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another, forsaking
the other he owed. I drew in a deep breath. "You would do this for me?"
The smile was slight, but present, hooking down at one corner. "For you,
Keely? Perhaps. But also for
Homana "
" and for the fate of the prophecy." I smiled back, matching his irony. "Oh,
aye, of course."
"Find him," Ian said. "Be certain of what he says;
it will give us the answer we need." He paused a moment, significantly. "And
then you will take that answer immediately to the Mujhar and tell him, in
detail, everything you know. Everything you think."
His price, plain and simple. All I could do was nod.
Joyenne ordinarily is only half a day's ride from
Mujhara, less than that in fir-shape. But Erinnish
Aileen was hardly strong enough to ride so far, and the bulky horse-borne
litter used to transport her in comfort made the journey twice as long. I went
with her, lolling languidly on bolsters, forgoing a mount to give her closer
company.
Brennan rode Bane, his black stallion, accompa-
nied by Lio and a small detachment of the Mujharan
Guard. We expected no trouble between Mujhara and Joyenne, but the escort lent
us as much prestige as protection. Before us all rode the young man with the
banner of the Prince of Homana: black rampant lion on a field of scarlet, very
similar in nature to our father's device, but smaller, and lacking the crown
signifying the Mujhar's royal personage. I had thought blazons and banners
ostentatious and altogether un-
necessary, until Brennan pointed out such things were little different from
the fir-bands and earring each warrior wore so proudly. The Homanans, he said
pointedly, were no less hesitant about displaying their pride in heritage as
we were; the banner was thus carried about the countryside whenever the
Mujhar or his heir went anywhere officially. This visit to Joyenne was not
precisely official, hut
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Brennan wanted to give Aileen as much honor as possible, in hopes of shoring
up her confidence.
Riding with her in the litter, warded from road dust by gauzy hangings, I
thought it unlikely a royal banner would accomplish much toward buttressing
her confidence. For one, I thought her confidence unshaken; Aileen is strong
and stubborn and plain-
spoken, needing nothing of ceremony to convince her of her worth. She was
understandably depressed by the loss of the babies, but in no danger, I felt,
of falling prey to a permanent affliction of her spirits.
We spent most of the journey engaged in idle conversation. The motion of the
litter was relent-
lessly monotonous, lulling even me toward drowsi-
ness in the late afternoon sun. I yawned, stretched, resettled myself against
the cushions and contem-
plated the vision beyond the loose-woven fabric. La-
zily, I smiled, liking what I saw.
Late spring, almost summer: thick grass was viv-
idly lush, providing a carpet for scattered skeins of brilliant flowers, while
distant trees formed a smudgy hedge of greenery against the blinding blue of
the sky. All around us was meadowland cradled by un-
dulating hills. Hedgerows formed the warp and weft of crofter holdings. Here
and there, nestled within a fold of hill, was a gray stone croft with thatched
roof, or a cluster of two or three whitewashed with lime. Low rock walls
flowed across the land, meeting and dividing, forming boundaries. Moss
carpeted the unmortared stones, binding each in place. Ivy and other
vegetation took root in cracks and crev-
ices. Some bloomed, scattering loose gemstones against the green velvet gown.
Aileen's tone was slow and soft, reflective. " 'Tis beautiful, Homana. Far
more gentle than Erinn, so buffeted by the sea . . . the colors here are
brighter,
more vivid, like cloth newly dyed. In Erinn colors »
are muted, softened by mist and fog . . . everything is salty, like the sea it
soaks our wood, our sheep, our wool . . . and the wind has teeth in it, sharp
teeth, biting the land, the folk . . ." She sighed, stroking back a strand of
hair. "But there is power in the wind, and magic in the soul of the land . .
. 'tis what gives us our strength, our pride " Then she broke off, laughing.
"Gods, but I sound like a widow grieving over a new-
dead husband!"
I shook my head. "You sound like a woman who misses her home."
Aileen sighed. "Aye, well, I do, though there's no sense in it. Homana is my
home now."
"There is sense in missing what you prefer," I
said. "You are of the House of Eagles, Aileen, born to the Aerie of Erinn.
Daughter of Liam, of lierne, shaped by wind and sea and the soul of a wild
land."
I paused. "And we have clipped your wings."
"Ye skilfin,"
she said crossly, "you've done nothing of the sort. 'Tis only you're so bound
up in your
Cheysuliness and your own desires you can't see what others are wanting."
"I know what you want." I kept my tone inoffen-
sive. "You want Corin." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]