lady, if that is true, then 
surely the gods will tell me." 

Gisella gazed at him. "The broken link…" she whispered. 
Aidan marked the bluish tint of her tips, the weakening of her voice. "Granddame" 


But she no longer looked at him. Her grandson was forgotten. Now it was her son 
she tried to reach, third-born of Niall's children. "Strahan never would have slain you," 
she said in a poignant appeal. "He only wanted to use you. He needed you. He needed 
me. He needed all of us." The cords of her neck tautened. "I needed to be needed. What I 
did was not so bad." 

Corin's posture was impossibly rigid. "What you did cursed you in the eyes of 
your children forever," he said hoarsely. "You must decide if it was worth the sacrifice." 

Her eyes were fixed on his face. As the last breath rattled in her throat, she 
whispered something no one in the chamber could hear. 

When it was certain she was dead, Corin called in a servant from the corridor and 
ordered arrangements for the news to be carried throughout Atvia. Then, as the servant 
departed at once, Corin walked slowly back to the bed. He leaned down, shut the 
withered lids, then sat down upon the edge. From the bedside table he picked up a twisted 
gold torque. 

He gazed at it steadily, turning it over in his hands. Aidan, looking at it, 
recognized the workmanship as Cheysuli. He had several similar torques of his own, 
though none such as this. It was, he knew, a Cheysuli wedding torque, signifying the 
bond between warrior and wife. 

Corin's voice was odd. "He gave it to her before he had a lir. Before he knew what 
she was, and what she meant to do." He sighed heavily, frowning. Aidan sensed anguish, 
regret, sorrow, and more than a little confusion. No doubt Corin had expected to feel 
relief. But relief was slow in coming; what he felt mostly was grief. "She was Cheysuli, 
once. But they never gave her the chance to know what it meant." 

Aidan damped the kivarna purposely, giving Corin privacy. "I would not presume 
to speak for Hart and my jehan, to say if they would or would not have forgiven her. I 
know Keely did not." He paused. "What of you?" 

Corin's mouth twisted painfully. "She never asked. I doubt she knew how." 

"And if she had?" 

Corin looked at Glyn for a long moment. Tears stood in his eyes. "I think," he 
said finally. "I would have, had she asked. Had she tried." 

Aidan looked a final time on the woman in the bed, then turned to go. But Glyn, 
rising from her chair, stopped him at the door. Her hands were on his bare left arm, 
delaying him. He glanced at her in surprise and saw a deep compassion in her eyes. She 
did not have kivarna, perhaps, but her own measure of empathy was plain. 

"Wait," Corin said. He rose from the bed. 

Aidan wanted nothing more than to leave. Glyn's hands on his arm seemed to 
burn into his flesh, reminding him how easily he had succumbed to Lillith's power. He 
had wanted the Ihlini woman the moment he saw her, and while he believed any man, in 
his position, might feel the same, it grated within his soul to know he had been so 
malleable. 


"Come into the corridor." Corin's hand on his shoulder guided Aidan out of the 
room as Glyn pulled open the door. She shut it behind them, staying within, throwing up 
a barrier between the dead woman in the bed and two men who owed their lives to her, if 
not respect and honor and love. 

Aidan, dreading the question, stared resolutely down the corridor, as if his express 
disinterest might dissuade Corin's interest. 

But if Corin saw the unspoken wish, he did not honor it. His voice was harsh. 
"You said Lillith was dead." 

Aidan shut his teeth. "She is." 

"We have been fooled before, harani, and to our detri ment. Are you certain-" 

Aidan's tone was clipped. "Quite certain." 

Corin's expression was grim. "I hope you will understand if I insist on knowing 
how. Lillith has plagued us at all too many years-" 

"I killed her." 

"You-" But Corin broke it off. No doubt he was recalling his own sister had been 
responsible for Strahan's death. He relaxed. "Then we all owe you our gratitude. Leijhana 
tu'sai, harani." 

Aidan shrugged. What had happened was too personal, too unsettling for him to 
share with anyone. He recalled too clearly the power that had risen at his command. 
While he himself had not laid hands upon her, it had been at his behest that the gods had 
come to his aid. She was as dead as if he himself had twisted the chain around her throat 
and thrown her from the tower. 

That sort of power, that sort of influence, terrified him. 

"Aidan-" 

"You would not understand." 

"I might." Corin sighed. "I know very well what that woman was. But let it go. 
What matters is that she is dead." His gaze went to Aidan's waist, to the gold threaded 
through by leather. "Gisella spoke of this. She said Lillith meant to break it." 

"She said a great many things." Forboding made him curt. "Su'fali, forgive me… 
there are things too personal to speak of. Let it suffice that Lillith is dead, and Gisella, 
and the chain is whole." 

"And what Gisella said of you?" Corin's hand clasped a bare arm briefly. "You 
know better than to give credence to a madwoman on her deathbed. She was babbling-
talking to gods?" He shook his head. "Let us go down to the hall. There are preparations 
to be made-" 

"No." Aidan felt the apprehension rising. He recalled with distressing clarity that 
Gisella had not been the first or only one to tell him he would never hold the throne. 
There had been Shaine, then Carillon. Even the gods themselves seemed to be preparing 
him for something else, something more. And the Lion, time and time again, had 
repudiated him. 

He knuckled dampness from his brow. The biting edges of comprehension made 
him queasy. "I have to go." He heard himself: a half-choked, unsteady voice. "Teel is in 
Erinn. I have been too long without my lir." 

"Aidan." Corin's hand closed on him again. Now his tone was commanding, 
granting no room for compassion. "Gisella was mad, and a tool of the Ihlini. Whatever 
she said to you, whatever her babbling meant, let none of it bear fruit. She was mad." 


Aidan looked into the steady blue eyes so much like his grandsire's single one. He 
wanted to give in and agree, to laugh and jest and suggest they go to the hall, as Corin 
wanted, but he could do none of those things. He could find no words to tell Corin that 
Gisella had not been babbling. 

That she was not the first to warn him of his ending. 

That he was very much afraid. 

Chapter Twelve 

«^» 

Wolfhounds gathered around her. Muscles tensed, tails waved, dark eyes 
brightened expectantly. Shona held the stick: the dogs were prepared to chase it until she 
forfeited the game. 

It was a good throwing stick: long as her arm, gnarled and rounded, bent just 
enough in the middle to distribute the weight properly. It was their favorite, and hers; 
toothmarks scored in the wood dated back five generations. Shona pulled it behind her 
head and hurled it with all of her strength. An ocean of dogs gave chase. 

It was a game she generally enjoyed, laughing aloud and calling encouragement 
as the winner then fought off a pack of usurpers, intent on snatching the stick from his 
jaws. But today, this morning, she neither laughed nor called out. She simply threw the 
stick again and again, methodically, until at last even the strongest of the pack retired to 
sprawl on the turf, huge tongue lolling freely. The stick lay at her feet, where the big male 
had spat it out. 

She felt no worse, nor better. Perhaps she should have chased the stick. 

"Shona." 

Her mother. Shona shut her eyes a moment, then turned. "Aye?" 

Keely's faint smile was neutral. "I thought you would be glad to see him go." 

Shona bent and picked up the stick. "I am." 

"Are you?" 

"Of course. We said what there was to say, I'm thinking… what good in beating a 
dying horse?" 

Keely sighed. The wind snatched at braided hair, trying to undo the plait that 
dangled over one shoulder. Like her daughter, she wore woolen tunic and trews, belted 
with Erinnish copper. "There is something to be said for speaking your mind honestly, 
instead of hiding behind diplomatic falsehoods. You are much like me: you say what you 
think. But there is a price for such openness, Shona. That sort of forthrightness makes it 
difficult to hide your feelings even when you most want to." 

Shona hurled the stick. The dogs, still sprawled on turf, merely watched it fly, 
then fall. None of them went to fetch it. 

She made a gesture of futility encompassing dogs and herself. "What am I to do? I 
meant to send him from me, brideless… then Corin's summons saved me from explaining 
more than I already had: that I'm refusing to surrender control of my life to something so 
binding as the kivarna. 'Tis n't fair." She broke it off, grimacing bleakly. "But it gives me 
no choice, now. 'Tis in my blood, and his… and we've had a taste of it." Glumly, she 
stared at the dogs. "Like a newborn pup on a nipple: give me more-and more-and more." 

Keely sighed heavily. "Gods-how could we have foreseen? Your jehan and I put 
off having a child immediately, because of many things… and when at last we knew I 


had conceived I made him promise, if you were a girl, you would have all the advantages 
a boy has, growing up-if you wanted them. Among them was free choice in marriage 
partner…" Keely's bleak expression mirrored her daughter's. "And now because of this, 
that choice is stripped from you." 

Shona shrugged. "I could still refuse. 'Tis difficult now, but once he's gone and 
the memory of the kivarna dies away…" She laughed abruptly. "Perhaps what I'm 
needing is to find an islander with kivarna. . ." But that, too, trailed into silence. "No. 'Tis 
too late. I'm lying if I deny it." She pressed both hands against her face and scrubbed 
violently at her brow. "Agh, what I should have done was go to bed with someone. If I 
knew what it was already, perhaps I could fight off this kivarna." She took her hands 
away and smiled ruefully at her mother. "But right now all I'm thinking about is how I 
felt when Aidan touched me. And how I'm wanting more." 

"Like a newborn pup on a nipple." Keely smiled crookedly. "I come from a race 
ruled by tahlmorra. I am perhaps not the best person to offer advice. But it seems to me if 
the gods touched his blood and yours with this 'gift'-and then brought you together-
perhaps there was a reason." 

Shona snorted inelegantly. "The easy way, I'm thinking-let the gods make the 
choice." 

Keely shook her head. "You must make the choice. And then you must live with 
it." 

Shona shook her head. "No. 'Tis n't a question of living with the choice. 'Tis living 
with the man." 

Keely looked past her daughter to the wolfhounds, rousing from their rest to fetch 
the stick once more. "There are worse to be had than Aidan." 

"And he is half Erinnish." Shona grinned lopsidedly as she took the stick from the 
big male. " 'Tis something in his favor-that, and the hounds like him." 

Keely signed resignation. "I suppose there are worse ways to judge a man." 

"None better," Shona said, and hurled the stick skyward. 

Aidan stepped off the ship onto the docks at Kilore and stopped dead in his tracks. 
The lir-link meshed even as he sent the preemptory call to Teel. 

Relief as the link flared anew washed through him with such abrupt violence he 
nearly fell. Trembling, he draped himself against the nearest stack of crates and lost 
himself in the reaffirmation, conscious of odd looks from strangers and not caring in the 
least. All that mattered was Teel. Only Teel. 

Lir. 

Eyes snapped open. Where are you? 

Here. 

Aidan looked up intently and saw the dark speck in the sky, rising over the 
fortress atop chalky palisades. The smile hooked one corner of his mouth and then both, 
widening to a transfixed expression of relief and exhilaration. 

Slowly the speck enlarged, and wings became visible. Aidan sighed deep 
contentment. Muttering his thanks over and over again, he gripped the crate and waited 
for the physical contact. As Teel settled onto his left shoulder, Aidan grinned fatuously 
into the sunlight. 

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

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

You were the one who said I should go. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well?" Keely's voice was sharp. 

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

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

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

Keely's mouth opened. Blue eyes were wide and astonished, outraged by his 
presumption, and then he saw the flinch of comprehension. Keely turned from him 
rigidly and sought her chair, sitting down with exceptional care. She took from the table 
the thing she had held as he entered; he saw it was a sword. Now it rested across her 


knees, as if she meant to continue polishing it, but she made no move to pick up the cloth. 
Both hands were on the blade, dulling the shine; he saw the tension in her fingers as she 
closed them, and he wondered if she intended to cut herself so the physical pain would 
keep the emotional at bay. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Where is-" 

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

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

"Aidan." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


shoulders, stature. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


"Back?" 

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

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

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

A well-schooled tongue… But Aidan, looking from Blais to Shona, forgot his 
kinsman almost at once. 

"Now, then." Blais, smiling privately, switched back into Erinnish as he took the 
warbow from Shona. "We'll be letting me show the boy, while you two take a walk." 

Shona made no protest. She walked to Aidan, then by him toward the headlands, 
out beyond Kilore. 

She stopped at last, pausing on an overlook above the Dragon's Tail. Wind 
whipped them both, dragging at Aidan's hair, but Shona's was safely confined in a 
network of complex braids, small ones wrapped around big ones, then joined into a single 
thick plait that hung like rope from her head. She still wore trews and tunic, but the wool 
was very fine, the pale yellow dye very good, the embroidery exquisite. Her throat was 
naked of ornaments. Aidan longed to touch it, to put a torque upon it in the shape of his 
own lir. 

Or one perhaps incorporating a wolfhound as well, to show they shared the bond. 

Shona's voice was tight. "I thought you would stay there longer." 

It was not quite what he had hoped for. "She died yesterday, at midday." 

Shona shrugged slightly. "I thought you might stay with Corin, for whatever 
ceremony is due her." She paused. "She was my granddame, too." 

He had not thought of it. "Did you ever see her?" 

Shona's laugh was a blurted, breathy exhalation. "My mother would never let me. 
But then, I never asked." At last, she looked at him. Something flickered in her eyes. " 
'Tis sorry I am, Aidan. For you, if not for her… my mother never allowed me to think of 
Gisella without thinking of what she did, but 'twas probably different for you. Your father 
likely didn't hate her so much." 

"My father only rarely spoke of her. There was no hatred of her-just an absence of 
thought." Discomfited, Aidan shrugged. "Deirdre was there. No one wanted to dishonor 
her. So no one mentioned Gisella." 

"And now the Mujhar is free…" Shona smiled a little. "D'ye think he'll marry her 
now, and make her a queen at last?" 

Aidan laughed. "The moment he hears the news, the Mujhar will summon a 
priest." Then the humor died. "No, perhaps not-Gisella was the queen, and there are 
proprieties…" He sighed. "Deirdre will have to wait. But she has already waited so long, 
I doubt this will disturb her." 

"And Maeve will be a princess, true-born and legitimate." Shona laughed. "A bit 
too late for my mother… she said she resented Maeve's bastardy for a very long time, 


since it made Keely of Homana something to be prized for other than she was. She told 
me if Maeve had been true-born, she would have had more freedom." 

"And likely she would not have married your father, and you would not be here." 
Aidan paused. "I am going home to Homana." 

Shona nodded. "I know." 

"Alone." 

Her color drained. "Why?" 

"Because I am going to die." 

Anger. Resentment. Her kivarna, and his, was ablaze. "How can you know?" she 
snapped. "How can you think such a thing? And how can you be such a fool as to think I 
will believe you?" 

"Shona-" 

"If you're not wanting me, say it. Stow this blather about dying, and say it. I'm not 
needing lies made up to hide the truth, merely to spare my feelings." Her brown eyes 
were nearly black. "D'ye think I can't tell, with the kivarna? D'ye think-" And then she 
broke off, eyes widening. "By the gods of all the oldfolk, you do believe you're to die!" 

Aidan turned from her. He could not bear to look into her eyes and see the shock, 
the comprehension, that reinforced his own. Shona more than any might understand how 
he felt, and that doubled comprehension frightened him even more. He could, when he 
tried, ignore it, shunting aside the gnawing fear, but Shona brought it back. Shona 
deepened it. 

"Aidan." 

He walked rigidly to the edge of the cliff and stared down at the turbulent sea. 

"Aidan-" And then she broke off, muttering in swift, disgusted gutter Erinnish he 
could only barely understand, because his mother had never taught him. 

"Go back," he said roughly. "Blais might suit you better." 

The muttering stopped. Shona's voice was dry. "Blais is sailing with you." She 
came up and stood beside him. Wind whistled across the headlands, curling over the lip 
of the cliff. "Why are you dying?" she asked. 

Deep inside, something knotted. "Because I think I have to." 

"Have to! Why? What man has to die, except when he's grown old?" 

He did not know how to start. "There is this prophecy." 

"I'm knowing that." 

"And there are gods." 

"That, too." 

"And then there is this." He gripped the chain on his belt. 

Shona did not answer. 

Aidan clamped folded arms across his chest, to hold himself together. From head 
to foot, a shudder wracked him. "I killed a woman," he hissed, "without even touching 
her!" 

She reached out to him. This time it was Aidan who pulled back, warding away 
intimacy. 

"No." Shona closed cool fingers around his forearm. "You're needing it, Aidan. 
Who am I to look away? I'm selfish betimes, when I like, but I'm not cruel. You need me, 
just now… who am I to shut my eyes to your pain? What reason is good enough?" 

He could think of one: kivarna. 


But then she touched him and the kivarna blazed to life, shocking them both with 
its intensity, and he was babbling, telling her what had happened and how, except he did 
not know how, only that it had; only that he had, in his idiocy, in his maleness, allowed 
himself to be lured and seduced by an Ihlini witch who had done it before, even though 
he had been warned against it; an Ihlini sorceress who had seen him, seen his lust, seen a 
way to additional power through him, through his body, and through the child he would 
give her. He had been warned by Ashra, who was a tool of the gods almost but not 
entirely human; had been warned by Carillon himself, and Shaine; had been warned by 
Gisella-mad, dying Gisella, claiming she talked to gods-and who was he to argue? He 
also talked to gods, and with them, face-to-face. They told him things, he said, clinging to 
her hands so tightly he feared he might crush them. They told him things, and expected 
things of him, and he did not think he had the strength to do what they wanted him to. 

Shona's voice was uneven. "And what is it you're thinking they want?" 

"Me to die." He expelled it spasmodically. Then squeezed his eyes tight shut. 
"Gods, Shona, d'ye see? Do you see what I am? I lay with her even though I had been 
warned, without even giving it thought, and when I knew what she was and what she 
could do-what she intended to do-I killed her. I called on the gods, and they answered. 
Because I asked them to." He could not stop shaking. 

Shona stepped closer. He tried to back away, but she held him, slipping close, 
wrapping arms around him in a hug intended to offer comfort. And it did, but something 
more; something he hoped she would not recognize. 

Her smoky voice was soothing. "Hush, my lad, my boyo-you're not knowing what 
you're saying… you're all bound up inside and out, knotted to death with gods and 
dreams and uncertainties… 'tis no wonder you hurt so. D'ye think I can't feel it, with or 
without the kivarna?" She sighed heavily. "And you not knowing a thing at all, I'm 
thinking… ah, Aidan, how can you be so foolish as to think it's death they want? How 
can you know they don't mean you for something else?" 

He gave way and hugged her hard, glad of her closeness, grateful to her for 
staying with him, for touching, for talking, for simply being there, so he was not so 
terribly alone. 

He had been very alone for most of his life, even when in a throng. 

But not with her. Not with her. Never alone with Shona. 

Aidan clung to her with all his transitory strength. This moment, he needed her 
very badly. "Why not for something else?" He threaded fingers into the complex 
weavings of her braid. "Because of the dreams, and the things I have been told…" He 
was aware, suddenly, how close to the edge of the blade they walked, so tantalizingly 
near. If they slipped, if they allowed their attention to wander, they could be cut. Even 
killed. "Gods, Shona-don't-" 

"D'ye think it matters?" 

He was lost, and knew it. "I cannot take the chance. I will not punish you… I will 
not sentence you to a life of loneliness and abstinence… I will not marry a woman only 
to die, and make her a prisoner of the kivarna-" He pressed her against him, rocking, 
rocking, trying to assuage the pain, the longing, the need. "I will not do this to you." 

"Aidan-" 

He set her back, lifting a staying hand between them. He pressed air again and 
again, keeping her from touching him. "No. No. I am going back. Alone. If I am to die, I 


will do it without hurting you." 

"And if you're not?" she shouted. "What then, ye skilfin?" 

"No," he said. "No." And then turned from her stiffly, striding back toward 
Kilore. 

Chapter Thirteen 

«^» 

She came as he lay awake in the darkness, wracked by self-doubts and contempt. 
Who was he to think he was an instrument of the gods, carefully selected for some 
specific purpose? Who was he to think himself different from everyone else, when each 
man and woman alive knew doubts and fears and confusion? 

But who was he to deny it when he had proof in the form of a chain of flawless 
gold, heavy and substantial? 

Who was he at all? 

She came, pulling aside the bed hangings, and he knew her instantly. 

He heard the robe slipped off her shoulders. He slept, as always, with no candle 
lighted; he required no illumination. In daylight or in darkness, he would know her 
anywhere. 

Deep inside, he quivered. And then the kivarna awoke. 

She climbed up into the bed. Her fair, free of plaited braids, rippled over 
shoulders to twine against the bed pelts. She was naked, but for hair; save for anguish, so 
was he. 

The pain was exquisite; the knowledge bittersweet. Shona knelt beside him, then 
slowly placed a cool hand upon his chest. Beneath flesh and bone beat his heart. His 
breathing ran ragged. 

"Ah, no," she whispered. "Don't let it be in fear. Let it be in joy." 

His voice sounded rusty. "You know the truth, meijhana." 

"Do I?" The hand drifted upward to touch his throat, his chin, his mouth. "Do 
you?" 

Every sense was alive as she touched him. His body rang with it. 

Shona's smoky voice was soft. "If 'tis myth, we'll have shared naught but a night's 
pleasure. If 'tis truth, then we'll by sharing more of these nights, I'm thinking." 

Against his will, he smiled. And took her into his arms. 

Two months later, at dockside, Keely put a sheathed sword into Aidan's hands. 
"There," she said firmly. "What excuse do you offer this time?" 

He laughed. "No excuse at all. Aye, su'fala, I will see to it you have no milk-
mouthed granddaughter in the halls of Homana-Mujhar. She will have this sword, and the 
means to learn its use." 

Keely looked beyond him to the ship. Then turned abruptly away, as if she could 
not bear to look at the vessel that would carry away her daughter. Fiercely, she stared 
back toward the cliffs. "Where is Shona?" 

"Bringing the dogs," Aidan said dryly. 

Even Keely was startled. "All of them?" 

Aidan smiled crookedly. "The big boyo himself, as well as the bitch from over-
island, and the one from Atvia, and the two in whelp, and the one she got last year from 


the fawn bitch who died, and the pups from the last litter…" He sighed. "Ten or twelve, 
at least. We will repopulate Homana-Mujhar." 

Keely inspected his expression. "Do you mind? She is headstrong, aye-I made her 
so-but she knows what she is doing. She loves those hounds…" She sighed. "I think it is 
compensation for having no lir-gifts." 

"Or perhaps she simply loves dogs." Aidan grinned. "Here she comes now-and 
Sean. And Blais." 

"And dogs," Keely muttered. "There will be no room on the ship." 

"Not once those two bitches have whelped. Ah-here is Riordan, also." 

They made their way to the dock, trailing hounds and servants with baggage. 
Blais strode down the dock first, accompanied by his ruddy wolf, who walked 
unconcernedly ahead of the pack of hounds bred to kill her kind. She had, as lir were 
required, made her peace with unblessed animals. Or else she had put the big male in his 
place, and he the rest in theirs. 

Aidan glanced at the ship. High in the rigging, perched upon a spar, Teel preened 
himself. 

Sean himself directed the loading of Shona's baggage, calling out orders in his 
rusty voice. The hounds milled around, getting in everyone's way; Shona's remonstrations 
did nothing in the midst of such confusion, for half the dogs were too young to have 
learned proper manners. But when at last the loading was done, Shona sent the dogs up 
the plank onto the ship-and discovered none of them would go. 

"Agh, gods," Sean muttered, and scooped up one of the bitches. Without further 
delay he carried her up the plank and onto the deck. 

"There," Shona said, "d'ye see? Will you walk on all your legs, or be carried like a 
meal sack?" 

The huge dark male, eyeing the ship balefully, leaned against her hip. Shona 
staggered and nearly fell. 

Aidan fished her out of the pack and pulled her away from the water. "He will go 
when you go. Get the others on board-we can tend him later." 

One by one the rest of the dogs were led up the plank and onto the deck. When at 
last only the big male remained, Sean himself knelt down to look him in the eye. " 'Tis a 
fine, bright boyo you are, my lad, and 'tis sorry I am to see you go. But we've others here-
though none as fine as you-and the lass will be needing you. Tend her well, my braw, 
bright lad, and come back whenever you like. The lasses will be mourning." 

So was Sean. Shona went to him and hugged him, clinging to his big frame, then 
let go and turned away, putting her hand on the hound's neck. With no more urging 
required, he climbed the plank to his pack. 

