Prologue

The cavern was dense with smoke. The woman stepped
through and dutifully it followed, purling in her wake. It
gathered along the hem of her skirts like puppies on a
bitch, suckling at her feet.

She walked from shadow into glare, into the pure
clean light of godfire as it leaped from a circular rent in
the stone floor. A hole, like a wound in the earth itself,
bleeding flame.

Sparks issued forth, fell, formed a glowing necklet on
the nap of her velvet gown. But she did not flinch as they
died; the fire—like the sparks—was cold,

Beyond the flame, she saw her brother. Standing as he
stood so often, for hours on end, and days, at the rim of
the netherworld. Godfire bathed his face in its lurid
lavender glare, limning the magnificent planes of his
bones. A beautiful man, her brother; she might have
been jealous, once, but she knew she claimed more power.

He saw her. He smiled. In the light his eyes were
mirrors.

Briefly the flame died back; was sucked down, with-
drawn, like a tongue into a mouth. But the afterglow
remained, shrouding him in light. A transcendent lumi-
nescence that made her want to squint.

Beneath her feet, the floor was hard and sharp. The
entire cavern was formed of black, glassy basalt, faceted
as a gemstone. There were no torches in deference to the
godfire', there was no need for manmade light when the
Seker lent them his.

2                   Jennifer Roberson

All around her columns gleamed. Slow spirals mim-
icked blown glass, delicately fluted; twisted strands, oddly
seductive, stretched from floor to ceiling. Light lost itself
in endless glassy whorls. The world ran wet with fire.

She crossed, hearing the echoes of her steps and the
chime of girdle, silver on black, nearly lost in the weight
of velvet. As always, she smetled the breath of the god.
But to her, it was not unpleasant. The promise of power
was a heady scent that set her flesh to tingling.

She paused on the brink of the orifice. "How long has
it been since you ate?"

He smiled. Trust you to concern yourself with things
such as food."

"How long, Strahan?"                               ^

He shrugged; smoke shrugged with him. "A day, two,      |&"
three—what does it matter, Lillith? I will hardly waste     fc.
away in the service of the god."                            l|

Briefly she glanced down. They stood but six feet apart;

between them lay a world. The world of Asar-Suti.

They had only to open the Gate—

Not yet. There was time.                              ^

Time for the fruition of their plans.                        H

"Come up," she said. "You should eat."                ^

His hair, like hers, was black. And it flowed back from      I"
a brow as smooth and unlined as a girl's, though there
was nothing girlish about him. It cloaked his shoulders
and reached beyond, bound back by a silver fillet wrought
with Ihlini runes. In the glare of the godfire his gray
suede leathers were dyed an eerie lilac, glowing purple in
the creases. The doublet hung open from throat and
chest, and in the gap she saw the white edge of a linen
tunic. Soft gray boots stretched to his thighs. His wide
belt was clasped with a two-headed silver serpent.

Lillith sighed as he did not answer. She was his sister,
not mother or father. But both parents were long dead,
and so this fell to her. "Will you come up?"

"I am hungry," he admitted, "but for something more
than food. And I am thirsty, also, but the wine I want is
blood. The blood of NialFs sons."

His eyes were alight with something more than re-

A PRIDE OF Piimcss                 3

fleeted glare. One brown, one blue; even she had diffi-
culty looking past the mismatched pairing to the emotions
in their depths. But she looked, and she saw, and knew
his patience was nearly ended.

"A little longer," she said. "Surely you can wait."

"No. I have waited- I am done with waiting." He
smiled his beautiful, beguiling smile. "Lillith—I am
hungry."

"Time," she said. "We have all the years of our lives."

"They do not. They are human, even if Cheysuli. They
die. They live seventy, eighty years, and they die. While
we are still but children."

"You are still a child." Lillith laughed, and the girdle
chimed. "The last time I counted mine, my years were
nearly two hundred."

He grunted, unimpressed; he was young in years, com-
pared to her, but his power grew every day. "I have need
of them, Lillith. The sons are no longer infants, no
longer boys. They are men. Warriors. If we wait much
longer—"

"But we will." Lillith shrugged naked shoulders. "We
will wait as long as we must, and longer. Until the time is
right."

"Twenty years, Lillith!" His shout reverberated in the
hidden shadows of the cavern. "Twenty years since Niall
thwarted me."

"Twenty years is but half a day to us." But she saw his
frustration and felt a measure of her own. "I know. I
know, Strahan ... I weary of it, also. But we are close.
The game begins—all of the pieces are in place. As you
say, now they are of an age to make a difference."

"Of an age to serve me well." In the light, his mis-
matched eyes were eerie. "I want them. I want them
here, within the walls of Valgaard, so I may make them
mine. Mine to rule, as I will have them rule." He laughed
suddenly, and their eyes locked in perfect accordance
across the Gate of Asar-Suti. "When they are mine,
Niall's sons, I will set them on their thrones, all three of
them ... I will take their lir and take their minds, all
three of them, making them faithful Ihlini minions—" He

4                   Jennifer Koberson

broke off a moment, considering his words; continued in
quiet, abiding contentment, "—and then / shall rule
through their empty bodies in the name of Asar-Suti."

Lillith smiled, nodded, sketched an idle rune in the air
between them that pulsed with purple godfire. It spun,
whirled, twisted; tied itself in knots, was gone. "Of course.
It is to be expected; we have laid our plans." She paused.
'Wow will you come up?"

"Up," he echoed. "Aye. In a moment- There is some-
thing I must do."

And in the eerie lurid light, Strahan the Ihlini knelt in
deep obeisance to the god of the netherworld.

One

The sun hung low in the west, painting the city rose-red,
ocher-gold, russet-brown. Sunlight, trapped and multi-
plied by mullioned glass, made mirrors of countless win-
dows. Mujhara was ablaze with gilded glory.

The one-eyed man stood alone upon the curtain wall
surrounding the massive palace of Homana-Mujhar. Spill-
ing in all directions from the battlements was the royal
city, home of kings and queens; home of the Mujhars of
Homana. Home to countless others of lesser birth as
well; he could not even begin to estimate Mujhara's
population. He knew only that the number had increased
one hundredfold, perhaps one thousandfold, over the
past two weeks. The festival was even larger than his
brother had predicted.

"Everyone will come, lan had said, from everywhere,
even the other realms. Scoff if you like, Nialf, but it
is past time the Homanans paid homage to their Mujhar.
More than past time they showed their gratitude for twenty
years of peaceful rule."

Twenty years. It seemed longer than that. And then,
at times, it seemed only days since he had assumed the
Lion Throne from his Cheysuli father, Donal, who had
given himself over to the death-ritual on the plague-bora
deaths of his lir. With Taj and Lorn gone, there had been
nothing left for Donal, save madness. And no Cheysuli
warrior willingly gave himself over to madness. Not when
there was a choice. Not when there was the death-ritual,
which was surely more merciful than madness.

S                   Jennifer Roherson

Niall sighed deeply, frowning down at the street far
below the curtain wall, and the smooth earthwork ridge
that girded the lower portions of the thick wall. He could
hear the distant sounds of celebration: faint ringing tam-
bors of the street-dancers; cries of stall-merchants; shouts
and screams of children in their finery, turned loose to
play in crowded streets and alleys.

Dead so long, my jehan. He readily acknowledged the
still familiar pain. There was grief. Regret. Even bitter-
ness, that a man so strong and healthy as his father
should throw his life away.

Homanan thinking, he told himself wryly, made aware
yet again of the division in his attitudes; how pervasive
that division could be. Have you forgotten the oaths you
made when you accepted the responsibilities of the lir-
bond before Clan Council?

No. Of course he had not forgotten. But it was difficult
to be two men at once: one, born of a Homanan mother,
who was the daughter of a king; the other born of a
Cheysuli shapechanger, a warrior with a lir, and claiming
all the magic the gods had given the race.

Automatically he looked for Serri, but the wolf was
not with him. His lips tightened in annoyance. How
could he have forgotten Serri was in the royal apartments?

Because, he told himself ironically, in a spasm of de-
fensiveness, with all the toasting going on, it is fortunate
you can remember your own name, let alone Serri's
whereabouts.

Still, it displeased him that he could forget for even a
moment, A sign of age, he wondered?

Niall abruptly laughed aloud. Perhaps. No doubt his
children would agree he was aging, but he thought not. At
forty, there were decades ahead of him still.

And then he recalled that his own father had not been
so much older than forty when the loss of his lir had
ended his life. His mother as well was gone; Aislinn,
Queen of Homana, had died ten years after Donal. Some
said of grief that grew too strong.

He stopped the laughter. Memories welled up. Most of
them Niall had believed buried too deeply to trouble

A PRIDE w PRWCES               9

him. The gods knew he had tried to bury them; with
drink, with daily council sessions lasting from dawn till
midnight, with abrupt departures—escapes—into the wood-
lands with Serri, seeking respite in his fir-shape. But
Deirdre had made him realize none of those things held
the answers; that he would have to find a place for each
memory and let it live there, where he could look at it
from time to time and know what was lost, was gained,
was learned.

Deirdre. The memories of her were fresh, beloved,
cherished, and very near the surface. But there were
other ones as well, buried more deeply: of guilt, of fear,
of self-hatred, because once he had believed her mur-
dered by his own unintended instigation. No matter how
helpless, how unknowing he had been, trapped within
the Ihlini web of madness, deceit and sorcery, he could
not think of that time in his life without experiencing a
fresh burst of shame, guilt, pain.

"So." She approached from his right side, his blind
side; he had not heard her, either. "With all your great
palace in an uproar, you'll be coming out here to escape
it." Deirdre smiled, glancing over the nearest crenel to
look upon the crowded city. "Peace in turbulence, then?"

Though she had been with him twenty years in Homana,
she had not lost the lilt of Erinn. He smiled, "Aye,
escape, except there is no escape. Everywhere I turn
there is a servant telling me I must go here, go there—
even lan. Even you."

Deirdre laughed, green eyes alight, and moved in close
to his side. His arm settled around her shoulders automat-
ically. She wore green, as she so often did, to play up the
color of her eyes. It suited her, as did the torque of
braided gold and carved green jade he had given her the
night before. "But 'tis for you all of this is being done,"
she reminded him tartly. "D'ye wish to disappoint so
many people who have come here to pay their respects?"

He grimaced. "You make it sound like I am dead."

Deirdre leaned her head against his chest. She was
neither tall nor short, but he was head and shoulders
above most men, even the Cheysuli. "No, not dead," she

Jennifer Kohersw

said cahnly. "Very much alive—or so you would have
me thinking; I who share your bed."

Niall laughed and hugged her against his chest. "Aye,
well, there is that." His fingers smoothed the weave of
her braided hair. A year younger than he, she looked no
more her thirty-nine years than his daughters. The hair
was still thick and brassy gold; the skin still fair and
smooth, with only a shallow threading of lines by her
eyes; her hips and breasts, respectively, still slender and
firm as a girl's.

"What were you thinking?" she asked.

"Remembering," he answered. "The night I stood atop
the dragon's skull in Atvia. and lit the beacon-fire."

Deirdre stiffened. "Why?" she asked. She pulled away
and faced him. "Why, Niall—why that? Twas more than
twenty years ago."

"That is why," he told her. "Twenty years. The
Homanans are even now celebrating twenty years of my
rule, and all / can see are the memories of what I nearly
did that many years ago." His voice was unsteady; he
steadied it- "I killed your father, Deirdre. And nearly
the rest of the eagles.'*

His pain was reflected in her face. "You fool," she
said softly. "Oh, ye great silly fool. Liam would be
taking his fist to you, he would. I should." She shook her
head and sighed. "Aye, Shea died, but he took the
assassin with him. Else we would all be dead, and you
could be blaming yourself for that." Firmly, she shook
her head. "You lit the fire, 'tis true, but 'twas Alaric's
doing. Thanks to his addled daughter."

Addled daughter. Gisella of Atvia, half Cheysuli her-
self, and Niall's full cousin. Poor mad Gisella, who had
married the Prince of Homana; Niall, now called Mujhar.
The Queen of Homana, who now resided in Atvia in
permanent exile from the land of her mother's birth.

He sighed. "Aye. Tis done, as you would say. But I
cannot forget it."

"Then don't. Come in, instead, where a bath is being
poured." She took his hand. "Are you forgetting? There
is to be a feast for you in the Great Hall."

A PRIDE OFPHIft/CES

II

"Oh, gods, not again," he blurted. "Who is host

tonight?"

"Prince Einar, heir to the King of Caledon," Deirdre
answered, smiling. "The one you want to make a new
trade alliance with."

He strolled with her along the sentry-walk. "Aye, I do.
The old one is far out of date; there are more conces-
sions to be won. Without them, we lose more money
than we make, which serves Homana not at all. What I

want to get—"

"No," Deirdre said firmly. "No, don't be filling my
ears with that. I've been hearing too much of it these
past two weeks, and I'll hear more of it over my food.

No, Niall—not now."
He laughed. "Well enough, meijha—not now. I am

sick of it myself."

The sentry-walk was not wide enough for two to walk
abreast comfortably, not when one was as large as Niall.
He moved Deirdre away from the edge, closer to the
wall, and assumed the risk himself. Below them, in the
other bailey, men-at-arms in new crimson livery prac-
ticed a close-order drill. The shouted orders from the
captain carried easily to the sentry-walk, though Deirdre
and Niall were still some distance away. It was easiest to
stay on the wall and follow it around than to go down into
the baileys, which were thronged with royal escorts and
honor guards from other realms.

Niall sighed. "I think Homana-Mujhar will burst be-
fore the month is through. Certainly Mujhara will."

Deirdre frowned absently. "Einar," she said. " Twas
him, was it not, so dissatisfied with his chambers?"

Niall snorted inelegantly. "You are chatelaine of this
great sprawl of red stone, meijha, not I."

Deirdre's face cleared. "Aye, 'twas him. He demanded

better quarters."
"Well, he is a king's son—and the heir to Caledon."

"And what of the heir to Ellas?" Deirdre demanded.
"Am I to put Diarmuid out just because Einar wants his

room?"
"What did you do?" Niall asked curiously.

Jennifer Robersou

Deirdre grinned. "Homana-MuJhar is filled to burst-
ing, my lord Mujhar. I made them share."

Niall's shout of laughter erased the lines of tension that
had etched themselves into his face as a result of trying
to juggle multiple princes, envoys, cousins and heirs with-
out giving offense to any. Deirdre felt he needed no
more lines at all, regardless of his responsibilities; Strahan's
demon-hawk had already ruined enough of his face. A
patch hid the empty right socket and most of the scar-
ring, but the old talon weals still scored the bridge of his
nose and much of his right cheek, as well as dividing one
tawny eyebrow neatly in half.

She glanced up at his face. To her, it was familiar,
beloved, unremarkable, save for the unmistakable stamp
of Cheysuli pride, even if he lacked the coloring. But to
others, unaccustomed to the disfigurement, he was note-
worthy only in that respect. She had first known him as a
young man, at eighteen, when the handsome looks of his
maternal grandsire. Carillon, had been fresh, boyish, as
yet unformed by adversity. But the demon-bom hawk of
Asar-Suti had robbed him of his boyhood in addition to
his looks.

For that, if for nothing else, Deirdre hated Strahan.

Through the casements of the palace came the dim
glow of new-lit candles. The rose-red hue of the stone
deepened as the sun dropped down behind the massive
walls, from pink to dull, bloodied gray. Deirdre sup-
pressed a shiver; there were times, she thought, Homana-
Mujhar resembled a monument to war and death, rather
than the home of Homanan kings.

Niall took her off the sentry-walk into one of the
exterior comer towers, then down a coil of stairs to the
interior of the palace. Deirdre had always felt Homana-
Mujhar more confusing than Kilore, the clifftop fortress
her brother Liam ruled from in Erina. Kilore, known as
the Aerie of Erinn, was plainer, more functional, lacking
the multitudinous staircases and tower chambers of
Homana-Mujhar. But then perhaps it was only time and
distance that made it seem so; Deirdre had not been
home in eighteen years.

A PKIDE OF PRINCES                 S3

"We should go," she said abruptly, as Niall took her
into his chamber. Protocol required they keep separate
apartments, and so they did—even had they wed, it
would have been the same—but more often they spent
the nights in his. "We should go to visit Liam before we
are old and gray."

Niall bent to greet the black-masked silver wolf who
got up from his place in the huge draperied tester bed to
lean against one thigh-booted, royal leg. Their brief com-
munion was intensely private, intensely singular, but Deir-
dre was used to it. No one came between a warrior and
his lir, not even the woman he loved.

Serri, his greeting complete, went back to the bed.
Niall smiled, brushed back a lock of hair from his brow
and looked at Deirdre in amusement. "The gray begins
already, meijha—perhaps we should leave for Erinn

tomorrow."

"Ah> ye skilfin, you're no more gray than I am!" But
she put a hand to her heavy braid as if to reassure herself
she bore no tainted strands. " 'Tis serious I am, Niall—
how many times must Liam invite us? And I his own

sister?"

"And still a princess of Erinnr" Niall stopped abruptly
as he shut the heavy door behind her. "Ah, Deirdre, will
you forgive me for that? You deserve to be a queen."

Astonished, she stared up at him. One slim hand was
locked in his plain brown doublet. "Niall . . ." Slowly
she shook her head. "Ah, no—d'ye think 'tis what I
want? No, no, my love—'tis nothing to me, I swear, this
thing of titles." Her mouth flattened, then twisted scorn-
fully. "Queen of Homana, indeed. Well, I say let Gisella
keep it—'tis all she has. I have you."

"Not so much, I think," he said mildly, but bent his

head to kiss her.

A knock at the door intruded. "My lord? My lord
Mujhar? Taggart, my lord ... are you there?"

Niall sighed. "A moment," he promised her, and went
to open the door. "Aye, Taggart, I am. What is it?"

Taggart was a slim, wiry man of fifty, clad in Homanan
colors: black tunic with a red rampant lion stitched over




Jennifer Stobersoa

his left breast. His trews were also black, with a gilt-
buckled red leather belt cinching his waist. Graying hair
was trimmed neatly against his head. He bowed briefly.
"My lord—it is the princes."

Niall looked past the man to the empty corridor- "Oh?
Where?"

Taggart was clearly uncomfortable. "My lord—not here.
That is why / am here." He paused. "Because they are
not."

The Mujhar's tawny brows rose a trifle. "Taggart,
what are you trying to tell me? And make haste—my
bath is getting cold."

Taggart bowed again, eloquent apology. "My lord,
I—well—" He paused. "They are missing."

"Missing?" Niall smiled indulgently. "For the moment,
perhaps, but I am sure they are here somewhere. You
might try the stables; Brennan has a new stallion. Or the
guardroom, if Hart has coin enough left for a fortune-
game." He shrugged negligently, patently unconcerned
by the temporary disappearance of his three sons. "And
only the gods know what Corin may have suggested as an
afternoon's diversion."

"Or Keely," Deirdre added dryly.

"My lord, no," Taggart said plainly. "I have looked in
all those places. They are not here. They are not m
Homana-Mujhar."

Deirdre came up to Niall's left side, where he could
see her clearly; it was a habit she encouraged in everyone
so he would not be embarrassed unduly or caught off-
guard. "They knew about the banquet," she said, though
it sounded more question than statement. "I know they
did; Brennan remarked on it. He said he did not think
much of Einar, or Einar's cousin, Reynald." She nod-
ded, frowning a little. " 'Tis what he said, did Brennan—
about the Caledonese princes."

Niall heaved a weary sigh of distracted annoyance and
scratched at the scars in his right cheek. "Well, if Brennan
remarked on it, then it took Hart to persuade him to
leave so soon before a banquet. And Hart, likely, was
talked into it by Corin. Oh, gods—" he cast a long-

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

IS

suffered glance at the ceiling, "—when you saw fit to
bless me with three sons, you might have given me proper
ones. Ones who know how to respect their jehan's wishes."
He shook his head. "How is it / have raised three rebels?
I was never particularly rebellious, myself."

Deirdre laughed. "Were you not, my lord? But I think
you must have been, because I'm seeing you in alt of
them. Though more, I'll own, in Brennan than in the
others."

"He is the first-bom," Niall said absently. "And he
knows he will be Mujhar after me; it makes a difference."

"Keely probably knows where they are," Deirdre sug-
gested, somewhat pointedly.

Niall cast her a disgusted glance. "For all we know,
Keely might have encouraged their defection. She is as
bad as any of them. There are times I think she is more a
warrior than even myself."

"Shall I ask her, my lord?" Taggart inquired.

Niall waved the suggestion away. "No, no—Keely would
never say. If Corin is involved, she'll say nothing simply
to protect him, even if she had nothing to do with it.
Even, I think, if / asked her," He shook his head, frown-
ing again. "Brennan knows better. Hart and Corin may
not, but he does."

"Aye," Deirdre said gently, "but he protects Hart and
Corin now just as he did when they were children. D'ye
think he'd be stopping simply because they're grown?"

"Are they?" Niall's tone was sour. He did not wait for
her answer, but turned to Taggart. "You may go. I
attach no blame to you. It is not your fault if the Mujhar
cannot control his own unruly sons."

Taggart, smiling, bowed and took his leave. Niall shut
the door and turned back to face Deirdre once more.
"Well, then, what is there to do? There will be three
empty chairs where there are supposed to be princes, and
Einar will undoubtedly consider it a snub."

"Oh, Einar!" Deirdre's tone clearly signified her opin-
ion of the Caledonese heir. "I'll set Maeve next to him,
and he'll not be noticing absent princes. And I'll put
Keely on the other side." Her widening smile was suspi-

Jennifer Roberson

ciously devious. "Caught between those two, he'll not be
knowing what has become of him."

"Oh, gods," Niall begged, "save me from a woman
who dearly loves intrigue." And then, abruptly, he began
to smile. "Einar will never recover."

"No," Deirdre agreed contentedly. " Tis why I'll be
doing it."

"Still—" Niall moved past her to the nearest chair and
dropped into it, propping his booted feet up on a table
that bore a decanter of wine and two goblets, "—they
might have picked a better night to play truant. I do want
that trade alliance. And I did want Brennan to handle as
much of the negotiation as he could. He needs the
practice."

"Brennan knows enough of negotiations." Deirdre
poured him wine, passed him'she goblet. "He is a ma-
ture, responsible man, Niall, norai boy. Save your disgust
for Conn's bad tempers, or Hart's gambling debts, or
Keely's waywardness—but give none of it to Brennan.
He's not deserving of it."

"Come here." He sipped from his goblet as she came to
perch on the arm of his wooden chair. "Tell me what you
are deserving of."

"Your love," she answered promptly. "Am I not gen-
erous with mine? And I have given you a lovely daughter."

"Maeve is lovely," Niall agreed immediately, paternal
pride rearing its head, "And sweet-tempered, and soft-
spoken, and eager to please ... all the things Keely
most decidedly is not."

"And do you love her the less for it?"

Niall, smiling, shook his head. "She is a proud, strong
woman, Cheysuli to the bone. . . ." He grinned at Deir-
dre, slipping into the Erinnish lilt. "And I'd be wanting
her no other way."

"And the boys?" Deirdre's green eyes, across the rim
of her silver goblet, were demurely downcast, but Niall
knew her far too well.

"Aye, and I know what you are trying to tell me,
meijha—that I should want them no different, either.
Mostly, I do not. But there are times. . . ."

A PRIDE WPRWCES                 17

"Times," she said. "Like now? The bathwater, I'm
sure, is cold, and yet you sit here and drink your wine.
You are no better than your sons, my lord Mujhar."

