Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 by Flight of the Raven (v1.0) Read Free Book Online Page A

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