Aidan, looking at Sean and Keely, felt inadequate. He was taking Shona away 
from a warm, loving family who had instilled her with courage, spirit and determination, 
along with pride and a powerful loyalty. He could not predict if she would find the same 
in Homana, or even if they could make it. For one horrible moment he believed he was 
taking her to a doomed future. 

Sean shook his head as Aidan glanced at him. " 'Tis something every man feels," 
he said, "and something every woman faces." His brown eyes were warm and bracing, 
and Aidan realized the kivarna lived in Sean as strongly as in his daughter. "You'll do 
well enough, my lad. And so will my lass." 


Blais came out on deck, leaning against the rail. "Are we sailing today?" 

"Skilfin," Shona muttered, then turned abruptly to embrace her mother. 

Aidan climbed up the plank. The big male wolfhound greeted him with a whine. 
"She will be here in a moment." He patted the narrow head. 

"Or two days from now," Blais amended. 

Aidan glared at his cousin. "She has every right to take as long as she likes. Erinn 
is her home… and yours, I'm thinking." 

Blais grinned. "An Erinnishman, is it? Aye, well-let her take her time. 'Tis indeed 
her home she's leaving… while I'm going to mine." 

Aidan was surprised. "You intend to stay in Homana?" 

Blais shrugged. " 'Twill depend on many things." 

"Such as your father?" 

Yellow eyes flickered. "A man has every right to seek out his jehan." 

Aidan smiled coolly. "A Cheysuli, is it? After all this time?" 

Blais sighed. "Aye. It is. And you should walk in my boots, cousin…" He thrust 
out one booted foot. "I have the hair, the eyes, the color, the lir-but no one in Erinn truly 
understands." 

"Keely might." 

"Keely does. 'Twas she who suggested I go." 

Aidan frowned his doubt. "Even knowing-" 

"-what my father is?" Blais shrugged. "She said that while she bore no affection 
for Teirnan of the a'saii, she was not blaming a son for desiring to know his jehan." 

Perhaps because she never desired to know her jehana, and felt guilty because of 
it. Aidan nodded. "A man has a right to know his father. But he may not like what he 
meets." 

Blais's expression was serious. "My mother never lied to me. I know what he did. 
I know what he wants to do. But I'm thinking 'tis only fair I hear his side of the story." 

Aidan granted him that. But he did not think it would last. 

Shona at last broke away from her kinfolk, hugging Riordan a final time, and 
walked straight-spined up the plank. Her expression belied nothing of what she was 
feeling, but Aidan knew. For all they promised to return as soon as was decently possible, 
such plans often changed. Keely herself had been home twice in twenty-two years, and 
not for fifteen of them. She knew as well as any the likelihood of seeing Shona any time 
soon was negligible. 

Blais still leaned against the rail. Like Shona, he stared down at the dock. Rory 
and Maeve and their children stood beyond Sean and Keely, with Rory dwarfing all but 
Sean; both sisters were crying. Of all the women, only Maeve's eyes were dry. 

Blais' jaw was taut. "She's not wanting me to go." Shona shrugged as the ship was 
secured to sail. "None of them wants us to go." 

"She less than most. She thinks I'll be joining my father." Shona's tone was hard. " 
'Tis your decision, I'm thinking. To be a fool, or not." 

Blais looked at her. "He's not softened your tongue, has he?" 

Shona displayed her teeth. "He knows better than to try." Aidan lifted a hand as 
the ship slipped her mooring. On the dock, the eagles waved, from the shadow of their 
aerie. 


PART IV 

Chapter One 

«^» 

By the time the ship reached Homanan waters, eleven wolfhounds had become 
twenty-four. Blais spent much of his time secluded with his lir, locked away in private 
thoughts. And Shona and Aidan, reveling in the wind and the freedom and the magic of 
the kivarna, were almost sorry to see the end of the voyage draw near. They had come to 
prize the isolation of the vessel, knowing all too soon Aidan would face the increasing 
responsibilities of his title. They had spent weeks learning one another's likes and 
dislikes, in bed and out of it, and were not quite prepared to lose the privacy. 

And yet as the ship sailed into the harbor, it was Shona who clung to the rail and 
pointed to the mist-wreathed island so close to Hondarth. "Is that it?" 

"The Crystal Isle? Aye." Aidan leaned close to her. "The shar tahls teach us it is 
the birthplace of the Cheysuli; that the Firstborn appeared there, then went to Homana." 

Shona's expression was intent. " 'Tis where he took her." 

"Where who took-? Oh." Aidan clasped a rigid hand. "Aye. And where she killed 
him." 

Restless, Shona pulled away and paced two steps, then turned back, braid 
swinging, toward the island. "Strahan made this place over into an Ihlini domain. She 
said so." 

"For a time. No one lives there now… it was and always has been, save for two 
brief occupations, a significantly Cheysuli place." 

"Significantly," Shona muttered. "That's something I'm not knowing, with so 
much Erinnish blood…" She sighed, transfixed again by the mist-wreathed bump of land. 
"For so many years I prayed to be as my mother, able to talk to lir and take on any 
shape… but there was nothing. All I had was the kivarna." 

Aidan laughed. " 'Tis enough, I'm thinking." 

She flicked him an impatient glance, though a tiny smile acknowledged his 
purposeful lilt. "Could we go?" 

It startled him. "Now? But we are so close to the mainland-" 

"I'd like to go, Aidan. I know so much of what happened to my mother… and yet 
I've never seen any of the places I've heard so much about." 

Blais appeared from the bow of the ship, flanked by his ruddy wolf. Like Shona, 
he stared hard at the island. "If 'twas here we were born, as the shar tahls say, we all 
should see the place. 'Tis history, and tradition…" He flicked an ironic glance at Aidan. 
"Or are you so secure in your heritage you're needing no reminding?" 

Aidan understood very well the pointed jibe. Of them all, Blais had less reason to 
see the island. His Cheysuli father had turned his back on such things as tradition and 
heritage, forging his own renegade clan out of malcontents disturbed by too much change 
within the existing clans; yet if Blais wanted to go to the Crystal Isle, it indicated he at 
least wanted to weigh matters before deciding on a side. 

Something to be said for our arrogant kinsman… 

Aidan, giving in, turned to call the order to the captain, who in turn passed the 
orders along to his men. The ship heeled off of Hondarth and sailed toward the island 


instead. 

Curving white beaches stretched in either direction, blinding the eye in sunlight. 
Shona, Aidan, and Blais, accompanied by adult wolfhounds and appropriate lir, strode off 
the ship onto the crushed white shells. A path wound away from the beach toward the 
wooded interior. Through the trees they could see the glint of white stone here and there, 
bleached brilliant by sunlight. 

Shona directed the dogs up the beach, laughing as they romped, but then turned 
her attention to the path and its destination. "Where does it go?" 

"Undoubtedly to the palace." Aidan gestured toward the white mass only vaguely 
visible behind foliage and forest. "It was a true palace for decades, serving the Firstborn, 
but later fell into disuse. Carillon restored it as a prison-palace for his exiled queen, 
Electra, and then Strahan lived in it for a time, in hiding… but other than that it has not 
been truly inhabited for many years." 

"Why wait?" Blais asked lightly, and headed up the path toward the palace. 

Shona looked back to the hounds. All but the two bitches with litters and the new 
pups were present, splashing through surf and leaping upon one another. Seawater 
glistened on wiry coats, silver-gilt in the sunlight. 

"They have noses," Aidan reminded her. "They will find us if they get lonely." 

She gifted him with a sour scowl. "They were bred for sight, not smell." 

"Does it matter? If you like, I will have Teel keep an eye on them." 

She gave the pack of hounds another judicious look, considering, then struck out 
after Blais, leaving Aidan to catch up. 

The path to the palace was mostly overgrown, since it had been more than twenty 
years since anyone had tended the island, but Aidan and Shona found it less tedious than 
expected. Here and there a vine or branch was broken, testimony to Blais' earlier passage, 
and the white shell-and-stone path was layered with years of dirt, deadfall, and the 
unintended scatterings of animals. But it was easy enough to follow, and led directly to 
the big wooden gates in the bailey wall. 

"Here," Shona breathed. "She said she climbed up the gate, and over…" Slowly 
she walked through the opening left by a yawning gate leaf. "D'ye see? She said the iron 
studs allowed her purchase for bare feet." 

Aidan, following, looked at the gate. He would not want to climb it, himself. That 
Keely had, in the midst of a raging storm, to escape Strahan only underscored her 
determination. 

"And somewhere here is where Taliesin died. He got her free of the palace, and 
used his sorcery to keep Strahan at bay for a little…" Shona glanced around. "They must 
have come from there. D'ye see? A side door, mostly hidden…" 

Aidan, distracted, nodded. Something was impinging on his awareness. 
Something tugged at him, like a child on his father's tunic, trying to get his attention. 

"And then across here, to the gate… she got over and ran into the trees." 

Again he nodded. He was only vaguely aware of Shona's observations. 

"Do we go in here? Or in the front?" 

Aidan twitched shoulders. Something cool tapped his spine. "Wherever you like, 
meijhana." 

"Here, then. The way she came, with Taliesin." She paused. "Are ye coming, 


then?" 

Troubled, Aidan nodded and followed her across the cobbles to the narrow side 
door, little more than a wooden slat in the thick stone wall. Its hinges were rusted stiff, 
but Shona simply grasped the latch and tugged, undeterred by anything so tame as twenty 
years of disuse and neglect. 

Rust crumbled. So did hinges. The door fell away from the wall. 

"Agh-" Shona caught it, then grinned as Aidan swore and sucked at the ball of his 
thumb. His instinctive grab for the falling door had resulted in a shallow slice. 
"Wounded, are you?" 

He shrugged it away and levered the door against the wall as Shona peered into 
the interior. She sniffed. "I smell sorcery." 

"You smell mold and dust and dampness-and perhaps a cousin somewhat 
interested in annoying us." 

" 'Twasn't through here he came. The door was whole… besides, d'ye think he'd 
ever go in the side when there's a front way all the grander?" 

Aidan looked inside the entrance. "Probably not." 

"Go," she suggested, fisting him high on the shoulder. 

Teel? Aidan appealed. 

The raven's tone was amused. Mold and dust and dampness. And, somewhere, a 
cousin. 

But nothing more? 

Not here. 

It was not nearly as comforting as Aidan anticipated. 'Not here?' What did that 
mean? 

"Will you go?" Shona asked. "Or d'ye want me to go first?" 

Aidan sneezed. Mold and dust and dampness. "No," he muttered glumly, and 
went into the narrow corridor. 

It intersected with a wider corridor running in either direction. The floors were 
floured with dust. Heading deeper into the palace were two sets of footprints: man's 
boots, and a wolf's pawprints. 

"This way," Aidan suggested, and followed the marks in the dust. 

Eventually they reached a wide doorway that opened into a massive hall. The 
ceiling arched high overhead, intricately fan-vaulted, pale and delicately textured like an 
elaborate spun-sugar cake. The hall itself was rectangular, with arched windows cut 
through white stone high in the walls. Below each arched embrasure hung a faded banner. 
Window upon window, banner upon banner, dripping down lime-washed walls. The 
colors were muted by time, but the patterns remained discernible. Aidan, who knew his 
clan history, realized the banners were not of Cheysuli making, but of a much later time. 

"Carillon," he murmured. "He must have had them put here." 

"But would Strahan leave them here?" 

"As reminders of his victory? I think so." Aidan moved further into the hall, 
abreast of Shona, who walked with her head tipped back, throat stretched, so she could 
see the vaulted ceiling. 

Then she stopped. "Look at the columns!" Her voice echoed oddly. "All twisted 
into spirals-and the runes-" 

Aidan looked as she touched the nearest column. It was, as she said, twisted, 


spiraling up to the fan-vaulting. On either side of the ridge that marked the upward sweep 

of the spiral, runes had been chiseled deep into stone. 

"Can you read them?" she asked. 

Aidan studied the nearest chain of glyphs winding its way from floor to ceiling, 
higher than he could see. "Some of them," he said at last, reluctant to admit he knew too 
few of the symbols. "Something to do with asking the blessing of the gods, and the birth 
of the Firstborn-" Aidan, broke off, shivering. The flesh stood up on his arms. 

"''Tis cold, " she agreed. "All this stone, and no fires-" 

"Not that," he muttered, then moved farther into the hall. "I imagine there were 
pelts, and furniture-" He broke off yet again, staring. 

"Aidan," Shona gasped. 

They had moved from behind a column, angling into the hall. Now the dais came 
into sight. They stood far to one side of it, nearly behind it; from their view all they could 
see was one side of dark wood, sweeping forward like haunches, and the upward curve of 
the back. It arched up, then over, forming a wooden canopy. 

"The Lion," Aidan blurted. And then, in relief, "No. No. This one is smaller, less 
elaborate…" He drew in a deep breath of relief. "Even the head is different. The jaws are 
not open-" He laughed, moving closer. "How could I-" 

And then he stopped dead, for there was movement in the throne. 

He thought, improbably, of yet another dead Mujhar, come to take him to task, to 
upbraid him for his failings. But there were none left. He had met with all he knew, those 
in his immediate ancestry. Those before Shaine did not matter, save for knowing their 
histories. Shaine had been the one most responsible for the plight of the Cheysuli, and for 
furthering the prophecy by forcing the Cheysuli to act. 

Shona laughed. The sound rang in the hall and blotted out the darkness. " 'Tis 
Blais-oh, gods, we should have known." And she took Aidan's hand and pulled him 
around the side of the dais. 

Blais, slumping negligently against the scrolled back, hooked a muscled, trewclad 
leg over an armrest to dangle a boot. He arched one raven brow. "It suites me, I'm 
thinking." 

Shona made a derisive sound. "No more than me, ye skilfin." 

Aidan loosed his hand from Shona's and took two paces closer. The dark stone 
dais was low, barely raised above the floor, and the throne itself a much smaller version 
of the Lion in Homana-Mujhar, but it spoke to him nonetheless of majesty and 
magnificence; of power too long forgotten. Of things he needed to know, while knowing 
none of them. 

"D'ye want it?" Blais asked lightly. "Will you fight me for it?" 

Dimly, Aidan knew his cousin only jested. Blais was, for all his arrogance, a 
decent man, if uncommitted. Undoubtedly he jibed for the fun of it, no more; but to 
Aidan, transfixed by the throne, it whispered of heresy. 

He climbed the dais. Blais, so casually ensconced with his lir at his other foot, did 
not move. Not even when Aidan paused and put out a hand to touch the armrest. 

Its shape was a lion's foreleg, with a downward-curling paw forming the place for 
a hand. It was very like the Lion Throne in Homana-Mujhar in appearance, and yet Aidan 
was conscious of an entirely different presence. That throne had repudiated him. This 
one, somehow, did not. 


Blais uncoiled himself and stood. "There. 'Tis yours. You've more right than I, I'm 
thinking-at least, until I settle things with my father." 

Distantly: "Your jehan is a traitor. A heretic. He is kin-wrecked; do you wish to 
become tainted yourself?" 

Blais' tone hardened. He spoke in Old Tongue to match Aidan's unexpected 
change of languages. "My jehan, leijhana tu'sai, does not even know I exist. My jehana 
never saw fit to tell him she had conceived, or that she had borne me, before sailing off to 
Erinn with Rory Redbeard." He slipped back into Erinnish. "I'll do whatever I choose, 
kin-wrecked or no. 'Tis due the both of us." 

The wood was satiny. Aidan's kivarna spoke to him of tasks yet undone; of 
knowledge yet unlearned; of a people yet unborn. "Aye," he said quietly, answering 
Blais, and then took his hand away. He turned to face Shona. "Will you stay here? There 
is something I must do." 

She stared. "Now? Here? But-" 

"Will you stay?" 

Shona and Blais exchanged glances. Eventually she nodded. "I'll wait. Blais and I 
can argue about which chamber was used for what…" Her voice trailed off. "Are you 
well, Aidan?" 

"I have to go," he said. 

Shona pointed. "There is the door. And that way lies the ship-if you take too long, 
I'll be there." 

Grinning, Blais resettled himself in the throne. "And I'll be here. This beastie suits 
me well." 

"Skilfin," Shona muttered, but Aidan walked away from them both and heard 
nothing more of their wrangling. 

Chapter Two 

«^» 

Aidan walked out of the palace through the front doors, though hardly conscious 
of it. And then directly across the cobbled bailey to the open gates, thinking nothing of 
Keely's escape or Taliesin's death or even Strahan's defeat. Instead he thought of the 
flicker of awareness that guided him. It was not precisely kivarna, nor was it the lir-bond 
that gave him access to the earth magic. It was something older, something stronger… 
something rooted more deeply in the fabric of his life-and countless lives before him-that 
drew him out of the old Cheysuli palace, where another lion crouched, into the forested 
depths of the Crystal Isle. 

He heard a fluttering in the trees and glanced up to see Teel settling onto a branch. 
The raven's tone was almost too quiet for Teel. Too gentle. 

Are you certain this is the way you wish to go? 

Aidan stopped. This is the way I have to go. Something skittered out of his 
awareness, whispering of apprehension. He appealed to Teel at once. Should I go back? 

I did not say that, nor did I suggest it. I merely asked: are you certain this is the 
way you wish to go? 

Aidan drew a steadying breath and looked around. A path lay before him, though 
little more than a twisted, narrow passage through the trees and thick foliage. No one had 
passed for decades, and yet he made his way easily enough, even through snagging 


creepers and sweeping boughs. But he saw no reason not to go. He had felt no 
premonition of danger, and surely Teel would warn him if what he did might prove 
deadly. 

He released the breath evenly. If seems the thing to do. A thing I should do. 

The raven studied him a lengthy moment, as if weighing his worth. His eyes were 
bright and black. Well enough, Teel said finally, and flew away into shadows. 

Aidan went on. He rounded a curve in the twisted path and saw the ruins before 
him: tumbled, rectangular stones that once had stood upright in a meticulous circle, 
warding a chapel. The stones leaned haphazardly upon one another, or lay fallen in the 
dirt. The doorway was shallow and lopsided, its lintel stone cracked. The stones 
themselves had once been a uniform gray; now they were pocked and stained with age, 
wearing green lichen cloaks to hide blackened pits and scars. 

He approached slowly, peeling aside foliage. He was very much alone. Teel was 
gone, the link suspiciously empty. Aidan knew the raven was within calling distance if he 
chose to summon him, but obviously he was intended to go on without benefit of 
company. Not even that of a lir. 

A single stone stood three paces from the door. Aidan passed it, paused, then 
ducked beneath the cracked lintel and went in. 

The interior of the chapel was even worse than the exterior. Rotted beamwork had 
fallen like tossed rune-sticks in a fortune-game, hiding much of the floor. The place was 
little more than a shell, but Aidan felt the power. It was a tangible presence. 

The altar leaned crazily to one side like a drunken man, propped up by fallen 
brothers. Sunlight penetrated the gaps between the standing stones and slanted deep 
inside, stripping the altar gold and gray. Worn runes were dark against the stone, nearly 
indecipherable, but they snared Aidan's attention and drew him to the cracked plinth and 
tilted altar like an infant to the breast. 

He found himself on his knees. He could not recall when he had knelt, or if he had 
fallen; he knew only he felt dampness seeping through his leathers. His hands were 
pressed against the altar stone as if he worshiped it; he began to think he did. Or that he 
must. 

"Gods," he whispered hollowly. 

Did he pray? Or did he merely express awe, as so many did, not thinking at all of 
gods? Aidan could not answer. He only knew he hurt deep inside. Wracked with doubt, 
contempt, confusion, he was exquisitely certain he was insignificance personified. 

He knelt before the altar of his ancestors, and cried. Because of anguish, of doubt, 
of uncertainty. Because he was so unworthy. Because his color was so dull within the 
tapestry of the gods; his link so weak, so fragile, so very sure to break. He was Aidan, 
and he was nothing. 

"You are what you wish to be." 

Aidan jerked upright and spun on his knees, one hand slipping instinctively to his 
knife. But the hand fell away as he saw the man. The Hunter. 

He tingled unpleasantly from subsiding shock. With effort, he managed to speak. 
"Will you give me my answers now?" 

"If you ask the proper questions." The Hunter came into the chapel and found a 
stone on which to seat himself. The incongruity struck Aidan; here was a god for whom 
the chapel had been built, perched upon the wreckage with perfect equanamity. 


Aidan shook his head. "How do I even begin?" 

The Hunter smiled warmly. "You began quite some time ago. As a boy, in fact. 
The dreams, Aidan… all those turbulent dreams that troubled your sleep." 

"I have them no longer. Not since I sailed from Erinn." 

The Hunter's mouth quirked. "Aye, well… women often have the ability to make 
a man think of things other than troubling dreams." The smile widened. "Enjoy your 
peace-and sleep-while you may. You have spent much of your life with neither." He 
paused. "Are your knees not growing numb?" 

They were. Aidan took the question as an invitation to rise. He stood slowly, 
unsticking damp leather from knees, and fixed the Hunter with what he hoped was a 
compelling gaze. "Why are you here? Did I summon you?" 

"In a way, but not through any prayer or muttered invocation." The Hunter's tone 
was dry. "I came here because it is time for you to know more. To answer all those 
questions you have had, and no one of whom to ask them." 

"Good," Aidan said, before he thought about it. 

The Hunter-the god-laughed. "Men believe we move in mysterious ways merely 
to confuse the issue. No. We have reason for what we do. If we wrote it in stone, most 
men would forget to read. If we showed ourselves to everyone the way we have to you, 
we would therefore become commonplace, and consequently of no importance. Gods 
must maintain some portion of mystery here and there, or the awe and honor recedes, and 
nothing is ever done." 

Aidan had never thought about it that way. 

The Hunter picked a daub of mud from his leathers. "There are men and women 
in the world who consider the gods little more than figments of imagination-for we gave 
you that, as well-and little more than a mechanism by which some-those quicker of wit 
and large of ambition-control others. It is a simple explanation, and effective. There are 
also people in the world who lay everything at the feet of a natural progression, denying 
our power, our presence, our existence." He shrugged. "They are welcome to disbelief." 

"But that is heresy," Aidan protested. 

"Ignorance," the god corrected. "They are afraid. Puffed up with self-importance 
because they believe strength lies in not requiring gods. They believe they have 
discovered Truth, and that it lies elsewhere. Not in the palm of the gods." Smiling, the 
Hunter made the Cheysuli gesture denoting tahlmorra. "But it was we ourselves-gods, 
Aidan-who gave man self-rule and the ability to think for himself; therefore we also 
allow him his petty heresies. It is an individual's personal decision which afterworld he 
prefers-or none at all." 

Aidan felt battered. "But I have always believed." 

"We know that. And now you will benefit from it." The Hunter glanced away 
from Aidan a moment, then smiled. A woman came through the low doorway: a small 
gray-haired woman with magical eyes and a weaver's callused hands. 

"Aidan," she said kindly, "you have been patient far beyond most men's 
capabilities." 

Shame flared. "I have not. I have doubted, and feared, and railed. I have 
questioned." 

The Weaver was unruffled by his admission. "Naturally," she agreed calmly. 
"Men must always question. We gave them curiosity, and impatience, and anger, and the 


need to know. You are a man; you are no different. But you still have been very patient." 

Aidan felt on the verge of a great discovery. And he felt afraid. "So-now you will 
tell me everything?" 

"We will give you the means with which to make your decision." 

The response was swift. "There is no need. I will do whatever you ask." 

She smiled, hands folded in a multicolored skirt woven of colorless yarn. "We do 
not require blind obedience, though often it seems that way… and some would go so far 
as to argue we do." She shook her head. "No. We require sacrifice and hardship, but 
given and undertaken freely, because learning is not accomplished without either." 

"Have I learned anything? Or nothing?" 

There was a sound at the tumbled entryway. "Surely you have learned 
something," remarked the Cripple as he crutched into the chapel. "You have learned how 
easily a man can be steered from the proper path by a woman." 

Aidan stared fixedly at the old man, marking again the creviced face, the shiny 
pate, but mostly the missing right leg. It was as if the god had chosen to show himself in 
the guise Aidan had seen first. 

He swallowed heavily, pulling himself back with effort. "Do you mean Shona?" 
Dread rose up like a wave. "Are you saying I should not marry her?" 

The Cripple's dark eyes glinted. "We are saying no such thing. She has the blood 
your House requires." 

"Then who do you-?" Heat bathed him. "Lillith." 

The old man leaned on his crutch. "Ashra warned you," he chided gently. "She 
gave you good warning, and you chose not to heed it." 

The response was swift. "I was lirless." 