"But you see, I am Mujhar. The banquet must wait for
me." His fingers were in the lacings of her gown. "The
banquet must wait for us both,"

Deirdre smothered a giggle. She was, she thought, too
old for giggles now. "And your sons?" she asked. "What

about your sons?"                               .
"At this particular moment, I am less concerned with
my sons than with the knots you have tied in your laces.

Have you taken up celibacy?"

The giggle broke free of her throat. "No. Very defi-
nitely, no." She reached'down, took his belt-knife from
its sheath, presented it to him hilt-first. "My lord Mujhar,

must I be plainer still?"

Niall, smiling, accepted the knife and deftly cut the
first lace. "The banquet," he said calmly, "will be indefi-
nitely delayed."

Deirdre sat very still. "To make certain your sons will

be present, of course."

"Of course," he agreed equably, and cut the second

knot.

Two

The tavern was one of Mujhara's finest. It lay in High      X
Street, where business catered to the aristocracy of      ^
Homana: where boys with brooms swept the cobbles six     J^
times a day and poured water on the puddles of urine left^    S
by horses, sweeping again, so customers did not have to      ^:

concern themselves with the condition of their boots.      ^F
The Rampant Lion was clean, well-lighted, well-run, and      §
enjoyed an excellent reputation, faring well even among      1|
stiff competition.                                          U-

Rhiannon had not expected to get the job as wine-girl      ^
at The Lion. But she had paid six copper pennies for a      H
bath two days before she applied, pinned up her hair in      H
the way she had seen ladies do, and put on the cleanest      ||
dress she owned. Carefully, she had told the tavern-      f.
keeper in her best accent that she was of good family,      ^
but lacked means; was there a place for a young woman      |J
who needed to earn a living in a respectable establishment?      ^

She was delighted when her looks and well-practiced      ^
refinement won her the position, and she worked very
hard to keep it. She was born of poor people; she had
thought to spend her years in poverty and whoredom. But
the gods had blessed her with cream-fair skin, thick black      ^
hair and wide black eyes, and a form that would win any      ^.
man's regard.                                             ^:.

It did not fail her now. She passed easily among the      ^
tables, serving the fine wines The Rampant Lion special-      ^;

ized in. The Falian white, considered by many to be the      f^
finest vintage available, sold best. But the sweet Cale-

18

A PRIM OF PRINCES

19

donese red and the rich, dark vintage of Ellas did nearly
as well. The ales and lagers found fewer throats; Homanan
nobles had a taste for wine, rarely imbibing lesser brews,
and almost never the common liquors, such as usca. It
was considered too harsh among the nobles, who boasted

more refined tastes.

Nonetheless, it was usca Rhiannon was instructed to
bring to a rectangular table of polished hardwood near
the wide-boiled trunk of the roof-tree in the middle of
the common room. She set the 'stoneware jug in the
precise center of the table, put down the pottery cups
without the crude clacking sound heard in most taverns,
where the wine-girls knew no better, and watched as the
three young men poured-the blue-glazed cups quite full.
It was obvious, from the way they drank it down, usca
was no stranger to their throats.

She curtsied as gracefully as she knew how, hoping for a
generous tip. They could afford it, she knew; she had an
eye for wealth. These three young lords dressed less
ostentatiously than many others in the common room,
clothed in subdued if rich velvet and soft-worked leather,
but there was gold around their necks as well as in their
ears. At least, in one ear. On them all, only the left bore

ornamentation,

They were all fine looking men, she thought; the gods
had blessed them with good bones and fine, clean lines in
their handsome faces, accentuated by strong, straight
noses and well-defined mouths. All men, she thought, if
young still, lacking the hardening that years and experi-
ence would bring them- Rhiannon's taste ran to men, not
pretty boys; these three were aesthetically satisfying as
well as highborn, and more than comfortable in the

belt-purse.

One, however, was clearly Cheysuli. Though he was
the first shapechanger Rhiannon had ever seen, she knew.
She had heard stories about them; how they slept with
animals instead of women and so could shift their shapes,
not being wholly human. A man could tell them by their
color and their gold; Cheysuli were uniformly black-

36                  Jennifer Roberson

haired, dark-skinned, and their eyes, as his, were always
a clear, uncanny yellow.

But where was his animal?

Rhiannon looked carefully, searching discreetly for the
beast that was his other self. But the only thing visible
beneath the table were their legs. Six of them, altogether,
all knee-booted and thigh-muscled under taut, soft leather
breeches of excellent cut and quality.                 '

She glanced up, frowning, and saw his eyes on her.
Rhiannon sucked in a startled breath. Yellow was not
enough, she decided; not nearly enough to describe
Cheysuli eyes. They were yellow, aye, and odd enough in
that, but there was something about them that made her
back away a step, clutching her linen apron.

He looked at her, and she froze, unable to take a step.

"Aye?" he asked, when she continued staring.

A human voice. No growl. No bark. No whine.

Transfixed, Rhiannon did not answer.

"Aye?" he asked again, and the slanted black brows
drew down.

He was, she thought, a demon, all black and bronze
and yellow.

"Are you a lackwit, Brennan?" one of the others asked.
"She works for more than kind words and copper pen-
nies." Almost absently, he rattled dice and rune-sticks in
a wooden casket. A heavy sapphire signet ring glistened
on one long finger. He had the hands of an artist, she
thought; the hands of a musician.

"Of course." The shapechanger reached into his belt-
purse and took out a silver piece. Without looking, he
offered Rhiannon the coin.

When she did not take it, he looked at her again,
turning away from the sticks and dice the other threw. The
silver was quite bright against the dark flesh of his fingers.

"I think," drawled the man with the casket, "she has
only just seen her first Cheysuli-" He grinned and looked
up at her. "Let alone three at once,"

Three? Rhiannon looked at him quickly. He was black-
haired, aye, and his skin was as sun-bronzed as the
shapechanger's, but his eyes were decidedly blue. Very

A PRIDE of PRINCES                21

blue; the sort of blue that put her in mind of spring, and
the richness of the sky. They made her think of love, his

eyes; so did the smile he smiled.

Disconcerted, she looked away from him as well. To
the third, where she knew herself safe at last. He was all
Homanan, obviously, with tawny blond hair and dark
blue eyes; his skin was Homanan fair. And when he
looked at her it was not to frown as the shapechanger
did, or to smile an invitation as the second one did; no,
none of those things. When he looked at her it was to
look at her, to find out what she wanted.

Well, what did she want?

Rhiannon put up her chin. "Aye," she agreed plainly.

"I've not seen a shapecHanger before."

"Cheysuli," The shapechanger put the coin on the
table, where it glinted against polished wood. "Not
'shapechanger,' meijhana . . unless you mean to insult

us."

There it was agath^us. She frowned, flicked a glance at

the blue-eyed man with the fortune-game, looked quickly
away as his smiled slowly widened. And the fair-haired

man merely laughed.
"So much for believing the Homanans trust us," he

said. "Well, Brennan, how does it feel to have a woman
afraid of you, instead of trying to keep your favor for

more than a single night?"
"Cruel, cruel, Corin," the man with the casket drawled,

and yet his smile belied the words. "You will have me
thinking you are jealous of your oldest rujholU.'"

Rhiannon thought the fair-haired man—Corin, the other
had called him—was her age, which made him all of
twenty. The other two, she was certain, were older yet,
by at least a year. The shapechanger looked at her. "Are

you afraid of me?"
Rhiannon swallowed. "Aye."
Somehow, she had hurt him. She saw it quite clearly,

and instantly. There was little change in his expression,
but the eyes were eloquent. Such an eloquent, eerie

yellow,
"Well," he said, after a moment's thoughtfiil silence,

22 Jennifer Roberson

"perhaps you would do well to serve the other tables,
and send some other girl to us."

Oh, gods, if that were to happen, she would lose her
place for certain! "No," she said quickly. "No, I—I'll
serve you." She nodded in the direction of the jug. "You
have your usca now. You won't be needing more."

"Will we not?" Tawny Corin smiled and lifted his pot-
tery cup. "You judge us too quickly, meijhana."

There it was again, the strange, foreign word. Shape-
changer? Rhiannon thought it likely. No doubt when
they were together, they spoke in growls and barks.

"Brennan frightens the girl, and now Corin flirts with
her." The third young noble laughed. "What is left over
for me?"

Yellow-eyed Brennan looked up at Rhiannon. "Do
you wager?" he asked calmly, without the trace of a
smile. And yet she saw one clearly in his eyes; it was
meant for the man with the fortune-game. "Say aye, and
you will make Hart's evening complete."

"No, no," the other—Hart—demurred. "You leave
out what comes after, when a lady is involved."

That Rhiannon understood plainly enough. Shape-
changers they might be, but obviously it was not true
they only lay with beasts. She knew desire when she saw
it, as well as the prelude to it.

"No, I don't wager," she told them curtly- "Not even
with silver pennies." And she went away, leaving the
coin upon the table.

As one, they looked at the spumed gratuity. In the
light from hanging lanterns, the silver royal gleamed.

"Well," said the one called Hart, "I wonder if she would
come back for it if she knew what it was worth- Silver
penny indeed!"

As he made as if to pick it up, Brennan hid it beneath
one palm. "Wager with your own coin," he said grimly.
"Or have you none left?"

"None left," Hart said cheerfully. "A run of bad for-
tune." As if on cue, one of the rune-sticks rolled.

Corin's snort was eloquently condescending. "Only bad
fortune because I was the better man when you tried to

A PRIDE Of PUNCES

23

beat me this afternoon." He picked up the stick and
dropped it back into the casket. "Which means Brennan

and I must pay for the usca."*

"You can," Brennan told him. "I came here because I
knew better than to let you two go out alone, not

because I wanted to go drinking."

"And yet you are." Hart indicated Brennan's full cup,
"Hardly water, rujho—I can smell it from here."

Corin smiled. Brennan merely shrugged. "All men

make sacrifices."
"And you more than most?" Corin demanded. "Oh,

aye—when you will have Homana!"
Brennan sighed; it was an old bone of contention.

"You will have Atvia." -

"And I, Solinde." Cheerfully, Hart scooped the dice
and sticks back into the wooden casket. "Three princes,
we, with glory yet to come in addition to fine titles. But I
think, right now, I could do with less glory and more
wealth." He eyed the silver royal. "Are you certain you
want the girt to have it, after what she said?"

"I want the girl to have it," Brennan agreed. "And if
you so much as fry to take it when I am not looking, I

will cut a finger off."         •            ^
"If you are not looking, how will you know?"
"Because I would tell him." Corin shrugged as Hart

scowled darkly at him. "What would you expect?"

"A little support, rujho."

"Brennan is your twin, not I. Look to him for sup-
port." Corin downed more usca.
Hart's scowl deepened. "Why do you resent it, Corin?

You have a twin in Keely."

"Who says I resent it?" Corin retorted. And then,
grimly, "Keely is a girl. We are close, aye, as close as
you and Brennan—but she is still a girl. It makes a

difference, r^jho."

"Keely is a woman," Brennan corrected absently.
Hart laughed. "Aye, she is. Or would you name your-
self a boy, Corin, even now at twenty?"
"SAe does not see herself as a woman," Corin stated

flatly.

24 Jennifer Roberson

"No." Hart's brows climbed beneath raven hair. "No,
she sees herself as a warrior." His smile was amused.
"The only trouble with that is, the gods saw fit to give
her a woman's body."

Corin frowned. "She has no desire to be a man. She
just prefers to be something other than a fragile thing
like Maeve."

"Keely is nothing like Maeve," Brennan agreed.     :

Hart snorted indelicately. "No. And I will lay a wager
on it that Sean of Erinn, when he claims our warrior-
sister, will have a difficult time taming her."

"Keely will never be tamed," Corin said plainly, "and
you will lay a wager on anything." He scowled blackly at
Hart. "As to that, I would trust my life to Keely sooner
than most men."

"Aye, aye, so would I." Hart set the casket down in
front of Brennan. "Care for a game, rujhoT*

Brennan's eyes narrowed. "I thought you had no coin."

"I have what Corin owes me." Hart looked at his
astonished younger brother. "I won twenty-five crowns
off you last week."

"When?"

When we wagered on how soon Brennan would be
thrown from his new stallion." Hart grinned at his older
brother. "The third jump, remember? I won the bet."

Brennan glared back. "You bet against me?"

"No. I bet on the horse."

Brennan slapped his hand down as Corin reached
toward his belt-purse. "Do not put a penny on this table.
You know better than to encourage him."

"But he won," Corin protested.

Brennan leaned toward him across the table. "Not a
penny, Corin."

Hart patted the casket. "A suggestion, rujho—let the
game decide. I win: Corin gives me the money. You win:

Corin gives you the money." He grinned, blue eyes bright.
"Surely a fair way to decide."

Brennan sighed and leaned his face into one. hand.
"One day," he muttered, mostly against his palm, "one

A PftfDE OF PRINCES                  25

day, Hart, you will regret ever learning how to play these

games,"

Hart rattled the casket. "Care to wager on that?"
"Care to wager on that?" Corin looked past them both

to a table just beyond their own.
Accordingly, Hart and Brennan turned to see what

had caught Corin's attention. It was Rhiannon, Rhiannon

and a young aristocrat who obviously wanted more from

her than wine.

As he grabbed her, pulling her onto his lap, Rhiannon
cried out and tried to lurch away. The wine jug she
carried slammed against the edge of the table and shat-
tered, spilling gouts of blood-red liquor across the table
and onto the young nobleman's fine clothes.

He shoved her away, swearing as he leaped to his feet.
Rhiannon stumbled against the table and thrust out both
hands to keep herself from falling. As she clutched at the
wine-soaked wood, a shard of broken crockery cut her

hand.
Even as Rhiannon, trembling, backed away from the

furious lord, he followed her. He seemed not to notice
that the hand she clutched against her breasts left blood
smears on her apron, nor that she- was plainly mortified
by what had happened and terrified of him. He spoke to
her angrily in a foreign tongue, then slapped her across
the face so hard he sent her staggering into another

table.

But his move had been anticipated.
Brennan caught her, steadied her, held her.
Rhiannon sucked in a frightened breath as she saw
who had rescued her. And then she saw how she had
smeared blood on his black velvet doublet. "Oh, my

lord—I'm sorry—"
"You should not be. Not you." Gently-he set her aside

and rose to tower over her. She had not thought he was
so tall, but then she was quite petite. "It is his place to

apologize."
Rhiannon shot a startled glance at the foreign lord,

No, she thought, it was her place to say the words. "My
lord—"

26 Jennifer Robersw

"No." The shapechanger shook his head and stirred
black hair against his shoulders, against the nap of his
matching doublet. His hands fell away from her waist
and Rhiannon saw the black leather belt at his, weighted
with plates of hammered gold. On his left hip a knife was
sheathed. The gold hilt was smooth, shining and lovely;

its shape was of a mountain cat. But even as she opened
her mouth to protest yet again, he looked at the foreign
lord. "Apologize to her."

The young man's hair was curly and dark, oiled with a
scented pomade that turned it glossy black. His nose was
slightly prominent, with a crooked set that made his
brown eyes appear set too far apart. His fine silk-and-
velvet clothes, once pale cream and jonquil, were now
variegated a sickly purple-red.

Rhiannon nearly giggled.

The bent nose made it difficult for the foreigned to
look down it in a straight line, but his attitude was made
plain nonetheless. In accented Homanan, he said, "I
apologize to no tavern-drab."

"Apologize," Brennan repeated. "You frightened her,
struck her, hurt her. It is the least you should do."

"By Obram, I will not!" the other cried. "Do you
think / am required to do such a thing? I am the nephew
of the King of Caledon!"

"Prince Einar's cousin?" Brennan nodded as the other
stared. "It means you are Reynald, then; I thought you
looked familiar." His smile was neither friendly nor
amused. "My lord, I suggest that while you remain in
Homana, you subject yourself to Homanan custom. Apol-
ogize to the girl."

Reynald plainly was unintimidated. "I will not," he
stated flatly in his accented Homanan, and made a ges-
ture that brought the others at his table filing out to flank
him. Knives and swords glittered with gems, but the
weapons were clearly lethal even in their ceremonial
flamboyance.

As one. Hart and Corin rose.

Reynald smiled. "You are three. We are eleven."

"He counts," Hart observed.

27

A PRIDE OFPKJWES

"He smells," Corin added. "What is that oil on his

hair?"
At that, the tavern-keeper came out from behind a

cask of wine. "Please," he said, "this is not necessary. I
will recompense you for your clothing, my lord."
Reynald stared down his crooked nose. "And for the

Insults from this man?"
The tavern-keeper looked at Brennan helplessly. "My

lord, please—"
"Please what?" Brennan asked irritably. "It was his

fault; you saw it. He deserves no recompense."

"He deserves to be booted out of here and back to
where he came from," Corin announced flatly. "Are you
forgetting, my foreign lordling, that you are in our land?"

"Precisely," Reynald agreed coldly. "Is this the way
you treat your guests? Is this the way you treat a man
who is to play host to the Mujhar himself this very night?
Is this the way you treat a member of the Caledonese

royal family?"

Hart smiled. "Does Einar know you are here?"
"My tavern," the tavern-keeper moaned.
Brennan placed a hand on Rhiannon and thrust her

gently toward the man- "Bind her'wound, if you please.

This should not take long."

Reynald snapped something in Caledonese to his near-
est guardsman. The man drew a knife and lunged.

Brennan avoided the Caledonese smoothly enough and
let the man's momentum carry him through his initial
lunge. On the way by, Brennan planted clasped hands in
the back of the guardsman's neck and smashed him to
the floor. The man went down and difl not move.

Brennan's brothers looked down on the body at their
feet. Hart nodded sagely; Corin merely grinned.

A blood-red ruby set in gold glowed on Brennan's
finger. He smiled at Reynald and hooked thumbs in the
plated belt that clasped lean hips clad in raven velvet. He
was considerably taller than Reynald. Behind him, Hart
matched him in height and weight; Corin was shorter and
slighter, but looked tenacious as a terrier.

"Now will you apologize?" Brennan calmly asked.

28 Jennifer Roberson

For answer, Reynald cried out angrily, snatched up a
cup and hurled the contents in Brennan's face. As Bren-
nan swore and wiped his eyes, the nine remaining
Caledonese guardsmen spread out to encircle the three
Homanan princes. Brennan abruptly found himself pressed
back against his own table. As his eyes cleared, he found
a knife blade at his throat and felt the prick of a sword
tip in his spine.

"Still unconvinced?" he said in passing to Reynald,
and lifted a wrist against the knife as he spun to dislodge
the sword.

Corin, closest to the door, ducked yet another knife as
it slashed toward his face, and quickly drew his own.
Blades clashed, caught, were twisted; Corin's hilt re-
mained in his hand while the other man's did not. The
Caledonese stared in consternation at his empty hand.

Pleased, if a trifle surprised—it was his first encounter
in anything other than practice—Corin grinned happily
and turned to seek out another foe.

Hart, caught between Brennan and Corin, almost im-
mediately found himself cut off from either of them,
hemmed in on three sides by Caledonese. His indecision
was quickly banished; Hart leaped up onto the table,
cracking rune-sticks and scattering all the dice of his
forgotten fortune-game. A swordblade darted toward his
right leg, but he avoided it easily, skipping over yet
another. Four of the enemy approached; Hart quickly
acknowledged the folly in remaining on the table provid-
ing an easy target and sought a quick escape route, A
glance upward showed him the only means.

Hart leaped for a low, thick limb of the massive roof-
tree. He caught it, swung his body out and over his
attackers easily, and dropped on them like a mountain
cat on its prey.

Tables overturned as the fighting spread to encompass
the entire common room. Jugs and cups shattered, spill-
ing rivers of wine across tables, benches, the hard-packed
earthen floor with its carefully stamped insignia of the
rampant Homanan lion.

Brennan, having dispatched the Caledonese whose sword

A PRIDE OFPRWCES                 29

threatened his spine, abruptly somersaulted backward
over a table to avoid another swipe and landed on his
feet, knife in hand. He had not meant to draw it, prefer-
ring to avoid edged weapons in the midst of such a
stupid, silly brawl, but it seemed he had no choice. And
so, shrugging a little, he threw the knife in a glittering arc
at an enemy, and saw the guardsman fall at Reynald's
feet. He was not dead, Brennan knew, because the knife—
though hilt-deep—was in a shoulder, not his heart. Ac-
curate as always; he nodded in satisfaction.

The satisfaction did not last long. A second guardsman
leaped for him, knife in hand. Brennan caught handfuls
of the yellow Caledonese livery, ripping the tunic as he
tried to thrust the guardsman against a table. But he lost
his grip as the silk tore, slipped in spilled wine, and fell

heavily to one knee.

The Caledonese knife blade sliced easily through vel-
vet sleeve to flesh beneath, cut deeply, then caught on
the heavy A'r-band above Brennan's left elbow.

The guardsman tore the knife free to strike again,
scraping steel against gold. The velvet, shredding, gave
way; the rune-worked gold was suddenly clear for all to
see, with its flowing mountain cat.clawing its way free of

metal.

Blood flowed freely to fill the incised runes. Brennan
swore in the Old Tongue, forgoing his Homanan, and
made himself ignore the pain. As the man thrust again,
looking for flesh instead of gold, Brennan pushed himself
up from the floor and slammed a shoulder into his chest.

"Brennan!" Hart called. "The knife—"

"—did little damage!" Brennan shouted back. "Look

to yourself, rujho1."

Hart did, neatly avoiding a sword swung perilously
close to his right hand. He immediately jammed ihe
threatened hand against his ribs and kicked out with a
booted foot. He stripped the sword from the enemy's

grip.
Corin, outnumbered rather more quickly than he had

imagined, dragged himself out from under a senseless
Caledonese and slashed weakly at the closest yellow-clad

w

Jennifer Roberson

teg he could find. The blade bit into the leather boot
sluggishly, doing little damage, but it caught the atten-
tion of the wearer. Swearing in indecipherable Caledonese,
the guardsman stomped down on Conn's bared wrist and
knocked the knife from his hand.

Pain shot the length of Corin's arm. "Ku'reshW he
cried, outraged, "let me up—"

Just as outraged by Corin's attempt to stab through
leather to his leg, the guardsman merely put more weight
on the trapped limb.

Corin let out a string of Cheysuli obscenities, then—
too proud to lose but not too proud to ask for help—he
shouted for his brothers.

When neither answered, he realized abruptly they had
their own battles to fight and he was solely responsible
for his. It was not a pleasing thought; he had grown
accustomed to shouting for one or the other of his broth-
ers, if not both, whenever necessary. Now, unhappily,
Corin came to the disturbing realization that occasionally
there was no one to rely on save himself.

"By all the gods of Homana," he muttered to the floor
so close to his face, "why did we leave the Ur in
Homana-Mujhar?"

The guardsman glared down at him. "What are you
saying, Homanan? Begging my mercy already?"

Corin, sprawled belly-down with the trapped wrist
stretched out in front of him, twisted his head to look up.
"Mercy?" Astonished, he gaped at the Caledonese. "/
will give you mercy—" Abruptly, putting the aching wrist
out of his head entirely, Corin lurched up and locked his
left arm around the heavy leather boot. Before the guards-
man could retreat, Corin had ripped open his knee with a
savage bite.

The Caledonese let out a howl of shock and pain and
stumbled back, freeing the wrist, and nearly ripped Corin's
teeth from his mouth. Corin, kneeling as he flexed his
swelling wrist, was privately amazed at ha success.

Then a hand came down, caught his russet velvet dou-
blet and jerked him to his feet. "You cannot win battles
on the floor," Hart said mildly.

A PRIDE OFPRMCES

31

"I won that one." Corin grinned at the cursing Cale-
donese. And then he stopped grinning, because the man
with the bitten knee lunged past Corin and upended Hart
entirely. " Ku'reshtinV Corin cried, and flung himself on
the enemy.

