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I asked. "Why not Atvia or Solinde?"
"Atvia is our enemy."
"Was," I said plainly. "Alaric has been dead two years. Corin rules now."
He shrugged. "But a lad, is Corin, and unschooled yet in ruling. 'Twill take
time, and he may not have it ... not with the Ihlini witch on his doorstep and
Mad Gisella in his castle."
It made me angry that he could so easily discount my brother. "He is the
rightful lord of Atvia "
"Right has nothing to do with it," he snapped.
" 'Twill be who is strongest that holds the throne .. .
oh, aye, Corin means well, of that I'm having no doubt, but 'tis early yet to
predict who will win.
Might be Lillith yet, and Strahan with her .. . no, no, Liam makes no
judgments, nor Sean " He broke
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it off, as if recalling Sean might never again make judgments.
"Then what of Solinde?" I asked. "Solinde and
Erinn have never been enemies that portion has been Homana's so why not go
there? It is closer to your homes."
His tone was elaborately even, but his eyes gave it away. "We have no homes,
lass. As for Homana?"
He shrugged. "No particular reason, I'm thinking, only " But he stopped short.
"No, lass, 'tis a liar I
am. There was a reason, aye . . . but I lack the courage to do what I
intended, what I
hoped
" He sighed, giving it up. "What Sean asked me to do, once, if anything
befell him."
I swallowed painfully. "Which was?"
He was backlit by firelight. It set a nimbus around his head, at the edges of
his beard. Quietly, he said, "To go myself to the lady and beg her forgiveness
and understanding."
I stared. "Beg ? Why? What need is there of forgiveness or understanding?"
"For leaving her a widow."
Sluggishly, I shook my head. "But how can she be a widow if they were never
married?"
He frowned. "In Erinn, a betrothal is much like a wedding, and as binding. In
Erinnish eyes, the lass would be Sean's widow even without the wedding."
He shrugged. " 'Tis customary, lass, especially in royal houses when the heirs
are but wee bairns, to make certain the betrothals hold."
It did make sense, though in Homana it is differ-
ent. Kings barter children in exchange for all man-
ner of treaties and accords; without the betrothal holding weight, the same
child could be offered again and again, at the king's convenience.
Hut I did not like the practice. Widowed before the wedding? Married without
the vows? I found the latter most disturbing; it consigned me to the buyer
without a trace of courtesy, nor respect for Cheysuli customs.
Between my teeth, I said, "I am sure she would give her forgiveness, if not
her understanding."
He looked at my knife, hilt still clasped in my fist.
And then he took it back before I could speak, replacing it with his own.
"We'll be hearth-friends, then."
In shock, I stared after my knife. "What?"
"An Erinnish custom for wayfarers in need of a fire and a place to sleep.
Strangers are welcomed in to sup before the hearth, to sleep in the host's own
bed." Teeth glinted as he grinned. "No, lass, I
promise the bed is empty of host."
I was not afraid of him or his dishonored men.
Mostly, I was exhausted, stiff with crusting rope burns and bruised from the
awkward landing. Lir-shape, I
knew, was futile; even if I gained it, the shape would not last. What I needed
was food and rest.
I refused to glance at my knife or say anything of it, for fear of making him
curious. With effort, I
looked into his shadowed face. "King's man," I said, "have you a real name?"
He hesitated a moment, as if he feared to tell me;
as if I could give him away. "Rory," he said at last, "but also known as
Redbeard."
"Rory Redbeard," I muttered, "remember I have a knife."
" "Tis my knife, lass . . . and remember, I have yours."
I looked again at the blade in his hand, aglint with royal rubies. Shut my
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mouth on an answer and went slowly to the fire.
Seven
One might think the Cheysuli, a race so steeped in honor, are blind to
dishonor in others, to deception and subterfuge, believing all men are as they
them-
selves are. Once, perhaps, but no longer, nor has it been so for time out of
mind. Contact with the Ihlini, who share some of the Firstborn's power but
nothing of their wisdom, has educated the Cheysuli to what unchecked avarice
and ambition, augmented by twisted sorcery, can do to a race.
As had Shaine's qu'mahlin, the war of annihilation leveled against us by my
kinsman, my great-great-
grandsire on the Homanan side, nearly a hundred years ago.
So no longer do we trust, nor blind ourselves to betrayal, deception and
subterfuge. We have learned to judge, to weigh, to measure, knowing very well
that to a people reluctant to show strong emo-
tions to those who are unblessed, the feelings and convictions of other races
are often ludicrously transparent.
Men are easy to read. Even Erinnish exiles.
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