"An excuse." 

"But the truth. She used sorcery." 

"No. You believed she did, because you stopped believing in yourself." The 
Cripple shook his head. "Lillith, though indeed powerful, used nothing more than herself. 
With you, it was sufficient." 

Shame suffused him. He was hot and cold at once, unable to look any of them in 
the eye. 

The Cripple's tone softened. "But I will warrant you learned something from it." 

"Aye." The single word was heartfelt. "You answered me. When I called. When I 
asked your intercession. The chain." He filled his hands with heavy gold. "You answered 
my petition." 

The Cripple was silent. The Weaver also said nothing. Aidan looked sharply at 
the Hunter, trying to suppress apprehension so violent it knotted muscles and belly. 

The brown man's tone was infinitely quiet. "Think what it means," he suggested, 
"when a man can say he summons the gods at will." 

Aidan had no answer. 

The Hunter's eyes were steady. "Does it make him a god?" 

"No!" 

"Think, Aidan. Surely it means something." 

"It means-" Sweat dampened his temples. Aidan wet dry lips. "It means they have 
chosen him for something." 

"And does that make him better than anyone else?" 


"No." 

"Perhaps-different." 

Resentment shaped his tone. "You want me to claim myself different, so you can 
shame me. So you can enforce humility." 

The Hunter laughed. "We are not that cruel, Aidan. Answer truthfully." 

"Do I think myself different?" Aidan looked from one to the other, to the other. 
"Aye. Because I am." 

The Hunter idly inspected a cracked thumbnail. "And what will you do with your 
difference?" 

Suddenly infinitely weary, Aidan sat down on a fallen stone. He could think of 
nothing to say that would please them, or satisfy their convoluted examination, and so he 
said nothing at all. 

The Weaver's blue eyes were bright. "At least you do not speak before you know 
how," she observed dryly. "That is something." 

"Something," the Crippled echoed. "I think he has become weary of us. I think he 
is exercising his impatience." 

"What do you expect?" Aidan snapped. "You batter me with words and 
innuendos, hinting at tasks and undertakings… do you think I will sit meekly by waiting 
forever while you decide if I am worthy for whatever new game you have developed 
since the last time we spoke?" He glared at them. "What is the sense in bestowing self-
rule upon us, and curiosity, if we are not to use either?" 

"Some people do sit meekly by forever." The Cripple said mildly. "Everyone-and 
everything-has its place in the Wheel of Life." 

Aidan, who had had this conversation with the Weaver, glanced at her. She did 
not smile. 

"Chained warrior," the Hunter murmured. 

"Chained prince," added the Weaver. 

"Chained raven," ended the Cripple. 

The Hunter took it up. "Chains that bind a man; chains that free a man." 

The Weaver nodded once. "Bound, the life goes on. Broken, it is free." 

The Cripple smiled. "Which do you seek?" 

Aidan touched the chain. "I made it whole." 

Dark eyes were fathomless. "The choice was made freely?" 

"Aye. I chose it." 

"Who are you?" asked the Weaver intently. 

"Aidan of Homana." He looked at each of them. "Prince of Homana, after my 
jehan, who will be Mujhar. A warrior of the clan. Cheysuli." He paused. "And very, very 
confused." 

The Hunter laughed. "The last is obvious. As for the others… well, your road yet 
lies before you. You have not come as far down it as we had hoped." 

Fear flickered to life. "Not-?" 

The Weaver's voice was gentle. "There is still the task to be done." 

Aidan was on his feet. "What task?" he shouted. 

"And the sacrifice to be made," agreed the Cripple, ignoring the outburst. "But I 
think, when the time comes, he will make it freely." 

Aidan, angry and afraid, opened his mouth to ask another question. But he was all 


alone in the chapel. 
And no wiser at all. 

Chapter Three 

«^» 

In Hondarth they had purchased horses for themselves, and made arrangements 
for Shona's baggage train to follow at a more sedate pace. Now, having covered the 
distance between the port city and the crossroads near Mujhara, Blais looked at Aidan. 

"Which way?" 

"East. That way." Aidan gestured. "Mujhara is west, but a few leagues up the 
road. Clankeep, from here, will take you half a day." 

Blais shrugged. "I've waited twenty-two years to see it. Half a day won't tax me." 

Shona shook her head. Around her mount, wolfhounds milled. "You should come 
with us to Homana-Mujhar. There are kinfolk, and the Lion… can't you wait a day or two 
before haring off to look for Teirnan?" 

" 'Tis n't just that," Blais said quietly. "There's the Ceremony of Honors, first, to 
celebrate my lir and warriorhood Cheysuli fashion, and to receive the gold I'm due." He 
slanted a smile at Aidan. "Then I'll be 'haring off' to look for my father." 

Aidan frowned. "Forgive me if I offend, but who will be your shu'maii? You 
know no one in the clans… unless you mean to name me." 

"No." Blais grinned cheerfully. "And I do know someone-a shar tahl, in fact. His 
name is Burr." 

It took Aidan a moment to remember. When he did, he stared hard at Blais. "Burr 
is from the north, across the Bluetooth. I have spoken with him… how do you know 
him?" 

"I wrote to Clankeep." Blais's patience was exaggerated for Aidan's benefit. "Burr 
wrote back, telling me what he could of my father, since no one else would." His face 
hardened. "Is it they're afraid I'll do the same? Without even knowing me?" 

The question made Aidan uncomfortable. "I cannot answer for Clankeep… I only 
know that Teirnan's rune was erased from the birthlines. He was kin-wrecked, Blais-that 
means he no longer exists in the eyes of the clans." 

The feral set of Blais' facial bones was more pronounced as he stared back at 
Aidan. "Kin-wrecking one warrior should not be passed on to his son, if he's done 
nothing. They're not knowing anything about me, least of all whether I'll be following my 
father. Why not judge me for me?" 

Aidan shifted in the saddle. "He repudiated everything. The clans, the prophecy, 
the Lion-everything. He took with him warriors, lir, women, and children. Do you expect 
Clan Council to look kindly on a man who turns his back on everything our race stands 
for?" 

Blais slipped into Old Tongue. "No. I expect them to look kindly on a son who is 
not guilty of the jehan's crime." 

Aidan looked at his cousin. He could not really blame Blais for his bitterness. He 
was not certain he would feel so sanguine if he were judged by the actions of a kinsman 
he had never seen. It was unfair, he thought; but then he had come to believe there were 
several things about Cheysuli tradition that were unfair. 

"Go," he said quietly. "Burr is a good man-a shar tahl with insight-and he will aid 


you. He will make a good shu'maii. But if you need me, send your lir. Or come yourself. 
You will be welcomed in Homana-Mujhar." 

Blais laughed. "That is something, I'm thinking." He glanced at Shona. "Be 
careful with the boyo, lass. Homanans are more fragile than Erinnish." 

"Blais-" She steadied her horse. "Blais, give thought to whatever you do. 'Tis n't 
always your greatest strength-" she smiled "-and sometimes your greatest failure. Take 
the time, my lad, to be certain of what you do." 

"Did you?" Blais inquired. " 'Twas you who brought all those wolfhounds." And 
then, as Shona glared, he lifted his arm in a farewell wave and took the eastern road. His 
wolf loped beside him. 

Outlying crofts, cradled in troughs between hills, soon gave way to villages and 
then at last to the proper outskirts of Mujhara herself, until Aidan and Shona clattered 
through narrow cobbled streets toward the rose-hued stones of Homana-Mujhar, deep in 
the heart of the city. Shona spent much of her time whistling and calling back her 
wolfhounds, who wanted to investigate-or challenge-everyone, and Aidan was much 
relieved when the massive bronze-and-timber gates finally jutted before them. 

"Homana-Mujhar?" Shona asked, leaving off remonstrating with the big dark 
male. 

"The front gates." Aidan drew rein and leaned slightly downward, offering his 
signet ring as identification, but the men on the gates knew him and called out vulgar 
greetings, until they spied Shona and found a better use for their tongues. 

Aidan, laughing, waved her through, counting wolfhounds, and was relieved as 
the last of the great dogs slunk through. The two bitches with litters had been left with the 
baggage train, so that he and Shona had not been slowed by puppies. 

First the outer bailey, then under the portcullis that gave entry into the inner 
bailey and to the palace itself. Shona muttered something beneath her breath, staring in 
awe at the curtain wall, parapets, and ramparts. Homana-Mujhar lacked the crude, overt 
strength of Kilore, Aidan thought, but its sprawling magnificence could be denied no 
more than its defenses. 

" 'Tis no wonder it never fell," Shona breathed. 

"But it did," he told her. "Once, to Bellam of Solinde-with the help of Tynstar the 
Ihlini." He jumped off his horse and threw the reins to a horseboy, then turned to lift 
Shona down. 

She was having none of it. Trews precluded the encumbrance of skirts and she 
jumped down herself, slanting him a scornful, amused glance, then gathered her hounds 
close. "What of the lads and lasses?" 

"We have kennels, of course." 

She nodded pensively. "But-now? Can they not come in with us first?" 

He blanched, envisioning giant wolfhounds racing through the corridors of 
Homana-Mujhar. "All of them?" 

"We can put them in our chamber." 

"It will not be 'our' chamber, not at first. The Homanans are somewhat bound up 
in proprieties… we will have to have separate chambers until after the ceremony." 

Shona's eyes widened. "We've been sharing a bed for months! We've never kept it 
a secret." 


"The Homanans-" 

"-are skilfins, " she muttered. "Well, then, if we're to have separate chambers, I'll 
be putting the hounds in mine." She turned on her heel and marched toward the steps, 
thick braid swinging. 

Aidan, following, tried to compromise. "It does not mean we have to sleep alone, 
Shona-only live in separate chambers. No one has to know who sleeps where…" Except 
they would. Everyone knew such things. Common gossip had a nefarious power when it 
came to making the rounds. "Never mind," he said. "Put them wherever you will… but if 
any of them bites me when I come in at night, 'tis out to the kennels for them all." 

Shona slanted him a glance. "Perhaps." 

"Or you could come to my chamber." 

She arched a brow as they reached the top step. "If the Homanans are so 
persnickerty-I'd be thinking you'd have more right to be sneaking about the castle at night 
than me." 

"But I do not keep fourteen dogs on my bed." 

"Eleven," Shona corrected pointedly. "And for now there are only nine, until the 
two bitches and the puppies arrive." 

Aidan sighed. "Does it matter?" And then signaled the door to be opened. "This is 
the formal entrance. There are other, less conspicuous ways in-" 

"My lord." A servant bowed briefly. "My lord, you are to go at once to the 
Mujhar's chambers. By order of the Prince of Homana." 

"Go to-why?" 

The servant was not forthcoming, except to repeat the need for haste. "At once, 
my lord." 

Blankly, Aidan turned to Shona. But before he could say anything, she spoke to 
the wolfhounds, dropping each with a gesture. A command to hold kept them in place; 
Shona turned back to Aidan. "They'll not move to trouble anyone." 

Another time he might have argued with her-his experience with dogs did not lead 
him to believe they would stay where they were put-but just now he was not even slightly 
concerned with whether the wolfhounds stayed or wandered. 

He merely nodded absently and led Shona through torchlighted corridors and up 
two winding staircases to the Mujhar's sprawling apartments on the third floor. 

Two men in the crimson tabard of the Mujharan Guard flanked the largest 
entrance. The door itself stood open. As Aidan arrived with Shona, both guardsmen 
bowed. He nodded absently at them, then went in with Shona at his side. 

He knew the truth when he saw Deirdre. She sat in a chair at Niall's bedside, very 
still and pale. Her eyes were fixed on the bed's occupant. 

Ian stood at one of the casements, his back to the doorway. All Aidan could see 
was his silhouette, but nothing more was required. The rigidity of Ian's posture bespoke 
the measure of his grief. 

It was Brennan who came across the room to Aidan. His gaze rested briefly on 
Shona's stricken face, then he turned to his son. "He will wish to see you. Come." 

Aidan was cold. Cold and sick. He did not want to be present. He wanted to turn 
and walk out immediately, to go somewhere no one could find him, because if he was 
gone the dying could not be accomplished. 

But he did not turn and walk out. Slowly, numbly, Aidan moved toward the 


canopied bed. Aileen was there as well, seated on a stool near Deirdre. Curled at Niall's 
side was the ruddy-brown wolf, Serri. 

Niall lay beneath silken bedclothes. But his face was uncovered still, displaying 
the ravages of the thing that would claim his life. The patch over his eye did not hide the 
loose downward slant of the right side of his face, or the drooping of his mouth. His 
flaccid flesh was waxen. 

"Jehan," Brennan said quietly. "Aidan has come home." 

For one horrible moment Aidan feared his grandfather was already dead, but then 
he heard the ragged, shallow breathing and saw the single eye crack open. It was clear, 
unclouded by pain; Aidan's kivarna abruptly flared to life, bringing him the unwelcome 
and painful awareness that Niall knew precisely what had happened and precisely how 
long he had. 

Niall's right arm lay slackly across the wolf, not hugging Serri because he could 
not, but touching him, maintaining the physical contact as well as the mental. Serri's head 
rested very gently on Niall's chest. Incongruously, Aidan thought of Shona's wolfhounds. 
And then was ashamed. 

A lir is nothing like a dog… 

He was, oddly, perfectly calm. He stood beside the bed, beside his father, and 
looked down on the wreckage of his grandfather. 

"Take his hand," Brennan said softly. "He cannot reach for it himself-and he 
would want it." 

Dully, Aidan knelt down and reached for Niall's hand. The flesh was cold and 
lifeless. "Grandsire. I am come home." 

The single eye remained open. The lips twitched, then twisted. Niall's speech was 
slow and halting, but he made himself understood. "The girl?" 

Aidan nodded, turning slightly to stretch out a hand to Shona. "I have brought her 
home, grandsire. All the way from Erinn. Keely's girl, grandsire… and Sean's." 

Shona moved across the bedchamber slowly, lacking her natural grace. Aidan 
sensed her grief and shock and abiding regret: she looked on her grandsire the Mujhar for 
the first and last time, for it was quite clear Niall would not live to see the sun rise. 

She stopped beside Aidan, but did not kneel. She was very tall in a chamber full 
of tall men, and incredibly dominating through sheer force of personality. Aidan, 
sensitized to her, still felt the tingle of her strength, and smiled in bittersweet 
acknowledgment as he saw the recognition in Niall's eye. 

Shona wore, as usual, Erinnish tunic and trews, belted and booted. The heavy 
braid of intricate double and triple plaiting hung over her shoulder, dangling against the 
bedclothes. There was nothing even remotely feminine about her, or subdued. She burned 
like a beacon. 

"Keely's girl," Niall slurred. "Ah, gods, but I knew she would bear one worthy of 
the blood and trust and truth…" He swallowed with difficulty. "You must wait your turn, 
my bright, brave Erinnish lass, but one day you will grace the halls even as my 
Deirdre…" 

Aidan twitched. "Grandsire-" 

Brennan touched his shoulder. "Not now, Aidan. Later." 

But Aidan knew better: there would not be a later. 

"Grandsire, I bring news from Atvia." He cast a glance at Deirdre, so white and 


still in her chair. "What would you most desire in the world?" 

Niall was visibly weakening. "I have what I most desire." 

"No…" Aidan caught Deirdre's hand and pulled her from the chair, onto her knees 
beside the bed, then placed her hand atop the Mujhar's. "No, there is more. There has 
always been more." 

The dimming eye flared. "Is it true? Gisella-?" 

Aidan swallowed down the painful lump. "Aye. In my presence." Then, knowing 
it would require a formal declaration in front of kinfolk as witnesses before being 
accepted by the Homanan Council, he raised his voice. "The Queen of Homana is dead." 

The cold fingers twitched. Aidan took his own hand away and left Deirdre and 
Niall to share the handclasp. Niall's voice was deteriorating, but he managed to give the 
order. "Have the priest fetched at once." 

Deirdre was shocked. "Niall-no… let it wait-" 

He summoned waning strength. "If I do nothing else before I die, my proud 
Erinnish princess, I will make you a queen." 

Aidan, at the doorway, dispatched one of the guards for a priest. Then he waited 
beside the door, not wanting to intrude on the Mujhar and his meijha. 

The marriage ceremony was necessarily brief. Niall struggled to say his vows. 
Deirdre answered quietly but firmly, and when it was done she bent to kiss his ravaged 
mouth. 

"Queen of Homana," he whispered. "It should have been yours from the first." 

Deirdre, dry-eyed, shook her head. "I never was wanting it," she answered. "All I 
ever wanted was you. The gods were kind enough to allow it… but oh, my braw boyo, 
the years have been so short…" 

Niall's eye did not waver as he gazed at Deirdre of Erinn, now Queen of Homana. 
"Better than none…" he whispered. "Better than none at all…" 

She was queen for the space of a breath. As Niall ceased to live, the title passed to 
Aileen, and Brennan became Mujhar in his father's place. 

It was Ian who executed the custom. Slowly he went to the bed and took Niall's 
hand in his, easing the heavy black seal ring from the still hand, and then he turned. To 
Brennan. 

"My lord," he said formally, "you are the Mujhar. Will you accept this ring; and 
with it, my fealty?" 

Brennan's mouth barely moved. "J'hai-na," he said. "Tu'halla dei, y'ja'hai… 
Tahlmorra lujhala mei wiccan, cheysu. Cheysuli i'halla shansu.'" 

Ian waited until Brennan put out his hand, and then he stripped from it the 
glowing ruby signet of the Prince of Homana. He replaced it with the black ring etched 
with a rampant lion. 

Brennan, stark-faced, nodded. "Y'ja'hai." He took back the ruby ring from Ian, 
and turned. 

Aidan, still standing by the door, abruptly realized the ceremony included him. 
Panicking, he backed up a step, met the wall with his heel, and stopped. 

Brennan took Aidan's cold hand into his and eased the topaz ring from his right 
forefinger. The ruby went on in its place. "Tu'jhalla dei," Brennan said formally. "I 
declare you Prince of Homana, heir to the Lion Throne." 

Aidan felt empty. He stared at his father, seeing a stranger; feeling a stranger 


himself, defined by a single sentence that did not, he felt, accurately sum up anyone, least 
of all himself. 

"Tu'jhalla dei," Brennan repeated. Lord to liege man; they all of them were liege 
men now, if by definition different from the Cheysuli custom. That had been Ian's place. 
And Brennan did not, Aidan realized in shock, have a true liege man. 

He swallowed heavily. "Ja-hai-na." he whispered. "Y'ja'hai, jehan. Leijhana 
tu'sai. Cheysuli i'halla shansu." 

He heard Aileen's quiet tears. Saw Deirdre's bone-white, bone-dry face. Saw the 
rigidity of Ian's posture; the grief and comprehension in his father's eyes. Sensed Shona's 
tangled emotions as painful as his own. 

Something moved. He looked to the bed. Serri sat up, amber-eyed in the shadows. 
Then he jumped down and trotted out of the chamber. 

Aidan moved. 

"Let him go," Brennan murmured. 

"But-Serri-" 

"Serri is a lir." 

It was, Aidan knew, enough. Sufficient to explanation. And as he nodded, 
acknowledging, he heard, as they all did, the single distant mournful wail keening 
through the corridors. 

In chorus, the wolfhounds answered. 

Chapter Four 

«^» 

In the pale, still hours of dawn, Aidan found himself in the Great Hall. The firepit 
coals were banked. Only the merest tracery of first light crept into the hall through 
stained glass, muting the colors into unaccustomed pastel softness. The dawn did not yet 
illuminate anything below the intricate beamwork of the high ceiling, losing itself in 
scrollwork. 

Aidan stood for a moment just inside the silver doors, listening to the silence, and 
then he began to walk. 

He looked at the walls as he walked: at the faded tapestries generations old; at the 
brighter, richer ones worked by Deirdre and her ladies. He looked at the intricate patterns 
of weapons displayed on the walls: whorls of knives and lances, brass bubbles of bossed 
shields, the gleaming patina of blades. Even the floors now were not so stark; carpets 
imported from foreign lands softened the hard bleakness of stone. Once Homana-Mujhar 
had been little more than a fortress, a stone shell; now it was the cynosure in all its 
magnificent splendor, the seat of Homana's power. And the font of that power was the 
Lion itself. 

Aidan at last looked at the throne, thinking of the smaller version on the Crystal 
Isle. But this one was different. This one was filled. This one housed a Mujhar. 

Aidan stopped dead. He felt betrayed, his intention usurped. It did not matter that 
he knew the man, or that he was flesh of the man's own flesh, only that he had come to 
summon his grandsire, and his father had stolen the chance. 

Brennan watched him with eyes devoid of expression. He sat slumped in the 
throne haphazardly, arms and legs askew. He wore black, as was his custom, and faded 
into the dim hollowness of the crouching Lion. 


Kivarna flared. Aidan sensed grief and anger and sorrow and pain; the 
acknowledgment of a new task. And the desire to abjure it altogether, if it would change 
the present. 

Aidan walked. And then stopped. He stood before the Lion and the Mujhar it now 
protected. 

Brennan did not stir, except to move his mouth. "Men covet thrones," he said 
quietly. "Men conspire and kill and start wars and destroy cities, all for the winning of a 
throne. But rarely do they think of what it means to sit in one… or to acknowledge the 
consequences, the cause of the change in power." 

Aidan said nothing. 

"The firstborn sons of kings know they will inherit, one day," Brennan continued, 
"but they never think about how they will get it. They consider only what they will do 
when they are kings in their fathers' places, and what changes they might make, and how 
they will conduct themselves… but never do they consider how thrones pass into their 
hands." 

It seemed to require a response. "How?" Aidan asked softly. 

"A man dies," Brennan said, "to make another king in his place." 

Aidan purposely damped down the blazing of his kivarna. He had no desire to 
intrude on his father's anguish; and even less to let it intrude on his. "He would not have 
wanted to live forever," he said evenly. "Especially like that. You know that, jehan. His 
time was done. Yours was come." 

"Too glib, Aidan." 

"But the truth." Aidan glanced behind, judging the coals, then sat down on the rim 
of the firepit, balancing carefully. "When did it happen?" 

"Two days ago. At midday." Brennan scrubbed a hand across his weary face. "He 
was with Deirdre, in her solar… they were discussing the need for refurbishing guest 
chambers. Nothing of any consequence…" He sighed, expression bleak. "One moment he 
was fine, the next-as you saw him." 

Aidan nodded. He had heard of it before, though he had never seen the results. 

"We were not at war," Brennan said. "And most likely never to go to war again, 
so that he could die in battle… but somehow I always thought it would come upon him 
another way." 

Aidan thought of something he had heard once, and repeated it, hoping to soothe 
his father. " 'A warrior can predict his death no more than his tahlmorra.' " 

Brennan grimaced. "Too glib, again. But then you have always had smooth words 
when everyone else had nothing." He moved, putting order to his limbs. "Why did you 
come?" 

Aidan, hunched on the rim of the firepit, stared blindly at the dais through eyes 
full of unshed tears. "I wanted to bring him back." 

Brennan said nothing at first. And then he released an uneven sigh that bespoke 
the grief and understanding. "I wish there were a way-" 

"There is." Aidan's face spasmed. "I have done it before… with other dead 
Mujhars." 

"Oh, Aidan-" 

"I have." 

Brennan hooked rigid hands over the clawed handrests and pulled himself 


forward, from under the Lion's maw. "Now is neither the time nor the place to speak of 
dreams-" 

Aidan was on his feet. "But I do speak of them-because they are more than 
dreams!" He took two long strides forward, stopping at the first of three dais steps. 
"Jehan, you have no idea how it is for me-how it has been for me-" 

"I have every idea!" Brennan cried. "By the gods, do you think we have not 
stayed awake at nights? Your jehana and I have spent countless days and nights 
discussing you and your dreams, trying to make sense of seemingly senseless things… 
Aidan, have you any idea how it has been for us?" He clutched the dark wooden throne. 
"And now you come on the night of your grandsire's death to say you can summon him!" 

"I can," Aidan whispered. 

Silence. Brennan's' eyes were ablaze with grief and something akin to frustration. 
"We all loved him. We all would like him back. But none of us concocts a story-" 

" 'Tis not a story!"' Aidan shouted. "I have spoken with dead Mujhars: Shaine, 
Carillon, Donal-why not with Niall now?" 

Brennan's face was ashen. His hands shook on the throne. 

"I can," Aidan repeated. 

Brennan closed his eyes. 

I will prove it to him. I will prove me to him-Aidan clutched the links on his belt. 
If I cannot prove this to him, he will never trust me again. This is necessary. 