Hart, squashed beneath both of them, tried ineffec-
tively to wriggle free. At last he resorted to swearing at
the enemy and his brother. "Corin—get—off—"

"I am trying . . ." Corin scrambled backward awk-
wardly, planting a knee against Hart's left thigh, and
dragged the Caledonese with him. Hart, wheezing, sat up
slowly and clasped tender ribs.

The tavern door, so very close to Hart, slammed open.
He winced instinctively, hunched his shoulders and hugged
his ribs even harder. Boots thudded against the hard-
packed floor and swords rattled out of sheaths. Hart,
catching a glimpse of crimson silk and leather-and-mail,
felt the beating of his heart abruptly stop.

He squinted up at the men hesitantly, then closed his
eyes. Aye- It was the Royal Mujharan Guard. Part of it,
anyway.

"Jehan will have our heads for this," he commented in
cheerful resignation, and smiled innocently at the nearest
of his father's men-at-arms.

Brennan, consumed with gaining a victory over a
Caledonese who simply would not go down, felt the lance
shaft across his throat. Gently it pressed, so gently, warn-
ing him subtly, but firmly enough to threaten the fragility
of his windpipe.

Slowly, Brennan let his hands drop back to his sides.
In pleased surprise he watched his opponent stagger,
straighten, collapse onto the floor. The Prince of Homana
nodded, smiled, turned slowly within the cage of the
lance to face his new opponent-

Abruptly he froze. Leaping out of the crimson tunic
over the leather-and-mail was a black Homanan lion,
rampant: his father's royal crest. It matched perfectly the
black-etched lion in Brennan's ruby signet ring.

The Homanan guardsman recognized his prisoner at
the same time. The lance fell away. "My lord!"

32 Jennifer Roberson

Corin, as yet unaware of the new arrivals, scrambled
out from beneath two now-prone Caledonese guardsmen.
His face was smeared with blood, but his eyes were suspi-
ciously bright. He grinned, delighted. And then, as he
stood up, the grin slipped away.

Brennan faced a guardsman in the Mujhar's black-and-
scarlet livery. Hart, looking none too pleased with af-
fairs, leaned against a table and clasped his ribs. His
handsome face was bruised, and one eye—the right—was
plainly swelling and would soon turn black.

Corin looked at his brothers. He looked at the sudden
stillness in the tavern. He looked at the four Mujharan
guardsmen flanking him. And then he sighed and sat
down on a wine-stained bench to cradle his injured wrist.

Three

Reynald of Caledon strode stiffly through the center of
the common room, stepping over the downed bodies of
his royal escort and kicking aside fragments of broken
crockery. His foreign face was set in an expression of
distaste, irritation and arrogance; his dismay at the re-
sults of the fight was evident even as he tried to hide it.

He drew himself up before the Mujharan guardsman
who had set the lance shaft at Brennan's throat. Point-
edly, he ignored Brennan altogether. "Your name?" he

demanded.
"Dion," the guardsman answered. "Captain of this

contingent of the Royal Mujharan Guard."
Reynald's dark brown eyes narrowed. "The Mujhar's

men?"

"Part of his personal guard," Dion answered. "At-
tached to the palace itself."

The foreign prince nodded. "I am Reynald, cousin to
Prince Einar of Caledon," he said flatly. "I wish to press
charges against these three Homanans—I want you to
see to it they are put in chains and locked away until
justice can be levied. I intend to ask the Mujhar himself
to hear my testimony."

"My lord, it is your privilege to do so," Dion said
quietly. "But may I suggest you reconsider—"

"No, you may not, and I will not," Reynald answered.
"I came here with my escort to enjoy an evening's enter-
tainment in what I was told was a fine establishment."
He cast a withering glance around The Rampant Lion.

33

34 Jennifer Robersw

"These men intruded, provoking a fight, and I demand
reparation for this affront to my honor, and that of my
cousin. Prince Einar."

"Oh, is Einar here?" Brennan asked lightly. "I did not
see him."

Reynald glared. "Because he is not present means
nothing. You have injured my honor, and—as I am a
member of the Caledonese party here to celebrate the
Mujhar's reign—what insults me also insults my lord
prince."

"Your pardon, my lord." It was Hart's turn. "But I
fail to see how you were injured in any way. You let your       ^
escort do your fighting for you."                             .:-

"Aye," Corin interposed before Reynald could an-       f:'
swer. "You and Brennan could have settled it between
you, but you provoked a fight. You gave the order to
attack." He paused. "I think. It was in Caledonese, but       :;

it did serve to make your escort attack, whatever it was       -li:

you said."                                                       ^:

Color blazed irt Reynald's saturnine face. "I was re-       ^
quired to protect myself. This man meant to provoke       \
me." His outflung hand indicated Brennan.                   ^

"My lord?" Dion looked at Brennan.                     ^

Brennan opened his mouth, but Reynald spoke before        -.
he could. " 'My lord,' " he mimicked, glaring at Dion.       -^
"You give him more honor than you give me."               *"

"Aye," Dion answered smoothly; it was easy to see his       i-
opinion of the Caledonese lordling, regardless of his neu-       ^
tral expression and tone. "I mean you no disrespect, my       ^
lord, but this man will one day be my king."

Reynald shut his mouth with a snap. He looked sharply
from Dion to Brennan. "King," he echoed. There was,       -;

suddenly, the faintest trace of doubt in his tone.

"One day," Brennan agreed. "Not for a long time yet;      i;

my father the Mujhar is, thank the gods, a spectacularly       ,^
healthy man." The faintest of twitches jerked the comer       $
of his mouth; he was purposely underplaying his hand,       ^
which served to make it all the more devastatingly effective,        ^,

Reynald looked first at Hart, then at Corin. And all of
a sudden the color drained out of his face. "Obram save

A PHIDK w PHMCES              35

me," he whispered, "you are all the Mujhar's sons. I
remember, now—"

"You remember, now." Hart grinned. "A bit slow, are
you, Reynald? We met only yesterday, did we not? In
the Great Hall before the Lion Throne?"

"Where you wished our father the Mujhar best wishes
for continued health." Corin pointedly emphasized their
link to royalty. Reynald was the sort of man to under-
stand such arrogance, having his own fair share of it.

"Chains, I think he said," Brennan told Dion. "Did
you bring any with you?"

"No, my lord. Should I fetch some?" Clearly, the
captain was enjoying Reynald's discomfiture.

Hart felt his ribs. "Enough," he said. "I think Reynald
sees our point. And I think it is time we returned to
Homana-Mujhar, before our jehan sends men out look-
ing for us." He stopped short and looked at Dion. "Who
did send you?"

"/ did." Rhiannon stepped forward. The linen apron
still bore bloodstains, now darkening, and her hand was
wrapped in a clean cloth. "It was my fault this nonsense
began. I thought I should be the one to stop it, so I ran
to the palace and fetched them.'*"She looked at Brennan.
Her eyes lingered a moment on the earring in his left ear,
now exposed by hair pushed away from his face. "I—I
was ungrateful before," she said in a low voice. "You did
this for me." She wiggled fingers showing at the edges of
the cloth wrapping. "I didn't want you to get hurt~wiy
of you." Her eyes touched briefly on Hart and Corin, but
moved back to Brennan almost immediately.

Hart laughed. Conn's mouth twisted wryly.

Brennan smiled slowly. "Then you have my thanks,"
he said, and looked at Reynald. "I think we have arrived
at an impasse, my Caledonese lordling. You may, of
course, press charges—we did extinguish most of your
royal escort, three to ten—" he grinned, "—but perhaps
we may simply let bygones be bygones, and meet over
the banquet you and your cousin Prince Einar are sup-
posed to host in my father's honor tonight." Brennan

Jennifer Roberson

paused. "And if we do not go now, we shall be quite
late."

Reynold looked at the remains of his royal escort.
Several of the men were clearly unconscious. Others were
merely stunned, beginning only now to pull their wits
back together. Two were on their feet, unwounded; they
scowled sullenly at their fallen comrades.

Their lord, in his wine-stained silks and velvets, sum-
moned what dignity he could muster. "Come," he or-
dered the two men still on their feet, and immediately
departed the tavern.

Corin watched him go, then turned back to Hart.
"What about the others?"

Hart grinned his lopsided, charming grin. "He is nephew
to the King of Catedon, rujho, and cousin to Prince
Einar. It is not for him to concern himself with <nen
wounded in his defense.'*

"Ah." Corin, duly enlightened, nodded.

Brennan sighed and untied his belt-purse. He handed
it over to the tavern-keeper. "For the damages," And
then he worked a ring from one of his fingers. It was not
the ruby signet of his rank, but a smaller sapphire set in
silver. When it was free of his finger, he put it into
Rhiannon's hands. "To replace the 'silver penny.' " He
smiled warmly. "You see," he said, "Cheysuli are not so
bad."

She stared after him as he preceded his brothers out of
The Rampant Lion. And then she kissed the ring.

The Mujhar, stepping into one of the soft gray-dyed
kneeboots, looked up sharply as Taggart finished speak-
ing. "They did what?"

Taggart's face was very stiff. He repeated his final
statement. "They destroyed most of Reynald's escort,
my lord."

" 'Destroyed-* " Niall straightened as a body-servant
knelt to adjust the droop of soft leather. "Is anyone
dead?"   '
• "Not so far as we can tell, my lord. It appears several

37

A PRIDE OF PRWCES

of the Caledonese are wounded, but none seriously."
Taggart folded his hands behind his back and waited.

Niall stood stock still in the center of the antechamber
that held most of the clothing suitable for a Mujhar. He
preferred the soft leather jerkin and leggings of the
Cheysuli, but all too often he was forced to wear Homanan
apparel. Tonight was such a night.

"My lord . . ." The body-servant held up the other
boot.

Niall glanced down, frowning in distraction. "Ah. Aye."
He accepted the boot and pulled it on, then waited as it
was properly adjusted. "All three of them?" he asked.

Taggart nodded.

"Even Brennan," Niall murmured. "Oh, curse them
for fools, all of them. I do not need this tonight—most of
all tonight." He waved the body-servant away and paced
across the room to the doorway opening into his bed-
chamber. Serri was, yet again, asleep on the bed.

"My lord, Dion reported that it did not appear to be
entirely the fault of the princes. And if my lord Reynald
truly did provoke them, there must have been good
reason."

"Reason, perhaps, but not good reason," Niall said
grimly. He shook his head, still bare of its heavy circlet,
and swung back. "I cannot believe Brennan took part in
this idiocy. It is not like him. Hart and Corin, aye—they
would hardly balk at a fight, regardless of provocation—
but Brennan?"

Deirdre swept into the room from another entrance,
"My lord Mujhar, your favoritism is showing."

"Is it?" Niall absently admired the rich blue gown that
fit her slender body so snugly. Her brass-bright hair was
twisted up on her head in a knot secured with thick pins
of silver wire, and she wore yet another of his gifts, a
silver chain crusted with diamonds and dark blue sap-
phires. It glittered against her throat. "Aye, well . . .
even you must admit it is unlike Brennan."

"What have they done, your sons?" Deirdre smoothed
the fit of his black doublet, quilted with jet and seed
pearls.

38 Jennifer Robersoa

"They have torn up a tavern—one of the better ones, I
might add—and accounted for multiple casualties," Niall
answered. "In short, they may have permanently de-
stroyed any hope for a renewal of the trade alliance
between Homana and Caledon."

"Have they, then?" She patted the silver chain of
office that stretched from shoulder to shoulder, each
wide link cleverly fashioned into a rampant lion. A re-
markable distance from shoulder to shoulder; privately,
Deirdre smiled.

"You do not seem to understand." Niall moved away
from her to face Taggart again. "Where are they now?"

"In your private solar, my lord." Taggart paused. "I
think they knew you would wish to say something to
them. They went there on Prince Brennan's suggestion."

"Wise Brennan," Niall remarked darkly. "Aye, I wish
to say something to them. Go and fetch them, Taggart.
Fetch them now."

Taggart was clearly surprised. "Here, my lord?"

"Here."

"Aye, my lord." A bow, and he was gone.

"Niall," Deirdre said uneasily, "what it is you are
meaning to say to them?"

"Whatever comes out of my mouth at the moment."
He took her arm and escorted her into yet a third cham-
ber, a private withdrawing room.

"You will be giving them a chance, then." But she did
not sound at all convinced.

Niall indicated she was to sit down in one of the
X-legged chairs. "Promise me, meijha, you will leave the
punishment to me."

"In other words, you are wanting me to be silent." She
scowled at him as she sat down, but it lacked the deter-
mination to have much of the desired affect. " Tis for
you to do, then," she agreed. "They are your sons, not
mine." And she folded her hands primly in her lap.

"Oh, gods," Brennan said when Taggart had told them
where they must go. "He is angry."
"And are you a woman or a warrior?" Corin de-

A PKIDE OF PKWCES                39

manded crossly. "We are too big to spank, Brennan; why
do you dread facing him so much?"

"Probably because only rarely have I had to be repri-
manded. It is you who have spent so much of your time in
his bad graces." Brennan turned on his heel and marched
out of the solar.

"So has Hart," Corin said defensively, following. Still
he cradled the sore wrist, wondering if it were cracked or
merely badly bruised. "I am not the only one who has
been sent before our jehan."

"Is that a point of pride?" Brennan asked acidly.

"Your arm hurts," Hart announced, bringing up the
rear. "You are irritable, mjho."

"If I am irritable, it is because I am plagued with a
young rujholli who lacks the wit to know when to humble
himself," Brennan declared. "He will only make it worse,
if he gives our jehan defiance instead of contrition."

Corin swore in disgust. "It was Reynold's fault, not
mine. And I was the last to join the fight. You, Brennan,
were first."

"Aye," Hart agreed. "And that is precisely why I
think he will not be so angry. He is accustomed to our
scrapes, Corin. But with Brennan involved in this one, I
think he will believe it had merit."

Brennan sighed. "That is something, I suppose." And
he swung into the open doorway to the Mujhar's royal
apartments.

Niall watched them file in. Brennan first, of course; as
always. The eldest was plainly out of sorts in clothing as
well as temper, though he tried to hide both by forcing
his face into a calm, neutral expression and attempting to
straighten the fit of his velvet doublet. Niall saw wine
stains, blood stains, gaping rents. Through the remains of
the left sleeve, hr-gold gleamed faintly.

Hart, now second in line, looked much worse. His
dark blue doublet was as stained and torn, but his face
was badly bruised and already showed the beginnings of
a black eye. There was no blood or wound visible, but he
walked with the odd, stiffly upright posture of a man
afraid to move anything above his waist. Ribs, then.

40                 Jennifer Robeiwn

As for Conn, the youngest trailed the other two as if
to defy his father, jaw jutting out to advertise his unwill-
ingness to accept responsibility for his actions. It was a
familiar posture to Niall, who murmured inwardly that
one day, if it pleased the gods, Corin might grow up—
and was relieved to see the son who looked so much like
him showed no signs of serious physical discomfort- Even
if he did favor his right wrist, which looked suspiciously
swollen.

Brennan glanced briefly at Deirdre, so silent in her
chair, and halted before his father. Niall stood before
one of the casements, hands folded behind his back. He
waited as Hart halted, and then Corin, who promptly sat
down on the nearest stool.

Hart leaned a little in Conn's direction and hissed,
"Stand up."

Corin stubbornly remained seated. He stared at his
father with an unrepentent, unwavering gaze.

Inwardly, Niall sighed. "One at a time," he said aloud.
"Who shall be first?"

Brennan opened his mouth to answer, as always, first,
but Corin got there before him. "It was a girl," he said
flatly, indelicately, and made both his brothers scowl
their disapproval.-He colored. "It was."

"A girl." Somehow, Niall had not quite expected that.
Generally it was something more, or something else.

Hart wet his lips. "A wine-girl," he said. Then, as if
hearing how ludicrous it sounded, he added, "But not a
common sort of wine-girl, or a common sort of tavern."

"Far be it for my sons to frequent a common tavern
with merely common wine-girls." The Mujhar's tone was
deceptively mild.

Brennan was not deceived. His eyes narrowed as he
tried to judge his father's mood; Niall was pleased to see
none of them could do it. He smiled and outwaited them.

"There was also a Caledonese ku'reshtin," Corin added.
"Anyone will tell you."

"Will you?" Niall asked.

"I just have."

"Corin—" Hart began, in warning.

A PRIDE OFPKMCES                 41

Niall waved it away with a raised ringer that silenced
his middle son immediately. "Say on."

"He hit the girl," Corin told him seriously. "He nearly
knocked her down, and she did not deserve it. She had
already cut her hand on the broken winejug."

Hart nodded. "He refused to apologize."

Niall's left brow lifted; the right one, divided by the
talon scar, was mostly hidden beneath the diagonal slash
of leather strap that held the patch in place. "A wine-girl
asked apology of a Caledonese prince?"

"No," Corin said lightly. "That took Brennan, of
course."

"Ah." NialFs single eye flicked to his eldest son. "Then
it was you who began it?"

Brennan did not flinch from the tone in his father's
voice, which managed to express surprise, disappoint-
ment, disapproval, all at once- "Aye," he answered clearly.

"You."
"I," Brennan agreed. "Jehan—he was unnecessarily

rude. He hurt her."
"So you stepped in and defended her honor, if such

still exists."

Deirdre opened her mouth as if to protest, shut it,
waited for the interview to be finished.

Brennan frowned at his father. "Are you saying that
because she is a wine-girl, she is undeserving of aid when
someone mistreats her?"

"No," Niall answered. "I am saying that I hope she
was worth the loss of a trade alliance between Homana

and Caledon."
Brennan grasped the implications more quickly than

the others. "Oh."

"Aye. Oh."

"Do you mean it?" Hart asked. "Prince Emar will
refuse to negotiate because of this?"

"Possibly."

"But you do not know that," Corin observed shrewdly.
"Do you, jehan?"

"There is a possibility the negotiations will be post-
poned, even canceled. There are certainly precedents for

Jennifer Roberwn

42

such things, when princes meddle in politics even though
they are more suited to drinking wine in uncommon

taverns."
^Usca" Corin corrected quietly. Hart looked at him as

if he had lost his wits.

Niall nodded a little, "Perhaps you were correct to
defend the wine-girl's honor; I will not protest that. It is
good manners, if nothing else. But I will protest the
disregard you had for the delicacy of relationships be-
tween realms. I will also protest your inability to recall
that diplomacy is necessary in nearly every situation,
certainly this one. And I will most decidedly protest your
inability to remember that Cheysuli warriors do not brawl
in taverns." He paused, marking their shocked faces.
"Princes do not brawl in taverns. My sons do not brawl
in taverns." Again he paused, and heard the echo of his
voice ringing in the chamber. "Do I make myself clear?"

Corin stared at him defiantly. "We have done it before."

Hart moved closer to Brennan, taking a definitive step
away from his younger brother.

Slowly Naill moved from the casement. He walked to
his youngest son and paused before the stool. And
abruptly, before Corin could speak or make any sort of
protest, Naill reached down and grasped the injured wrist,
snapping Corin to his feet.

^Jehan—" But Corin, though clearly in pain, broke off
his protest when he saw the expression on his father's

face.

"You have spent twenty years in Homana-Mujhar,
sharing in the bounty of your birth," Niall said in a tone
that, for all its gentleness, implied more displeasure than
shouting might have. "Your jehana was Princess of Atvia
in her own right, bred of Cheysuli warriors and Homanan
kings. I care little enough what you may think of me, or
what I do—but you will respect the blood that flows in
your veins." Niall drew in a breath that did nothing to
dispel the rising anger in his tone. "That blood you have
spilled all too often in petty tavern brawls. It must stop,
Corin. It must. Rid yourself of this resentment and hos-
tility and conduct yourself as a prince and Cheysuli war-


A PRIDE OFPltWCES

43

rior should." He paused, looking for something in Corin's
blue eyes. "It is not worthy of you," he said, more

quietly.
Corin set his teeth. "And I am not worthy of you."

Niall released the injured wrist instantly. His jaw slack-
ened momentarily and something odd glinted in his good
eye; something that spoke of shock, of memories and
unexpected pain, in addition to the sudden flaring of an

intense, abiding regret-

Deirdre wanted to go to him at once, but refrained. It
would undermine his authority completely if she showed
his sons how much Corin's words had hurt him; now, at
this moment, Niall needed all the strength and resolution
he could find, if he were to command their respect and

obedience.
The Mujhar turned away a moment, then swung back

to face them all. He looked at Hart and Brennan, ignor-
ing Corin as if he had nothing more to say to him. Or as
if he could not bear to look at him and see the son who
so closely resembled the young Niall in coloring as well

as insecurity.

"What I have said to Corin applies equally to you," he
told his twin-bom sons. "I have raised none of you to
behave as common soldiers on leave, fighting over petty
slights and imagined insults, nor as crofters spending
their few coins on liquor and wine-girls . . . nor on fool-
ish wagers." His eye flicked to Hart, then returned to
Brennan. "I expected such behavior out of you least of

all."
Brennan stood very straight, but his shoulders lost

their set.
Quickly Hart spoke up. "Blame him no more than me,

jehan."
"No," Niall agreed. "But less than you, aye. It was

your idea to go there, was it not?"

Hart opened his mouth, then shut it. After a moment,
he nodded. "We meant only to drink a little, jehan. Not
to fight. You know I would rather throw the dice and

rune-sticks than fight."
"Reynald deserved it, jehan," Corin said flatly. "And

44 Jennifer Roberson

if the rest of the Caledonese royal house is like him, you
do not wish to make an alliance with them anyway."

"Do I not?" Niall looked calmly at his youngest son-
"I see—I am to base the future of Homanan economy
solely on the personalities of Caledon's rulers. At least, so
you say,"

"Jehan—"

"Corin, I think you have very much to learn about
dealing with other kingdoms," the Mujhar said gently.
"And I suggest you begin now, because in two or three
years you will be going to Atvia to take your rightful
place as heir to Alaric's throne."

"Atvia," Corin said in disgust- "And if I would prefer
to remain here?"

"Well, there is a choice," Niall said. "You may remain
here as a dispossessed, disinherited son, or accept your
tahlnwrra and go to Atvia."

Conn's eyes narrowed. "I might also stay here with the
clans, jehan. You cannot dispossess me of my heritage,
nor disinherit me from my Ur."

"I would not need to dispossess you of your Cheysuli
heritage," Niall told him quietly, "A warrior turning his
back on his tahlmorra is solely to blame for his disinheri-
tance, which also includes loss of the afterworld." He
paused a moment. "Corin, this serves nothing and is not
necessary. What is necessary, however, is for all of you
to acknowledge that you have been immature and irre-
sponsible, and to accept your punishment."

"That depends on what it is," Corin muttered beneath
his breath, as Hart glared at him openly.

"It is that I forbid you to attend the banquet this
evening."

"That is all?" Hart blurted, and winced as Brennan
kicked him covertly.

"In not attending the banquet, you will keep your-
selves to your respective chambers," Niall explained,
"and you will remain in them until I give you leave to go
out of them. No banquets, no taverns, no Clankeep." He
fixed his eye on each of his sons individually. "No horses,"
he said to Brennan, "No wagering," he ordered Hart.

A PMDE OF PRWCES                 45

And lastly, to Corin, "No visits from any of Deirdre's
ladies."

"For how long?" Brennan demanded indignantly, for-
going all the diplomacy he had so carefully cultivated. "If
I leave Bane for even a day, all my progress will be
undone and I will have to begin again."

Hart frowned. "And how am I expected to pass the
time, jehan, while I wait for your leave to go?'*

But Corin laughed. "Enforced celibacy, jehani Well, it
will only leave the ladies all the more eager for me when
I can share their company again."