"No," Brennan croaked. 

Aidan twitched, staring. He had begun to concentrate. 

"No," Brennan repeated. "You will not do this thing." 

"If I do not-" 

"He is dead. Let him be dead." 

"The others have come, jehan-" 

"I said let him be dead!" Brennan leaned forward. "I do not know what-or who-
you are… for the moment I would like you simply to be my son." His face worked a 
moment. "I need you to be my son." 

Stricken mute by the magnitude of his father's emotions, Aidan could only stare. 
And then, when he could, he nodded. He took his hands from the links. 

Eventually, Brennan eased himself back in the throne. His posture was less rigid, 
his tone less intense. He smoothed the fit of his jerkin with a deft, yet eloquent gesture. 
"So, you have settled on Keely's girl." 

Aidan understood very well what Brennan did. The change in topic was intended 
to change also the knowledge of what they had only just shared regarding Aidan's 
congress with dead Mujhars. Neither would ever forget it, but Brennan wanted it set aside 
so he need not deal with it. 

Aidan shrugged. "Neither of us 'settled' on one another. The gods took an 
interest… there was no other choice." 

"She is not much like Keely… more like Sean." 

Aidan smiled faintly. "She is very like Keely on the inside. On the outside-well, 
there is Keely there as well. Once you get past the Erinnish height and stature, and Sean's 
coloring…" He smiled more broadly. "Shona is mostly Shona." 

"You realize the wedding will have to wait," Brennan warned. "There is the 
Homanan mourning custom for a deceased Mujhar… they would look askance on any 


wedding, even a royal one, so close to the Mujhar's passing." 

Aidan shrugged. "Then we will wait. It does not matter. Shona is not a woman 
much taken by ceremony… it will hardly blight her life if we wait a while longer to have 
a priest mumble the words." 

"A woman with sense." Brennan smiled faintly. "Of course Aileen will attempt to 
change her mind…" He let the words trail off. He could not avoid the topic he had tried 
diligently to close. "Those things you said to me… things you have said before." 

Aidan waited. 

"Are they true?" 

He was tired, confused, grieving. But no less than his father. "Did Ian say 
anything when he came back from the Solindish-Homanan border?" 

Brennan frowned. "Say anything?" 

"About me." Too clearly he recalled the Weaver's storm and Ian's shattered hip. 
"About anything that happened." 

"Only that you and he felt it best you go on alone." Brennan shrugged. "I did not 
argue. Ian would never have left you had he believed there might be danger, and you 
have never been the sort to seek it out." He paused. "Why? Is there something he should 
have said?" 

"No. He left it to me." Aidan scrubbed wearily at gritty eyes. He had tried to 
sleep, but could not. "Jehan-I told you once before about speaking with gods." 

The recoil was faint, but present. "Aye." Brennan's tone was guarded. 

"What if I said there was more to it than that? That I met with them personally?" 

Delicate objectivity; kivarna stripped it bare. "As you have with the Mujhars." 

"Aye. With all of them." 

Brennan sighed deeply, giving in. "I would say perhaps you are putting too much 
weight in the things you dream." 

Aidan smiled. "I have always dreamed. I have never dreamed about talking to 
gods, or with meeting them." 

Clearly unsettled, Brennan shifted in the throne, looking infinitely older. "Men do 
not talk with gods, Aidan. They talk to them, through petitions and prayers. For the shar 
tahls, it may be different… but even the Homanan priests say they serve out of faith and 
belief, not because of personal contact." 

Aidan's mouth hooked down in irony. "I am not a priest, jehan… I cannot say 
what I am, other than to agree the circumstances are quite unusual." 

Brennan's black brows met. "Aidan, this is not possible-" 

He said it matter-of-factly. "Then I must be mad." 

It stopped Brennan cold. He stared fixedly at his son, trying to read the truth. 
"But-with gods, Aidan?" 

"Only three of them. They assumed human form for it, so as not to frighten me 
senseless. And they spoke-they speak-in riddles, telling me there is a task I must perform, 
and sacrifices, and the fashioning of a chain." He paused. "That much I have done." 

Brennan stared blankly at the heavy chain depending from Aidan's belt. What he 
thought was clear: Aidan could have bought it, or had it made. That was the only 
explanation. 

Aidan sighed. "The task remains. But I wanted you to know, so you and jehana 
could stop worrying about me." 


"Stop worrying!" 

"I am not cursed after all; rather, I am blessed. Chosen for some specific purpose." 

"What specific purpose?" 

Aidan shrugged. "They have not shown or told me yet." 

Brennan struggled with comprehension. Objectivity lost. "You will be Mujhar one 
day," he growled. "That, I should think, is task-and blessing-enough. As for a special 
purpose, how many men are born to inherit a throne, least of all the Lion?" 

Aidan shook his head. "There is more. They know very well I am in line for the 
Lion-they made it so, did they not?-and yet they have made it very plain there is 
something else I must do." 

Slowly Brennan shook his head. "How can a Mujhar rule a realm when he 
converses with the gods as if they were mortal men?" 

"I would think it is something far out of anyone's ken," Aidan answered. "And 
perhaps a beneficial thing. If a man knew he acted with the blessings of the gods…" He 
shrugged, scratching an eyebrow, dismissing implications to increasing weariness. "It is 
so vague a thing…" 

"Aye," Brennan agreed heartily. He stared pensively at his son, clearly concerned 
as well as baffled. "How is it Aileen and I got you? You were never what we expected, 
not from the very first." 

Deep inside, something twisted. "And are you disappointed?" 

Brennan sat bolt upright. "No! Never that, Aidan-you are everything a man and 
woman could desire in a son. But you are-" 

"-different?" Aidan smiled, thinking of the last discussion with gods he had had. 
"But I have been clearly advised that it does not make me better." 

Brennan sighed and sat back in the Lion. He rubbed both eyes wearily, stretching 
the flesh out of shape. When he looked at Aidan again, dawn etched lines and shadows 
where there had been none before. "There will be more responsibility for you now. You 
are Prince of Homana. Men will seek you out, asking your opinions on all manner of 
things, and asking you to plead their cause before me. They will hound you night and 
day…" He smiled crookedly. "All the honor will be yours, but also the weight of it. And 
there are times it grows so heavy…" His hand closed over the massive black ring he now 
wore. "You will never again know the peace you have experienced up till today." 

Aidan thought about the "peace." 

"Things will never be the same. Prepare as best you can." 

Aidan stared hard at the ring glowing bloody on his hand. "Tahlmorra lujhala mei 

wiccan, cheysu." 
Brennan shook his head. "Cheysuli i'halla shansu." 

Chapter Five 

«^» 

With meticulous precision, Aidan crossed his bedchamber to the chair beside the 
bed and sat down, settling himself slowly. The candle on the table was too bright; 
squinting, he leaned over and pinched it out. 

Shona closed the door. Mutely she went to him and reached down two-handed to 
remove the gold circlet he wore. "Here," she said calmly. " 'Twill ease the ache, I'm 
thinking." 


It did help. With the tight metal band gone, the tension lessened slightly. He 
sighed, slumping against the chair; sighed again as Shona set the circlet on the table and 
began to rub his temples. "A long two months," he murmured. 

" 'Tis over now," she said. "Niall has been laid to rest with all due ceremony… 'tis 
time the rest of you were able to breathe again." 

He had not thought of it like that. He had known only that the Homanans required 
daily ceremonies of passing for a full sixty days to honor the dead Mujhar; duly honored, 
Niall was formally interred in Homana-Mujhar's mausoleum, his dressed-stone 
sarcophagus resting beside Carillon's. There was none for Donal, who had given himself 
over to the Cheysuli death-ritual following the deaths of his lir, but Niall's passing had 
not required adherence to the stringent Cheysuli custom. His had required only 
multitudinous ceremonies designed to honor his memory, after the fashion of Homanans. 

But it was done. The sixty days, save for several hours, were now passed. And he 
could breathe again. 

Already his head felt better. Smiling, Aidan reached up and caught Shona's 
competent hands. "Now perhaps we can think about our ceremony." 

Shona shrugged, turning to perch on the arm of the chair. Because of the 
ceremony, she wore skirts instead of trews, and a gem-encrusted girdle spanning the 
width of her hips. "I'm not needing one of those to know we're bound." 

"No. But the Homanans prefer such things." He threaded idle fingers into the 
weave of her braid. "And it will give Deirdre something to do." 

The archness left Shona's tone. "Aye. Poor Deirdre… gods, what grief she feels, 
and yet she tends to everyone else. First to Brennan, who is a ship without a rudder; then 
to Ian, who tries to close himself off to what we're both of us knowing is a horrible 
emptiness." 

"He was the Mujhar's liege man." 

"Liege man, brother, boon companion-d'ye think the titles matter?" She pulled 
herself up and sat instead on the bed, but three paces away, tugging at the fit of her loose-
cut gown. "He has spent his life serving our grandsire, according to love and to custom, 
and now that service is ended. What d'ye think he'll be doing?" 

Aidan rubbed a temple. The headache was receding, but a residue remained. '"We 
have been his whole life. He has neither cheysula nor meijha… I think he will stay with 
us, to give us whatever help he can." 

"And himself, as well." Shona sighed pensively, idly resettling the girdle. "But 
there is Deirdre, still. Will she stay? Or will she go?" 

"Back to Erinn?" Aidan shook his head. "Homana is her home. She has been here 
most of her life." 

"But Niall is dead, and her only daughter-and all of her grandchildren-live in 
Erinn." 

"Except for Blais." Aidan frowned. "I wish he had come. The Mujhar was his 
grandsire, also… and yet he did not come to any of the ceremonies. You know he must 
have heard-word has been carried throughout all of Homana." 

Shona's mouth hooked down sardonically. "Blais is not a man to do what others 
expect, or desire. 'Tis a stubborn skilfin he is-likely he heard, but chose not to come." 

"He would have been welcomed." 

"Would he? He is the traitor's son." 


Aidan shifted restlessly. "Likely he would find less welcome among the Cheysuli 
than the Homanans. The Homanans care little enough about Teirnan-what did he do to 
them? His heresy has to do with his own race. It is a Cheysuli concern." 

"Aye, well… likely Blais had his reasons." Shona eyed him attentively. "Your 
head is better." 

"Aye." 

"Good. Then you won't be minding a walk." 

"A walk?" Aidan frowned. "It is late. I thought we would go to bed." 

"We'll do that after," she said. "There's something I want to see. Before, I didn't 
ask because 'twasn't fitting, in light of Niall's death. But now there's nothing to hinder it." 
She stood expectantly, tugging at rucked up skirts and the binding of the girdle. "I want 
to see the Womb." 

Aidan's brows rose. "The Womb of the Earth?" 

Shona nodded. "I've heard all about it. My mother told me, and others… about the 
oubliette beneath the floor of the Great Hall, and all the marble lir." 

Aidan looked at the bed a moment, thinking about sweet oblivion and an end to a 
nagging headache. But Shona was due an introduction to her heritage on any terms she 
liked, and he saw no reason to refuse. His head was better; nodding, he rose and gestured 
her out of the room. 

"No dogs," he warned. 

She cast him a dark look. "I've left them all in my chamber." 

"Good. If you want to meet the lir, you can do it without dogs." 

Shona shouldered open the door. " 'Tis only because they like me better that you 
resent them." 

"I do not resent your dogs. Only that there are so many-do you know how little 
room there is left to me when they try to sleep on my bed?" 

Shona preceded him out the door, kicking skirts aside. The change in attire did 
nothing to hide long-legged strides. "They sleep on my bed, boyo, since you've banished 
them from your chamber." 

"They come anyway, whenever they can. Just yesterday four of them had nested-" 

" 'Tis because they smell me there. But if you like, I can sleep in my own bed." 
Shona headed down the staircase, yanking skirts out of the way. 

"No. But we do have kennels." 

"They'll fight with your hounds." 

"I have no hounds. They belong to Homana-Mujhar." Aidan followed a step 
behind, taking care not to step on her heels or the hem of her skirts. "I know you love 
them, meijhana-" 

"Aye." Her tone was final. 

"-but could you perhaps treat them as dogs? The servants are complaining about 
the hair, and bones always underfoot, and the other things underfoot." 

"The pups are near to broken." 

"And do you intend to keep them all?" 

Shona continued down the stairs in silence. When she reached the bottom, she 
stopped, waiting for Aidan. "No," she said at last. "But 'tis hard to give them up." 

"I know, but-" 

"They'll go," she said fiercely. "Not all, but some of them. 'Tis what I breed them 


for… to improve the lines, and to sell them. Already I have offers." 

"For all of them?" he asked hopefully. 

Shona's scowl was black. "For some of them," she said. "Some of them I'm 
keeping." 

It was a beginning. Aidan let it pass and gestured her to continue. "The Great 
Hall," he said. "The entrance is there." 

When they reached the silver doors, Aidan took a torch down from one of the 
corridor brackets and carried it within, spilling haphazard illumination across the floor. 
Only hours before, the hall had been full of kin and high-ranking Homanans, all gathered 
in Niall's name; now the hall was emptied of life entirely, except for themselves. 

Shona paused inside as the door swung shut. " 'Tis different." She glanced 
upward. "They've taken down all the black banners-all the wreaths." Slowly she turned in 
a circle. "They've taken away everything of the mourning ceremonies." 

"The mourning is concluded." Aidan fell silent, then amended the declaration. 
"The official mourning is concluded,' now begins the reign of a new Mujhar." 

Shona peered the length of the hall. "In this light, the Lion is malevolent." 

"In any light," Aidan muttered, then carried the torch toward the firepit. "The one 
on the Crystal Isle was much more benevolent." 

"D'ye think so?" Shona followed. "Blais and I decided it was naught but a bit of 
wood, fashioned for vanity. There was no life to it." She watched as Aidan mounted the 
rim of the firepit and began kicking aside coals. When he handed her the torch, she took 
it amenably and held it so he could see. "Do you know, they might have made it a bit 
more easy to reach the stairs… why did they bury the opening here?" 

Aidan continued to rearrange the contents of the firepit, waving his hands at 
drifting ash. "Originally the firepit did not extend so far. Cheysuli built Homana-Mujhar 
centuries ago-at that time there was no need for hiding anything. But when they decided 
to give the Lion back to the Homanans, the firepit was extended to cover the opening to 
the staircase." He paused, modulating his tone carefully. "It was thought wisest to 
obscure the Jehana's Womb, so no defilement was possible." 

"D'ye think-?" She broke it off. "Aye. They would have. My mother has told me 
how bloodthirsty were the Homanans in the days of the qu'mahlin." She moved as Aidan 
gestured her aside, then marveled as he caught hold of the iron ring attached to the hinged 
plate set almost flush in the floor. " 'Tis no wonder they never found it, is it? Buried like 
this…" 

Aidan gathered every ounce of his strength and levered the plate up, then eased it 
down against the firepit rim. Stale air rushed out of the opening, causing the torchlight to 
gutter and dance. But after a moment it stilled, and flame bloomed afresh. 

"Safe," he murmured, and took the torch back from Shona. "Stay close behind me, 
meijhana. If the stairs are damp, they can be dangerous." 

Shona's tone was dry. "Aye. I'd not be knowing aught of such a thing, island-born 
as I am." 

"I meant because of your skirts. You're not knowing much about them." Aidan 
cast her a bright glance, then started down the shallow stairs, thrusting the torch before 
him. The staircase was cut directly out of solid stone, pitched steep and narrow. He had 
been told the stairs numbered one hundred and two; for the first time in his life, he 
counted. 


"Gods," Shona breathed "how deep do we go?" 

Her voice echoed oddly from behind. "Not so deep," he answered. "Not so deep 
as the Womb itself." 

Shona said nothing else until they reached the bottom. The ending was abrupt and 
without warning, in a small closet, until, Aidan found the proper keystone and pressed. A 
portion of the wall grated on edge, turning; blackness gaped before them. 

Torchlight spilled into the vault, caressing veins of gold and the smooth ivory silk 
of polished marble. From out of the shadows lir leaped, breaking free of marble bonds, 
tearing wings and beaks and claws out of stone. Wolf, bear, mountain cat; hawk, falcon, 
eagle. And countless other lir, twisted this way and that, as if once they had lived to walk 
the earth or ride the skies. 

"Gods-" Shona breathed. 

"Lir," Aidan responded. 

"Look at all of them…" Shona leaned forward, edging toward the vault. "Can we 
go in?" 

"Aye. Beware the oubliette." 

She looked. In the center of the vault, half-shrouded in distorted torchlight, spread 
the nothingness of the Womb. A flawlessly rounded hole, rimmed with rune-scribed 
marble, dropping straight down into the depths of the earth itself. The oubliette was three 
paces equidistant from the four lir-worked walls. 

She was in awe, but not fear. Shona took two steps inside the vault, then turned 
back. He saw comprehension in her eyes, and a vast, abiding acknowledgment. She was, 
as he was, Cheysuli, child of the gods, born of the earth and the wind and the sky; born to 
pride and power and magic. 

Shona smiled. She put out her hand, and he took it. Two steps and he was beside 
her, within the vault housing the Womb; together they gazed on the fir, marveling at the 
artistry that made them so alive, so vibrant within the stone. Even the ceiling was worked 
with lir of all shapes and sizes, struggling to burst free. In the distorting torchlight, all of 
them seemed to lean toward the open door, as if longing to exit the vault. As if they 
could, given leave. Given the power to do so. 

Aidan shivered. Shona laughed softly and squeezed his hand. "Aye. I feel it, too. 
D'ye see? Each of them means to go." 

He felt curiously distant. "One day, each of them will." 

"What?" 

He shook himself. "What?" 

"What you said, Aidan. 'One day, each of them will.' " Shona stared at him. "What 
were you meaning by that?" 

"I said that?" 

"Just now." She frowned. "Have you forgotten already?" 

He shivered again, glancing around. "It is this place. I feel it in my bones. A cold, 
deep darkness…" He peered over the edge of the oubliette without moving so much as a 
toe. "There is a story that one of our kinsmen threw himself into the Womb." 

She was properly horrified. "Down there?" 

"Aye. Carillon." 

"But-Carillon was Mujhar." Shona's tone was puzzled. "If he threw himself into 
the Womb, how did he become Mujhar? Did he not die?" 


"Not then. Supposedly he became Mujhar because he threw himself into the 
Womb." Aidan frowned, peering around the vault. "They say at one time it was how a 
true Mujhar was judged worthy. He went in a child and came out a man; went in a prince, 
came out a king. He was born of the Jehan." Aidan looked at her, marking her 
expression. "It is one of the stories, Shona. I doubt there is truth to it." 

"My mother never told me that." 

"Aye, well…" He shrugged. "There are hundreds of stories about our ancestors, 
meijhana-and doubtless one day there will be as many about us." 

Shona arched a brow. "And children to tell them to?" 

He grinned. "One day." 

She touched the knotted girdle. "Sooner than that, I'm thinking." 

He opened his mouth to question her, but the kivarna flared up even as she 
laughed. While he could not sense the presence of the child, he knew the truth without a 
doubt. Shona's emotions were to easy to read. 

"Gods," he blurted, "when?" 

She smoothed a hand over the girdle, rattling its weight of gems. In the torchlight, 
colors flashed. "Did you truly not guess?" 

"No." He looked. "Not even now. Are you certain?" 

"Oh, aye." She made a face. "To me, I'm showing-see how the gown barely fits? 
And how short the girdle is tied?" She sighed, twisting her mouth. "I meant to hide it, so I 
could tell you closer to my lying-in… but Aileen and Deirdre saw it too soon. They sent 
the midwife to me." She grinned. "Three months, my lord… and we'll have us a wee 
bairn of our own." 

"Three months-" 

She nodded. "I'm so tall and wide, the babe is spread all over. If I were a smaller 
woman, there'd be more bairn here." She put a hand to her belly. 

He was not thinking of that. "But that would mean…" He paused, counting back. 
"That would mean we were still in Erinn." 

Shona nodded. "And, by the days, 'twas that first night together." She laughed. 
"You're a potent one, I'm thinking." 

Aidan frowned. "I thought it was the Homanan food." 

"So, you did notice!" She scowled fiercely, though without much sincerety. "Too 
polite to mention you thought I was getting fat?" 

He colored. "There are more flattering things to discuss." 

"Aye, well…" Shona grinned. "Does it matter? 'Tis a bairn, not too much 
Homanan food-will it be a lad, d'ye think?" 

"How am I to know?" Aidan slid the torch into a bracket by the door and turned to 
pull her close. "And does it matter? If not, there will time for us to make a lad." 

"Six or seven," she agreed, and then blurted out a garbled sound of shock. "Aidanlook-" 


He swung from her, alerted by the very real alarm in her tone, and saw the 
shadow stretching down into the door. And then the man who wore it, stepping into 
guttering torchlight to stare blindly at them both. 

Silvering black hair was long and unkempt, tangling on his shoulders; leathers 
were stained and tattered, fitting his frame too loosely; bare arms were naked of lir-gold. 
But the marks of armbands remained, graven into flesh. As much as the loss of them-and 


his lir-were graven into his spirit. Teirnan of the a'saii was well and truly mad. 

Foreboding swept in. Aidan touched the hilt of his knife. "What do you want?" 

Teirnan stood framed in the doorway. His tone was an odd amalgam of 
detachment and intensity. "What I have always wanted." 

He felt rather than heard Shona's movement behind him. Instinctively he put out a 
shielding hand, thinking of the unborn child. "How did you get in?" 

Teirnan's smile was a travesty. "Such a thing to ask a Cheysuli." 

Aidan swallowed back increasing trepidation. He had never met the man, 
knowing him only by reputation; that reputation made him an enemy. "Your lir is dead," 
he said. "Spin me no tale of lir-shape, kinsman. You are kin-wrecked and lirless, and you 
have no place here." 

Torchlight limned his intensity. "But you have just called me kinsman. And I am." 
He stared past Aidan to Shona. "Are you Keely's daughter?" 

Her voice was level. "Aye." 

He nodded. "Blais described you. And the others… but none of them matter. Even 
you do not; you are not of my flesh. You are not of my bone." Yellow eyes burned 
fiercely in the torchlight. "And most certainly not of my spirit." 

There was Blais in him. Aidan could see it, even beyond the harshness of age and 
privation. They were of a like height and stature, in addition to coloring. Maeve had 
given her son nothing. 

Unless it be her good sense. Aidan drew in a breath. "Very few are of your spirit," 
he retorted. He looked more closely at the warrior, looking again for Blais, or something 
of Maeve, and marked the lines etched so deeply into the flesh beside his eyes, the 
hollows below arched cheekbones. Teirnan's self-exile had not been an easy one. But 
Aidan thought the emptiness of his spirit had more to do with lirlessness than with a life 
of privation. "So, you have met Blais. What do you think of your son?" 

Muscles ticked in the ravaged face. "He is not my son. He is hers… Maeve made 
a Homanan out of him-an Erinnish-" Teeth showed briefly in a feral clenching. "Left to 
me, he would have been a warrior. Left to her he is nothing, a shadow-man, a soulless 
halfling with no understanding of the truth." 

"Ah," Aidan said. "He repudiated you." 

"Wise man," breathed Shona. 

"He came to me and said he was my son-my son, whom she kept from me all 
these years…" Again the feral grimace. "She should have left him to me." 

"So you could twist him? So you could take him into the deepwood and feed him 
on lies?" Aidan shook his head. "Maeve knew what you would do. It is why she left 
Homana." 

"He was my son, once-" 

Aidan overrode him. "He is a warrior. Clan-born, blood-born… no matter what 
you say, Teirnan, he is a true-born Cheysuli, with the right to choose. The gods gave us 
that right. Even you have profited from it-if you call the travesty of your life profitable." 
Aidan shook his head. "You were a fool, kinsman. There are other ways of undoing 
things. Quieter ways of accomplishing change." 

Teirnan was too thin, too tense, too unbalanced. He had voluntarily shed the 
anchor of his life by renouncing the prophecy and everything it stood for; the death of his 
lir had stripped him of everything else. There was nothing left to Teirnan save the 


fanaticism that had driven him from the clans, and even that was stretched too fine. 
Without a lir, he was nothing. A void stood before Aidan clad in human flesh shaped in 
the likeness of a man. 

"Why did you come?" Aidan asked. 

"For the Lion," Teirnan rasped. "Niall is dead. Now it is mine." 

Aidan shook his head. "The Lion has been claimed." 

"By Brennan?" Teirnan laughed. "That is an old conflict, kinsman… it began even 
before you were born. Brennan and I are old enemies and older rivals, both pursuing the 
Lion." His smile was a rictus. "If he thinks it is for him, tell him to come down here." 

Aidan frowned. "What do you mean?" 

"Tell him to come down here. Here, in this vault. With the door shut, and the 
Womb of the Earth to receive him." 

Aidan felt Shona's nearness. Also her puzzlement; the unasked questions: what 
did Teirnan want? What did he expect? 

Teirnan touched marble lir. "Tell him to come here before the Womb, and ask the 
blessing of the gods in the old way. The way Carillon did, wanting to be Mujhar." 

Apprehension became fear. "Why?" 

Teirnan's eyes burned. "Because he will not. Because he is afraid; do you not 
know the stories? Brennan of Homana is afraid of places like this. Because he knows the 
Womb will swallow him whole and never give him up." 

"That has nothing to do with it." Aidan knew very well his father would not enter 
the vault, but it had nothing to do with fear of the Womb. It was a fear of enclosed places; 
it had always been Brennan's weakness. "He is Mujhar, Teirnan. The Homanan Council 
says so, Cheysuli Clan Council-" 

"Only the gods matter." 

Aidan nearly laughed. "I know something of that, kinsman. As for you? You 
turned your back. You took your a'saii and went away from everything, repudiating your 
heritage. How do you expect to convince anyone-even your own son-you are worthy to 
be Mujhar?" 

"How?" Teirnan took one step into the vault, then another. "By being born, 
kinsman… as the old Mujhars were born." 

Comprehension blossomed. "Teirnan-no-" 

He stood on the brink of the Womb. "She will give me back," he said. "She will. I 
am a child of the gods. Child of the Jehana. I will go in the man and come out the 
Mujhar." 

"Teirnan-" Shona blurted. 

"She will give me back," he repeated. "Hers is a fertile Womb. She gave Carillon 
back. She will give me back a Mujhar, so my son will not renounce me. So no one will 
renounce me. I will be Mujhar, blessed in the old way, the way of our ancestors." He 
lingered on the edge. "I see it in your faces; you think she will not do it. You think my 
way is madness." 

"Don't," Shona whispered, one hand splayed across her belly. "Gods, man, don't-" 

Teirnan's face spasmed. "I must. It is the old way. Too much of the old ways have 
been lost-too many of the customs discarded in the name of the prophecy… do you not 
see? If I am made Mujhar, I can change things back. I can make us what we once were." 

"Teirnan." Aidan took a single step toward the oubliette, and the man. "This will 


not win back your son. This will not win you the Lion." 

It was a litany. "The Jehana's Womb is fertile. She will make me Mujhar, just as 
she did Carillon." Teirnan's laughter echoed. "I, at least, am Cheysuli." 

"No," Aidan said. Twofold denial: of the act, and of the claim. 

Teirnan smiled and stepped off the rim. 

This time the Womb was barren. 

Chapter Six 

«^» 

The assumption of power by a new king was done with very little fanfare. 
Brennan considered it unseemly under the circumstances; even though the two-month 
mourning period was over, sorrow lingered. Niall had ruled Homana for nearly fifty 
years. Neither his presence:-nor the honor and affection-would fade immediately. 

The new Mujhar received messages of condolence from other kingdoms with 
good grace, remarking privately to Aidan that no one was laggard in also wishing Niall's 
successor a lengthy, peaceful reign, and set about exerting his own power over the 
Homanan Council without delay. And though Brennan had spent most of his life 
preparing for the moment, Aidan knew he did not enjoy it. 

Although the changes were not immediately evident, it became quite clear 
Brennan was arranging the governing of Homana to suit his personal tastes. His policies 
were more assertive, though not overtly aggressive, and the kings of Caledon, Falia, and 
Ellas found long-standing trade treaties in the throes of renegotiation. Brennan wrote long 
letters under official seal to Corin and Hart, informing them they now ruled their realms 
autonomously, as Niall had always intended they do once he was dead. But he involved 
them in his new plans for Homana as a way of insuring Solinde and Atvia followed suit. 
The prophecy would not be served if the realms remained divided by more than distance. 
If they were to insure four realms were to unite, politically the three brothers had to think 
as one. 

That left Erinn, under Sean's rule. Though married to Keely, Sean was neither 
Homanan nor Cheysuli, with nothing owed to the prophecy. But he did owe the Mujhar; 
Niall had wisely forced a trade alliance that improved Erinn's economy so that separation 
would prove detrimental. With Keely's presence-and influence-Sean agreed to a new 
alliance that extended the old treaty. Erinn would not lose; neither would Homana. 

Aidan watched his father's machinations with a sense of wonder tinged with 
amusement. He had always known Brennan was the most serious of his kinfolk; now he 
saw why. The Prince of Homana was never allowed to forget his place; never allowed to 
think of himself as independent of the Mujhar; never allowed to think for himself; never 
given the opportunity to know freedom from his future. The Prince of Homana, named 
Mujhar, stood the highest in three realms. And Aidan was next in line. 

It was brought home with perfect clarity the day Brennan called him into his 
private chamber and said they should consider opportunities for betrothing Aidan's child. 

Aidan, perched on a casement sill, stared. "It is not even born yet!" 

Brennan, slumped deep in a chair, gestured impatiently. "We can discuss 
possibilities regardless of its gender." 

"Why should we? Let the child be born." 

The Mujhar sighed and rubbed a hand through silvering hair. "You know as well 


as I we none of us have the freedom to wait so long. You had more than most, but there 
was me between my jehan and you. Now I am Mujhar and you the Prince… we should 
look to insuring your hold on the succession." 

Aidan sighed with forced tolerance. "No one is going to wrest my grasp from the 
succession, jehan. Teirnan is dead. There is no one else in all of Homana who wants to 
change the order now." 

"We cannot be certain of that. Now that Teirnan is dead, the a'saii appear to have 
fallen into disarray-but how are we to be sure? There is Blais, after all." 

"Blais repudiated him. That is one of the reasons Teirnan threw himself into the 
Womb." Aidan eased himself back into the deep-cut casement. "Just because Blais 
refuses to come to Homana-Mujhar does not mean he plots against the succession. Blais 
is stubborn, and he came to be a Cheysuli, not an ambitious kinsman desiring more than 
his due." 

"We will discuss it anyway." 

Aidan eyed his father. There was a new note of authority in Brennan's tone. Their 
dealings before had been courteous and circumspect with a mutual regard, but there had 
always been a generalized affection that lightened parental orders and commands. Now 
Brennan spoke as a king to his heir. Aidan began to see the taut web that the title wove 
around him. 

Since his father had no intention of dismissing the topic, Aidan chose a diplomatic 
tone of voice. "Cousins have wed cousins for years, jehan. Is that what you desire? Or do 
you think we should look elsewhere?" 

Brennan's scowl deepened, but it was not directed at anything-or anyone-in 
particular. "A part of me agrees with the first, for we have mixed linked bloodlines to 
form closer kin-ties. It was required to strengthen the gifts. But we are so closely tied…" 
He sighed. "Perhaps it is time we looked to other realms." 

Aidan nodded thoughtfully. "We are now too close to Erinn." 

"And to Solinde." 

"And Corin's Glyn is barren." As his father looked up sharply, Aidan shrugged. 
"He told me before he left. He does not care, he says-he did not marry her for children." 

Brennan scowled thoughtfully. Then sighed, shrugging. "If we look to other lands, 
there is Ellas, Falia, and Caledon." 

Aidan raised a single brow. "But Homana has never married into those realms. 
Finn's daughter came the closest by marrying the youngest son of Ellas' High King-" he 
paused "-how many generations back?" 

Brennan waved a hand. "It does not matter. That is old history, and we are 
speaking of new." 

"Aye, well…" Aidan thought it over. "I am not so certain I like the idea of 
marrying my daughter into foreign lands." 

Brennan smiled. "But if she is a son, he will remain here. And the princess come 
to him." 

"As Shona has?" Aidan arched a brow. "While we are speaking of weddings, what 
of mine?" 

Brennan gestured. "I thought you might wish to wait. Even though official 
mourning is ended, it would not be seemly to hold a large wedding celebration within a 
year of the Mujhar's passing." 


"Then we will hold a small one." Aidan shrugged. "As I have said before, Shona 
is not a woman for ceremony. And I myself do not care. I only thought it might be wise 
in view of the imminent birth. There are only two months left, jehan. And you know the 
Homanans." 

"Aye, so I do." Brennan stroked a temple. "I could speak to Aileen. Together, she 
and Deirdre could fashion a ceremony. And it might be good for Deirdre." 

"It might be good for us all." Aidan slipped off the sill. "I will speak to Shona. I 
promise, jehan, she cares little for ceremony. She will not insist on splendor." He 
grinned. "All she insists on is for the two months to pass, so she can rid herself of the 
burden." 

"So did your jehan." Brennan smiled briefly. "I will speak to Aileen." 

"There is one thing." 

Brennan eyed him warily. "What is it?" 

Aidan was amused; was he so unpredictable? "I want to take her to Clankeep. To 
bear the child there." 

Raven brows rose. "Why? Would she not prefer Homana-Mujhar?" 

Aidan shook his head slowly. "She has grown up ignorant of her heritage, except 
for what Keely taught her. Shona has a great need to know her ancestry, to understand the 
history of our people. She is empty of us, jehan. She is empty of the knowledge. There 
are shar tahls to learn from, and clansmen to meet." He shrugged. "I think she longs for a 
thing of which she has no understanding." 

Brennan sighed. "Lir-sickness, in a way. After all, she is Keely's daughter. Who is 
to say what needs burn in her blood?" He looked at his son. "Take her wherever she 
wishes. She is Cheysuli, too. Nothing is closed to her." 

Aidan nodded. "I will tell her to plan for a wedding. Then we will go to 
Clankeep." 

"You might ask," Brennan suggested. "Telling is not always wise." 

Aidan grinned. "You forget, jehan. There is the kivarna between us. She will 
know the truth of things the moment we see one another." 

Something glimmered in Brennan's eyes. "Then I would say it is fortunate you are 
not a habitual liar." 

"Nor any kind of liar." Aidan crossed to the door. "I think it is time I put up my 
own pavilion in Clankeep. As a gift to the child." 

"No," Brennan said quietly, as his son swung open the door. "As a gift to 
yourself." 

Aidan paused, staring. He sensed regret commingled with a desire to alter things 
of the past. "Jehan?" 

"As a gift to yourself," Brennan repeated. "You will lose too much in the years to 
come. The Lion will swallow you up, as well as the Homanans. It is how things are, and 
not necessarily bad… but I might wish for another way, had I to do it again." 

"What would you change?" 

Brennan's gesture encompassed the chamber. "This. Walls bind me, Aidan… they 
bind every Cheysuli. But I cannot very well order the Lion taken out of the Great Hall 
and dragged off to Clankeep, to crouch amidst the trees." Briefly, he smiled. "The Lion is 
Homana… but we are more than that. So, when you put up your pavilion, raise it for 
yourself. To honor your ancestry. To remind you of what we were." 


In silence, Aidan nodded. And then he went out the door. 

The family gathered in the Great Hall: Deirdre and Aileen in embroidered 
Erinnish gowns unearthed from their trunks; Ian and Brennan in soft, dyed leather and 
clan-worked gold. Others were present as well, powerful Homanan nobles and others 
from the clans, but Aidan felt the absences of far too many people: Niall, Hart and his 
kin, Keely and Sean, Corin. 

But there was Shona. And as she joined him at the silver doors to walk the length 
of the Hall, he knew the absences filled. 

She wore green. Rich, Erinnish green, unadorned save for intricate stitching done 
in delicate gold; and bright Erinnish emeralds spanning a burgeoning waist, laced into 
unbound hair that brushed the hem of her skirts. 

He took her to the dais, where the priest waited for them. Aidan said his vows 
quietly, damping his kivarna so he could last the moment, then listened with great pride 
as Shona also said the words. The priest was Homanan, the language was Homanan; in 
the Old Tongue, and then in Erinnish, Aidan repeated the vows. And then placed around 
her throat the torque of interlocking repeated figures: a raven in liquid flight, a wolfhound 
leaping after. 

Shona's eyes were bright. And then the moment was past; they were, in the eyes 
of gods and men, husband and wife, cheysul and cheysula, Prince and Princess of 
Homana. 

Duly presented by the Mujhar of Homana, Aidan and Shona were free to mingle 
with the guests. Shona almost immediately declared her longing to be back in trews and 
boots so she could stride about the Great Hall like herself, instead of a mincing maiden; 
Aidan informed her he had yet to see her-or anyone-mince, and she was obviously no 
longer-and had not been for some time-a maiden. Shona flashed him a baleful glance, but 
it was ineffective. The kivarna told him the truth: she was as moved as he by the 
knowledge of their future, bound together forever by something far stronger than vows. 

All too quickly the women dragged Shona away from him. Aidan found himself 
momentarily alone, holding an untouched cup of wine someone had thrust into his hands. 
Smiling faintly, he looked across the hall and saw Deirdre, elegant in her gown, but 
hideously apart from the frivolity around her. Grief had aged her in the nearly three 
months since Niall had died, dulling her hair and etching shadows beneath her eyes. The 
flesh of her face was stretched taut over bones showing a new fragility. 

Aidan was abruptly assailed by the fear she might soon follow Niall. He knew of 
men and women who, left alone after so many years of companionship, dwindled and 
died. He had always known her as a strong, spirited woman, conducting herself with 
becoming decorum in view of her unofficial status, yet knowing far better than most how 
to run a household as large and diverse as Niall's. 

Apprehension increased. He could not sense her, could not read her; it was not a 
gift he could control. Aidan abruptly crossed the hall to intercept her as Deirdre moved 
from candlelight into shadows. 

"Granddame." He presented her with the cup of wine, pressing it into rigid 
fingers. She thanked him and accepted it, but clutched the cup too tightly. He feared she 
might spill the wine. "Granddame," he repeated, "I have been remiss. I have not seen you 
lately." 


Deirdre's smile was gentle. "You have had much to contend with of late. A new 
title, new honor, new wife… and soon a new child." Briefly green eyes brightened. 
"You'll be seeing what your grandsire and father have had to contend with all these years: 
a proud Erinnish woman with the freedom and facility to speak her own mind." 

She had lost much of her Erinnish lilt over the years spent in Homana, but he 
heard the underlying echoes of Aileen and Shona in her tone. Suddenly he was fiercely 
proud of the island realm-and the Aerie-for rearing proud, strong women. And for sharing 
them with Cheysuli. 

He took one of her hands and kissed it. "You outshine them all today." 

She smiled again; this time it touched her eyes. "How gentle you are, Aidan… I 
forget how little you resemble Niall's children in temperament." 

"Gentle!" It was not how he would characterize himself. He was not certain he 
liked it. 

"I think it must be the kivarna in you. You understand too well how other people 
feel, how the slights can hurt. Brennan was always much more reticent to say anything 
without thinking it over-the diplomat in him!-but Hart and Corin and Keely always said 
whatever they wished whenever they wished to say it, and suffered the consequences." 
Deirdre smiled. " 'Tis a trait of Erinn, as well… Aileen and I both share it-and Shona, no 
doubt!-though not so much as Niall's children." Her eyes were very kind. "But you have 
always been different. From the very first. And I have always been grateful for it." 

It was not what he had expected. "Why?" 

"Because this House is made of warriors." Slender shoulders moved in a shrug. "I 
do not complain-the world is large enough for all manner of men. Niall raised his sons for 
a purpose: to be strong and fierce and determined, no matter what they faced, because 
they would face much." She smoothed back from his brow an errant auburn forelock. 
"You, too, are a warrior, Aidan… but there is more in you than that. You serve your 
prophecy with less fierceness and more dignity. You do not think of wars with the Ihlini 
or a treaty with Caledon or a betrothal with this land or that. You think about people, 
instead. They are human to you, instead of sticks in a fortune-game." Her gaze was intent. 
"That is important, Aidan. You are not so bound, so driven-be who you are, not what the 
others are." 

After a moment, he smiled. "I think I am more bound by the prophecy than 
anyone here, granddame." 

She sighed and removed her hand, cradling the cup once more. "There is more to 
life than that." 

"It is life." 

Deirdre looked away from him a moment, gazing across the crowded hall toward 
the Lion. "You are all of you so different." 

"Granddame-?" 

"You Cheysuli." She looked back. "There are times, I'm thinking, you lack any 
freedom at all." 

"The gods gave us self-rule, granddame." 

"Did they?" Her smile was bittersweet. "If that is true, follow your own intuition. 
Do not let the history of your ancestors warp you from your path." 

She sounded uncommonly like the Hunter, or Ashra, or any of the oddities he had 
met in the past year. "What do you mean?" 


"The Cheysuli are so supremely certain that their way is the true way that it is 
leaving little room for anyone else in the world. 'Tis an insular and arrogant race, because 
it has had to be." She raised a finger as he began to nod. "But no longer. Now you can 
loosen the shackles and breathe." 

"Granddame-" 

"D'ye think I judge too harshly because I am Erinnish? That I could not 
understand?" Deirdre shook her head. "But I do, Aidan. Far better than anyone thinks. I 
lived with a Cheysuli warrior for more than forty years. I helped raise three more of 
them-four, if you count Keely with her fir-gifts-and yet a fifth when you were born. Oh, I 
know, Aidan. I know you very well." 

The summation hurt. "And do you find us lacking?" 

Deirdre's tone was gentle. "Not lacking. Bound. Too bound by customs. There is 
so little change in the clans… change is healthy, Aidan!" 

His hand dropped to the links at his belt. Change was within him, he knew. Why 
else would gods speak to him? Why else would they set him a task he had yet to 
understand? Everyone said he was different. Was he so different he would alter the 
traditions of his race? 

The response was instinctive, denial as much as truth. "Too much change can 
hurt." 

Deirdre's hand was cool on his arm. "Nothing is done well if it is done too 
quickly. But you are less inclined than most to act without thinking. Even Brennan sees 
himself bound by tradition… I think you will be a different kind of Mujhar when you 
ascend the Lion. And I think it will be good." 

Aidan's smile was lopsided. "You give my jehan short shrift." 

Deirdre laughed. "Brennan will do well enough; probably better than most. He 
has waited for this all of his life. And he is what Homana requires now, but not always." 
Her green eyes were very warm. "Your turn will come, Aidan. When it does, use it." 

Chapter Seven 

«^» 

They knelt side by side upon the blue ice-bear pelt from across the Bluetooth 
River. The shar tahl looked back at them, black brows knitted. "Why did you come to 
me? I am only one… also the youngest and newest in Clankeep." He studied them both. 
"You have the right, of course-I am fully acknowledged as a shar tahl-but I thought you 
might go to another." 

Aidan smiled. "It is precisely because you are not like the others that we came to 
you." 

Shona nodded. "And because of Blais. You were the only one who wrote him of 
his father." 

Burr sighed, smoothing a wrinkle from his leggings. The edge of winter was upon 
them; he, as they did, wore heavier leathers, thicker woolens, furred cloaks. "Aye. I 
thought the others unjust, in that. But they viewed Blais' request as unanswerable; 
Teirnan was kin-wrecked, his rune-sign expunged from the birthlines. In their minds, how 
could they tell him of a warrior who no longer existed?" 

"But you answered," Aidan said. 

Burr shrugged. "I had to. He was a man in need-a Cheysuli warrior requiring 


information of his heritage." Yellow eyes were very steady. "Had I refused him the 
information, I would have renounced one of the foremost responsibilities of my position, 
which is to serve all Cheysuli in matters of heritage, custom, tradition…" He smiled. "I 
am not saying the others did. I merely interpreted the custom differently. I no longer 
believe in the need for kin-wrecking at all; Blais' request, therefore, was one I had to 
answer." 

Aidan gazed at him. He wondered anew at the man's commitment. Not its quality 
or depth, but at its ability to be flexible. Part of it, he believed, had to do with Burr's 
comparative youth. He was, Aidan had learned, thirty-seven, which made him nearly 
fifteen years junior to the youngest of the other shar tahls. But the rest of it had to do 
with a different kind of belief system. Burr saw things differently, and interpreted things 
accordingly. There was room in his world for change, just as Deirdre had suggested. 

"So," Shona said, "we've asked it. Will you be giving us our answer?" 

Burr grinned. "Of course you may set up a pavilion within Clankeep. Would I say 
no to you, after permitting Blais to do the same?" 

"But he is not here," Aidan said. 

"No. But he will return. There are things he must reconcile with himself… his 
jehan's withdrawal from the clans is one of them, as well as Teirnan's death." Burr 
shifted, slipping a hand from his knee to the red dogfox curled by his side. "And have you 
permission of the clan-leader?" 

Shona laughed. "He gave it instantly. Would he dare do otherwise to the son of 
the Mujhar?" 

"Oh, he might." Burr's tone was mild. "Aidan is not well-known here, other than 
occasional visits. And there is talk of dreams, and nights he walks the corridors of 
Homana-Mujhar, conversing with the Lion." The shar tahl's white teeth flashed as Aidan 
and Shona exchanged uneasy glances. "But it is thought mostly due to having his spirit 
chafed by too many walls and Homanan responsibilities. Surely here, in the heart of the 
land, he will learn what it is to be a warrior of the clans." 

"Surely he will," Aidan agreed dryly. 

"Just as he will surely learn more about his heritage if he studies with a shar tahl." 

Aidan nodded. "And may I choose which one?" 

"Done," Burr said. "Put up your pavilion, then come to me each day." 

"Leijhana tu'sai." Aidan rose, reaching down to help an ungainly Shona to her 
feet. But before he turned away to open the doorflap, he paused. "There was a time you 
said I had your sympathy. Do I still?" 

Burr's lids flickered minutely. "You have many things of me, my lord. Among 
them my sympathy." 

To press him would be futile, Aidan knew. There was a core of quiet stubbornness 
in Burr he knew better than to test. It was, he believed, much like his own. 

Sighing, he pulled aside the doorflap and gestured Shona to precede him into the 
chilly day. 

For three days Aidan and Shona cut, dyed, and stitched the pavilion fabric until it 
resembled the proper shape. Then they designed and painted the black raven on the slate-
gray sides, and with the help of three other warriors set up the frame and ridgepole and 
dragged the oiled fabric over it, pegging and tying it down as necessary. Finally it stood 


on its own, rippling in the breeze so that the raven's wings moved, and Shona stepped 

into Aidan's arms as the warriors faded away, tucking chilled hands into his furs. 

" 'Tis ours." 

Nodding, he gazed at the pavilion as he slung an arm around her waist. 

"Ours," she repeated. " 'Twasn't something I moved into when we married, but 
something we built together." 

With the kivarna, he knew very well what she meant. He shared it. "Aye. Kilore 
and Homana-Mujhar have housed many kings, many children… but this place is ours." 

She sighed as a chilly breeze tugged at braided hair. "There is such peace about 
Clankeep-I'm thinking I could stay here forever." 

Aidan smiled. "Forever is a long time, my lass… and you not properly knowing 
what it is to be Cheysuli." 

"Yet," she clarified. "And I'm knowing something of it. D'ye think I'm lying when 
I tell you how I feel, surrounded by such history? Such security in tradition?" She hooked 
a thumb into his belt. "I know what you say about change, my lad, but can it wait? I've 
only just got here. I'd like to see what being Cheysuli is all about before you begin 
changing everything." 

"Only some things," he said distantly. "Things such as the abomination called kin-
wrecking-" He cut it off. "Enough. I am only a prince, not Mujhar-and even that bears no 
certainty of power. The Cheysuli have always been subject to the power of gods, not of 
kings… it would require more than Aidan the Mujhar to convince the clans to change." 

"Then be more," she said simply. "Make yourself more, my lad… you have it in 
you, I'm thinking." 

"Aye. Perhaps." Aidan turned to her, sliding hands down to splay across the 
mound of her belly. She had given up trews in favor of loose skirts weeks before, for the 
child had become intrusive. Aidan felt the tautness of her flesh stretched so tightly under 
the soft wool skirt and loose tunic. He laughed. "We have put up the pavilion just in 
time." 

Shona cupped his elbows even as he cupped her belly. "He will be Cheysuli," she 
said fiercely. "Before anything else: Cheysuli." 

Aidan smiled. "Even before his Homanan rank? Or Erinnish?" 

"Even before that." Her eyes were fixed on his in a strange, wild pride. "Gods, 
d'ye know what it is to come here? To feel so much in my heart? All those years in Erinn, 
cut off from the place I most belong…" She drew in a breath and released it slowly, 
audibly. "I have no lir-gifts, but I do have the blood… and it burns, Aidan. It burns so 
much." 