Deirdre smiled serenely. " Tis hard for my ladies to
be eager when their positions are in jeopardy."

Corin stared at her in-astonishment. "You would do
that?"

"To support the Mujhar, I will do anything," she said
calmly. "Just as all of his children should, sons and
daughters alike."

That enforced silence among them as nothing else had.

Niall nodded. "You may go," he said quietly. "Meals
will be sent up from the kitchens."

In silence, his three still proud but decidedly chastened
sons filed slowly out of the chamber.

Four

Corin shut the door to his chambers with a resounding
thud, knowing it childish, but satisfied with the action
nonetheless. And then he regretted it almost instantly,
because he had employed his right wrist in the motion
and the wrist was less than pleased.

He cursed, examined it briefly, decided it was very
sore and bruised, but not broken. Still, it would keep
him from arms-practice for a week or more, and that he
did not appreciate.

Have I only myself to blame?

Why? came the familiar liquid tone of his lir within
the pattern of their link. What have you done now?

He looked for Kiri and found her lumped in the center
of his draperied bed. She was little more than a knot of
red fur, with sharp jet nose lucked firmly beneath a
black-tipped tail.

Corin sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed,
staring disconsolately at his wrist as she worked the fin-
gers. / have involved myself in a tavern brawl, which is
beneath me—or so I am told by my jehan—and have
drawn Caledonese blood, which may result in damaged
trade ties between Homana and Caledon. He paused. /
have also been incredibly rude and disrespectful to my
jehan.

Have you?

"Aye," he said aloud, with conviction. "Kiri, why is it
I always say things I regret? Especially to my jehanT'

Because your mouth works independently ofyour.brain.

46

A PRIDE OFPRWCES                 47

The vixen rose, shook her glossy red pelt into order, came
over to sit beside her lir. Her expression was made quiz-
zical by black mask and slanted amber eyes. Lir, one day
you will learn,

"Will I?" He sighed and flopped backward, stretching
out on the huge bed. "He threatens to send me to Atvia
in two or three years, fir ... and the gods know I have
no wish to go."

Atvia is your place, the fox said. You will be its king. Is
that not a fine thing, and worth much pride?

"A fine thing, aye," Corin said on a deeper sigh, "and
undoubtedly worth much pride. The trouble is, I have
little enough of that. I look at Hart and Brennan and see
real warriors and princes, while I am left to feel inferior,"

All nonsense. Kiri settled her chin on his muscular
thigh, slanted eyes closing. You have a lir . . . you have
me—how could you possibly feel inferior?

"A habit that often happens when a warrior receives
his lir late," Corin retorted. "I was sixteen, Kiri, as you
should well recall—both my rujholli were thirteen. I
had three years in which to fear I would never receive
one, while Brennan flaunted Sleeta and Hart learned to
fly with Rael."

And the Mujhar had nineteen years. Kiri's tone plainly
said Conn's complaint had no foundation.

A fist banged on the door. Corin knew the sound
extremely well. "Keely," he called, "now is not the time
to gloat."

There came a muffled shout from the other side. "I am
not here to gloat—" His sister's voice broke off a mo-
ment, then renewed itself. "What have you done now,
Corin, that would cause me to gloat?" Without waiting
for his leave to enter, she pushed open the heavy wooden
door and slipped through, shutting it decisively. She
stopped dead; elbows jutted out as she locked hands on
hips. "Oh, rujho . . . not another fight."

"No." Corin struggled up. "I am in this state of disre-
pair because Deirdre's ladies could not keep themselves
from me." He looked down at his torn, soiled russet
doublet- He smelled of wine, smoke and lantern oil.

48                  Jennifer Roberson

"Did you win?" Keely asked.

"All three of us won."

"Three . . ." Her blue eyes, so like his own, narrowed.
"Hart, of course . . . and Brennan? Brennan?"

"Brennan." Corin began to work at his right boot,
desiring to strip it off. "He came with us to keep us from
trouble, he said—and then promptly began the fight with
Reynald."

"Reynald? Einar's brother?"

"Cousin." A twinge of pain shot through his injured
wrist, and he swore. "The ku'reshtin tried to force him-
self on a wine-girl, and then when she refused his atten-
tions he slapped her. She broke a jug and cut her hand."

"And Brennan came to her rescue." Keely's tone was
dry; her expression indicated she, as much as Corin, was
less than enamored of Brennan's status as eldest—and
favorite—son. "How like him."

Corin swore again as he wrestled with the recalcitrant
boot. "Keely—come and help me with this,"

She swept across the room, shaking her head, and bent
to catch the heel and toe of the brown boot in both
hands. Only then did he realize she wore a rich copper-
colored gown of silk and velvet instead of customary
leathers; her tawny hair was braided Cheysuti fashion,
pinned against her head and all achime with golden bells,
A topaz and garnet torque clasped a slender, elegant
neck.

Keely grunted, tugging on the boot, then caught his
eye. Instantly color flared in her face. "Must you stare,
too?" She was clearly annoyed as well as flustered. "Deir-
dre insisted—she said I could not attend the banquet in
leggings and jerkin."

"Well, no," he agreed. "Keely—" He grinned, shrugged,
laughed aloud. "So much for the independent rujholla I
know so well."

^Ku'reshtin" she muttered, tugging on the boot again.
"They will have you bathed and oiled and perfumed
before you know it, and where will you be then?"

His mouth twisted in a grimace of disgust. "No," he
said. "I am banished to my chamber."

A PitlDE OF PitWCES

49

The boot came off. Keely straightened stiffly, gaping
at him as she clutched the leather in both hands. "What?
You—banished? Who has banished you?"

"The only one who can," he answered wryly.

"He did not." The bells chimed as she shook her head
in disbelief. "Why?"

"I am in disgrace."

"Because of the tavern brawl?"

"Aye. He was—less than-pleased." Corin sighed. "He
has every right to be, I think. We did bruise Reynald's
pride a little." He smiled. "We bruised it a lot."

"Reynald deserves it," she said flatly, bending to re-
move his other boot. "Einar as well—do you know /
have to be his partner'at the banquet?'* In disgust she
jerked on the boot, which elicited a curse from Corin
because it jarred his wrist. "Let him have Maeve, if he
requires a princess to prop up his foreign pride."

"I think his pride will be propped up enough when he
sees three empty chairs," Corin muttered. "He will know
why, and doubtless he will gloat."

"Then I will see to it he cannot," Keely said firmly. A
final twist freed his foot. She dropped the boot to the
floor and sat down at his right 'side, leaving his other to
Kiri. "Let me see your wrist."

He held out his arm. Keely carefully peeled the sleeve
of the velvet doublet and the silken undersleeve back,
baring the swollen wrist. Her fingers were gentle but
matter-of-fact; like a warrior, she had little patience with
injuries.

"Not broken," she said, after a moment, and pushed
the arm away.

Corin scowled. "And will you be so solicitous with
Scan, when you are wed?"

"Sean will take me as he finds me; he is not marrying a
nursemaid," she said darkly. Then she made fists of her
hands and banged the air with them. "Oh, gods, Corin, I
have no wish to go to Erinn! I have no wish to be
cheysula to some Erinnish island princeling!"

"Aye, well, our jehan pays little enough mind to what
we do and do not want," her brother said grimly. "I said

S9 Jennifer Roberson

I had no desire to go to Atvia, and he said it was my
choice if I went, or remained here and became a dispos-
sessed, disinherited son."

Keely's mouth twisted in disgust. "But if Brennan were
to ask. . . ."

"He has no need to ask; Homana will be his. He goes
nowhere." Corin sighed and rose to undo the fastenings
of his ruined doublet. After a moment of struggling with
his left hand, he appealed to Keely once again. As she
clucked her tongue over his helplessness and undid the
fastenings, Corin craned his head out of her way. "But at
least Brennan was banished to his chambers, too."

Keely's fingers paused, "Brennan was?"

"All three of us."

"He was displeased, then."

"As he will be if I keep you here longer." Corin
pushed her hands away. "I will call a body-servant—Keely,
you must go. Give Einar a taste of your wit."

"With sweet Maeve on his other side?" Keely shook
her head. "He will think me a waspish shrew.'*

Corin merely raised eloquent tawny eyebrows.

"Ku'reshtin," she muttered, and took herself out of
the room-
Hart soaked in a hot bath, drank half a decanter of
wine, then suffered his ribs to be strapped by his body-
servant. Once the man was done and dismissed. Hart
went over to the polished silver plate hung on one of his
bedchamber walls, and stared somberly at the bandages
that made it so difficult to breathe. But the linen strap-
ping did not draw his attention so much as the black eye.
He fingered the bruising gingerly.

"You," he said somberly, "are a poor son- A poor son
and a poorer prince. You know better."

Almost at once he felt restored. There. He had admit-
ted his shortcomings; now he could get on with his life
without excess guilt. He tried a smile at the battered face
in the plate, found it did not hurt as much as he thought
it might, and turned away.

You know better, but it does not stop you, chimed the

A PRIM w PHWCES              51

voice that served as his conscience. All Cheysuli had
them. They were known as Ur.

"No," Hart agreed lightly. "Why should it?"

The hawk shifted on his perch in the comer nearest the
big tester bed. Rael was white save for the jet black
edging on each individual feather, and his eyes, which
were the color of palest ale.

It should if it is wrong, the hawk pointed out.

"Was I wrong?" Hart, still nude from his bath, plucked
the clean leather leggings from his bed and very carefully
pulled them on. He grunted, swore, cast aspersions upon
the parentage of the Caledonese who had so squashed
him. And then he recalled that Corin had had as much to
do with it as the foreign guardsman, and promptly in-
cluded his brother in his deprecations. "How could I be
wrong, Rael; I was only defending myself."

It would be redundant to say you should not have been
in the position to have to defend yourself, Rael com-
mented, having said it regardless of redundancy; it was
often necessary with Hart.

"Enough," Hart said succinctly. He rubbed his hands
through heavy black hair still damp from washing. In the
candlelight the /ir-gold on his arms, now bared, gleamed.
The light lingered on incised lines of intricate feathering;

on the exultation of a hawk in flight, wings spread to
curve around the wide, rune-bordered armband. In honor
of the lir Hart now attempted to silence.

"Do you reprove your own lir'!" asked lan from the
doorway. "A distinct admission of guilt, harani. . . you
are slipping. And if you tell me you deserve this exile
from the banquet, I shall know you have gone mad."

Hart grimaced. Before his uncle, all his new-found
contentment fled. "No, no—I will save you from insan-
ity, su'faii. What I did was necessary, and certainly not
deserving of punishment."

"Ah, I am set at ease.'* lan grinned. He was five years
older than his brother, the Mujhar, but like most Cheysuli
he did not show his age. His hair was still black, save for
a single silver forelock that fell to hide his left eyebrow,
and his flesh still taut over pronounced musculature, with

52 Jennifer Robeiwn

only the faintest of creases fanning out from yellow eyes.
In blue-dyed leggings, boots and jerkin, as well as Ur-
gold at left ear and on his bare arms, lan was all Cheysuli
physically, though he claimed a splash or two of Homanan
blood.

"You have seen my jehan, then." Hart sighed. "He
told you it was my idea to go to the tavern, I am sure."

"No." lan shut the door and leaned against it, folding
his arms. "He did not need to tell me—when I heard a
tavern was involved, I knew it was your idea." He smiled
in response to Hart's grimace. "Corin may be the impul-
sive one, rebelling against this or that, but he follows
more than he leads. Brennan, of course, knows better
than to leave Homana-Mujhar when his jehan has asked
him expressly not to, unless given a very good reason for
disobedience. And Keely was here; had it been her idea,
she would have gone." He shrugged. "Whom does it
leave. Hart? Maeve?"

Hart's response was a snort of derisive amusement-
Then he sighed and scratched absently at his bandages.
"I am so obvious, then."

"To me, aye," lan agreed. "To others, no. You have
the odd ability to hide yourself even as you stand before
numerous people. I think it is something you enjoy."

"No, no, not always." Hart shook his head. "I do not
hide myself from you, su'fali."

"Only because I have watched you do it, and know
how you do it." lan smiled. "Even Niall does not see it."

"Because he sees little of any of us."

"You discredit him, harani. He sees Brennan, because
Brennan is his heir, and he must. He sees Corin because
Corin is frequently contentious, often purposely. And
Keely, of course, because Keely stubbornly refuses to
acknowledge that others perceive her as a woman, when
she would rather be perceived as a Cheysuli."

"And in Maeve he sees Deirdre." Hart sighed. "Fa-
vorite son, favorite daughter."

"I did not think it bothered you."

Hart looked at him in surprise, "It does not, su'fali. I

A PRIDE OFPltMCES                  S3

»
i.

it

am content enough with my lot—more than content with
it. I only meant he makes no secret of his prejudice."

"When you are a jehan—and a king—you will see why
it is difficult for him to reconcile affection with author-
ity," lan told him. "It was so with your grandsire, and
now yow jehan."

"I do not see you reconciling such things with children,
su'fali," Hart shot back. "Where is your cheysula^. Where
is your mey'/ia? Are you so inspired by your rujholli that
you neglect your own responsibilities?"

lan, unoffended, merely smiled. "I am not dead yet,
harani. There may well come a time I bestow a /(r-torque
on one particular woman. But until then—"

*'—until then, you leave half the women in Clankeep
yearning for you." Hart grinned, "Not to mention a few
of Deirdre's ladies."

"That, I think, is Conn's province rather than mine."

"Not all of them, su'fali. I am not blind."

"No. Only distracted by the lure of the fortune-game,
and other such profitless time-wasters." lan shook his
head. "Do you wonder why the Mujhar grows impatient
with you? You act as though you have no concern for
the blood in your veins. You are as much a part of the
prophecy as the Mujhar, my young harani; as much as
Brennan, Corin, and Keely. If you think to shrug it off
with games, you will soon learn that a tahlmorra can
make itself known at a very inopportune time."

"As with you?" Hart faced lan squarely, all the levity
banished from his bruised face. "As it did with you,
when the Ihlini witch took your lir and your will and
forced you to lie with her?"

At once he regretted the words. The story was one few
people knew of, and fewer spoke about. No Cheysuli
warrior—least of all the Mujhar's brother and loyal liege
man—wished to admit he had been ensorcelled by an
Ihlini. Knowing that the ensorcellment had involved shar-
ing Lillith's bed—against his will, made powerless through
temporary lirlessness—was a wound that did not heal.
Even a yearly i'toshaa-ni ritual had failed to cleanse him
of the humiliation.

54 Jennifer Roberson

And now his favorite nephew had thrown it in his face.

"Su'fali—" Hart took a step toward lan, then stopped.
"Su'fali—forgive me. I should not have spoken." In dis-
gust, he scraped a splay-fingered hand through drying
hair. "There are so many things I should not say or do."

"Aye," lan agreed grimly. "And one day, perhaps,
you will learn to say and do none of them."

Hart watched his uncle go. And then he roundly cursed
himself, with elaborate eloquence.

The Prince of Homana stood by his great bed and
looked down on the sleek black mountain cat sprawled
across it with an elegance only her kind knew. The heavy
rope of tail curved around one haunch. It did not twitch,
nor did her tufted ears, but Brennan knew she was awake.
He had sensed it within the link the moment he entered
the room.

"I should have taken you with me," he said in weary
disgust. "I should have taken you to keep me from
trouble, even as I went with my rujholli to keep them
from trouble." He sighed again. "As you see, the results
were less than spectacular." He reconsidered. "No. They
were spectacular. I should say, less than satisfactory."

The cat opened one golden eye. It was not you, Ur. It
was your rujholli.

"That changes nothing. / started the brawl."

With reason?

"Of course I had a reason." Brennan scowled at her.
"I am not Hart, who does it out of ignorance while in the
heat of greed. I am not Corin, who does it out of perver-
sity. I am me, rememer? The eldest, the maturest, the
most trustworthy of all the Mujhar's sons." He paused.
And then he swore. "I should have let them go alone."

And if you had?

"Oh, there would have been a fight regardless, I think.
Which is precisely why I did go with them." Brennan sat
down on the bed. "Gods, Sleeta, I sometimes think I will
go mad."

It is not your responsibility to be jehan to your rujholli,
she pointed out. They have one already.

A PKIDE W PttWCES                 5S

"Aye, aye, I know." Brennan picked at the ruined
sleeve of his black velvet doublet. Beneath the blood-
crusted fabric, his arm stung. He could not tell how deep
the knife wound was. One-handed, he tried to undo the
fastenings and found he could not. He went to the door
and shouted for his body-servant.

The man came quickly enough, but so did Maeve. She
dismissed him at once, even when Brennan protested,
and declared she would tend her wounded brother her-
self. The body-servant accordingly brought hot water,
clean cloths and salve, and Maeve set about stripping the
doublet from Brennan.

He helped her as best he could, shouldering out of the
velvet once she peeled if from the silken undertunic, and
perched on the three-legged stool when she told him to.
Deftly, she washed the wound with soft cloth and gentle
fingers.

"You should remove this gold." Maeve tapped a fin-
gernail against the /ir-band.

"No."

"I think you will hardly give up your rank or warrior
status if you do," she said absently, dabbing carefully at
the crusted wound. *' 'Tis only one, Brennan."

He smiled as he heard the faint Erinnish lilt in her
voice. The oldest of them all at twenty-three, Maeve had
spent all but two years in Homana, but the close relation-
ship between mother and daughter had resulted in an
occasional hint of Erinn in her speech.

"You will soil your gown," he told her, trying to pull
the heavy yellow velvet away from leather breeches stained
with blood and dirt and wine.

"I can change it. Wait—forgive me!—" as he hissed in
pain, "—there. Only a tittle blood."

He craned his head to inspect the wound. The slice
divided his flesh with neat precision, ending somewhere
beneath the armband. He recalled the scrape of steel on
gold.

Brennan flexed the muscle. It hurt, but seemed unim-
paired. "Just tie it up, Maeve. I will be well enough."

"Patience, patience, my lord prince." She smiled and

56 Jennifer Roberwn

slanted him a glance out of green eyes. "How can you go
to a banquet with an arm left to bleed all over the
guests?"

"Easily, as 1 am not invited." He worked at the heavy
armband a moment; tugged it from its customary place
above his elbow and slid it onto his forearm, where it
dangled like a bracelet. The candlelight caught gold,
flashed, washed the bronzed flesh with an ocher tinge,
The flesh that was usually hidden under the band was
lighter, though hardly fair; Brennan frowned and touched
it, disliking the nakedness.

Maeve stopped sponging the wound. "Not invited!"

"Let us say—uninvited." He scratched at the pale flesh
above his elbow. "Jehan has decreed we are to remain in
our respective chambers until he decrees otherwise."

"Hart and Corin, again," she said darkly, and sighed.
"Brennan, one day you will come to their aid and they
will get you slain."

"Is that a reason to ignore them, then?" He winced.
"Maeve, that is living human skin, not the tanned hide of
an animal."

"They take advantage of you, Brennan. And they al-
ways have. Especially Hart." Her Ups were pressed flat
as she carefully nibbed salve around the wound, pressed
the flesh together, wrapped it snuggly with linen- He
thought the grim expression ruined the symmetry of her
features. Like her mother, Maeve was green-eyed, blonde,
attractive in a bold, handsome way. There was no mark
of Niall upon her. Maeve personified the Erinnish side of
her heritage, lacking even the faintest trace of Cheysuli
gifts or coloring.

And that is one thing Keely can gloat over, he reflected.
My proud Cheysuli rujholla may lack the color, but none
of the gifts. The Old Blood gives her a distinct advantage.

"Well," he said aloud, "I can hardly let Hart go out by
himself when I know he is likely to get into trouble."

"Aye, you can," she demurred. "He is not your lir, that
you have to attend him always."

"No, not my lir. But twin-bom, which is a link at least
as binding as what I have with Sleeta." Brennan watched

A PRIDE W PUNCES                 57

her face. "I mean no offense, rujholla, but you cannot
begin to understand what is between children of the same
birth."

Her fingers, tying off the linen, stopped moving. Stiffly,
Maeve moved away to stand directly in front of him.
"No," she agreed in an odd, flat voice. "No, I cannot.
No more than I can understand why two of my brothers
and my sister resent me so, simply because I had the
great good fortune to be the only child bom of the union
between the Mujhar and his light woman."

"You cannot accuse Hart of resenting you," Brennan
told her. "He resents no one. All he thinks about is how
best to win his wagers."

Her mouth twisted. "Such consolation, Brennan—that
you do not leap to deny the resentment on Corin's and
Keely's part."

He sighed and reached out to catch one of her hands.
It was stiff, and very cold. "Maeve, you know them.
Corin resents the world, I think, for making him third-
bom instead of first; Keely resents that she has no voice
in her disposition." He pulled her more closely to him,
until a fold of her skirts brushed against one knee, "You
are free of a cradle-betrothal. Yo» are free of the respon-
sibilities of helping to fulfill the prophecy. You are free
of the need to prove yourself able to live up to self-
expectations. But mostly, you are free to be yourself,
which is what Keely wants more than anything."

"She is herselfl"

"No. Corin understands this better than I—Keely and
I do not agree on much, as you know—but I think Keely
desires to be more than cheysula, princess, jehana ... I
think she wants to know the freedom most men have, to
be whatever they choose to be, and do what they wish to
do."

"You do not. You were cradle-betrothed. By the gods,
Brennan, you will marry Liam of Erinn's daughter just as
Keely will wed his son! How can she say you have more
freedom than she does? How can she resent me simply
because I am not discontented by my place in this life?"
Maeve pulled her hand out of his and turned her back,

ss

fenntfer KotmwH

skirts swirling. And then she swung around to face him
once again, brass-bright hair whipping in its loose net of
gold wire and glittering topaz gemstones. "Would she
trade places with me, I wonder, in her desire for content-
ment, if she knew she would be called the bastard daugh-
ter of the Mujhar and his Erinnish whore?'*

"ly/w calls you that?" Brennan was abruptly on his
feet. The tears that glittered briefly in Maeve's eyes were
enough to make him long to take his sword from its rack
upon the wall.

"No one. Everyone.'* Maeve gestured sharply with
both hands, expressing helplessness. "No one to my face,
of course. They value their lives too much, knowing
better than to say it near members of the House of
Homana. But—1 have heard it. Muttered. Whispered.
Sometimes said quite clearly, when I go to Market
Square."

"Maeve, you know he would wed her if he could. You
know he would make her Queen of Homana, and you
legitimate. And he will—when Gisella no longer lives."

"You speak of your mother, Brennan."

**I speak of the half-breed Cheysuli witch he married,'*
Brennan said plainly. "I speak of the madwoman who
bore him children, then tried to give them over to Strahan
the Ihlini—and would have, had jehan not caught her at
ft, preventing the travesty." He shivered in distaste.
"Gods—when I think of what I might have become had
she succeeded. . . ."

"Dead," she said hollowly.

"Or worse." Brennan wanted to spit.

"Worse?" Maeve stared at him. "What could be worse?"

"We would be made minions,'* he said flatly. "Minions
of Strahan; of Asar-Suti, the Seker, who made and dwells
in darkness," He could not help-the instinctive move-
ment of his hand toward his knife. "He would cause us to
be minions, Maeve, and to sit as puppets upon our re-
Bpective thrones, allowing Strahan to rule in our places.
To rule—and to destroy."

Five

"Two days," Hart said emphatically. "How much longer
do you think I can last, mewed up in my chamber like a
disobedient child?"

Corin, seated cross-legged on the floor of his chamber
with Kiri in his lap, upside down so her belly could be
properly scratched, looked at his brother expressionlessly.
"For one, you are not in your chamber, you are in
mine—and I think the idea was that you were a disobedi-
ent child."