"I know," he said, "I know. Gods, Shona, how can I not? I feel it the same way." 

"But you've been here," she protested. "You've had this all your life, since the 
time you were born; and Teel-" She broke off, looking at the ridgepole. "D'ye see? There 
he is." 

He smiled. "I see." 

"I'm not knowing how to say it, but you should be able to feel it. All my life I 
knew the freedom of Kilore, the freedom of the headlands, the freedom of the seas, for 
my father took me sailing… but 'Tisn't the same! Here I feel free. Here I feel whole. Here 
is where I belong." 

"But there is also Homana-Mujhar-" 


"Oh, aye, I'm knowing we can't always live here. There will come a time… but 
for now? They've no need of you in the palace, nor the city… can we not stay here as 
long as possible?" 

He smoothed back a lock of hair pulled loose from the braid. "We will stay as 
long as we can. Gods willing, we will give our child the foundation you lacked." He 
smiled. "And I, for that matter; I grew up in Homana-Mujhar." 

Shona looked at the neat stacks of chests, rolled pelts, cairn stones and kindling, 
set beside the pavilion. Keely's sword, scabbarded, leaned against the pile of stones. " 'Tis 
time we made it a home. All the gifts the clan and our kin gave us are worthy of being 
cherished." 

Aidan smiled. Between them flared the powerful pleasure that was more than 
mere passion, mere physical satisfaction. It was a deep, abiding contentment akin to 
exultation; a burgeoning comprehension that what they shared could not be extinguished. 
He wanted to be inside the pavilion, sitting before the cairn. He wanted to share it with 
his woman. He wanted to be no one but himself: a warrior of the Cheysuli. 

This pavilion has nothing to do with that, Teel chided. You have been a warrior 
since we bonded. 

Aidan grinned. Of course. 

The raven cocked his head. You are uncommonly pleased with yourself. 

I am too happy to argue. 

Because of the pavilion? 

Partly. There is more. 

Because of the woman? 

That, too. But more. 

Teel's eye was bright. The child, then. Because there will be a child. 

All of those things, lir. 

The raven fluffed wings. Such simple things, lir: a home, a woman, a child. 

Aidan smiled. Simple and magnificent. And sufficient unto my needs. 

Teel's tone was amused. Not so much, I'm thinking. 

Laughing aloud, Aidan hugged Shona. "Let us begin with the cairn, and a fire. 
'Tis cold out here, I'm thinking!" 

Chapter Eight 

«^» 

He dreamed. The hammered silver doors of the Great Hall of Homana-Mujhar 
swung open, crashing against the walls, so that his view was unobstructed. The flames in 
the firepit died back, sucked away, until only coals glowed. Beyond the pit, crouched 
upon the dais, was the malevolent Lion Throne, carved of still-living wood. He knew the 
wood still lived, because he saw it breathe. 

No. He saw the Lion breathe; in his sleep, Aidan twitched. 

Wood creaked. Slowly the toes tightened, claws scraping against veined marble. 
Wooden flanks tautened, then gave, rippling with indrawn breath. The tail, carved snug 
against a wooden haunch, loosed itself and whipped, beating a staccato pattern against 
the marble dais. 

The Lion rose from its crouch. It shook its head, and the great mane tumbled over 
massive shoulders. The Lion of Homana, no longer a wooden throne, stood upon the dais 


and surveyed its royal domain. Within it stood Aidan. 

The Lion coughed. It blinked. And then it opened its mouth


"Aidan! What is it? What is that noise?" 

He awoke, sweating, aware of the dream and the not-dream; the echoes of Shona's 
voice and the outcry within the lir-link. 

"Teel?" he asked numbly. 

"Lir-lir-Ihlini-

Shona was sitting upright. "Gods-all over, such noise-" 

Lir-lir-Ihlini-

He scrambled up "Teel?" 

Ihlini-Ihlini


"Aidan?" 

"Ihlini," he breathed. "Here? In Clankeep?" 

Outside, there was screaming. 

"Oh, gods," he blurted. "Ihlini-in Clankeep-" 

Even as Shona hastily pulled on soft boots, Aidan was at the doorflap. He wanted 
to tear it open, but did not, instinctively knowing not to give their presence away. A part 
of him told him it probably did not matter; if Ihlini were in Clankeep, they would not 
search pavilions. They would simply destroy everything. 

Aidan drew aside the flap far enough so he could peer out one-eyed. And saw the 
conflagration. 

He spun at once. "We have to get out. Now. Now, Shona-they are burning 
everything." 

Lir-lir-Ihlini-

Throughout Clankeep the lir cried their warnings, within the links and without. 
Aidan heard screaming. 

Women and children, screaming. 

"Shona-" 

She was beside him, cradling belly. "Where do we go?" 

"Out of Clankeep. Entirely away-" He had a knife, and somewhere a bow… 
hastily he caught up the warbow and the pitiful handful of arrows. "They are killing the 
children, meijhana." 

He saw it go home. Shona snatched up a cloak and dragged it around her 
shoulders. She wasted no time looking for anything else, or begging for this or that. She 
merely waited, grim-faced, as he nocked one of five arrows. Beyond her face, through the 
slit of the doorflap, he saw the flames lapping at the pavilion across the clearing, and 
shadows running in darkness. 

"We must get beyond the wall," he told her. "We must go out toward the gates, 
then slip through." 

"Or over the wall," she said calmly. 

"You cannot climb-" 

"I will." 

Aidan tore aside the doorflap. A line of flame licked from the burning pavilion 
and crept across to theirs. 

"This way-the back-" He caught her hand and dragged her. 

They ducked out, shredding the laces with Aidan's knife. The night was ablaze 


with flame. The cold, lurid flame that came from the netherworld. 

Their pavilion, but newly raised, stood six paces from the wall. Aidan had 
believed it a safe, cozy spot: shielded by wall at the back, by trees on either side. Only the 
front was unprotected; there had been no need in Clankeep. 

"The children-" Shona whispered, as screams renewed themselves. 

"To the wall." Aidan steadied her as best he could, while watching for Ihlini. 
Teel? 

Above you… lir, they are everywhere-Ihlini everywhere-

Around them, trees caught fire; laces of purple flame danced along close-grown 
limbs, passing destruction from brother to brother. Burning sap dripped onto the new 
pavilion even as the lone streamer from the clearing touched their doorpole, and climbed. 

Shona clawed at the wall. It was of natural, undressed stone, lacking mortar save 
for the moss and dirt of years sealing the joints together. In childhood, Aidan had scaled 
it; it was not difficult to climb because it was not sheer, but Shona was unbalanced by the 
child, lacking grace and control. 

He did not see a way for her to climb it normally, even as she thrust fingers into 
seams and dug a booted toe at joints. 

"I will-" she murmured. "I can-" 

Behind them, screams and fire, and the shrieking of a hawk. 

"Climb, Shona-" He thrust a hand against her spine, trying to steady her. 

Lir-lir-lhlini-

The warning shrilled through the link. Aidan wrenched his head around and saw 
the horseman come riding. 

"Shona-hold on-" He spun, raising the warbow, and sighted hastily. Loosed, but 
the arrow was wide. 

He was dazzled by the flames. Throughout Clankeep pavilions burned, falling 
into charred heaps. Crown fires spread from tree to tree, leaping across the wall into the 
wood beyond. He saw people running: Cheysuli and lhlini. He heard people shouting, 
women screaming, children crying in shock and fear. 

The horseman still came on, bared blade gleaming. 

Bared blade-a sword-

Aidan did not take the time to think. He ducked beneath the sweeping blade and 
nocked a second arrow. Behind him the raven-painted pavilion flared into flames, hissing 
and crackling as fabric was consumed. From all over Clan-keep the smell of burning oil 
and paint hung in the air, as well as the stench of charred flesh. Smoke rolled through the 
clearings. 

Renewed screaming and outcries became an underscore to the macabre dance he 
entered into with the horseman. The night was moonless and dark, which made the 
shadows thicker, and the lhlini rode a black horse. The only thing Aidan saw was the 
pallor of a face and the glint of the naked blade. 

No sorcery here, save godfire-he must use a conventional weapon-

It was something, Aidan thought. At least he had a chance. 

Shona still clung to the wall. He saw her pale face turned toward the burning 
pavilion. The lir-torque at her throat glinted in the flames, throwing light into her eyes as 
she opened her mouth to shout. 

The sword scythed by. Aidan, ducking once more, came up and loosed again. 


It took the horse full in the throat and brought the animal to its knees, screaming 
as it died. The rider flung himself free and rolled, tossing off a dark cloak as he came up. 
Dark leathers polished shiny glistened in the godfire. The sword still sang in his hands. 

"Shona-climb-" 

"No purchase," she answered evenly, stepping back to level ground. 

Aidan cursed. He could not afford to have his attention diverted by Shona, and yet 
he could hardly keep it from her. His kivarna was shrieking at him: she was frightened, as 
he was, but also very angry. What he sensed most was rage. A cold, deadly rage 
engendered by the Ihlini. 

They were killing children. 

He had lost the other arrows. One remained to him. Aidan nocked even as the 
Ihlini ran toward him with the sword. 

The face swam out of the flames. A cool, smooth face, underscored by upswept 
cheekbones and dark arched eyebrows; the chiseling of nose and mouth. Aidan had seen 
that face. 

"Tevis," he blurted. 

The other smiled coolly. "Lochiel," he corrected. 

Who had murdered Hart's son. 

Aidan loosed. Lochiel sliced the arrow in half. 

He cannot be so fast. But Aidan believed it was possible he could be many things. 

He threw down the useless bow and yanked his knife from the sheath, feeling a 
sickening tightness in his belly. A knife was no match for a sword. 

The pavilion burned behind him. Aidan felt the heat, heard the crisping fabric, 
smelled the acrid stench of burning pelts. Another step, and he would be in the flames. 

Shona ran by him, ducking into the burning pavilion. Even as he opened his 
mouth to shout, she was out from under the collapsing ridgepole. Keely's sword was in 
her hands. 

He caught it as she offered him the hilt, and put his knife into her hands. "Go to 
the gate," he said swiftly. "Make your way into the wood-" 

But it was all he could manage. Even as Shona nodded, turning to follow order, 
Lochiel came at him. 

She ran. Awkward and ungainly, cursing the Ihlini, Shona did as he told her. And 
Aidan could breathe again. 

The sword was a willow branch. It was ground to suit a woman, and then only in 
practice: the blade was stripped of weight and edge. Its hilt was finer and less heavy than 
that of his own weapon, and the pommel knot, for him, was unbalanced, hindering his 
grip. But still it was a sword. 

Aidan blessed Keely. Trying not to think of her daughter. 

Lochiel was swift and relentless. Aidan parried once, twice, a third time, 
countering the blows with strength born of rage and desperation. He heard the screaming, 
the killing, the shrieking. The roaring of the flames. The sound of his own breathing, 
through a raw and burning throat. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Shona stop running. Saw her swing around. 
Saw her come back toward him. 

No, meijhana-no-

The kivarna told him the truth: she could not bear to leave him. She could not 


bear not to know. 

"Run!" he shouted to her. 

Irresolute, she slowed. Instinct warred: protect the child, aid the man. Defend 
what was hers. 

A strong, proud woman. An eagle of the Aerie, undeterred by Ihlini. Knowing she 
could not flee when the man was left behind. 

"Run!" Aidan shouted. 

The blade broke in his hands. 

Gods-

Lochiel laughed. The tip of his sword drifted down; deftly he turned, caught his 
knife out of his sheath, and threw. 

It spun, arcing swiftly, and lodged itself hilt-deep in Shona's breast. 

Aidan screamed. The kivarna between them shattered, destroyed in a single 
moment as the knife penetrated. The broken sword fell from his hands as Aidan lunged to 
grab Lochiel, but the Ihlini stepped neatly out of the way. The blade he had so negligently 
lowered to aid his knife throw came up with a snap of the wrist. The tip pricked into 
Aidan's left shoulder as he hurled himself forward, then drove through relentlessly. 

Pain. Pain redoubled, and tripled; his kivarna reverberated with the outrage done 
to Shona. His own injury did not matter. What mattered to him was Shona-

But his legs would not work, nor his arms. He felt the blade grate on bone as 
Lochiel twisted the sword, jerking it from his shoulder, and then blood flowed swift and 
hot. 

Shona. 

He fell. To his knees. His left arm hung uselessly, twitching from shock and 
outrage. 

Shona. 

Lochiel walked by him. Away from him. He turned his back on him. He carried 
the bloodied sword lightly, easily, deft as a born swordsman. Aidan, twisting frenziedly 
to watch even as he tried to rise, thought the young Ihlini graceful as a dancer as he 
stepped across burning ridgepoles and deftly avoided drifting bits of burning fabric. The 
screams, now, were gone, replaced by a deadly silence. 

Save for the crackle of flames. 

Lochiel went to Shona. He knelt and pulled the knife from her breast. Her swollen 
belly pushed toward the sky. Lochiel tore tunic aside. The bloodied knife glistened. 

Aidan knew what he meant to do. Instinctively, he knew. 

In one rushing expulsion of breath and strength, Aidan lurched to his feet. He 
tried to run. Fell. Lurched up again, staggered, stumbled across the ground. Dripping 
blood hissed in ash. 

Shona. 

He had no knife. No sword. Only desperation, and the wild, killing rage. 

"Put no hands on her-" 

Lochiel, kneeling, slanted him a single glance across his shoulder. And then 
turned back to his work. 

"Put-no-hands-" 

Lochiel removed the baby, cut the cord, wrapped the child in Shona's cloak. 
Carefully he set the bundle on the ground beside the body. With a lithe, twisting turn, he 


rose to face Aidan. 

"I want the seed," he said. "I will make the seed mine." 

Legs failed him. Aidan fell awkwardly. "Sh-Sh-Shona-" 

"No more time," Lochiel murmured. 

From out of the burning darkness looped the glitter of a blade. The edge bit in, 
then turned. The skull beneath shattered. 

Chapter Nine 

«^» 

Muddy ash fouled Brennan's boots. Blankly, he stared at them. How much of the 
ash was from wood? How much of the ash from bone? 

He shuddered. The spasm took him unaware, rippling through from head to toe, 
stretching his scalp briefly until the flesh at last relaxed. And he knew, with sickening 
clarity, it was what his son now fought. But on a different level: Aidan had nearly died. 
Aidan still might die. 

Clankeep lay in ruin. Most of the wall still stood, for stone does not die from fire, 
but nearly all of the pavilions were destroyed. Some lay in skeletal piles, ridgepoles 
charred black. Others were nothing but coals, or mounds of muddy ash. 

Brennan, looking, felt sick. 

A man nearby, bending to peel aside a charred husk of bedding pelt, let it fall 
from ash-smeared fingers. "My fir," he murmured rigidly. And then nodded, accepting; 
he had spent the morning looking, while Brennan inspected Clankeep. Now the man was 
freed. Now the warrior could go. 

Brennan watched him. Deep in his belly the snake of futility writhed. Lirless, the 
warrior would die, though he had survived the attack. 

"A waste," he murmured quietly, damning the tradition. Damning the need for it. 

The lirless warrior stood over the bedding pelt and the remains that lay beneath it. 
Shoulders slumped briefly; then he made the fluid gesture Brennan knew so well. And 
walked out of the walls into the charred forest beyond. 

So many already dead. And now one more. 

Brennan sighed. He was weary, so very weary… drained of strength and answers. 
Here he was superfluous, with nothing to do but watch as the others tended their dead, 
their living, the remnants of their lives. 

"So many dead," he murmured, "and all because Lochiel desired to send us a 
message. To assure us he existed." 

"Brennan." It was Ian, walking slowly through ash-grayed mud and charred 
pavilions. His face was strained, and old. "They found her the day after, over there. She 
has been attended to. They gave her the Ceremony of Passing six days ago." Ian's gesture 
was aimless. "There is nothing we can do, save tell Aidan when he wakes." 

His mouth was oddly stiff. "If Aidan wakes." 

Ian hesitated a moment too long. "Given time-" 

Brennan's tone was vicious. "Do you think time will make a difference? You have 
seen him-you have heard him! When the Ihlini cracked his skull, all the wits spilled out." 

Ian drew in a quiet breath. "You do him an injustice." 

"By the gods, su'fali-he is mad! You heard his babble! When you can understand 
a phrase, it makes no sense at all." Brennan's face spasmed. "I would be the first to 


declare him fit and the last to declare him mad… but I know what I have heard. I know 
what I have seen." 

Ian's tone was patient. "I have seen men struck in the head do and say strange 
things-" 

"And have they prophesied?" Eloquent irony. 

Ian sighed. "No." 

"Gods-" Brennan choked. "Why did they let us have him at all if they meant to 
take him from us?" 

Ian offered no answer. 

"So many times, as a child, he nearly died. We knew he would, Aileen and I-we 
tried to prepare ourselves for the night he would wake, coughing, and die before the 
dawn… the fever that would burn him… knowing we would lose him, and that there 
would be no more." Brennan balled impotent fists. "And now, when he is grown, when 
he is a strong, healthy man-they take him away from us!" 

"Harani-" 

"I should not have let them come. When he told me he meant to bring Shona here, 
to bear the child here-" Brennan's face spasmed. "I should have refused. I should have 
said it was better for her to bear it in Homana-Mujhar-" 

"You could not have prevented him." 

"-where there are physicians, and midwives-and protection from the Ihlini." 

"There was nothing you could have done. Aidan is grown, Brennan… he makes 
his own decisions." 

"I could have insisted." 

"He-and Shona-had a perfect right to do as they wished. You had no right to stop 
them." 

"But look what happened-" 

"Tahlmorra," Ian said softly. 

Brennan's shoulders trembled. His voice was a travesty. "Why did they give him 
to us if they meant to take him away?" 

Ian put a hand on his nephew's shoulder. "Come, harani. It is time we went back. 
Aileen will need you… and, perhaps, your son." 

Brennan shut his eyes. "They have destroyed my son," he whispered. "Even if he 
lives." 

He became aware he had been shouting. His throat ached from it, but when he 
tried to form the words with his mouth, nothing happened. He felt separated from his 
body, drifting aimlessly, apart from the world and yet still a part of it. And when he 
opened his eyes, he stared out of the bed into faces he did not know, yet they knew him. 

He sensed the violence in his body before it came, and as it came he understood it. 
His flesh crawled upon his bones, rippling and writhing. And then his limbs began to 
twitch. Slowly at first, then more quickly, until the convulsions took bones and muscles 
and made clay of them, molding them this way and that. 

Fire was in his head. 

He screamed. He heard himself screaming, though he could make no sense of it; 
he heard voices attempt to soothe him, though he could make no sense of it. He did not 
know the language. 


He convulsed, head slamming back into the pillow on a rigid, arcing neck. Arms 
and legs contracted. His teeth bit bloody gashes in his tongue until someone forced a 
piece of padded wood into his clenched jaw. His teeth ground until gums bled, shredding 
the padding. Splintering the wood. 

The seizures passed at last. He lay spent against the mattress, quivering in his 
weakness. No one spoke to him now. Perhaps they understood he had no means with 
which to answer. 

Memory. It ran around inside his head like a ball set to spinning; spinning and 
spinning and spinning until at last the momentum ended; then bouncing and rattling and 
rolling against the inside of his skull. 

Memory: Flames. Screams. Stench. 

Oil and paint and flesh. 

Blood hissing in ash. 

His jaws snapped open. His throat disgorged sound. But nothing was emitted, 
save the rasp of a dying breath. 

Memory: Death. 

Each day someone held a candle near his eyes. He could see it, but could not 
blink. Could not tell them it hurt. The words were garbled nonsense. When he tried to put 
up a hand to block the candle's light, the arm spasmed and jumped. They held it down for 
him. Some days the spasm passed. Others it spread and worsened. Then they held him 
down, pinning arms and legs. 

Someone had cracked his head, like an egg against a rock. 

He dreamed. Not of a golden chain. Not of a living Lion. Of a man. A young, 
magnificent man, strong and full of life. His vibrancy was tangible; his power as yet 
untapped. 

A tall, lithe young man, striding like a mountain cat through the webwork of 
Aidan's dreams. His eyes were cool and gray, with a gaze so compelling it could stop a 
hardened assassin from unsheathing sword or knife. The hair was thick and black, 
framing a youthful face of austere, yet flawless beauty, bearing the stamp of authority far 
surpassing any monarch's. It was not a womanish face, even in all its beauty; a trace of 
ruthlessless in the mouth maintained its masculine line. Only rarely did it smile. When it 
did, power flickered; he could rule or seduce man and woman with equal facility. 

Dreaming, Aidan twitched. 

The man was not Cheysuli. The man was not Ihlini. The man was of all blood, 
forged from the heart of war, tempered on the anvil of peace. And his gifts were such that 
they surpassed all others. 

Aidan whispered: Firstborn. 

And knew what it meant. 

Rebirth. 

And death. 

The ending of what he knew; the beginning of what he did not. 

He cried out in fear, recoiling from the truth; from the man who prowled his 
dreams. 

Deep inside, something roused. Something woke. 

He spoke. He heard himself. Saw their frightened faces as they heard him. Saw 
the horror in their eyes; the comprehension of madness: surely he was mad? What else 


would make him so? 

He spoke. He raved. He chanted. The convulsions came again. And passed. 

Lips were bitten. Tongue and gums lacerated. Muscles shrieked with each dying 
spasm. 

The broken head mended. 

He thought perhaps he might, until the child of the prophecy strode through his 
dreams again. 

He woke. He knelt on the floor. Shouting. They all came running, all of them, and 
this time he heard himself. This time he understood. The words of his dream spewed out. 

"I am the sword!" he cried. "I am the sword and the bow and the knife. I am 
darkness and light. I am good and evil. I am the child and the elder; the girl and the boy; 
the wolf and the lamb." 

He wavered on his knees, but none dared to touch him. Words poured forth. "Bom 
of one prophecy, I am come to make another. To bind four realms into one; to bind eight 
into four. I am the child of the prophecy; child of darkness and light; of like breeding 
with like." 

He sucked in a quivering breath. "I am Cynric. I am Cynric. I am the sword-and 
the bow-and the knife. I am the child of prophecy: the Firstborn come again." 

He stopped. The words were gone. He was empty, and hollow, and purged. 

Aidan tumbled downward, welcoming the darkness. But hands raised him up 
again, showing him the light. 

The door was ajar, as they always left it now. Deirdre, who had ordered old 
hinges oiled so as not to disturb Aidan, slipped into the chamber. It smelled of herbs and 
an odd pungency. Aidan's wounds had been healed; even so, the smell was not of blood 
or body. 

She frowned, pausing to draw air deep into her lungs. Exhaling abruptly, she 
knew. It was a thing she had not smelled since leaving Erinn. 

She looked to the high-backed chair set so closely beside the bed. "By the gods, 
Aileen-are you summoning the cileann?" 

Aileen started, crumpling the dried herbs she clutched in her hands. The pungency 
increased, then faded as she rose, scattering broken stems and leaves. As she saw her 
aunt, she dropped back into the chair. Color tinged her face. Defiantly, she raised her chin 
even as she brushed bits of herbs from her skirts. "Neither Homanan nor Cheysuli gods 
have answered all our petitions. I thought perhaps the cileann-" 

"This is Homana," Deirdre said quietly. "The cileann have no dominion here. 'Tis 
too far from their halls." 

Aileen's face crumpled. "I wanted to try something! Nothing else has worked!" 

Deirdre crossed the room. A glance at Aidan's bruised, too-pale face told her his 
condition was unchanged. He had roused but three times since the attack, and only long 
enough to babble nonsense in three languages: Homanan, Cheysuli, Erinnish. 

But now she turned her attention back to her niece. Aileen's red hair was 
unkempt, twisted into a haphazard plait. She had eaten little since Aidan had been 
brought to Homana-Mujhar, nor had she slept but an hour here and there. 

Deirdre put a soothing hand on Aileen's head, stroking dull hair gently. What she 
said was inconsequential, much as the words a horseman uses to quiet a fretful colt, but at 
last it began to work. Aileen wiped away tears and managed to smile at her aunt. "My 


thanks, for that. But it has been so hard-" 

"I know, Aileen, I know… and may be harder yet. But you cannot be squandering 
your strength now, when it does no good. He will need you when he wakes. You must 
eat, and sleep, so he'll be knowing you when he rouses. He will be expecting his jehana, 
not a hag-witch with greasy hair and ditches beneath her eyes." 

As Deirdre had intended, Aileen pressed hands against her face. Vanity, in this 
case, would decoy her thoughts, even if only briefly. 

It passed too quickly. Aileen took her hands away and stared steadfastly at her 
son. "What if he never wakes?" 

"He may not," Deirdre said steadily. "I have heard of such things: men and 
women who, struck in the head, never rouse entirely. They sleep until they die. But Aidan 
is very strong, and very stubborn. I think if the gods meant him to die, he would not be 
alive now." 

"Brennan says-" She checked.. 

Deirdre sighed quietly. "Brennan does not know everything. He is upset, as you 
are. And worried, as you are. And, like you, he has known too little of rest and food. Do 
you blame him for speaking nonsense?" 

Aileen's tone was dull. "Is it nonsense to concern yourself with the succession of 
Homana? He must, Deirdre… he is Mujhar now, and cannot afford to set aside such 
things. If Aidan dies, or is mad, what is Homana to do? There must be an heir for the 
Lion." 

"There will be an heir for the Lion." 

Aileen's tone, abruptly, was filled with self-loathing. "But not from the Queen of 
Homana." 

"There is no need," Deirdre declared. "She has already borne a son. The Lion is 
satisfied." 

The fire died out of green eyes. Aileen looked at her son. "If he lives," she 
whispered. 

He lived. He came awake with a throttled cry and this time remained awake. 

The link thrummed within him. Lir, Teel said. Lir, I am well. I sit above you on 
the bedframe. 

He did. Relief was all-consuming. Aidan, released, trembled. And wondered, as 
he trembled, if he would lose himself again. If the convulsions would steal his body and 
twist it into knots. 

It hurt to breathe. His body, wracked too often, ached from residual pain; from 
cramps now passed, but remembered with vivid intensity. With exquisite clarity. 

His lips were swollen and bitten. His tongue much the same. But his wits were 
perfectly clear. 

I am not mad, he declared. Then, in doubt, Am I? 

The chambers were deeply shadowed. He lay in his own bed, cushioned by 
pillows and bolsters. But leather was firmly knotted around wrists and ankles, then 
fastened to the bedframe. 

Aidan spasmed. Gods-they have tied me-

He stilled. Am I mad? 

From the corner of an eye, he saw movement. Spasming, he looked, and saw his 


mother present. Propped in a chair, the Queen of Homana slept. He knew by looking at 

her she had known too little of it. The truth was in her face. 

Memory rolled back: Screaming. Fire. Dying. 

Aidan went very still. 

The reek of burning pavilions, the stench of burning bodies. And blood hissing in 
ash as Lochiel cut the child free. 

At wrists and ankles, leather tautened. "No!" Aidan shouted. "No-no-NO-" 

Aileen came awake at once, lunging out of the chair. Her hands came down on his 
shoulders-had he not been wounded in one?-and pressed him back again, aiding the 
leather straps that bound him to the bed. 

"No!" he shouted. "NO!" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brennan unsheathed his knife. With precise care, he cut the leather straps binding 
his son. Mutely he peeled away the linen cuffs made to protect the flesh, then discarded 


everything. As Aidan lay slack on the bed, Brennan massaged his wrists. 

"Clankeep?" Aidan croaked. 

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

"How many people?" 

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

"Lochiel," Aidan murmured. 

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

Distracted, Aidan frowned. "What message?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


"Aidan, no-" 
Consciousness receded. "Lochiel took my child. I will have to get it back." 


Chapter Ten 


«^» 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The word was ash. "No." 

Ian smiled. "No one knows what to expect of you anymore, and it makes them 


nervous. There is someone else inside of you, someone else who speaks, someone who 

prophesies-" He sighed. "You always were different. Now it is worse." 

Mutely, Aidan nodded. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Harani." Ian's tone was gentle. "I know what you want to do. I know how much 
you need it. But you cannot go alone. You must take someone with you." 

"You?" 

Ian shook his head. "I am too old now. But there is your jehan." 

"He is Mujhar. He has no time." 

"A man who has no time for his grandchild is not worthy of kingship." Ian shook 
his head. "You judge him too harshly. Do you think you were the only one hurt by 
Shona's death? Do you believe you are the only one who has suffered?" 

Anger flared. "You were not there. None of you was there. None of you can 
know-" 

"She is dead, Aidan." Ian's tone was level. "Guilt, rage, and recrimination will not 
bring her back." 

Aidan gripped the knife. "You do not know-" 

"I do!" Ian's eyes were alive with grief. "I watched Niall die, knowing there was 
nothing I could do. I watched my jehana die, able to do nothing as she cut open her own 
wrists. I watched my jehan walk out of Homana-Mujhar, knowing he left his kin to die a 
lirless warrior's death, alone and bereft in the forest." He drew in a shaking breath. "I 
know, Aidan. Better than you think." 

Ian did. Aidan's kivarna told him that. 

He turned away stiffly, shamed by his selfishness, yet feeling the painful uprush 
of anguish and helplessness as strongly as before. 

And then came the odd little snap in his head that dropped him to his knees. The 
knife fell from his hands. 

"Aidan!" Ian moved swiftly, kneeling to catch both rigid wrists in an attempt to 
shut off the spasms. "Aidan-fight it-" 

"I am the sword," Aidan whispered. "The sword and the bow and the knife-" 

"Aidan, fight it-" 

"I am no one; I am everyone-" 

"Aidan!" 

"I am Cynric, I am Cynric-" 

"Stop this, Aidan. Shut it away. Use the earth magic. Use compulsion. Shut it 


away-" 

"Eight into four and four into one. I am the Firstborn come again, and from me 
will come the others-" 

"Aidan-" 

"I am Cynric. I am Cynric. The sword and the bow and the knife-" 

"Stop this madness now!" 

The spasming passed. Fingers uncurled. Distantly, he asked, "How can I be mad? 
I am the voice of the gods." 

Ian released his wrists. He was ashen-faced, staring. "What have you become?" 

Aidan, hanging yet on his knees, knew. He had survived the first sacrifice. He had 
undertaken the task. 

"Their servant," he said softly. "Chosen among all others. Knowing no other 
master. Not even a tahlmorra." 

"Aidan!" 

"They want me," he told him simply. "They want all of me. There is no room for a 
wife. Or a child. Or a Lion-" 

Ian caught an arm, jerking Aidan to his feet. "Come with me. I will take you to 
your chambers." 

He went with his great-uncle willingly, too numb to do otherwise. As always after 
a fit, he had a headache, and yet his wits were exquisitely lucid. He knew what he had 
done, what he had said, and what he was meant to do. 

Ian pushed open Aidan's door. "Go to bed. I will send Aileen." 

Aidan winced. "No." 

"Then go to bed." 

Mutely, Aidan nodded. Ian put a hand on his shoulder and urged him through the 
door. 

It thumped closed behind him. Irresolute, Aidan stood in his bedchamber. And at 
last, recalling what Ian had suggested, he went to the polished silver plate hanging on the 
wall. 

His face was unchanged, save for an unusual pallor. But a wondering hand went 
to his left temple, fingering the thick new growth of hair that had come back at last after 
being cut away. At the corner of his eyebrow was a purplish line, a straight slash of a line 
that stretched across his temple. The end of it was hidden in his hair. Thick new hair. A 
wing of purest white. 

Aidan smiled. It was a cold, deadly smile. "Leijhana tu'sai, Ihlini. Now I can 
never forget." 

He shivered. He felt ill, weary, old. He went to bed, as advised. 

And dreamed of a chain that shattered beneath his touch. 

Chapter Eleven 

«^» 

The chamber lay mostly in shadow, save for a single fat candle in a stand near the 
bed. It cast a sickly light; the wick was half-drowned in wax, sputtering its death. But no 
one moved to tend it. 

Aileen stood in the doorway, staring in consternation at her son. "You can't mean 
to keep them here!" 


Aidan did not answer. He linked his hands behind his back and gazed steadfastly 
at his mother. 

"But-you can't," she insisted. "Not so many. Aidan, they are too big-there are too 
many…" Aileen's brow creased. "The kennels are kept very clean. They will do well 
enough there." 

Undoubtedly they would. But that was not where he wanted them. 

Quietly, he said, "Forgive me, jehana. I want to be alone." 

She started to gesture, to remonstrate gently, but with authority. "Aidan, those 
dogs…" But she let it trail off. The hand fell lax at her side. He was so still… 

She glanced around the chamber-Shona's chamber, Shona's bed, Shona's 
belongings-marking the chests as yet unpacked. Aidan and his new cheysula had gone too 
quickly to Clankeep for all of her things to have been arranged. Now they mocked her 
absence. 

Aileen looked back at her son: at the still, white face. "Very well," she murmured, 
and left him alone once more. 

He waited. For a moment longer he stood in the precise center of the chamber, 
staring fixedly at the now-empty doorway. Then, abruptly, he strode decisively through 
the throng of gathered wolfhounds and quickly shut the door, dropping the latch with a 
firm click. 

Behind him, dogs whined. 

He turned to face them. The big dark male. The bitches. The half-grown 
adolescents and the gangly, colt-legged puppies. Bright eyes stared back at him, tails 
poised to wave. But they sensed his tension and turmoil, the cessation of his breathing. 
Uncertainty dominated. 

Ears flattened slowly. Heads sank lower. One puppy soiled himself; another 
began to whimper. 

Breath rushed out of lungs. "Gods-" Aidan choked. Grief stole everything else. 

Trembling, he walked into the huddle of hounds and began to touch their heads. It 
hurt to breathe, but he managed; in gasps, and sobs, and spasms. Touching all the heads. 
Assuaging their confusion. Seeking his own release in contact with her hounds. 

Tentative tails waved, then quickened as he spoke. The voice he did not himself 
recognize, but they comprehended the tone. He was naming all their names: that they 
understood. 

One by one by one: Shona's litany. She believed each dog was born with a 
specific name, and it was a person's task to discover the proper one, not just tack on 
anything; they had spent days on the voyage from Erinn trying out names on the two 
litters, collecting and discarding, until each of the puppies was named. Aidan recalled 
them all clearly, and Shona's lilting, ritual recital each time she greeted the dogs. 

He sat down on the floor and let them gather around him. The puppies climbed 
over his legs, staging mock battles to claim his lap. The adolescents, too big for such 
play, snuffled his ears insistently, tending the human hound. The bitches came to his hand 
and bestowed a lick or two. 

Only the male held back, promising Aidan nothing. 

It hurt. It was unanticipated, and it hurt. Aidan understood the male's reticence 
well enough-the hound had bonded to Shona in puppyhood, offering no one else anything 
more than cursory courtesy-but Aidan had believed the dog would be starved for 


attention, eagerly coming forward to any familiar scent in response to Shona's now-

permanent absence. 

But he did not. And would not, Aidan knew now, on any terms but his own. 

The puppies, growing cramped in his lap and weary of dominance struggles, 
deserted. The others settled quietly, finding places on the floor. Aidan got up slowly and 
climbed into the bed. It was not night. He was not tired. But it seemed the best place to 
be. 

He lay very still. He stared at the canopy. He remembered what Sean had said: 
"There are more ways to geld a man than with a knife." 

Shona. 

-striding along the headlands at the edge of chalky cliffs


-nocking and sighting a warbow with a small, towheaded brother


-gathering a storm of hounds


-climbing into his bed


-gripping locks of his hair


-winding her own around him


-tracing the line of hips


-taking him into her-

The sound escaped his mouth. A throttled desperation. 

-other women-too many women-now none of them enough


"Stop," Aidan gasped. 

-none of them enough-none of them ever enough-

The sound was repeated: "Stop!" 

-the first girl; the woman


"STOP!" Aidan cried. 

"There are more ways to geld a man than with a knife." 

Shona. Shona. 

Shona. 

-everything slipping away


-the sharpness, the brightness


-memories of discovery, the exultation of the flesh-

All of it slipping away… 

Dissolving as he reached, until nothing at all was left save a distant recollection of 
what he had been. 

"Shona," he whispered. 

Shona had come to his bed. Now he came to hers, seeking a rapport. A residue of 
her life in place of the memory of her death. 

He floated in nothingness, a cork caught in the millrace, until the millwheel-no, 
the Wheel-trapped him at last and cast him down into the pond. 

If I could drown myself… But the thought was driven away by the presence of a 
hound. 

The male. He stood at the bedside, pressing his chest into the mattress as he 
stretched out long neck and head. Nostrils expanded, then closed as he whuffed softly, 
inspection completed. Folded ears rose, then flattened. Chin resting on bedclothes, he 
gazed fixedly at Aidan. 

Waiting. Deep in his throat, he whined. 


Stiffly, Aidan reached out and touched the long muzzle with trembling, tentative 
fingers. Then traveled the stop between liquid dark eyes onto the dome of the skull itself. 
Hair was coarse and wiry, the bone beneath crested. A self-possessed, dignified dog of 
massive, powerful elegance and abiding loyalty. 

Deep inside, Aidan ached. For the hound as well as himself. He knew what had 
happened; the wolfhound understood nothing save the woman no longer came. 

The ache intensified. Aidan rolled closer and thrust a clutching hand into muscled 
shoulders, locking fingers into hair. "I know, my braw boyo… he has stolen her from us 
both." Grief narrowed his throat. "But 'tis for me to do alone, this buying back of my 
child. No matter what anyone says." 

He took his lir, a knife, and a horse, packed with saddle-pouches. He did not yet 
trust himself to lir-shape for any length of time. Eventually, he felt, the strength and 
control needed for sustained lir-shape would return-he had already tested it in several 
short flights-tout for now he could not rely on it. The journey was too important. 

If the child still lives. If Lochiel sees fit to let it-

He shut off the thought at once. 

Much of the harshness of winter had passed, leaving only a residue of frost and 
wind. He rode wrapped in furs, feeling the cold more; would he ever feel well again? Or 
was he destined to be different on the outside as well as the inside? 

At long last he reached the Bluetooth and took the ferry across, clutching the 
wooden rails as the barge fought the current. The Bluetooth was the delineation between 
northern Homana and southern, although the division was not equal. The high north was 
not as large or as populated because of harsh winters, and was usually called the Wastes; 
somewhere there was a Keep, but Aidan was not disposed to seek it out. His path went to 
Solinde, not to northern Homana. Perhaps another time. 

The Wastes gave way to mountains. Aidan rode ever higher, resting at night in 
frigid passes cut out of wolf-toothed peaks, until at last he crossed over the Molon and 
exchanged Homana for Solinde. 

When finally they reached the narrow defile his father had described as the 
gateway to Valgaard, Aidan pulled up. Beyond lay the canyon housing Lochiel's fortress, 
and the wards set by him. He had heard the place described countless times: a field of 
glassy rock, pocked with smoking vents belching forth the breath of the Seker; huge, 
monstrous beasts shaped of stone by Ihlini testing their strength. All could be used 
against him. 

He glanced skyward, seeking Teel. You will have to remain here. 

The raven fluttered down to perch upon a wind-wracked tree. Is this your choice? 

I have no choice. 

Is this what you wish to do? 

This is what I must do. 

Teel's eye was bright. The Ihlini could kill you. 

Aidan smiled. He could. He might. He probably will-but not immediately. He will 
want to gloat, first. And that may buy me the time to do what I need to do. 

Teel made no answer for a very long moment. Then he fluffed black feathers. 
Well. I have lived a long time. 

And will longer still, if I succeed. 


The raven's echo was odd. If you succeed. 
Aidan knew better than to ask for explanation. 


He made his way through the defile, across the steaming field of beasts, around 
the rents in the earth that gave way to the netherworld. Never had he felt so vulnerable, so 
weak, and yet he knew it was required. It did not enter his mind to turn back, or even to 
think twice about what he intended to do. 

Gates. And guards, of course. Aidan walked up the steam-bathed pathway and 
paused, pushing the hood from his head. In winter light, his earring gleamed. "Take me to 
Lochiel," he said. "Tell him my name: Aidan. He will be most anxious to see me." 

They took him. Having stripped him of all save leathers and gold, they ushered 
him into a small tower chamber and left him there, alone, as he contemplated the comfort 
of a fire and other amenities. He sought none of them, neither chair nor warmth nor wine, 
and waited as they had left him, in the center of the chamber. 

Lochiel came. In amber-dyed velvets and soft-worked suede, he was the same 
man with the same lithe movements and handsome looks Aidan had marked before, 
gaming with him in Lestra. Pale, ale-brown eyes; short-cropped, thick dark hair; a clarity 
of feature that reminded Aidan of someone. Someone he should know. 

Aidan forced a smile. And then it required no force; a cold self-possession took 
control of expression and tone. "Surely you knew I survived. You did not intend it, I 
know; I have come to save you the trouble of seeking me out." 

Pale eyes weighed him. Aidan's kivarna told him his arrival had taken the Ihlini 
completely by surprise, who was not pleased by it. But Lochiel gave nothing away in 
expression, which remained austerely smooth, and nothing away in eyes, which marked 
in Aidan a certain pallor and gauntness of face in addition to the white wing in auburn 
hair. 

Lids lowered, shielding eyes. His lashes were long, like a woman's; the smoothly 
defined forehead and arched brows tugged at Aidan's memory. 

Lillith? No. Someone else… 

Lochiel moved. He did not walk: he prowled. Aidan stood very still, waiting 
mutely, as the Ihlini paced slowly around him. It was unsettling to be so raptly observed, 
like a mouse beneath an owl, but he made no indication. It was important to show Lochiel 
a serenity he would not anticipate. 

The Ihlini halted before Aidan at last, the heel of his left hand resting idly on his 
knife hilt. He wore, as always, a sapphire ring on his forefinger: Brennan's. On his right 
hand, a bloodstone, rimmed in rune-wrought gold. 

Aidan watched him closely. Something about the suppleness of the Ihlini's body 
merged with the line of his brow, the set of his mouth, to tickle Aidan's awareness. He 
was not an easy man to decipher, even with kivarna. He was, Aidan reflected, a wound 
wire ready to snap. 

The chiseled mouth moved. A muscle ticked high in the cheek. Ale-brown eyes, 
abruptly shielded again behind lowered lids, changed color in Aidan's mind. 

Something clicked into place. 

"Have you a son?" he asked. 

Lids lifted. Lochiel appraised him intently. And then he smiled. "No. I have no 
son." He paused. "I have yours." 


Aidan tensed all over. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to rip Lochiel 
to pieces. But the reaction was what Lochiel waited for, and so Aidan, with great effort, 
damped down the impulse. 

He smiled pleasantly. "Do you know a man called Cynric?" 

The smooth brow tightened. "No. And if you hope to confuse me with such 
babblings, save your effort. I have heard reports you are mad… do you think I care?" 

Aidan's certainty vanished. The brief likeness he had seen faded. He did not think 
again of the young man in his dreams, the young man so much like Lochiel, but of 
himself, of his child, and of the man before him. 

Ihlini, he knew, did not fully come into their power until they reached puberty, 
much as a Cheysuli warrior gained a lir. There was a time of learning, of refining, just as 
there was in Cheysuli custom. And a time of complete assumption, when power was 
understood and properly wielded. 

Lochiel was young, but well past puberty. He was, Aidan judged, of his own age. 
And in Valgaard, the very font of Ihlini power, Lochiel would have recourse to all the 
dark arts he needed. 

Aidan inhaled a careful breath. "What did you do with my son?" 

Lochiel smiled. Aidan, unsettled, was put in mind of the elegant young man who 
had so charmed Cluna and Jennet-and Blythe. "I intend him no harm. On the contrary: I 
took him for a purpose. I will raise him as my own. He will come to know his proper 
place in the prophecy, as all Cheysuli do, so that he can aid its destruction. I will turn him 
from his tahlmorra and make him work against it." 

Aidan bit back the retort he longed to make. Quietly, he denied it. "That is not 
possible." 

"Oh?" Dark brows arched. "There was a Cheysuli woman, a kinswoman of yours, 
named Gisella. She was turned, and used." 

Aidan shrugged indolently. "I will prevent you." 

"You?" Lochiel smiled. "With what? Power? You have none here… this is 
Valgaard, Aidan. The Gate is here, entry to the netherworld. Even if you could summon 
your lir, even if you could summon lir-shape, or compulsion-what could you do with 
either? This is Valgaard. I can snuff you out like a spark." 

Aidan's sudden smile was brilliant. "Ask Lillith what I can do." 

Lochiel recoiled. 

There. That touched him. There are weaknesses in him… Aidan nodded intently, 
driving home the promise of power. "Because of me," he whispered. "At my behest. 
Because the gods answered me." 

The challenging gaze was unrelenting. Lochiel sought something in Aidan's eyes, 
in expression, in his tone. And then turned away abruptly, striding to a table, where he 
poured a cup of wine. None was offered Aidan; he drank it down himself. When he was 
done, he smiled. "This is still Valgaard." 

Aidan smiled back. "Would you like to meet them now? Right now; here?" 

Lochiel slammed down the cup. The footed stem bent. "I have sovereignty over 
this place!" 

Aidan tilted his head. "Shall I test it for you?" 

The Ihlini's smile was malignant. "And I hold your son." 

He very nearly laughed. "My gods would never harm him." 


"Ah, but mine would." Lochiel attempted to right the tipped cup; when he could 
not do it, he glanced down in distracted annoyance. When he saw the stem was bent, he 
cast the cup away with a negligent flick of dismissive fingers. He stared at Aidan again. 
"Do you wish me to summon my gods? They can duel, yours and mine: the gods of light 
and air against those of death and darkness." 

Aidan made no reply. 

Pale eyes widened. Lochiel's lips parted minutely. Even his posture was arrested, 
alert as a hound on a scent. His expression now was intensely compelling. "Is this why 
you came here? Hoping to set your gods on mine-or on me!-and win back your son that 
way?" 

Aidan set his teeth. There was still a chance, he believed, no matter what Lochiel 
said. 

A blurt of disbelief distorted Lochiel's mouth. "I understand, now… you thought 
you could come before me and threaten me-no, frighten me-into acquiescence-" 

Aidan allowed a delicate tone of contempt to underscore his words. "How could a 
man do that? How could he dare? Are you not the Ihlini, and heir to all the arts?" 

Lochiel still stared. "But you did…" A faint bemused frown tightened brows 
briefly as he reassessed his conclusion, then faded as he laughed aloud in discovery. "I 
understand, now-your weapon is faith! You believe your gods can win even here in 
Valgaard!" 

Aidan began to wonder if perhaps he had misjudged. If perhaps he had made a 
mistake. He had been so certain. So determined. His conviction was absolute. 

I trust them. I HAVE to. They answered me before. When I faced Lillith. 

Lochiel's tone was a whiplash. "Do you think this is a game? Did you come 
expecting to play Bezat with me?" Pale eyes narrowed. "We are all at the mercy of our 
gods, Aidan. Certainly you and I. I am not so complacent as you. I know better. In the 
moment of their confrontation, they could well destroy us both. And that is not how I 
want to die." 

Nor Aidan. He had come to threaten Lochiel with a weapon no one else had: 
divine retribution. He had tapped it once, facing Lillith-but he had been complacent. He 
had believed utterly in his gods, who would face only a single man. A man of great 
power, but still merely a man; now Lochiel threatened a gruesome retribution of his own 
conjuring, with a god that frightened Aidan much more than anticipated. Asar-Suti, the 
Seker, had always been an undefined threat, hosted only in vague references. 

Now, in the heart of Valgaard, smelling the god's noxious breath, the threat 
became all too real. He took it more seriously. 

As seriously, perhaps, as Lochiel takes MY gods. 

Lochiel, face taut, snatched up the silver cup and displayed the ruined stem. "Do 
you see? This was nothing. I did it unaware. It required no power, no magic. Nothing 
more than anger." His gaze was unrelenting. "Do you understand? They are gods, Aidan! 
Your gods, my gods-do you think it matters? We are men, and flesh is weak… weaker by 
far than silver…" He shut both hands on the rim and crashed together the slender lips. 
Then displayed the result to Aidan. "I can think of more comfortable ways." 

Inwardly, Aidan rejoiced. He had found a weakness in Lochiel. He was himself as 
afraid of a confrontation between the Ihlini's gods and his own, but he had the advantage. 
He knew Lochiel was afraid. And that fear could serve him. 


With a serenity he did not entirely feel-Lochiel would call it complacency-Aidan 
merely shrugged. "I can think of no better way of settling what lies between us. Summon 
your gods, Ihlini. I will summon mine. We will let them decide this issue." 