"Aye, well, enough is enough," Hart said crossly. "I
think he has forgotten us. Surely he could not expect us
to remain night and day in our chambers."

"Sure he could," Corin corrected. "I am no fonder
of my chamber than you of yours, but there appears to
be no solution—" He stopped short. "I know that ex-
pression, Hart—what are you thinking?"

Hart grinned. "That we are Cheysuli warriors, and
there is indeed a solution. That it is time we employed
it." He scratched idly at his sleeveless Cheysuli jerkin,
dyed a soft amber brown; the bound flesh beneath it
itched. "That it is time I found a game before I lose my
wits."

"I thought you had no money."

"There are the twenty-five crowns you owe me."

Corin grimaced. "Aye, that again." He waved a hand.
"There, in the brass-bound casket—I think there are
twenty-five."

Hart crossed to a table. He tipped the lid of the casket

S9

Jennifer Robersw

60

and nodded, eyebrows raised; there were considerably
more than twenty-five. Supple fingers dipped in, deftly
counted out twenty-five pieces of gold, tucked them into
a leather belt-purse already tied at his right hip. "Thank
the gods for a thrifty rujhotti"

"No more thrifty than the next man," Corin retorted,
scrubbing affectionately at Kin's belly fur. "It is only that
I avoid the games you thrive on."

"Aye, well . . . shall we go find one?'*

Corin's hand stopped moving. "You are serious."

"Aye." Hart nodded. "Shall we go?"

"Now?" Corin glanced out the nearest casement and
saw the sun was already down. "Our jehan has expressly
forbidden this sort of thing. Hart."

"Aye."

Corin studied him. "That does not bother you in the
least."

"Aye, it does. But not enough to gainsay me." Hart
grinned and patted the now-filled belt-purse. "How will
he know, rujhof We will go out like thieves and come
back like thieves. Only wealthier."

Corin scratched slowly at his jaw, considering. "What
of Brennan?"

"I asked." Hart shrugged. "He swore, called me a fool
and every other name he could think of, Homanan and
Old Tongue alike—and said he would leave us to our
folly."

"Us." Corin scowled. "He was so certain I would go?"

"Quite certain."

"Ku'reshtin," Corin commented without heat. "Well, I
think he has the right of it." He let Kiri get out of his
lap, then stood. "Where do we go, ny/*o? Not The
Rampant Lion again."

Hart laughed. "No, no, even I am not so foolish. No, I
think we should go to a different part of the city, just to
be safe in case our absence is discovered, and jehan sends
the Guard again." One finger caressed the heavy knife
hi!t at his left hip. "I thought we might try the Midden."

"The Midden!" Corin, aghast, stared at him. "That is
hardly our part of Mujhara, Hart. The Midden is infested

A PVDE OF PitWCES

with thieves, cutpurses, assassins. . . ." He shook his
head. "No wonder Brennan said you were a fool."

Hart grinned his lopsided grin. "I did not precisely tell
him that is where we are going."

Corin grunted. "The Midden is dangerous."

"Aye, it is." Hart merely continued to grin, and ca-
ressed his knife again.

After a moment, Corin's answering grin banished the
scowl. He nodded. "But let me shed these useless vel-
vets, rujfw. If I go to the Midden with you, I go as a
CheysuU." He stopped short of the nearest clothing trunk.
"You do intend to take Rael."

"Of course. He is even now perched on the curtain
wall, awaiting our arrival"

Corin glanced at Kiri. For a moment his eyes were
oddly detached, as he went into the link. Then he sighed.
"Kiri says we are every bit the fools Brennan claims, but
she will come. If only to protect me from myself."

"Rael said something very similar," Hart reflected. The
fcr-gold gleamed on his arms. "Hurry, rujho. I need a
game."

Hart and Corin slipped down the spiraling stairs in a
tower near the back of Homana-Mujhar. The staircase
was only rarely used by any member of the family, being
primarily intended for the household staff; Hart was cer-
tain if they met anyone, they could bluff their way past.

It might have worked, except Corin—in the lead—ran
smack into a shadow-shrouded body at the bottom, near
the door that would pass them out of the palace proper
into the inner bailey.

Corin swore, fell back a step; Hart bumped him and
jostled him forward.

"I knew you would come this way." Brennan's voice;

he opened the door partway and let the diffused light of
bailey torches spill into the tower. Corin blinked. Kiri's
eyes reflected oddly in the distorted light. Sleeta was a
plush velvet shadow in the darkness, golden eyes staring
fixedly at Hart and Corin.

<2                Jennifer Roherwm

"Are you here to try and gainsay us?" Hart demanded.
^Rufho—"

"No," Brennan said clearly. "Have I ever been able to
stop you before?"

"Once," Hart said. "You tripped me; I hit my head
and was knocked half senseless."

Conn snickered. Brennan nodded reminiscently. "But
I caught you off-guard then, and I have not been able to
do it since. We are too well-matched, now, in size and
experience." He peered out the door. "I think the way is
dear."

"You are coming?" Corin was patently astonished.

"Ly or no lir, I can trust neither of you to look out for
your welfare. Aye, I am coming."

"And ifjehan catches us?"

"He will no doubt have us executed," Brennan said
lightly. "Now, where is it we are going?"

Corin glanced over his shoulder to Hart, who shrugged
a little.

"Where?" Brennan asked suspiciously.

"The Midden," Corin said. Hastily, he added, "Hart's
idea."

Brennan looked at his blue-eyed twin in silence a mo-
ment. And then he said, very quietly, "You are even a
greater fool than I thought."

"I need a game," Hart said. When Brennan only stared
at him, he slipped past both brothers and stalked outside,
fir-gold agleam in the torchlight.

They went horseback to the edges of the Midden, the
border between lesser and greater Mujhara in attitude as
we\\ as advantages. The mounts they left at a small
uvery, then went ahead on foot. They walked the nar-
row, night-blackened streets like shadow-wraiths, moving
through the depths of the moonless night. Sleeta padded
silently at Brennan's side, only her great golden eyes
betraying her presence. Rael was a faint shimmering blur
overhead; Kiri, quick, delicate Km, trotted at their backs.

Others moved in the darkness as well, soft-footed,

A PHSDE WPltMCES

63

silent, silk-smooth; men well-versed in the art of decep-
tion and subterfuge. No one spoke a word.

The cobbles under their boots were muffled beneath
layers of dirt and the remains of old droppings, packed
into the seams and hollows formed by rounded, time-
worn bricks. The winding street smelled of old ale, urine,
the close confinement of people unused to washing. In
comers they heard scuttling and squeaking; occasionally
the yowl of a torn cat protecting his territory.

The dwellings themselves were all of wood, set cheek-
by-jowl in crooked comers and dogleg turnings. Candles
glowed here and there, a lantern, occasionally a torch.
But the night held dominance.

Corin twitched his wrist experimentally. A shiver of
anticipation coursed down his spine; he felt the sting in
his armpits. "Where do we go?" he asked quietly.

Hart shrugged. "A tavern—any tavern. No place in
particular."

"Well-planned," Brennan muttered. "Jehan would be
so proud."

"Perhaps we should have brought Keely instead of
you," Hart retorted. "The gods know she has more will-
ingness than you to explore the unknown."

"Perhaps you should have," Brennan agreed. "Then
there would be four fools in place of three."

"Leave Keely out of it," Corin warned.

"She would have come," Hart said.

"Aye," Corin agreed. "And then we would have to
concern ourselves with how many rude-speaking men she
would be likely to cut, to teach them better manners."

"There," Hart said abruptly, stopping short. "A tavern."

Corin and Brennan also stopped, keeping to the shad-
ows. "There?" Brennan asked in disbelief.

"Why not?" Hart returned. "See you the sign-plate?"

The sign-plate in question dangled crookedly from a
length of leather thong. There was no wind; it did not
creak or spin or swing. It seemed to swallow what little
light there was in the street, and throw it back toward the
three Cheysuli princes.

64 Jennifer Roberson

"I see it," Brennan agreed grimly. "I think I can smell
it, also."

" The Pig in the Poke,' " Corin read aloud. "How
appropriate."

Brennan shook his head. "I am not taking Sleeta in
there."

"Then leave her outside to wait with Kiri and Rael,"
Corin said. "They will be close enough if we need them."

"Come," Hart said impatiently, and stepped out to
lead the way across the street.

Brennan brought him up short by catching one bare
arm. "Wait you, rujho—I think we would do well, before
we go, to agree to one thing*"

"Aye, aye, what?" Hart's impatience was manifest.

"That we leave our knives sheathed," Brennan said
clearly, catching Conn's eyes as well. "In this sort of
place, if we show steel we will likely have it fed to us."

"By the gods, Brennan, you will have me thinking you
are a woman instead of warrior!" Corin exclaimed in
disgust. "Have it fed to us, indeed—we are Cheysuli,
Brennan."

"We are also in a part of Mujhara where I doubt very
much anyone will be much impressed by our rank or
race," Brennan answered grimly.

Hart sighed and glanced over at the tavern. "I have no
intention of showing steel, rujho—only enough gold to
buy my way into a game."

"And I am willing to wager the game will be much
different here than at The Rampant Lion."

"Wagering, are you?" Hart grinned. "Come, rujho
... let us go in where your willingness to wager may be
translated into winning." Without waiting for an answer,
he headed across the street as the lir secreted themselves
in the shadows.

The door caught on ridged dirt as Hart pushed it open;

pushing harder, he knocked it off the uneven floor. His
momentum carried it through to slam against the wooden
wall, which served to stop all conversation in the com-
mon room and fasten everyone's attention on the new
arrivals.

A PRIDE OFPRWCES                 65

Brennan, just behind Hart, looked over the room,
judging rapidly. And muttered beneath his breath, "We
should have left the horses closer."

"And have them stolen?" Corin, last in, asked it very
quietly as he shut the door, then turned back to face the
room along with his brothers.

The Pig in the Poke was as unlike The Rampant Lion
as could be. It was unlike any tavern the princes had ever
been in before, and quite suddenly they came to the
realization that their lives had been sheltered indeed. A
few lanterns, stinking of cheap oil, depended from the
roof-tree, which littered the floor liberally with debris
and divots hacked out with knives and swords. The can-
dles were tallow, not wax,-and next to useless, giving off
a smudged, greasy flame that burned only sluggishly.
Thick smoke climbed up the limbs of the tree to hang in
the air like a blanket. The common room stank of old
ale, stale beer and unwashed bodies, as well as despera-
tion and hostility.

Hart indicated an empty table not far from the door. It
was stained dark from age and spilled liquor, sticky with
wine residue, scarred from weapons and spurs. Hart caught
hold of a bench and dragged it over the earthen floor
made uneven and treacherous by divots and hardpacked
ridges. He sat down and placed his hands on the table;

his fingers twitched, as if needing the rune-sticks and dice.

Brennan and Corin followed a moment later. And
when at last the tavern-keeper came over, silence still
ruled the room.

He was not tall but incredibly broad, brown-haired and
brown-eyed, with wide, spatulate fingers. His tunic and
trews were spun of rough homemade yam, nubbed with
numerous flaws, and wine-stained. There was little fat on
his body, save for a belly that overflowed trews and
stretched the tunic tight.

He showed the resin-stained teeth in his mouth, but it
was not precisely a smile. "You be far from your Keep."

"A man in search of a good game will go as far as
necessary," Hart said calmly. "Have you one to offer?"

The tavern-keeper looked at each of them, one at a

66

time- His dark eyes were shrewd and judgmental. "Have
I a game to offer? Well, I might. Have you gold to
offer?" The eyes were on the fir-bands weighting three
pairs of arms.

Hart wet his lips. "Oh, aye, you may say so, and
safely. Enough to play. Now—the game?"

Brown eyes couched in creases stopped evaluating Bren-
nan and Corin entirely, making Hart their sole subject.
The tavern-keeper said nothing at all for several long
moments, and then his unfriendly face loosened a bit.
Not a smile, in no way, but an expression of comprehen-
sion as he saw how Hart's brown fingers tapped inces-
santly against the dirty tabletop.

"Your beasts," he said, in his lowborn dialect. "I'll not
have any in here, where decent men are drinking."

Corin straightened almost imperceptibly on his stool.
One hand dipped below the tabletop and stayed there,
until an unwavering stare from Brennan, across the ta-
ble, made Corin take his hand away from his knife.

Brennan looked up at the tavern-keeper. "They are
fir, not beasts."

Tie man shrugged wide shoulders. "Beasts, fir—what
do I care what you call those sorcerous things from the
netherworld? All I know is, I won't have 'em in here."

"Then perhaps you should not have us in here." Bren-
nan stood deliberately.

Corin looked up at his waiting brother, then shoved his
bench back to rise. He stopped. He lingered there, half-
way, and looked at Hart. "Rujho—"

Hart made no move to join them, and the tavern-
keeper laughed. "Still wanting your game, are you?" He
nodded a little. "Aye, I can see it- So, it touches even
the wondrous Cheysuli." He turned. "Baram—this Chey-
suli be wanting a game."

"Hart," Brennan said quietly.

Hart shook his head. "Go, or stay. / stay."

Brennan watched the man cross the common room.
"Hart—no. This place stinks of trouble. It stinks of
murder!"

A PRIDE WPUNCES                 67

"Not so easy to murder a Cheysuli, I think." Conn sat
down again.

Briefly Brennan touched the linen binding on his left
arm, absently checking the knots Maeve had tied. Then,
with a muttered imprecation, he sat down once more.

"Three to one?" Baram asked.

Brennan shook his head. Corin, seeing Hart's inten-
sity, indicated he would stay out of it as well. He and
Brennan both had seen their middle brother in such a
state before; it was better to let him play alone, against
one or more opponents. He had little time for those who
merely dabbled.

"One to one," Hart said intently, and the tavern-
keeper set down the house casket.

Baram touched the casket with a forefinger, then drew
it away. He was black-eyed and gap-toothed, with a
hideous sear on his chin. "You," he said gruffly.

Hart picked up the casket and upended it, pouring the
dice into his left hand. There were no rune-sticks, only
ivory dice now yellowed with age and dirt. The marks on
them denoting a numerical system were mostly worn
away.

Hart examined them, nodded briefly to himself, poured
them back into the casket. Ivory rattled as he set the
casket down. "The game," he said, and waited.

"Counting game," Baram answered. He paused.
"Count?"

"I count."

"Throw thrice. Each. High two of three wins." He
shrugged. "Simple enow."

"Simple enough." Hart nodded. "Throw."

They played through quickly, with nothing said past
what had to be said. Brennan watched uneasily as other
men in the tavern came closer to watch, leaving their
own games behind. Corin drank wine and watched the
dice as they rattled and danced on the table.

After some time spent trading coin back and forth
between them—Hart's twenty-five gold crowns, Baram's
inconvenient assortment of coppers and silver royals—

69 Jennifer Robersou

Hart leaned forward. "Not good enough," he said. "Shall
we make it more interesting?"

Baram looked at the pile of coins glinting by Hart's
elbow. Their winnings were evenly split, with neither man
showing dominance over the dice. "Aye," he said at last.

Hart tapped his pile. "All."

Baram grunted. "Throw."

Hart threw tens, fives, twos; Baram twelves, eights,
threes. Brennan watched the pile of coins in front of
Hart go into Baram's pocket.

Hart frowned a little, tapped fingers on the table,
nodded to himself. "Again," he said intently.

The Homanan slowly shook his head and pointed a
crooked finger. "No gold, shapechanger. Nothing left to
wager. Don't throw on promises.

Hart tapped his right forefinger on the table. The
sapphire signet flashed in the smudgy light. "I have some-
thing left."

"No," Brennan said sharply.

Baram looked at the ring, at Brennan, at Hart. And he
laughed. "Done," he said, and threw the dice.

Six throws, and the ring was forfeit. Baram put out his
hand.

"No!" Brennan's own hand flashed down to catch Hart's,
preventing him from stripping off the ring. "You are
mad," he said flatly, "mad to think I will let you pay a
debt with this. This ring signifies your title."

"I can get another." Hart tried to withdraw his hand
from Brennan's grasp and did not succeed. "There must
be hundreds of these stones in the treasury, Brennan; I
can have another made."

"No." Brennan looked at Baram. "Will you take gold
in place of this?"

"Gold?" Baram considered him silently a moment.
"D'ye mean to make good his wager/or him, then?"

"I do."

"Now?" Baram asked. "Right now?"

Grimly, Brennan nodded. "I have the coin,"

"No." Baram's eyes went back to Hart, and he grinned
his gap-toothed grin. "You said gold, shapechanger," he

A PRIDC OF PKWCES                 69

gestured toward the fir-bands on Hart's arms, "so I'll be
taking those."

"KuWirin!" Corin cried. "Do you think—"

"No." Brennan's sharp gesture cut him off. He sat
very still on his stool. "I have gold crowns in my belt-
purse, Homanan, and that is what I will pay you with.
Nothing else."

Baram's determination was manifest. "I want those
bracelets, shapechanger—and no man here can say I
didn't win 'em fairly."

Hart's color was bad. "These—M he stopped, wet his
lips, touched his left armband in something very like a
caress. He started over. "These were never at stake," he
said, "never. I owe you,-aye, and you will be paid—but
not with these."

Brennan unlaced his belt-purse and threw it onto the
table. It landed with a heavy thump and a satisfying clink
of gold. "There. More than enough to cover what he
owes you."

Baram's hand shot out, scooped up the purse, hid it
somewhere on his person. "Now," he said, "I'm paid.
But I'm still waiting for those, and there're enough of us
here to see that you give 'em to me."

*Try," Hart suggested, and before anyone else could
move, including his brothers, he caught the table and
overturned it.

Casket, cups and winejug flew in Baram's direction.
Corin ducked, rolled off his stool, came up with knife in
hand, knowing Brennan's ban on edged weapons no longer
held true. Not at all; Corin saw the glint of a knife in
Brennan's hand across the way. But be had no more
time to watch for either brother; men were coming for
him, and he saw steel in their hands.

Oh, gods, he thought, / will have to slay a man.

"Brennan—behind you—" Hart shouted, and then he
had no more time to shout at his brother. Baram himself
was on him with a long-knife in his hand.

A stool, on its side, rolled at Brennan's heels. He
tripped, as he was meant to; staggered back, trying to

Jennifer Roberson

plant his feet and regain his balance—a man, no two—
reaching for him from behind—

Sleeta—~he cried within the link, gods, Sleeta, I never
thought-
Conn felt the wooden wall at his back. Shoulder blades,
leather-clad, scraped; he pressed back, back, wishing he
could somehow slide through the cracks in the boards.
There was no more choice left to him, none at all; he
bled from a cut across the back of one hand, and the two
Homanans came at him again.

Hart twisted aside, caught Baram's wrist. As the
Homanan struggled, cursing. Hart wrenched his arm back
until the cords in Baram's neck stood up. Cords gave; the
knife fell out of his hand.

The stench of spilled oil and greasy flame filled the
common room. Someone cursed; another called that there
was fire.

From outside the tavern came the scream of an angry
mountain cat.

"Kill them, kill all of them!'* the tavern-keeper shouted.
"Kill them before they shift their shapes!"

Brennan, outnumbered, was slammed down against
the floor. Beneath him, a wooden cup jammed against
his spine, so that he writhed away from the pain; the
knife was knocked out of bis hand.

Defenseless, he kicked out and tried to twist away, but
the two men had stretched him so that there was no
leverage. All he could do was thrash helplessly as a
faceless man bent down to slide the knife through leather,
flesh, past muscle into the belly wall.

He dared not lurch upward. Dared not—gasping with
effort, Brennan summoned everything he could of con-
centration, thrusting his consciousness out of the room,
away, away, to somewhere deep in the heart of the
earth.

Gods, gods— he cried in silent appeal, let the magic
come—let the power be tapped—

Corin ducked a knife swipe; threw himself forward,
beneath the arm . . • with all bis strength he jammed his
head into the belly of the Homanan. Breath expelled, the

A PfOW OpPftlMCES

n

man fell backward, knees folding; Corin bore him down,
braced quickly, shoved the knife deeply into the heaving
belly. The Homanan cried out, thrashed futUely, cried
out again.

Corin threw himself off, rolled, came up; blocked the
second man's attack by catching the Homanan's wrist.
Quickly, hardly knowing what he did, Corin sliced deeply
into soft flesh of the underside of the outstretched arm.
Blood flowed; flesh and tendons parted without a sound.

Hart bent, coughed, tried to breathe through the pain
of sore ribs now doubly bruised. Smoke filled his throat
as it filled the room, reaching cloying fingers into eyes,
nostrils, mouths, even as it clogged the corners. Dimly he
saw flames as they ran 'up the walls, danced along the
roof-tree, dripped down to splatter on overturned ta-
bles and stools.

"Get out," he gasped. "Brennan—Corin—" He broke
off as someone wrapped arms around his legs and pulled
him down.

Hart struggled, felt hands insinuating themselves be-
tween his legs; groping, trying to grab, to wrench, to np,
using tactics of the sort Hart, honorably trained, had
never, ever considered.

Outraged, he threw an elbow that caught tile man in the
face, smashed his nose; sent the Homanan tumbling back-
ward, crying out.

Less beleaguered than Brennan and now twice as angry,
Hart called up the earth magic and left behind his human
form for the one with hooked beak and curving talons.

—the one that wiU lend me flight; that I can use to rake
eyes from the enemy, to pluck them from their Homanan
skulls—

Corin saw the flames, the smoke, the bodies. He saw
the blurring of Hart's human form into the void that
swallowed the space where he had stood a moment be-
fore; into the nothingness that was shed, replaced, made
whole once again, only lacking the familiar shape of a
man. Anns were wings, legs talons; the shout Hart began
the shapechange with became the piercing cry of a hunt-
ing hawk—

72 Jennifer Roberwn

—and was joined a moment later by the scream of a
cat, as Brennan left behind Brennan to become an echo
of his lir, tawny instead of black, but dangerous, so
dangerous; so intent on his prey, as he raked claws across
the nearest face, that Corin knew he had gone too far.

Too close, too close—oh, Brennan, no—not you—of all
of us, not you—

Corin turned, stumbling, and reached for the door, for
the latch, clawing it open; jerking open the door and
thrusting it against the wall. Inwardly he called for Kiri.
Aloud, he shouted for both his brothers' lir, and fell
sideways, slamming a shoulder into the door; coughing,
coughing, as smoke boiled out of the tavern into the
darkness of the night.

Kiri, Corin said within the link, Kiri, tell the lir to make
them stop—tell them to stop—this place will become our
pyre—

The vixen understood at once, instantly passing the
message to Sleeta and Rael. Corin knew better than to
think he could talk sense into Brennan or Hart in the
throes of the fight, especially as they were too angry, too
blind to see the danger of remaining inside the tavern.
Even with flame climbing the walls and running out
along the roof to touch the dwelling next door, his broth-
ers would not forgo the fight. Not now.

He heard screams from inside. He turned, saw some-
one afire. How the man danced; how the man screamed,
as he tried to run and could not, trapped by the trunk of
the burning rooftree.

Limbs, bumed through, broke off, and parts of the roof
began to rain down. Flame shot through the openings
and engulfed the upper floor.

"Corin—" Hart, coughing, staggered out. Ash smeared
his face; light from the flames set his Kr-gold to gleaming.
"Corin, is Brennan out?"

"No," Corin answered tersely. "Gods, Hart, this is
your doing."

"Mine—" But Hart stopped the protest at once, swing-
ing back toward the interior of the tavern. "Brennan!"

A PftSOE WPRSHCES                  73

Rael flew out, followed closely by Kiri. Then Sleeta,
unaccompanied,

Hart swore, plainly afraid. Corin caught his arm to
prevent him from going back in, "No, rujho—no!" and
Brennan stumbled out in human form.

Coughing, he nearly fell. "Dead," he gasped. "Dead,
or dying—gods, all of them—"

"And most of the street." Hart's voice was clogged
with phlegm. He coughed, spat; hugged aching ribs.

"No reason for us to mimic them or it," Corin said
firmly. "We have ourselves and our lir . . . I suggest we

go."

Brennan, moving out into the street, craned his neck
to look over his shoulder: "They would have slain us ...
they would have had the gold off all our arms, planting
steel in our bellies."

Hart tried to laugh and could not. But the sound was
not one of humor. "Justifying their end?" he asked Bren-
nan. "Do not bother, rujho ... no more than anyone
will when we are dead."

"If we do not go now, we may well end up that way."
Corin's hand on Hart's wrist was not gentle. "Is it left to
me, then? Well enough, the youngest to the oldest: run—"

They ran. And with them ran—and flew—their lir.

Six

They were lined up before the Lion Throne of Homana,
his sons, in the Great Hall. Like little soldiers, Niall
thought, all prepared to accept their punishment. Except
he was quite certain they had not even considered the
punishment he intended to levy on them.

The cushion beneath his buttocks did nothing to soften
the confines of the Uon. The great wooden throne swal-
lowed him up almost entirely, which was not a simple
task considering his size; he reflected it must have been
die same for Carillon, his grandsire, whom he so closely
resembled.

He looked at his sons, standing three abreast before
the Lion, in front of the firepit that began some six feet
from the marble dais to stretch the length of the hall. He
looked for guilt, regret, comprehension; he looked for
some indication they understood how serious was the
situation. But they had practiced for him, showing him
stiff Cheysuli masks in place of faces, all of them, even
blue-eyed, fair-haired Corin, who lacked the dark skin as
well.

They had practiced, and he could not read their ex-
pressions. Until he told them how many were dead.

"At last count," the MuJhar said quietly, "there were
more than twenty-eight bodies. It could be more; they
are still searching in the rubble." He paused a moment,
looking at his sons. "No one is quite sure; the entire
block was destroyed."

Now the masks slipped. Now the faces were bared.

74

A PitIDE OF PRINCES

75

Shock, disbelief, denial; a profound, sudden and abso-
lute comprehension of where the responsibility lay,

Niall shifted slightly, redistributing his weight within
the embrace of the massive Lion. "I think the time for
explanations is past. I think the assignment of guilt is
unnecessary. Certainly apologies, however heartfelt, can-
not begin to replace the lives and property lost. So I will
request no explanations, no apologies, no admissions of
guilt. I request only that you listen."

None of them said a word. Brennan. he saw, stood
quite rigidly, staring blankly at an area somewhere in the
vicinity of his father's left foot. Niall watched a moment
as his eldest son tried to cope with the shock, the com-
prehension, the tremendous burden of responsibility he
would, as always, try to assume. Even if it was only
partially his.

Corin was plainly stunned. The color was gone from
his face so that his tawny hair seemed a darker gold than
normal. All the muscles stood up in his arms, flexing
around the /y-bands; behind his back, Niall knew, Corin
fisted his hands again and again, as hard as he could
until all the muscles burned, protesting; inflicting discom-
fort to help the comprehension that what he now faced
was real, and not some dream of his imagining. Niall had
seen him do it before.

Lastly, he looked at Hart. Hart, whose insatiable
taste—no, need—tor gambling had, until two nights be-
fore, done little more than rob him of his allowance as
Prince of Solinde; yet now it robbed people of their
property. Of their lives.

Niall pushed himself out of the throne, bracing palms
against the clawed armrests. He felt old, old and stiff,
reluctant to rise and face them as a king, a Cheysuli, a
father. And yet he knew he must.

He stood on the marble dais before the Lion Throne of
Homana, personifying the strength and authority of his
realm, and fixed his middle son with a single hard blue
eyes. "I think it is time I stopped looking the other way.
I think it is time I stopped rebuilding half the taverns in
Mujhara with money from the Homanan treasury, and—

H Jennifer Robersou

occasionally—my personal coffers. I think it is past time I
forced you to become the man your sahlmorra intended
you to be."

Hart did not flinch. "Aye, jehan," was all he said, and
very quietly.

"I might wish you had been so acquiescent before,
Hart."

The mouth flattened a little. "Aye, jehan."

"Well, then, as you are so acquiescent now, I must
assume you will start for Solinde in the morning with good
heart and good cheer."

The color slowly spilled out of Hart's face. "Solinde—?"

"Tomorrow,'* Niall confirmed, "where you will remain
for the space of a year."

"Jefcflrt—"

"You will be sent to Lestra, where you will—I hope, I
pray—begin to learn what it is to be a prince ... a man
with responsibilities ... a man who cannot afford to
drink and dice and brawl." He paused. "Do I make
myself clear?"

"Aye . . .M And then, in shock, "But—9

Yet again, Niall cut him off. "Your allowance will be
strickly administered by the regent who now governs in
my name. He will be advised that he is not to underwrite
your gambling habit in any fashion . . . that if you some-
how lose the last copper penny of your monthly allow-
ance, you will bear the responsibility for repaying the
debt. You, Hart. Not Brennan, not Corin, not lan, Maeve,
Keely or Deirdre. Certainly not me. And certainly not
the Solindish treasury. Is that clear, also?"

"A year . . ." Hart's tone was hollow.

"Aye. You are hereby forbidden your homeland for
the space of a twelve-month, unless I send for you myself."

"Exile." Bitterness, now, beginning to creep in. "First
owjehana, now me."

"The circumstances are unrelated," Niall said coldly,
**thoughrl begin to wonder if there is more of Gisella in
you than of myself." Abruptly, he stopped himself. "You
will leave first thing in the morning."

A PRIDE w PitMCes

77

Brennan took a single step forward. ^Jehan" he said,
"no. I beg you. Say you will reconsider!"

"You are to hold your silence until given leave to
speak," Niall said evenly. Brennan flinched visibly and
did not move or speak again.

It was Corin's turn; Corin, who so rarely knew when
not to defy his father. "And I am to go to Atvia, am I
not?" he asked bitterly. "I am to be exiled too, like
Hart. For a year."

"For a year," Niall confirmed. "The circumstances are
much the same, I think, even if the individual problems
differ; you need to leam to accept the responsibility for
your own actions, and your manners, which can injure
others. And if you think to deny me—as I see you
intend already, judging by your expression—1 suggest
you think back to the deaths you caused only two nights
ago."

"It was not entirely my fault," Conn said angrily. "Lay
no blame, you say. Well, I wiU. You may blame the
cutthroats who tried to slay us, /ehan—the men who were
willing to stick us and watch us bleed for the price of our
fir-gold!"

"You will leave in the morning," Niall said quietly.
"But before you arrive in Atvia, there is a task I would
have you perform."

"Task?" Corin stared at his father. "You send me
away, then ask me to perform a task?"

"One I think you will be pleased to do, as it concerns
the Prince of Homana."

Corin frowned. "Brennan?"

"Did you think I would forgo punishing him because
he is the oldest? Because he is the heir to Homana?"
Niall shook his head. "No. I said I would assign no guilt,
and I do not. Neither do I weigh it by the things you
have done in the past, all of you. Brennan is equally
responsible, and he will share equally in the punishment."

"Equally?" Corin demanded. "I think not. There is
nowhere to send him. Homana is his to rule, one day;

you cannot exile the man who will take your throne."

"I send him nowhere, that is true," Niall said quietly.

78 Jennifer Roberwn

"But I can still make certain he begins to accept the
responsibilities you and Hart must also accept. And it is
up to you, Corin, to assist me." He paused. "I thought
you might be willing to assume the task, once you real-
ized it was within your province to alter the freedom of
your oldest rujholli."

Corin glanced at Brennan, who stared stoically at the
throne, avoiding his father's eye altogether. "How?" Corin
asked finally, looking again at Niall.

The Mujhar turned to the Lion and resumed his seat,
sitting back against the ancient wood. "You will stop at
Erinn on the way to Atvia and deliver a message to
Liam, Lord of the Idrian Isles. You will say to him the
time has come for our realms to be formally united in
marriage as well as in alliance." The single blue eye
flicked to Brennan- "Liam's daughter is twenty'two, now.
It is time the Prince of Homana secured the Lion with
additional heirs."

Color rushed into Brennan's face. The yellow eyes
were suddenly intent, and intensely feral. "You do not
use a betrothal or marriage as punishment!" Brennan
snapped angrily. "It does you little honor, my lord Mujhar,
and gives none at all to Aileen."

"You have at least a six-month, if not more, in which
to arrange your affairs and learn what it is to be a
prince," Niall said. "Until Aileen arrives, you will attend
me in all council sessions, at all trade negotiations, dur-
ing the hearings when I entertain petitions put forth by
Homanan citizens. I think you will be too busy to con-
cern yourself with what does and does not constitute
honor, in Mujhars or other people."

"After twenty years and more, you separate us so
easily," Hart said blankly. "I cannot believe it."

"Together, you have done little more save drink and
brawl and bring disgrace to your names as well as this
House,'* Niall answered. "Apart, perhaps, you will leam
what it is to be a man. To be a CheysuU warrior." As
one, in stunned silence, they stared at him, Niall abruptly
stood up from the throne. "I do not doubt there are

A PUDE W PlWfCES                79

things you wish to say to one another without benefit of
my presence, so I will take it from you."

Niall's sons watched in silence as he strode stiffly from
the Great Hal). But as the silver doors thudded closed,
the silence was ended most distinctly.

"Did you hear him?" Corin asked in angry astonish-
ment. "Did you hear him? 'I think the time for explana-
tions is past/ " He swore loudly, with great eloquence.
"We were given no chance to defend ourselves, no chance
to tell him precisely what happened—he merely stands
before that travesty of a lion and tells us what we are to
do with our lives, as if he has the ordering of them?"

"He does," Hart said remotely. He walked to the dais,
turned, sat down upon the top step, propping booted feet
wide on the second one. "He is the Mujhar of Homana,
andour/e/um."

"Aye, he is Mujhar," Corin snapped, "and, ay Mujhar,
one of his responsibilities is to hear both sides of the
story." He swore again and kicked at the gold-veined
marble dais. "You would think we planned the fire, they
way he talks."

Brennan stood at one of the stained-glass casements,
staring blindly through colored ^lass to the bailey out-
side. He seemed oblivious to Corin's rantings.

"Gods," Hart murmured. "SoHnde—"

"—and Atvia." Corin kicked marble again, as if he
meant to dislodge a portion of his father's skull. "What
do I want with a lump of rock in the middle of the Idrian
Ocean?"

Brennan's hand traced the outline of one of the pat-
terns in the glass. "Twenty-eight lives," he said. "Twenty-
eight."

"You would think he considers himself one of the gods,
the way he stands before us and pronounces how we will
spend the next twelve months of our lives," Corin said in
disgust. "/ think—"

"Do you think I care what you think?" Brennan abruptly
spun from the casement and, before Corin could blurt a
protest, crossed the hall to grab the front of his jerkin.
"Do you think I care that you feel inconvenienced by

80 Jennifer Roberson

s-

having to accept your title in fact as well as name?" He
pushed his brother back two steps, forced him up the
dais, planted him solidly in the throne. "Twenty-eight
lives were lost, Conn ... it should not matter to you that       ^
those lives were spent in the Midden instead of Homana-       !
Mujhar or Clankeep. It should not matter! They are
dead. Conn . . . dead because of us!"

Corin inched back into the Lion, trying to escape Bren-
nan's hands. "Rujho—"

"No," Brennan said tersely. "No explanations. No       |
defense. In this I will be like our jehan." He took his       |
hands from Corin's jerkin as if he could not bear to soil       s.
them. "We went there against our king's express orders,
defying our jehan as well, and because of us an entire       j.
block was destroyed. Twenty-eight lives were lost, per-       J,
haps more. By the gods, Corin, how can you sit there       |
and rail against our jehan with that guilt on your       ^
shoulders?"

"Let him be," Hart said wearily. "Oh, let him be,
Brennan. I can think of better ways of spending our last
day together than trying to levy even more guilt upon our       \..
youngest rujholli."                                          J|

"Not more," Brennan shot back, "Some guilt ...       |.
because I think otherwise he will dismiss this tragedy as       '''
not worthy of his time, his concern, simply because he
has more important things to consider." Brennan's tone
was filled with eloquent contempt. "Such as which of
Deirdre's ladies should he seduce next."                      |

"I care!" Corin cried. "/ care, Brennan—more than       |
you can know. And aye, I do have something else to
consider . . . something that may not have occurred to
you. And even if it had, likely you would not consider it
worth the worry."

"What?" Brennan demanded. "What else is there to
consider?"                                              '^

Corin's lips drew back briefly, baring teeth. In his       ^
anger, his ferocity, he was suddenly more animal than
man, though he remained in human form. "I am afraid,"
he said through gritted teeth. "Afraid."

"Afraid?" Brennan stared at him in astonishment. "Aye,        ^

A PRIDK W PitlJVCES

8S

it will be different in Atvia, and will take time to adjust,
but—afraid?"

"Aye, afraid!" Corin cried. "Are you forgetting, then,
that our jehana is there? Mad Gisella, Queen of Homana,
who tried to give her children to Strahan the Ihlini?" He
had their full attention now, as he looked from one to
the other. "Aye," he repeated, "afraid, because I will
have to see her, to face her. . . ." He drew in an unsteady
breath. "I will be required to breathe the same air as that
half-breed, blood-tainted Atvian/Cheysuli witch, who
willingly would have given us over to that Ihlini ku'reshtin,
so he could twist us all—so he could turn us into minions
for his amusement, to use as puppets!"

"Enough," Brennan said gently. "Enough, Corin—no
more." His anger was banished, his contempt replaced
with compassion. "Perhaps I judged you too hastily." He
sighed and scrubbed at the lines of tension settling in the
flesh of his brow. "Gods, save us from each other . . .
save us from sword-sharp tongues."

"Save us from the Ihlini." Corin shut his eyes and
leaned his head back against the throne. "Gods, rujho, I
do not want to go. . . ."

"No," Brennan agreed. "Nor would I, in your place-
Not even if you promised a casket of gold."

"For that much gold, I might." Hart's smile fell away
almost at once. "No, no, forgive me for that . . . / am
the one who put us in this position. Blame me, no matter
what/'e/ion says. Let me carry the guilt."

"Would you?" Brennan asked. "No, I think not. It is
not in you to accept guilt, rujho, even if you comprehend
that you are responsible for it."

Hart recoiled visibly from the comment.

"Well," Corin said in resignation, "for all I rail about
it—and wm—I think the distribution of sentences just. You
go nowhere, Brennan; all you must do is wait for a
cheysula. Not so bad, I think, but then it was not your
idea to go to the Midden, and you did what you could to
prevent us from becoming involved in an obviously dan-
gerous situation, A wedding should not be so bad; the
gods know Deirdre is bearable- Aileen is her harana, so

82 Jennifer Roberson

if they are anything alike you should not find the mar-
riage too onerous."

"No," Brennan agreed, "though I might wish the time
to be of my own choosing."

"But he has taken that from you." Corin nodded. "He
has taken it from us all." Abruptly he shoved himself out
of the Uon. "I think I will defy him one last time, just so
he does not forget me too easily—"

"Conn, no/" Brennan cried. "Why make it worse than
it is?"

"Do you mean to refuse to go?" Hart asked in surprise.

"No." Corin straightened a jerkin still rumpled from
Brennan's expression of anger and frustration. "I mean
to go, because I must. But I mean to go now, rather than
in the morning."

"Small defiance," Brennan said curtly. "You cut your
nose to spite your face."

"Perhaps." Corin headed down the steps and toward
the hammered silver doors at the end of the Great Hall.
"But at least it is a decision I can make for myself.
Besides," he swung around and walked backward, spread-
ing his hands, "this way I will be home one day sooner."
And he was gone, running from the hall.

Brennan said a sharp, brief obscenity in the Old Tongue
that still, for all its brevity, managed to express his emo-
tions very clearly.

"Three become two become one." Hart stood up from
the dais. "Not a good wager, rujho, when the point of
the game lies in adding, not subtracting." He sighed and
walked aimlessly toward the silver doors. "No," he said
wearily, "not a good wager at all."

"Hart." Brennan's voice stopped him at the doors,
echoing in the vastness of the hall. "In a year, a year—we
will be different people."

Hart leaned a shoulder against one of the heavy doors.
"Aye," he agreed, but still Cheysuli. Still nijholli. That is
what counts, I think." He smiled sadly, pushed through,
was gone.

After a moment Brennan turned to look at the empty
Lion, all acrouch on the dais; the Lion of Homana,

A PRIDE w PIUNCES                83

deprived of his Mujhar. Brennan looked at the old wood,
the fading giltwork, the massive paws with their curving
claws. He sighed. "You and I," he said, "will have to
come to an agreement. You do not strip me of all my
freedom, my good sense, my desire to be a man as well
as Mujhar . . . and I will not bring dishonor to your
name. To my House. Or to my people." He shook his
head slowly. "And never again to my jehan"
But the Lion made no answer.

Deirdre was in her private solar, stitching on a tapestry
with four of her ladies when Niall came in. She glanced
up, saw his face, instantly dismissed the women. Before
Niall could say a word, Deirdre was up and guiding him
to a chair.

"I am well enough," he protested, as she pressed him
down into the cushions.

"Are you, then?" she asked lightly. "I'm thinking not.
Fm thinking you have, from the look of you, stared
death in the eye, and lost." She made certain he was
comfortable in the chair. "You'll be sitting here until /
say you may rise."

Loose-limbed, he sat in the chair and stared blankly at
the tapestry frame. "What is that?"

"Something I started a month ago. Something to go in
the Great Hall, one day, when I am done." She knew
very well his real interest did not lie in the tapestry; she
knew also that Niall came around to things in his own
way, in his own time. Prying would serve neither of
them. "You see? Lions. Homanan lions, as you have told
me; fierce, proud, loyal beasts, challenging all who dare
to threaten their realm." Her voice wavered a moment as
she looked at his ravaged face. "Niall—"

"Why so many?" he asked, staring at the tapestry. He
bent forward to examine it more closely. "So many lions,
Deirdre—and is this the Lion Throne?"

"Aye." She touched the design not yet fully stitched.
"It seems to me some of the stories should be put down
in yarn, and then hung up where all can see them. The
recounting of the legends. Shaine, Carillon, Donal . . .

S4 Jennifer Roherson

you and your sons. . . ." her voice trailed off. "All the
Lions of Homana."

"My sons." And Niall sat back again, pressing one
hand against his face. "Ah, gods, Deirdre—what am I to
do? How am I to bear it? How will I last the year?"

She stood very still before him. "You have sent them
away, then. Hart and Corin."

*'I had no choice." The words were little more than
pain, mumbled against his hand. "They gave me no
choice, meijha. So many lives lost. So many innocent
lives; not everyone in the Midden is thief or murderer.
Some were tittle children." Abruptly he stripped off the
patch that warded the empty socket and bent forward
rigidly. "Ah, gods—it hurts—"

"Your head?" She moved forward, knelt, threaded
fingers in his hair. She pressed his face against her breast.
"Oh, Niall, I would be giving anything to take it from
you, this pain. After all these years . . ."

His breath was loud in the chamber. "No—no—not
just my head . . . when the old pain comes on me, it is
generally bearable. But this—" He sighed. "This is more.
This is what it is to be a jehw, regardless of rank or
race."

"Aye," she said, "aye. There is pain with all the
pleasure."

"A year," he said hollowly. "Gods, I said a year. Hart
and Corbin banished . . . and Brennan made to wed."

She stiffened a little. "You'll be sending for Aileen."

"Aye. Corin is to stop at Erinn on his way to Atvia."
Suddenly, he pulled away from her. "And perhaps I
should have considered that you might want to go."

After a moment, she shook her head. "I'll not be
denying that I want to see my homeland. But this is
Corin's punishment; there is no place for me on board.
Liam will understand."

He sat back again, asprawl, rubbing the ruined flesh
near his empty socket. "They gave me no choice," he
said wearily. "What was I to do?"

"What you did, I think," she answered, settling down
at his feet in a puddle of pale green silk. " 'Tis not for

A PRIDE w PRINCES                85

me to say yea or nay on this—they are not my sons—but
I will agree with you nonetheless. Boys must stop being
boys. Even when they are men."

"If you had seen Brennan's face . . ."

"Aye, well, if 'twas anything like the other times, he
was there for the others, not himself."

"No, not that... no, I mean when I banished Hart. I
think that was a worse punishment for Brennan than
telling him he must wed and take on more responsibilities."

Deirdre sighed a little, stroking his rigid hand. "Aye,
aye, perhaps it was. They are so close. Hart and Brennan
... the time apart will be hard on them."

"Hard on me," he said unevenly. "For all they have
done a monstrous thing, I know I will hate myself every
day I look at Brennan and Keely, and see their accusing
eyes."

"Brennan and Keely must tend to Brennan and Keely,"
Deirdre told him firmly. "You must look to yourself."

"And you?" he asked, reaching out to clasp her fin-
gers. "Gods, Deirdre . . . what would I do without you?"

She smiled and kissed the back of his hand. "/';/ not be
telling you. For if I did, you might find reason to be rid
of an aging Erinnish spinster."

He smiled. "Aging, indeed. Not what / would say; I
who share your bed."

But she saw the anguish in his eye, and knew it would
last forever.

PART II
BRENNAN

One

On a night with no moon, men gathered. Light was
conjured from torches, from lanterns; distorting faces
that, by day, by good light, were simply faces', Homanan
faces, some young, some old, some neither, being not yet
fully formed, leaving youth behind while lingering yet on
the doorstep, not quite ducking beneath the lintel to
enter the common room of manhood,

But now, by torchlight, by lantemlight, the faces were
leeched of humanity, of sanity, of the expressions that,
everchanging, reflected happiness, sorrow, pride, regret,
and all those subtleties lying between. Faces that were no
longer faces, but aspects of dedication, fanaticism, and
the desire to right a wrong.

Within the ring of looming trees stood stave torches,
thrust into the ground to form a second circle, a ward
against the darkness. Within the ring of torches, men
clustered. And within the ring of men, a boy was made
to lie down on cold, hard stone. No. Not a boy; no
longer, A warrior, now; he had received his lir.

Against the stone, he shivered. They had stripped him,
the Homanans. They had taken jerkin, leggings, boots,
as well as his knife. They had taken it all, leaving him
with nothing, save the knowledge that they could get no
gold, because he had only just received his lir. There had
been no Ceremony of Honors in Clankeep, to honor his
name, his lir, his newfound warrior status.

And would be none, ever, now.

It was full dark, long past the time he should have

99

99 Jennifer Koteraou

been back at Clankeep. But no one would come looking.
He had left his father's pavilion four days earlier in
search of his fir, knowing only he had to go, to assuage
the craving that set his blood afire. No one would
come looking, no matter how late it was, because it was a
part of the ritual, to stay from home until the link was
made.

Rings within rings: trees, torches, men. And in the
center, himself. On an altar once serving as a part of
sacred rituals, CheysuU rituals. Firstborn rituals; now the
altar, in its nook of towering trees, was forgotten by his
people. Remembered only by Homanans, who meant to
pervert its use.

Upon the stone he trembled, and shut his eyes against
the darkness, the torchlight, the looming faces, with their
aspects of fanaticism. He shut his eyes against the fear
for himself, because another fear outweighed it. They
would slay his fir, he knew. First. So they could see what
it was for a Cheysuli warrior to lose his other self. And
then, as he was consumed by grief for the loss of his fir,
his newfound other self. they would slay the new warrior
as well.