Lochiel threw down the ruined goblet. His smooth face was white and taut. And 
then, with infinite tenderness, he asked a single question: "Do you recall how easily I 
killed Hart's son from afar?" 

Aidan was very still. Complacency dissolved. Conviction wavered profoundly. 

Lochiel's gaze was unrelenting. "I could do the same now, with your son." 

It burst free before he could stop it. "No-" And cursed himself desperately as he 
surrendered his advantage. 

Lochiel smiled thinly, gracious in victory. "But I am remiss. Come with me, my 
lord. Come and see your precious son." 

In an adjoining chamber, Aidan saw the wide, high-standing cradle carved out of 
satiny wood. For a single insane moment he could not comprehend such a normal and 
mundane thing being within an Ihlini household. 

Lochiel gestured. "There. Alive, as promised. For now." 

Aidan stepped closer, then stopped abruptly. The cradle held two babies, not one; 
in infancy, identical. 

Lochiel laughed. "You asked if I had a son. No. A daughter. But I invite you to 
tell me which seed is mine, and which yours." 

Aidan stared at the babies. They were swaddled against the cold, hands, head and 
feet hidden, with only small faces showing. Both slept, oblivious, depriving him of eye 
color, although even that was no proof. Shona's eyes had been brown; so were Lochiel's. 
And his kivarna, strangely, was silent. 

Lochiel moved to the cradle. "Even as I cut the child from the belly of your dead 
Erinnish princess, my own woman bore me a daughter. Melusine has given suck to your 
son, so he would know the taste of mother's milk." He saw the spasm of shock in Aidan's 
face, and smiled. "They share the same breast, the same cradle, the same roof. Tell me 
again, Aidan, how it is impossible for a Cheysuli to be turned against his tahlmorra." 

"No," Aidan said hoarsely. 

Lochiel put both hands down and touched two heads, caressing each in an 
obscene parody of affection. "What do you say to knowing your son will think I am his 
father?" He paused. "Perhaps I should say: jehan." 

"No." Yet again. Knowing it was futile. 

Lochiel bent and whispered tenderly to the sleeping babies, though his gaze 
remained on Aidan. When he straightened it was with the fluid grace that once more 
called the dream-being, Cynric, to Aidan's mind. 

The Ihlini's voice was hushed, mocking solicitude. "What shall I do with them? 
Kill one, and let you wonder if it was your son-or my daughter? Or kill them both, so you 
know?" 

Aidan nearly laughed. "Do you expect me to believe you would kill your own 
daughter?" 

"I can make more. And if it gives you pain…" 

The off-handedness hurt most. Desperation boiled up. "You ku'reshtin!" 

Lochiel cut him off with a silencing slice of his hand. "Choose one, Aidan. 
Assume the role of a god and determine a child's fate." 


It was a cruel twist on a conversation Aidan had had with the Weaver. "And if I 
say let both live? Would you honor that decision?" 

Lochiel spread eloquent hands. "Both are mine regardless." 

Aidan twitched. His head throbbed dully. He tried to set aside the discomfort, but 
failed. Weakness worked its way from head to neck to shoulders, then down to 
encompass the rest of his body. He knew what would happen if he did not control the 
weakness. He fought to suppress the trembling before it showed itself. 

Lochiel saw it regardless. Dark brows arched slightly, the chiseled mouth pursed. 
He considered the white wing of hair. "The sword blow," he said softly. 

Aidan suppressed the first spasm. "What of our bargain?" 

Clearly Lochiel was distracted. "Our bargain?" 

"You said I could choose." 

But the Ihlini was beyond that. He smiled slowly, replete with comprehension as 
he watched the tremors in Aidan's hands. "You are pale, my lord. Have you a headache? 
Have you an illness?" 

"Let me choose," Aidan grated. It was something on which he could focus. 

Lochiel laughed. "In addition to your manhood, I have deprived you of your 
health." He saw Aidan's jerk of shock. "Oh, aye-I knew all about the bonding of mutual 
kivarna. I take pains to know such things." He studied Aidan more closely. "Why else do 
you think I killed her? And where I killed her: there, before your eyes. She was hardly a 
worthy opponent, and of no danger to me that night… but her loss would devastate you. 
Even in the moments before I killed you." His mouth twisted in a mocking moue of pity. 
"But you survived after all, and now the poor Prince of Homana is unmanned. Castrate… 
gelding… no more bedsport for you!" He paused, lingered a moment. "And no more heirs 
for Homana. I have the only one." 

Aidan's head was pounding. Waves of pain poured down, distorting his vision so 
that Lochiel became a man of two heads and eight limbs. Teeth clenched convulsively. 
He had no time at all. 

"What use are you?" Lochiel mused. "With empty head-and empty loins-what use 
are you to the Lion?" 

The Ihlini blurred before him. Sweat broke from Aidan's flesh, followed by the 
first onset of spasms that would suck the strength from his limbs and drop him to the 
floor, a twisted wreck of a man. Humiliation bathed him. 

Not before Lochiel-

Lochiel gazed at him intently. And then a smile began. "No," he said in discovery. 
"No, I will not kill you. What need? You can do more to harm the prophecy by living… 
gods, who would want this for a king?" 

Please, do not let me fall… do not let me lose everything, not here, not now… not 
before this man-

Lochiel nodded. "Better to leave you alive." 

Aidan stumbled forward, catching himself against the heavy cradle. Swaddled 
babies slept on; he wanted to touch them, to wake them, to learn which was his son, but 
his body failed him. His legs gave way beneath him and he knelt against his will, before 
Lochiel the Ihlini, whose smile was oddly triumphant. 

"Choose," Lochiel commanded. 

Trembling, Aidan clung to the cradle. 


"Choose," he repeated intently. "This time it is not a game." 

"W-why? Why not?" 

"Because this time I will abide by it. Choose a child, Aidan. Then walk free of 
Valgaard." 

"Why?" 

"Because I want you to go back. I want you on the Lion. I want you where all can 
see you, so they can see what you are. A man who succumbs to fits… or a man who 
succumbs to demons?" Lochiel made a fluent gesture of multiple possibilities. "I want 
you there, not here. As you are, you will do much more damage to the power of the Lion. 
To the power of the Cheysuli. Do you think the Homanans will keep you? Do you think 
they will trust you?" Lochiel shook his head. "I want you on the throne, so they can throw 
you off. Turmoil eases my task…" He shrugged. "But you will not go without a child. 
You would sooner remain here and die of a fit-or my displeasure-than go back without a 
child." He paused. "So choose." 

Aidan still clung to the cradle. "I could choose your daughter-" 

Lochiel lost his temper. "Do you think I care? If it is my daughter, you will still 
have to take her with you to Homana-Mujhar… an Ihlini witch raised in the bosom of the 
Lion." Pale eyes glittered. "To destroy the prophecy, I will risk a daughter. I will risk ten 
daughters. But will you risk a son in order to save it?" 

Aidan pressed his forehead against the cradle, letting the rim bite in. He shut his 
teeth on his tongue, trying to deflect the pain gnawing at his limbs. With great effort he 
pulled himself to his feet, standing rigidly. "Is that all?" he rasped. "Or is there something 
more?" 

"The chain," Lochiel declared. 

The trembling died on the instant. Aidan clutched a link depending from his belt. 
"You want-this-?" 

"Aye. Is it not worth the price of a child who could well be your son?" 

"Why? What is this to you?" 

"The embodiment of a man, and all the men before him." Lochiel's smile was 
wintry. "Give me the chain, Aidan. And you are free to go." 

The Ihlini knew. He knew. "Will you break it?" Aidan asked. 

"Only one link," Lochiel answered. "Only one is required. And the pattern will 
likewise be broken." He shrugged off-handedly. "This alone will not destroy the 
prophecy, but it is a beginning. If I remove that link from the pattern, small changes shall 
become large." 

Aidan knew the answer. If he refused, Lochiel might well kill him anyway, 
thereby removing him from the pattern in flesh as well as link. If he stayed alive, there 
was always a chance he could undo things later. And there was the child; if he walked out 
of Valgaard with his son, he kept the seed of the prophecy alive. And the human link, he 
thought, was stronger than the other. 

And if I choose the girl-? But Aidan knew that answer, also: choice was a risk 
everyone took. Choice, and risk, was required. 

Aidan unbuckled his belt. Slowly he unthreaded the leather from the links, sliding 
them free until the chain lay in his hands. He gazed at it, head bowed, realizing in some 
distant portion of his mind that the weakness in his body had gone. He stood perfectly 
still before the Ihlini and pondered the ending of his tahlmorra. 


There will be no afterworld… but without Shona, do I want one? 

Shona. The Lion. The chain. So many broken links. So many turbulent dreams, 
harbingers of his fate. So very many questions, asked so many times. 

But Aidan at last understood. 

He pulled the chain taut in his hands. He recalled the binding before Siglyn and 
Tye and Ashra; how he had drawn the chain from the fire and made it whole again, 
merely because he believed it. Because it had been required. 

Smiling contentedly, Aidan took a final grasp on either end of the chain and 
looked directly at Lochiel as he jerked the chain apart. 

The weak link shattered. Remnants of it rang against stone as they fell, glittering, 
to scatter apart like dust. He held the dangling end of a sundered chain in either hand, 
knowing the name of the broken link was Aidan after all. 

Lochiel's tone was dry. "Impressive," he remarked. "Now choose a child, and go." 

He moved to the cradle. Under his feet crunched bits of broken link. He ignored 
it. 

Two bundled babies. Aidan put down in the cradle the two halves of linked chain. 
He picked up one of the babies without bothering to rely on kivarna; it was as dead as the 
rest of him. He would take his plight to chance. 

"Go," Lochiel said. "You have my leave to go." 

Aidan turned and walked from the room, cradling against his chest the son who 
might rule Homana. 

Or the daughter who might destroy it. 

Epilogue 

« ^» 

Wind whistled through the defile as Aidan walked out of the canyon. Beyond, the 
wailing stilled. Winter wastes were summer. Trees, once wracked by Ihlini malignancy, 
now displayed the dignity of smooth young limbs. Buds sprouted leaves. 

Smiling, Aidan nodded. With Teel and the horse waited the brown man called the 
Hunter. 

The god matched his smile. "You looked at the child." 

"Aye." 

"What did you discover?" 

"My son." 

The brown eyes were wise and calm and very kind. "Do you think the milk he 
took from an Ihlini woman's breast will curdle his spirit?" 

Aidan, turning a shoulder to the sun to protect the child tucked beneath his cloak, 
sighed. "I think not." 

"Good." The Hunter gestured to a boulder near his own. "Sit you down, Aidan, 
and tell me what you have learned." 

Aidan eyed the rock. "It will be too cold. I have a child to care for." 

The Hunter said nothing. Lichen and grass crept up the rock, nestling into 
hollows, until the boulder was covered. A handful of violet clover blossoms bloomed. 
The throne was offered in silence. 

After a moment Aidan sat down. He looked at the Hunter. "I have learned it is 
sheer folly for a man to try and discern what the gods intend for him," he began quietly. 


"I have spent my entire life trying to know what you wanted of me, attempting to 
interpret troubling dreams that denied me a throne and gave me a chain I could not keep 
whole, no matter how hard I tried." He smiled briefly. "And I have learned how helpless 
is a man when the gods choose to meddle in his life." 

Brown brows arched. "Meddle? Do we meddle?" 

"Aye." Aidan grinned at him. "It is your way, I suppose… so I will not take you to 
task for it." 

The brown eyes were assessive, the calm face devoid of familiar expression. After 
a moment the mouth moved into a faint smile. "You have also learned to hold us in some 
disregard, it seems-to judge from your tone." 

Aidan laughed at him, pulling his son more closely against his chest and resettling 
the shielding cloak. "Not in disregard. I have simply surrendered, that is all. You will do 
with me as you will, regardless of what I want, so I will no longer cause you-or myself-
any difficulties with my waywardness." 

"We cannot tell you what to do. We never have." 

Aidan's tone was abruptly cold. "No. But you remove impediments from my life. 
Like Shona." 

The Hunter's expression was briefly sorrowful, and then it passed. "There is 
another way of looking at it." 

Grief blazed up momentarily, overpowering in its strength. Then died away to 
ash, much as desire had. Aidan let it go. He could not, just now, lose control. "What 
way?" he asked. "Is she not dead?" 

"She is dead. But do not in any way believe we considered her an 'impediment' to 
be removed from your life. She was not, nor did we remove her. Shona existed because 
of her singularly great worth. She was the catalyst. What we did was put her into your 
life… and give you such joy in her arms and bed you would not want to share it with 
another, ever." The eyes were steady. "Was she not worth it, Aidan? The submission of 
the heart… the sacrifice of the body. Even for so short a time?" 

He had lost what men most treasured, though they perverted it to common lust too 
many times in the quest for mere gratification. He himself had done it, regardless of the 
reasons. But with Shona, he had not. Even knowing, Aidan had not believed the sacrifice 
of so much would be required of him. Now he understood why. 

And did not hesitate. "She was worth everything." 

After a moment, the Hunter nodded. "It remains, Aidan: we cannot tell you what 
to do." 

"There is no need for that. I know what to do. Now." 

"Do you? And what is that?" 

Aidan stared beyond the god a long moment, lost in thought, in memory. Then he 
stirred. Smiling, he stripped the glove from his right hand. The ruby ring glowed bloody 
in the whiteness of winter wastes only recently touched by summer. 

He pulled it from his finger. "First," he murmured, "I rid myself of this, and the 
title that goes with it." 

The Hunter was unmoving upon his rock. His eyes were very dark, and infinitely 
compelling. "By that, you renounce your rank." 

"I do." 

"It is a rank many men would kill for, craving the power for themselves, and the 


promise of more. It is an ancient and honorable title. Your jehan held it, and his jehan, 
and his before that… many men, Aidan. Very many men. I ask you: do you know what 
you do?" 

"Oh, aye. I know what I'm doing, I'm thinking." 

The lilt did not touch the Hunter. "Do you do it willingly, or merely because it 
seems the easiest thing?" 

Aidan laughed. "Are we not done with testing yet?" He shook his head, gripping 
the ring in his palm. "Are you finally asking me the questions I wanted you to ask? Now 
will you give me my answers?" 

"Answer me, Aidan." 

Quelled for the moment, Aidan nodded. He wet his lips. "I surrender my rank and 
title willingly, knowing what I do." 

"To what benefit?" 

"To benefit the prophecy," Aidan answered firmly. "Which I have always served, 
unknowing; and continue to serve, now knowing." 

"You remove yourself from the succession of Homana." 

"Aye. Willingly." 

"I repeat: to what benefit?" 

Aidan smiled, tucking the ring into his belt-pouch and tugging on his glove again. 
"There was a chain, god of dreams, that once was broken in my hands, and later rejoined. 
I believed the dreams ended and the task performed, as was intended. But as I stood 
before Lochiel, I realized that was not true. The joining of the chain, while not precisely 
wrong, was not the desired end." 

He recalled Shaine, Carillon, Donal; Ashra, Tye, Siglyn. All who had aided him 
in his decision, though he had not known it then. 

The Hunter's voice was soft. "What was the desired end?" 

"To break it." Aidan's attention returned. "The chain was meant to be broken-and 
by me-to improve the next link." He gazed down between the folds of his cloak on the 
bundle that was his son. "To provide this link with the strength he requires to complete 
the prophecy." 

The god stirred upon his rock. "What else, Aidan?" 

He considered it. The answer came easily. "Chained warrior," he said distantly. 
"Chained prince; chained raven. Bound, the life goes on. Broken, it is free." He gazed 
directly at the Hunter. "The chain is broken; the decision made. I wish to go free." 

The Hunter's face was expressionless. "Freedom carries its own weight of 
responsibilities." 

"I know that." And suddenly Aidan was laughing with the unhindered joy of 
realization. The sound rang in the rocks; he let the laughter go out of sheer exuberance 
and acknowledgment of the truth. He felt so free at last. For the first time in his life. 

When the laughter died, he grinned at the god. '"Lochiel has lost after all." 

The Hunter smiled faintly. "What will you do?" 

Aidan's answer was prompt. "Take my son to Homana-Mujhar and give him over 
to his tahlmorra. Mine lies elsewhere." 

"Ah. Then you have realized you did not break it in Valgaard." 

"Oh, no." Aidan shrugged. "I learned what it was, instead." 

The Hunter nodded. "What of you, Aidan, when your son is made the heir?" 


He looked down on the bundled child. "The Lion Throne was never meant for me. 
Gisella was right when she said I would be a throneless Mujhar and a crownless king." 
He smiled, recalling his fear. "I think I am bound for another realm and another lion… 
for an island floating on the breath of the gods, where lies a fallen altar and a deserted 
chapel. I think my task is to make it whole again, restoring it to its original purpose so 
that it may serve Cheysuli in need once more." 

"They will call you priest," the Hunter warned. "Half-man. Shadow-man. Warrior 
without a heart." He paused. "Even coward and castrate." 

For a moment only, it pinched. Then fell away into dust, as all desire had. He was 
content within himself; with the knowledge of what he was. 

"Perhaps the Homanans will," Aidan agreed. "It is their nature to disparage what 
they cannot understand. As for the others-" he shrugged "-it makes little difference. It is 
time to bring light to the land again, to chase away the dark." He smiled dreamily, 
gloriously tired. "Names do not matter. And the Cheysuli will call me something else 
entirely." 

"What is that, Aidan?" 

"Shar tahl." He grinned briefly. "Like Burr, only worse-I will teach them things 
they do not want to hear. I will untwist all the twists. I will show them there are new 
ways to be honored as deeply as the old." The smile fell away. "And I will prophesy." 

"For whom?" 

Aidan's breath was a plume. "Cynric." 

"Who is Cynric?" 

"Child of the prophecy. The sword and the bow and the knife. The Firstborn, 
come again." 

The Hunter gestured. "Is that Cynric?" 

Aidan glanced in surprise at the child in his arms. "This one? No. This is Kellin. 
Prince of Homana. The next link." He looked at the god. "Cynric comes later. Cynric 
comes after. Cynric is the beginning of a new chain." 

"And who are you?" 

He knew the answer, now. "Aidan," he said. "Just-Aidan." 

The Hunter smiled. And then he rose, stepping off the rock. 

Aidan stood up hastily, cradling the infant who would one day rule Homana. "Is 
there nothing else?" 

"What else is there?" asked the god. "You have discovered your tahlmorra, and 
accepted. That is all that exists for any warrior." Briefly he put his hand against the lump 
of Kellin's head beneath the cloak. "Guard him well, shar tahl. He has yet to learn what 
sort of tahlmorra lies before him." 

Aidan, overcome, nodded mutely. 

The Hunter smiled. His eyes were very warm as he put his other hand on Aidan's 
head. "Safe flight, my raven. You are everything we hoped." 

And Aidan was alone, save for his son. 

Carefully, he peeled back the hooded wrappings shielding the tiny face. The 
Hunter had left the season warm; he did not fear the cold. In the bright sun of a summer 
day, Aidan looked upon his son. He touched the delicate forehead, traced the line of the 
brow, fingered the wispy black hair. 

And smiled in a sorrowful wonder. "We made this," he murmured. "The bright, 


bold lass and I." 

In her son, Shona lived on. 

Aidan nodded tightly. Better to have something… Abruptly, he banished it. Kellin 
was more than something. 

He inhaled deeply and blew out a streamer of breath. There was nothing left but to 
go. 

Aidan mounted his horse with great care and arranged Kellin more comfortably in 
his arms. For now the baby slept; he could not hope for it all the way. 

Or could he? Did he not converse with gods? 

Laughing, Aidan glanced up at the thick-leafed tree on which Teel perched. And 
then the laughter stilled. "Have you always known?" 

The silence between them was loud. 

"Have you?" Aidan repeated. "The lir, you have always maintained, are privy to 
many things." 

Teel offered no answer for a very long time. Then the raven stirred. Including all 
the pain. All the fear. The tone, unexpectedly, altered from tart gibe to tenderness. It was 
necessary. 

"What was necessary?" 

Obliqueness, Teel answered. Obscurity of a purpose: to make you angry. To make 
you fight something, even a contentious lir. 

"Because otherwise I might have given in." Aidan nodded. "Otherwise I might 
have broken. The anger was a focus…" 

Teel fluffed black wings. A warrior who walks with dead men and converses with 
the gods does not have an easy road. I was meant to make you take it. 

"Make me?" 

Teel reconsidered. To suggest you take the road, with whatever means I had. 

Aidan considered that. After a moment he nodded. "Do not change, lir. I am used 
to contentiousness." 

I had not thought to change. Why surrender preeminence? 

Aidan laughed. The child in his arms squirmed, then settled once again. 

He gathered reins and turned the horse southward. "Ah, well, what does it matter? 
The Wheel of Life has turned." 

He guided the horse one-handed, cradling Kellin with the other. "And the hounds 
will like the island." 

The raven lifted and flew. Southward, toward Mujhara. Southward, toward an 
island where the standing stones lay fallen, waiting for the shar tahl to set them upright 
again. 

APPENDIX 
CHEYSU/OLD TONGUE GLOSSARY 

(with pronunciation guide) 


Asar-Suti (ah-SAHR soo-TEE)-(proper name): god of the netherworld. 
a'saii (uh-SIGH)-Cheysuli zealots dedicated to pure line of descent. 
bu'lasa (boo-LAH-sa)-grandson 
bu'sala (bu-SAH-la)-foster-son 



cheysu (chay-SOO)-man/woman; neuter; used within phrases. 
cheysul (chay-SOOL)-husband 
cheysula (chay-SOO-la)-wife 
Cheysuli (Chay-SOO-lee)-(literal translation): children of the gods. 
Cheysuli i'halla shansu (Chey-SOO-lee ih-HALLA shan- SOO)-(lit.): May there be 

Cheysuli peace upon you. 
harana (ha-RAH-na)-niece 
harani (h-RAH-nee)-nephew 
homana (ho-MAH-na)-(lit): of all blood. 
i'halla (ih-HALL-uh)-(lit.): upon you; used in phrases. 
i'toshaa-ni (ih-tosha-NEE)-Cheysuli purification ceremony; atonement ritual. 
ja'hai ([French j] zshuh-HIGH)-(lit.): accept 
ja'hai-na (zshuh-HIGH-na)-(lit.): accepted 
jehan (zsheh-HAHN)-father 
jehana (zsheh-HA-na)-mother 
ku'reshtin (koo-RESH-tin)-epithet; name-calling 
leijhana tu'sai (lay-HAHN-na too-SIGH)-(lit.): thank you very much. 
lir (leer)-magical animal(s) linked to individual Cheysuli; title used indiscriminately 

between lir and warriors. 
liren (leeren)-feminine version; used by animal lir to female Cheysuli. 
meijah (MEE-hah)-Cheysuli light woman; (lit.): mistress 
meijhana (mee-HAH-na)-(slang): beloved; pretty one 
Mujhar (moo-HAHR)-king 
qu'mahlin (koo-MAH-lin)-purge; extermination 
Resh'ta-ni (resh-tah-NEE)-(lit.): as you would have it. 
rujha (ROO-ha)-(slang): sister (dim.) 
rujho (ROO-ho)-(slang); brother (diminutive) 
rujholla (roo-HALL-uh)-sister (formal) 
rujholli (roo-HALL-ee)-(format): brother 
ru'maii (roo-MY-ee)-(lit.) in the name of 
ru'shalla-tu (roo-SHAWL-uh TOO)-(lit): May it be so. 
Seker (Sek-AIR)-(formal title): god of the netherworld 
shansu (shan-SOO)-peace 
shar tahl (shar TAHL)-priest-historian; keeper of the prophecy. 
shu'maii (shoo-MY-ee)-sponsor 
su'fala (soo-FALL-uh)-aunt 
su'fali (soo-FALL-ee)-uncle 
sul'harai (sool-ha-RYE)-moment of ultimate pleasure; describes shapechange. 
tahlmorra (tall-MOR-uh)-fate; destiny; kismet 
Tahlmorra lujhala mei wiccan, cheysu (tall-MOR-uh loo-HALLA may WICK-un, chay


SOO)-(lit.): The fate of a man rests always within the hands of the gods. 
tetsu (tet-SOO)-poisonous root given to allay great pain; addictive, eventually fatal. 
tu'halla-dei (too-HALLA-day-EE)-(lit.): Lord to liege man. 
usca (OOIS-kuh)-powerful liquor from the Steppes 
y'ja'hai (EE-zshuh-HlGH)-(lit.): I accept.