Beneath his naked back his flesh knew the touch of
stone, and of blood. The altar reeked of it, stained black
and red and brown, sticky with old and new.

Hands held wrists and ankles. Even his hair, so he
could not thrash head against stone in a futile attempt at
breaking free. Hands held him: Homanan hands. Deign-
ing to touch his Cheysuli flesh, because soon enough his
blood would wash them clean of taint.

"Bring the wolf," someone said. A man. Young, from
the sound of it; the voice was cool, not deep, not high.
Smooth as clover honey.

The boy on the stone jerked against human manacles.
All held firm.

"Into the light," said the voice.

"No," the boy whispered; it was the first sound he had
made.

The wolf was brought to the altar, into the ring of
torchlight. A young male wolf, hardly more than a cub;

A PVDE OF PRINCES

91

like the boy on the stone, he had not quite crossed the
threshold between youth and adulthood. And, like the
boy, now never would.

The jaws had been wired shut. A chain was wound
about the ruddy throat, snugged taut. He struggled, whim-
pered, dug the air with hind claws even as the front ones
reached for flesh. But the man who held the wolf was
large and strong, and used to big dogs; the cub was no
match for him.

"No," said the boy again. Begging now, forgoing all
the pride of his people. Forgoing all save the need to
see the cub made safe, unharmed, set free.

A hand touched the boy's brow, smoothing back damp
hair. The palm was cool, almost soothing, like the voice.
"We must," the voice said; the same one, the same
voice, that had beckoned the wolf cub brought. That had
beckoned the boy held down against the stone.

"There is a reason for what we do," the voice said. "A
need. This is not idle whimsy, nor ignorant reprisal for
the loss of the Homanan throne to a Cheysuli king. No.
This is part and parcel of what must be done, in order
to restore the balance of justice. To restore tightness."
The voice paused. "Can you understand that? Can you
understand that I do not hate you, boy, nor even hate
your race? No. Hate is not what fuels me, other than
using it when I must; in its place, hate has its uses. No. I
do this because there is a need. Homana's need."

The hand was gentle against the boy's sweat-sheened
brow. He tried not to listen, but he heard in spite of
himself.

"There was a mistake made more than sixty-five years
ago, when Carillon named Donal his heir," the voice
continued. "Having no son of his queen, Solindish Electra,
he turned to the closest male relative: a Cheysuli halfling
got on his cousin, Alix, as much a halfling as her son.
But there was a son, you see. There was a son ... a
wholly Homanan son, with no trace of Cheysuli blood."

The hand stopped moving; fell away. Fearfully, the
boy waited, sensing a new tension in the air even though
the voice remained calm, cool, quiet.

92 Jennifer Kobenon

"Twenty years ago my father found Carillon's bastard.
With the Homanan woman who bore the boy, my father
went to face the Mujhar, Donal himself, to ask that the
tine of succession be restored to its proper path. And
there within the walls of Homana-Mujhar, before Coun-
cil, the woman was murdered by a man loyal to the
Mujhar; my father was slain as well, by Niall, then Prince
of Homana." The voice broke off. The boy heard only
silence, but felt the thrumming of growing impatience
that radiated from the others. And then the voice went
on. "That man now rules, boy, the royal murderer, when
it should be Carollan's place. And so there are those of
us who will see to it Niall is deposed in favor of Carollan;

the grandson replaced by the SOB." The voice paused
again, then renewed itself. "That is how it should be, boy
. .. that is how it should be. How my father, Eiek,
wanted it, before Niall murdered him."

The boy on the stone summoned all bis courage. "Keep
me," he said, "keep me. But let my Ur go free."

"The Ur is an aspect of your power," Elek's son said.
"A manifestation of the wrongness that plagues this land.
You are bound in life, boy—that much I know of Cheysuli
. . , now you will be bound in death."

"He is so young—" and the boy abruptly shut his
mouth, bit his Up to seal it; no more would he beg
Homanans.

"He is young, and so are you," said the clover honey
voice. "But if we let you grow to manhood, and him to
adulthood, you will be more difficult to overcome. I do
not devalue the strength of the Cheysuli, nor the dedica-
tion of your warriors. Indeed, I salute your people, boy,
well and truly. How could I not? Look what they have
done . . . look how cleverly they have stolen the throne
in the guise of recovering what once was theirs."

"Then I will take fir-shape," the boy threatened, "and
you will see what I can do—"

"Now," said Etek's son, and the man with the cub in
his arms drew his knife and swiftly cut open the ruddy
throat.

A PUDB OfPltINCES

93

As warm red blood rained down, the young Cheysuli
cried out. And cried.

"Now." And another knife flashed in the torchlight.

The man who called himself Elek's son watched as the
altar drank its fill. Blood spilled over the edge of the
stone and was poured against the ground. The splatter
was loud in the darkness.

After a moment, he nodded. "It is time,'* he said
calmly, "we turned to larger prey."

"Shansu, shansu," Brennan whispered tenderly, sooth-
ing her silk-soft shoulder with a gentle, beguiling hand.
"Be easy, meijhana ... be easy. . . ."

Her flesh quivered beneath his seductive hand, as if in
answer to his tone.

"Shansu," he whispered softly, stroking slowly, so
slowly, "no need to be afraid. I swear it. I swear it. Any
oath you choose . . ." Her flesh responded again. Bren-
nan smiled slowly, warmly, in a manner of immensely
patient desire and unconscious invitation. He was, in that
moment, consumed utterly by the sole purpose of seduc-
tion. "Be easy . . . be easy—'

But the mare was not seduced. Without warning, she
exploded in a flurry of activity that indicated her sole
purpose was to rid her back of the man who sat astride it.

Brennan clamped legs against mare in an instinctive
bid to maintain his seat. He had buckled on a Cheysuli
saddle, lighter and less confining than Homanan gear,
but also offering less latitude for error. With the mare in
open revolt, the Cheysuli saddle—little more than a shal-
low pad of leather and sheepskin with wooden stirrups
attached by strips of leather—was next to useless as a
means of staying aboard.

The mare, gray as smoke, ducked delicate head be-
tween equally delicate forelegs and squealed in a decid-
edly unladylike fashion. Dark eyes rolled. Tipped ears
flattened. Deceptively powerful rear legs elevated silken
hindquarters like a ballista hurling a stone.

Brennan, flopped forward against his will, tried to
scramble backward as she threw her head up, flinging it

94 Jennifer Roberson

rearward. Pale mane whipped yellow eyes, bringing royal
tears; by an inch only, Brennan missed having his nose
smashed against his face, forever altering aristocratic good
looks. As it was, a series of bone-jarring bucks served to
twist his spine alarmingly, threatening to cripple him.

Dimly, he heard the clatter of hooves on stone, the
grunts of equine rage, the shouts of running men as he
tried to weather the storm. The squat buildings of the
stableyard, built of the same rose-red stone that gave
Homana-Mujhar its pastel patina, performed a dance of
their own. He saw only bits and pieces of the curtain
wall, the sentry-walk, the beamwork of stable roofs. Straw
cushioned the yard, and dirt, but cobbles lay beneath
both. Hard stone cobbles, promising a painful landing.
He had seen it happen to others.

The mare sucked in another great breath and leaped
sideways, lurched backward, lunged forward yet again.
She wanted to run, but the snaffle in her mouth—for all
its relative gentleness—prevented her; that, and Bren-
nan's skilled grip upon the reins. It was a deadly dance:

infuriated horse against determined warrior.

We each of us have too much to lose, Brennan thought
briefly, as he lasted another of the mare's spine-twisting
bucks. Pride, too much pride. . . hers will be tarnished if
I WOT, mine if she does—

And abruptly, Brennan won. The mare stopped fight-
ing the bit, the reins, the hands. She sidled uneasily a
moment, first to the right, then to the left, scraping
hooves against cobbles, and then quieted, snorting, long-
lashed eyes half-shut as if to acknowledge defeat.

But Brennan, not daring to move as the mare slowly
settled, knew better. It was too soon to trust the gray.

She shook her head. Swished her flax-pale tail. Snorted.
Eyed the men gathered in the stableyard. Brennan could
feel the mare's debate: Do I throw the man now, or later?

Later. As Brennan urged her gently into a walk, she
circled the yard quietly.

Round and round. The buildings blurred together as
the circling continued. With each revolution the mare
grew calmer, more relaxed, and so did Brennan. He was

A PVDE OF PRINCES                95

aware of the eyes watching him and the gray, waiting for
something to happen. Curious, expectant eyes, brown
and blue and black, all of them, save for the single pair
of green ones.

Maeve. She stood in the stableyard amid the grooms
and sweepers and lads, clad in blue woolen skirts, close-
fitting leather tabard belted snug, and soft house boots.

Carefully, he eased the mare in his sister's direction.
With gentle persuasion, the gray tapped delicately across
the cobbles and halted. Brennan looked down on Maeve,
whose brass-bright hair, loosely braided, shone brilliantly
in the sunlight. "Aye?"

She smiled, thumbs hooked into her belt in a distinc-
tive imitation of Brennan's habitual stance. "I was sent
to give you your freedom.'*

"Freedom?" He brightened. "Jehan sent you?"

"Aye." Maeve did not use the Old Tongue except on
rare occasions. "He said I was to tell you he has re-
scinded his orders against you working your horses." She
grinned. "Probably because he looked out a casement
and saw you doing it anyway."

Brennan scowled. "This is not precisely working—at
least, not when one trains a racing string. This was little
more than making certain I would not be killed when
jehan finally said I could start working them again." He
sighed. "Thank the gods he has come to his senses ... it
has been four weeks since I touched any of them, let
alone ridden them, and you just saw the result yourself.
Now perhaps I can set my racing string back into order
and begin winning again."

Blond brows rose. "I thought races were Hart's purvue."

"Wagering on races is," Brennan agreed. "Racing for
purses is different. I do not bet. I ride." His face was
grim; Hart had been gone a month, and the separation
made Brennan irritable. "Gods, if only I could go to
Clankeep—" He broke off and looked down at Maeve
sharply. "I will go. I should have gone before. Even
jehan cannot deny me a part of my heritage."

"No," Maeve agreed calmly. "Keely wondered how
long it would take you to realize that."

96 Jennifer Roberwa

Heat rose in his face. Leave it to Keely— "Aye, well,
now I have. And so I go. The mare needs work." As if in
answer the mare stirred; Brennan leaned forward to stroke
the glossy smoke-pale neck. "Shansu, shansu . - ." He
straightened as she settled once more. "Come with me,
Maeve. How long has it been? A month? Two? Too
long, whatever the length of time; you used to go all the
time."

His sister's expression was curiously arrested, as if his
suggestion and accompanying question had caught her
entirely off guard. Then she twisted her mouth briefly,
hiding most of her emotions behind a carefully blanked
face, but Brennan saw the glint of something in her eyes,
Regret? Resentment? Fear? He could not be certain,
even as she answered.

"No, no—I think not," she said easily. "There is much
here for me to do."

Brennan heard an underlying note of tension in her
tone. He reacted accordingly, as he did without fail where
Maeve was concerned. "What has Keely been saying?"

"Keely?" Maeve frowned briefly, then shook her head.
"Oh, no, no, not Keely. 'Twas—" And abruptly, she
snapped her mouth shut. "No more of it, Brennan, I'll
be staying here."

"'What is so pressing that you willingly forgo a visit to
Clankeep?" he asked in bafflement. "You used to nag
me to go with you all the time."

"The tapestry," Maeve answered at once, too quickly.
"The tapestry of lions my mother has begun. I promised
I would help."

"Tapestry?" Brennan shrugged, bemused. "Maeve, I
am sorry— "

"No, no, I do not expect you to know anything about
it. It is a woman's thing, why would you? But, well... it
will be beautiful, and glorious, and a thing our descen-
dants will prize forever. . . ." She paused as her words
trailed off and frowned a little, as if troubled by the faint
forlorn note in her voice, then self-consciously tucked a
loose strand of bright hair behind one ear. " Tis a thing
of pride, Brennan, in race, heritage, tradition ... a

A PUDE OF PRINCES

97

history woven of all the bright colors of our people;

Cheysuli, Homanan, Solindish, Erinnish—"

Maeve stopped short, seemingly lacking the proper
words. Brennan saw the turmoil in her face. And then,
more quietly, controlled again, she went on. But he
knew the lightness of her tone was little more than a
well-practiced facade. "Well, 'tis a thing of magnificence,
and I thought perhaps I should help. Tis nothing of the
magic in me, but the pride is there regardless."

The mare tapped one hoof against a loose cobble. It
rolled, clinking faintly; the mare bobbed her head and
snorted down delicate, velvet nostrils. Brennan, tighten-
ing reins slightly in automatic response, looked down on
his older sister and regretted more than ever that she had
none of the gifts of their race. With them so evident in
Keely, who took such great pride in her Old Blood that
tact was nonexistent, it was harder than ever for Maeve
to deal with her lack.

Perhaps if she did not live in a palace full of Cheysuli
kin— But he let the thought die away. It would be no
better at Clankeep, where only Cheysuli dwelled,

Brennan sighed. "Well enough, Maeve. Stay here and
help Deirdre with her tapestry of lions. But I think you
are a fool to turn your back on your heritage, no matter
what the reason."

Brilliant color suddenly flamed in her face. "What
would you know of it?" she cried. "You with your lir and
your gold and your yellow eyes—you with honorable
welcome wherever you go—" Maeve clapped hands over
her mouth as the hectic color drained out of her face and
left it strained and pallid. "Gods," she blurted, "I did
not mean to say that. Oh, Brennan, you know I do not
mean it. Not for you. Never—" And she turned so
abruptly, skirts swirling, that she startled the mare into a
sideways leap that nearly unseated Brennan.

By the time he had recovered his balance and had the
mare settled again, Maeve was gone. He saw startled
eyes and perfectly blank faces, knowing each stable lad
busily tried to name what ailed the MuJhar's daughter.
He would give them more to talk about if he hastened

98 Jennifer Robersw

after Maeve. And so he did not. He soothed the mare
carefully, summoned Sleeta through the link, and rode
out of Homana-Mujhar.
But not without worrying.

Two

Home. The word reverberated through the link from
Sleeta to Brennan clearly. Equally clear was the big cat's
satisfaction and pleasure as she lashed her tail to and fro
and rubbed her jaw against his kneecap. Home, lir. . . at
last.

He had tethered the gray mare at the indigo pavilion
the Mujhar claimed, as Brennan had none of his own.
For a moment, he lost himself in the sensations of being
in Clankeep again, surrounded by folk who felt as he did,
thought as he did, believed as he did. In Mujhara, things
were different. There he was a" prince, the heir to the
Lion Throne, and that knowledge altered perceptions of
him. Here he was nothing more than a fellow warrior,
though that was more than enough.

Pavilions surrounded them, huddled in clusters of dyed
and painted hides stretched over poles. Nearby a flank of
the gray granite wall curved its way through the wood,
bedecked in its ivy-and-lichen cloak. Smoke from cookfires
drifted, tendrils rising to catch on tree limbs, tangling,
like skeins of yam; once freed, the tendrils were torn
into the hint of a haze that drifted on the breeze. Bren-
nan smelted roasting venison, boar; the tang of honey
brew. His mouth watered in response.

Home. To Sleeta—to any lir perhaps—it was the clos-
est thing to a home any of them claimed. And yet Bren-
nan knew a brief inward stab of guilt. Clankeep was not
home to him. It was a place of dreams, of his past and his
future, the womb of his race, the security of his kin, and

99

Jennifer Koberson

yet it was not quite a home, because he had not made it

so.

You could, Sleeta said. It is not too late. There is much
time for you to reacqufdnt yourself with our heritage.

She was warmth engulfing his leg, one sleek shoulder
pressed against a legging-clad knee. He could sense her
anticipation singing through the link, nearly drowning
him. K n pleased Sleeta so much, he would not deny
himself the chance to spend time in his people's place.

Home, Sleeta purred.

"Well," said a quiet voice behind them, "which of the
royal get is it? Corin? No—the color is wrong. Hart,
perhaps—no, no, as you turn I see your eyes are yellow,
not blue. Well, then, it must be—Brennan?" The tone
was eloquently ironic, and yet it lacked the note of friendly
raillery someone else might have used to underscore the
words, if only to make certain Brennan understood it was
a jest. "I see any of you so rarely, it is difficult to know
which princeling is which."

Brennan knew better than to laugh or smile or clap the
speaker on the back, accepting the jest in good-natured
competition. Because the speaker was Teiman, his cousin,
and Teir's irony—as well as the competition—was meant
in deadly earnest, if cloaked in velvet instead of steel.

Brennan sighed, turning to face his cousin, and heard
Sleeta's low-pitched, throaty growl. Teirnan was without
his fir, so the hostility was clearly directed at him, not at
the small-eyed boar Sleeta abhorred. And Teirnan knew
it.

His mocking smile altered, but only briefly. He made a
rude gesture of dismissal that Sleeta ignored, as he knew
she would, but he followed the ritual all the same. Sleeta
hunched down, tail thumping the beaten ground, and
stared at him out of implacable golden eyes. Watching.
Waiting. As if she counted the hours until she could kill
him with impunity.

Brennan drew in a weary breath. The confrontation
was only the latest in a long series. "Teir—"

"What is it this time. cousin?" Teiman forbore the Old
Tongue, as if to emphasize Brennan's frequent separa-

A PRIDE OFPltfWES

m

tion from the clan. "Do you require additional assur-
ances that you are indeed the man intended for the
Lion?"

"No. You require those," Brennan said bluntly. "Teir,
are you still convinced that you would do better than I? I
thought the last time I came, when the shar tahl spoke to
us both, we settled all this nonsense of bloodlines and
legacies."

"I am no more convinced you should inherit than you
believe / should," Teir answered flatly. "Why should I
be? Shar tahl aside, facts are facts: I claim all of the
rootstock bloodlines you do, but mine are untouched by
Solindish or Atvian taint. There is Old Blood in me, and
Cheysuli blood, and Homanan. Enough, I think, to fulfill
that part of the prophecy pertaining to proper heritage."

"I think not," Brennan said gently. "Solindish and
Atvian taint notwithstanding, it is required." Gritting his
teeth, he managed to smile with infinite patience, though
he was fast losing his share. "We have been through this
time and time again, Teir—even when we were children!
Look to the clan for your legacy. The Lion will be
mine."

"My jehan says—"

"Your jehan is an empty, embittered man," Brennan
declared shortly, forgoing his usual tact. "Ceinn worked
against my Jehan just as you work against me, and all out
of a perverse desire to be someone he is not meant to be.
Since he no longer has the option of thwarting my jehan
through a disbanded group of Cheysuli zealots, he uses
you. He twists you, Teir, like a green willow bough. And
one day you will break."

"Disbanded, are we?'* Teir retorted. "I think not,
cousin. I think the a'saii live again!"

Brennan stared at him in astonishment. He thought
first to charge Teirnan with a bluff, but Teir's tone was
too thick with triumph, too assured. His pupils had shrunk
so that his eyes were mostly yellow, intently cunning and
feral as a wolfs; Brennan knew better than to discount
him or his words. Not in something this important; some-

102 Jennifer Roberson

thing that could have an incredible impact upon the
future of Homana,

Slowly, Brennan was able to pass words through the
constriction of shock and growing anger in his throat.
"You ku'reshtin," he said softly, "do you mean to say
there are Cheysuli who work to bring down the prophecy?"

"Not bring it down. Serve it." Teir's face was shaped
much like Brennan's, reflecting shared ancestry, but his
bones were a trifle sharper, more predatory; his flesh was
more accustomed to settling itself into expressions of
calculation and ambition than anything more sanguine.
"Only a fool foments rebellion out of simple greed," Teir
said quietly. "My jehan and the a'saii desired lan to hold
the Lion. They still do—lan lacks the Solindish and Atvian
taint—but there is no more hope that he would assume
the throne if the Mujhar were slain. So I tell you this, in
preparation: we intend no harm to befall Niall or his
sons, any of them, or his daughters, even his bastard
girl." Something flickered faintly in his eyes, was gone.
"Without bloodshed, we intend to take the Lion and give
it over to the warrior whose blood best deserves to rule."

"Without bloodshed." Brennan wanted to spit. "Do
you think any of us would politely step aside and let you
have the Lion?"

"Aye," Teir said, "if Clan Council told you to."

"Clan Council—" Brennan stared. "Have you gone
mad? Cheysuli Clan Council supports our right to rule!"

"Only so long as the members believe that right is
yours," Teiman said. "But if they no longer believed it,
cousin, and bestowed that right upon another branch of
the bloodline, what would you do? Fight? Become
kinslayer in the name of greed and power?" Teir's voice
was steady and quiet, lacking the fanaticism Brennan
might have expected. In its place was a calm matter-oi-
factness as he spelled out the consequences of such an
action. "You would divide the world, cousin, and make
it a place of two races yet again. Cheysuli- Homanan. Set
again at each other's throats."

"The Homanans would have nothing to do with it,"

A PRIM w PRWCKS             193

Brennan threw back. "This is a thing between Cheysuli
factions—"

"Is it?" Teir smiled. "So easily you dismiss the very
people you intend to rule. Have you forgotten how we
are outnumbered? We always were, always have been—
and Strahan's Ihlini plague twenty years ago stole half
our numbers again. It leaves the Homanans with a vast
superiority, cousin. If we took to fighting for the Lion in
the name of the prophecy, what is there to stop the
Homanans from declaring a new qu'mahlin and stealing
it back for themselves? Would you risk that?"

"Would you?" Brennan was so angry he wanted to
knock Teiman's teeth down his throat and make him
choke on them. "If you throw down my jehan—even if
you set him aside through action of Cheysuli Clan
Council—you destroy the prophecy. You leave the Lion
to the Ihlini."

Teiraan's eyes narrowed. "At this moment, we are less
concerned with the Ihlini than with the proper disposi-
tion of the throne. Strahan has been in hiding for a very
long time. Who is to say he is not dead?"

"Who is to say he is?" Brennan tried to steady his
voice. "If you begin to discount the Ihlini, cousin, you
are no warrior at all, but a fool. A dead fool; at least I
will not have to concern myself with what idiocy you may
yet attempt."

"You had best concern yourself with your future with-
out a title," Teirnan retorted. "No more Prince of
Homana. Just a man, like any other."

"Walk softly," Brennan warned. "You soil your own
leathers with such words; we are cousins, Teir, and I
am as Cheysuli as you. I am not 'like any other,' and
never will be." He smiled as Sleeta rose, stretched, sat
down to rest a part of her bulk against his left leg. " *Just
a man'? I think not. Not while I claim a &••"

Teiman looked at the cat. Briefly hostility and ac-
knowledgment warred in his face. And then he masked
himself again, all civility. "I mean you no harm." he
said. "We are bloodkin and more, being children of the
gods, but you must understand that it is only a matter of

104 Jennifer Rvbeiwa

time. While Niall sits on the Lion parceling out his chil-
dren to this realm and to that, dividing Homana's strength,
there are those who will come to see there are better ways
of serving the Lion. Of serving the prophecy."

"You serve your own ambition," Brennan answered
curtly. "Oh, I have no doubt there are others like you,
desiring a change no matter what the consequences—there
are always those who thrive on discontent—but you are
in the minority."

"This year, aye," Teirnan agreed. "And probably next.
But what of the year after that? Or the next after that?"
He smiled. "The a'saii are very patient. That is the
nature of our race."

And always had been. Brennan knew his history well
enough: the Cheysuli, warrior-born and bred, were none-
theless cognizant of how carefully considered, meticulous
change was used for the betterment of a realm. Once his
people had given up their claim on the Lion to the very
Homanans who feared them, because they wanted no
civil war. And when Shaine's royal purge had nearly
destroyed the race, the Cheysuli quietly, patiently waited
out the qu'mahlin until Carillon united his newly-won
realm. Slowly, so slowly the Old Blood emerged again,
and was mixed with Homanan, SoHndish, Atvian- The
prophecy was nearly complete.

And now it was threatened again. From within as well
as without.

"You are a fool." He spoke without heat, knowing
only that he could not allow Teir to comprehend how
very real was the threat of the a'saii. "A fool, and if I
could do it, I would spill from my veins the blood that
makes us kin until I was free of you."

"Would you?" Teirnan smiled. "And what would Maeve
say, to lose me yet again?"

A chill washed through Brennan, followed by the heat
of anger. "Maeve has nothing to do with this!"

"Does she not?" Teiman laughed. "1 thought she did.
I thought you knew—"

"Knew what?"

A PRIDE OF PHMCKS              t9S

"That the last time she came to Clankeep, she agreed
to become my meijha."

Impelled by rage, Brennan moved before Teirnan could.
He was conscious only of clamping his hands around his
cousin's throat and driving him to the ground, where he
nearly crushed the fine bones beneath the flesh so like
his own. Ku'reshtin—"

"Ask her!" Teiman rasped through Brennan's assault.
"Ask her, cousin! Do you think she would lie to you?"

Brennan pressed him against the ground. "She would
never—she would never—not with you—not with such as
you—'

"Ask her," Teirnan challenged. "But also ask her why
she will not come to Clankeep. Ask her why she will not
honor her vow."

"If she made one—if she made one—I will release her
from it—I will release her from it—"

"Freely made—" Teiman straggled, but fading breath
robbed him of his strength. "—freely made, Brennan,
and only she can break it. Only Maeve, or me. And I
would never do it."

"Why not?" Brennan demanded,

"Because you want me to." Teiman's laugh was torn
from a badly bruised throat. "She never will. She is too
honorable to do it. I am not. For a good enough reason,
I will. But—for now it serves me ... it serves me to see
how angry and helpless you are—"

"By the god&—" Brennan choked. "By the gods, I
swear if you ever harm her, by word or by deed, I will
soil my hands with your blood. Kinslayer you may make
me, but that is a burden I would gladly bear for the sake
of my rujholla—"

"Bastard," Teirnan mocked. "The Homanans call her
bastard."

Lir. It was Sleeta, quietly intruding. Lir, if you mean
to do it, do it. If you do not, then let him go. Do not be
irresolute.

You would like me to slay him, he said. / can tell.

No. But the tone was distinctly reluctant. // you slay

IM Jennifer Robersom

him, you take on the responsibility of a fool. And you
deserve better than that.

Inwardly Brennan laughed, though it had little of hu-
mor in it. And then he released Teiman and rose to stare
down at the gasping warrior. "This will be settled." he
said. "This thing between you and me and Maeve. It will
be settled for all to know, regardless of the outcome."

Teiman levered himself up on one elbow. "Ask her,"
he whispered. "Ask her if she was unwilling. Ask her if
she was forced, when she came into my bed."

It cost Brennan dearly to shrug indifferently. "If she
was." he said, "you are dead."

As Teiman glared up at him from the ground. Bren-
nan turned to fetch the mare, who fidgeted by the pavil-
ion. Sleela, he said, we go home.

The cat did not protest against leaving her own so
soon. The cat said nothing at all.

Three

At sunset, the gray threw Brennan near the outskirts of
Mujhara and left him to lie in the dirt, half-stunned, as
she galloped toward the city. After a moment he sat up,
spat out blood from a bitten lip, stared after her dazedly
and cursed, if none too fluently; his tongue was also
bitten.

Your fault. Sleeta sat not far away, tail curled fastidi-
ously around one raven haunch. The tip flicked once,
twice, was still. You were paying more attention to your
cousin's words and not enough to the mare.

Brennan scowled and glared after the mare, massaging
a sore shoulder. He did not look at the cat.

After a moment she flicked an ear. Are you damaged?

After a lengthier moment: "No." Grudgingly.

Embarrassed, then.

"Aye," he agreed morosely, staring toward the city
that now hid the offending mare. From here he could
not see the walls, for Mujhara had grown so much that
the city proper—that portion that lay within the walls—
had been swallowed by other dwellings huddling about
the fringes, cluster upon cluster, until the new had nearly
overtaken the old.

Well, what did you expect? She is horse, not Ur. She has
no understanding of such things as dignity and protocol.

Brennan slanted the mountain cat a glance of disgust
mingled with amusement. Trust Sleeta to put things in
perspective, though hers was often quite different from
the views of others.

W

Jennifer Roberson

"Aye, well, she will have learned such understanding.
When I am done with her."

If she goes back to Homana Mujhar.

That brought a frown. "Aye. She would be worth
stealing."

But only if she can be caught first, Sleeta pointed out.
How many have your patience, your skill, your gentleness-
Enough, he sent through the link, unable to suppress
his laughter. Enough, Sleeta—I know what you do. But I
assure you, the only damage I have suffered is to my
pride, and that will recover soon enough.

Not if the Prince of Homana is discovered wallowing in
the dust with a dirty, bloodied face.

That brought him to his feet faster than anything else,
if a trifle painfully. He dusted leggings, straightened jer-
kin, attempted to clean his face, dabbled blood from his
split Up, tried to ignore the sore shoulder, and sighed.
"Prince or no, I deserved this. I know better than to trust
the gray; still, Teir gave me cause to be distracted. That
ku'reshtin . . ." Anger renewed itself. "If he ever harms
Maeve—'

Sleeta sought to placate. / think he would not be so
foolish. Aside from you, there are other rujholli involved.

"Aye. But one is gone to Solinde, the other to Atvia."
A wave of loneliness suddenly swamped him. "Oh, gods,
fir—without Hart I am half a man, and so alone—"

You have me.

He looked at her. She sat primly in the dirt, eyes half
slitted against the setting sun. Outwardly she seemed
unperturbed, but within the link he sensed her readiness.
Sleeta waited for something.

Brennan smiled. "Aye. I have you. More than any
man might ask for, even of the gods."

The tail flicked once; he had said what she wanted to
hear. Ofcowse. 1 am Sleeta.

Laughing, he thrust a hand into the firm plushness of
her pelt and stroked her large, wedge-shaped head, los-
ing himself in the silken velvet of her coat. He was a man
for women above all things, but even a wondrously pleas-

A PKIDE OF PRINCES

1W

ing bedpartner could not fill him with such infinite satis-
faction as his magnificent lir.

He sighed and tugged an upright ear. "Ah, Sleeta,
what would I do without you. . . ?"

The mountain cat merely purred, as if the answer were
implicit.

Brennan slapped one raven shoulder. "Onward, lir.
Sitting out here will get us no closer to the palace. And I
am hungry—it has been hours since I ate, and it is nearly
time for dinner."

Sleeta licked one paw clean of dust, rose, stretched,
padded toward the outskirts. Brennan matched his pace
to hers.

The boots he wore were eminently unsuitable for walk-
ing any great distance, Brennan discovered quickly, par-
ticularly when one was already stiff and sore from an
awkward enforced dismount. Hungry, footsore and de-
cidedly out of temper, Brennan paused in one of the
winding streets—now ablaze from new-lit torches—and
bent to tug the offending folds out of his left boot. They
were his favorite footgear for working horses, but only
when he was in the saddle, not out of it. Already he had
blisters.

You might have gone in lir-shape, Sleeta commented.

Brennan, braced against the wall of the nearest build-
ing, nodded briefly at the greeting of a passer-by. Not
within the city. You know Homanans never can tell the
difference between lir and animals of the wild—likely they
would slay us both before thinking to ask if we were
human or animal.

Sleeta was a blotch of darkness in the shadows, though
the torchlight set the gloss of her coat agleam. She blinked,
implacable as ever; though the link offered each of them
an uncanny, unfettered means of communication, even
to sensing emotions quite clearly, there were times Sleeta
was shuttered against him. For all she was utterly de-
voted to him, she was also a very private animal

Brennan pressed a hand against his belly. "If I do not
eat soon . . ."

119 Jennifer Roberson

Then eat, Sleeta suggested practically. / am not one to
deny my lir a meal when he is clearly so close to wasting
away.

Brennan grunted. It would take more than missing two
meals to strip flesh from his frame. He lacked some of
his father's sheer bulk, perhaps, but none of the height
the Cheysuli habitually claimed, or the musculature. He
was clearly a warrior: fit, firm, physically well-suited to
the lifestyle of his fellow Cheysuli. But Brennan thought
some of it came from frequent arms-practice and daily
sessions with his horses in addition to simple bone and
blood inheritance; Hart, so very much like him, generally
appeared a trifle softer, though not precisely soft. And
Corin—shorter, slighter than either of them—was built
much more compactly.

A warbow, Brennan thought. Hart and I are Homanan
swords, long and lethal, while Corin's power is hidden in
subtlety.

A vision of his brothers rose before him and hung in
the air as if to taunt him, to strip bare the thin skin
hiding his loneliness. Hart, his other self, was now in
SoHnde; only the gods knew how he would hold his own
in the land of the enemy. He would probably wager his
life on it. And Corin, quick-tempered, quick-tongued
Corin, would undoubtedly embroil himself in difficulties
of his own unique design, in Erinn and Atvia.

"Erinn." Brennan spoke aloud. "Gods, Sleeta—Aileen
will soon be on her way!"

"What did you say?"

For a moment Brennan thought he had gone mad; he
could swear the cat had spoken aloud. And then he
realized the question was from the young woman pausing
by his side. She was wrapped in a thin dark cloak, but
the hood slid from her head to display plaited black hair,
glossy as Sleeta's pelt, and he saw a face he could not
place at once, though he knew he had seen it before.

"No," he said, "I spoke to my Ur" He gestured to
Sleeta, and saw the young woman's eyes widen as she
looked at him more closely.

"You!" she said in surprise. "Oh—my lord—" And

A PlWE OF PRINCES                111

she dropped into an awkward curtsy that puddled skirts
and cloak in the dust of the cobbled street.

Startled by the unexpected homage, all Brennan could
do was stare. And then as her upturned face was made
clear by the torchlight, he recognized her.

"The girl from The Rampant Lion!" He reached down,
caught a hand, pulled her up. "There is no need for
that. . . ." He paused, though he did not release her
hand. "Forgive me, meijhana, I have forgotten your
name."

Her hand was cold in his. "Rhiannon," she answered
softly. "Oh, my lord, I have dreamed—" Abruptly she
broke off, snatching her hand out of his and yanking the
hood up to hide most of her face. "I am sorry—I must

go."
"Rhiannon—wait!" He caught a fold of her cloak to

gainsay her, felt the thin cloth tear and cursed himself for
being such a heavy-handed fool. He could well afford to
buy her a hundred cloaks—and better ones than this—to
replace the one he had torn, but he understood some-
thing of pride. The look in her eyes told him she had a
fair share of what he himself claimed.

"I must go, my lord." She said nothing of the cloak
that now gaped at her shoulder, where the hood had
parted from the rest. "If I am late . . ."

"Then I will come with you, and if you are late be-
cause of me, I think the tavern-keeper will hold his
tongue." He smiled at her and tried to pull the torn
pieces of cloth together. "Have you food at The Ram-
pant Lion?"

"Of course, my lord—though none so fine as you are
accustomed to." She stood very still as he resettled the
cloak. She did not look at him, keeping black eyes de-
murely averted; two gently insistent brown fingers be-
neath her chin drew her face up into the light where he
could see it more clearly.

Something glittered against the fabric of her tunic.
Brennan caught it, held it up: his ring. The sapphire set
in silver he had given her in gratitude for bringing the

112 Jennifer Roherson

Mujharan Guard during the altercation with Reynald of
Caledon, who had gone home weeks before.

"You want it back." She reached up to strip the thong
over her head; he stopped her.

"No. No, it was freely given to you. It is yours,
Rhiannon. For as long as you wish to keep it."

"As long—?" She laughed a little. "Forever, my lord.
Of course."

"Of course." He grinned. "Come then, meijhana—or
the tavern-keeper will rait at us both." And he tucked
her arm into his elbow and escorted her to The Rampant
Lion as if she were the finest lady of all the Mujhar's
court, while Sleeta padded beside them.

It was the first time since he could remember that
Brennan had crossed under the lintel branch of The
Rampant Lion without one or both of his brothers.
Rhiannon was lovely and sweet and struck almost speech-
less by the Prince of Homana's royal presence—but she
was not Hart. She was not Corin. And he missed them
both acutely.

The tavern, as always, enjoyed good custom, though
Brennan had seen it busier. A few men huddled together
at a comer table over some sort of dice game—where is
my rufho? he wondered sadly—while others of a more
solitary bent drank quietly at separate tables. Sleeta's
presence among them garnered sharp looks and startled
expressions, but it was no longer unheard of for a warrior
and his Ur to walk freely in Mujhara, and soon enough
the men turned back to their business.

As they entered, a young man—black-haired, brown-
eyed, of pleasant expression—came out from behind a
curtain divider and fixed Rhiannon with a playfully dis-
pleased scowl. "Lady, lady," he chided, though without
heat. "What am I to do when there are men who call for
your efficient table service, and you are not here to
please them?"

Color suffused her face instantly. "I—I am sorry, Jarek.
I will stay late, to make up the time."

He laughed- "Aye, you will, if only to keep me com-

A PSIDE OF PRINCES                113

pany while I count the ale barrels." Jarek's good humor
remained, but his smile did not quite extend to his eyes
as he looked at Brennan, "Should I lay blame for your
tardiness on this man?"

"You may," Brennan agreed, knowing full well—and
understanding even better—why the tavern-keeper's man-
ner bordered on unacknowledged hostility. "And rather
than have Rhiannon remain later than she should, I will
compensate you for her time." Fingers dipped into the
plump belt-purse on his hip. "Name your price."

Jarek glanced at Sleeta, then back at Brennan. Red-
faced, he smiled ruefully, shrugged, spread his hands.
"What would I ask of a Cheysuli warrior save gold? But
only in coin, of course; I would not presume to covet that
you wear upon your arms." Still, he could not keep his
eyes from the bands, "Be welcome in my tavern, war-
rior, and leave what you wish as a gift for Rhiannon
when it comes time for your departure. That will be
compensation enough."

"Your tavern?" Brennan took his hand away from his
belt-purse- "I do not recall having seen your face before.
And I am a frequent patron."

Jarek frowned a little. "Forgive me, warrior, but I do
not recall your face. And this tavern has been mine these
past six weeks."

Rhiannon's voice was quiet. "He bought it, my lord,
not long after—the fight."

"Ah." Brennan shrugged. It did not please him to
recall the battle with the Caledonese, since one thing had
led to another, and now he was brotherless, even if
only temporarily. "Well, blame me for her tardiness. I
delayed her. And now—lest I perish—may I request a
meal? And wine- Red wine. Fine Ellasian wine." Smil-
ing, he moved to the closest empty table and sat down.
Sleeta settled herself behind his bench and stretched out,
a gleaming, breathing rug.

"At once," Jarek smiled, bowed, gestured. "Rhiannon
will do the honors."

"Aye, aye, of course." Again she curtsied to Brennan,

114 Jennifer Roberson

with more grace this time, and hastened off to fetch the
wine.

Jarek did not leave at once, though he watched
Rhiannon depart even as Brennan did. Then be fumed
back, pale brown eyes assessive. He smiled; his tone was
easy, carefully noncomittal, which was a story in itself.
"She gives you great honor, warrior. I thought the CheysuU
did not put much weight in things such as curtsies and
titles."

Brennan sensed Jarek's unspoken challenge clearly,
though it lacked true hostility. Even if they were more
than employer and employee, which seemed likely, Jarek
no doubt knew Rhiannon would inspire much interest on
the part of wealthier, high-ranking suitors. He believed
his position within her regard precarious.

But Rhiannon did not strike Brennan as the sort of girl
who would throw over one good man merely to stalk
another with greater fortune.

"The CheysuU do not," Brennan agreed easily. "The
Homanans do. Rhiannon is Homanan, and therefore hon-
ors the title rather than the man." He smiled as Rhiannon
came back with a jug of wine and a hastily-polished silver
mug; he could see where she had spat upon it and rubbed
it with a cloth.

"My lord," she said, filling the mug, "here is your
wine—the best I could find." She glanced sidelong at
Jarek. "Your private cask, Jarek, from the back of the
cellar."

"My cask—'

"He is the Prince of Homana!" she hissed, and smiled
self-consciously at Brennan. "My lord, what victuals can
I bring you?"

Sipping wine, Brennan shook his head. "No matter,"
he answered when he had swallowed. "Fresh meat, new
bread, some cheese . . . have you any fruit?"

"Raisins from Caledoa," she said brightly, and then
abruptly they shared the same vision: Reynald, cousin to
Prince Einar, with his ruined escort around him. As one
they laughed, and Jarek quickly took his leave, too quickly;

his spine was stiff as iron.

A PRIDE OF PHWCES

ns

Jealous, Sleeta remarked lazily from behind.

With cause, Brennan told her. The girl is worth the
jealousy. And abruptly, thinking of Maeve trapped in
Tieman's web, he reached out and caught Rhiannon's
hand before she could leave again. "Meijhana—'* he
lowered his voice to spare her embarrassment. "—is he
good to you? Does he pay a fair wage? Does he have—
expectations?"

She knew what the last meant clearly enough. Vivid
color washed into her face, then fell away, leaving ttCT
pale and lily-fragile.

"Jarek is a good man," she said evenly. "As for
expectations—aye, and why not? It is a good wage, and I
am grateful for his generosity."

"How grateful?" he persisted. "And for how long?"

She jerked her hand away. "Why, my lord? Will you
pay more? Will you keep me longer? Will you fulfill my
expectations?"

He was aghast at her interpretation of his interest in
her welfare. "Rhiannon—no. No, I swear, I do not ask
because I want you for myself." And abruptly cursed
himself; he told her the truth, but too bluntly. What
woman wanted to hear a man did not desire her in his
bed? "Wait you," he said cleariy, aware of color rising in
his own dark face. "I meant only to ask if he forced you.
No more."

"Why?" Her heart-shaped face was stiffly set, but deli-
cately proud.

He thought at first to lie for Maeve's sake, but did not.
He felt Rhiannon worth the truth. "Because there are
men in the world who will stoop to force a woman's will,
and I would not want to see Jarek do it to you."

It took her by surprise. No doubt she had heard all
manner of invitations in her employment, as well as
crude suggestions; she did not expect a man to concern
himself with her welfare outside of what she could do for
him in bed.

"No," she said. "No, he does not force me. "It-^t was
wanted. . . ." She looked away from him, though her
fingers crept up to touch the sapphire ring. He thought it

116 Jennifer Roberson

unconsciously done. "He is a good man, Jarek, better
than any other I have known."

Brennan nodded, releasing her hand. "Then I am
pleased for you, meijhana."

"He is kind, and fair, and generous," she went on. "I
am not made to work all night and day, like the girls in
other taverns. I am given one day out of seven for
myself. And all the meals I could wish for. He even gave
me this—" She lifted a fold of the cloak, then blushed
bright red as they both recalled how easily the cheap
fabric had torn under Brennan's hand. "He is a good
man," she declared desperately, clenching her hands in
the cloak.

Brennan smiled a little. "I am convinced, meijhaw.
You are eloquent in your assertions."

"I must go," Rhiannon said in a muffled tone. "There
is work to be done." Abruptly she swung to take her
leave, and in doing so she knocked the winejug over. It
spilled wine across the table to splatter on the floor, red
as blood.

Brennan stood at once, avoiding the pungent torrent.
He righted the jug even as Rhiannon tore off her ripped
cloak to sop up what she could of the spillage. "Oh—my
lord-'

"Stop fretting," he ordered firmly, seeing tears gather-
ing in her eyes. "I am not wet, and there is more wine in
the cellars. Shansu, meijhana—^e world will turn again."

"Clumsy," she said, half angrily, gathering jug and
soaked cloth into her slender arms. And she was gone
before he could speak again, dripping wine to mark an
unintended path.

Flighty sort, commented Sleeta.

No, no, only overwhelmed by my title, Brennan ex-
plained, a trifle sadly, as he sat down again after check-
ing his bench for wine puddles. It happens so often,
lir—too often for my taste, ft seems I am never able to see
the true person underneath all the awe and awkwardness.

"My lord." It was Jarek, with a new winejug in his
hands. "My lord, Rhiannon has explained her clumsi-

A PRIDE OF PMVCES                117

ness. I beg you, spare her your anger. She is a good girl,
and meant no harm."

The obsequious manner was new, ill-fitting, and un-
wanted. Brennan's mouth twisted in displeasure. "And
do you think I want her beaten? Do you think I expect
her to lose her place? It was an accident, tavern-keeper.
Even if I were soaked, do you think I would want her
punished?"

"How can I say, my lord?" Jarek returned stiffly.
"Men who are princes often want things others might
not." He jerked his head to indicate other patrons. "For
a six-week now I have served the aristocracy and wealthy
men of Mujhara. Do you think I have not seen all man-
ner of retribution? Have' I reason to expect you might
want none taken?"

"Perhaps not," Brennan agreed coolly. "As it hap-
pens, you have no reason to expect anything of me.
Except, perhaps, my custom, which The Rampant Lion
has always enjoyed. Unless, of course, you choose not to
serve me now."

"Do you want her?" Jarek demanded bluntly, forgoing
anything approaching diplomacy or respect for a title;

now they were merely men. "Do you intend to take
her?"

Brennan sighed. "She named you a good man, Jarek.
She named you a fair man. I am not disposed to argue
it—she sounded quite convinced—but I am disposed to
say you are a fool." He took the jug from Jarek's rigid
hands and poured his mug full. "I am not in the habit of
taking women from other men. Particularly if they are
content where they are."

Jarek did not look away as Brennan drank. "You
could offer her much more. And she is deserving of it."

Brennan drained half the mug, then set it down. "Every
man and woman has a tahlmorra, Cheysuli and Homanan
alike. If the gods intend better for her, she will have it.
Otherwise, it will be none of my doing."

"She is—-special." Jarek's tone was desperate. "My
lord, I have no wish to lose her, not to any man . . . but I
want what is best for her."

Jennifer Roberson

us

"It does you credit," Brennan told him after a mo-
ment, "But have you never thought that what is best for
her may be the man she has?"

"It is your ring she wears around her neck."

"And your bed she warms." Brennan sat forward on
the bench, resting forearms on the table. "If she wanted
me in place of you, there are ways she could make it
known. Ways she could make it happen." He shrugged.
"She need only come to the palace and ask to see me on
some pretext; I would receive her. Women have done it
before. They do it every day." He held Jarek's eyes with
his own. "When a man has wealth, power, rank, title—
any or all—there are women who want to share it, even
if for only a week, a night, an hour. They barter with
their bodies in Hopes of gaining favors. In hopes of
gaining wealth. And some even dream of permanency."
He poured more wine. "I am not celibate. I enjoy the
courtship dance as much as any man. But neither am I a
stud who likes the mares to force themselves upon him."

"Rhiannon—has not." Jarek's tone was harsh, strained.

"No. Do you think she ever would?"

Jarek looked away. "No. No. She is not a woman for
that." He sighed heavily. "But—"

"Tend your custom, Jarek," Brennan said deliberately.
"Rhiannon has need of you.'*

"And yon?" Jarek asked.

He smiled. **I only have need of my lir."

Four

The food was excellent, the wine even better. Now, sated,
content, drowsy, Brennan watched Rhiannon move
smoothly around the common room tending Jarek's cus-
tom, and reflected that except for poor quality clothing
and a certain naive innocence in her manner, the young
woman could easily pass for one of Deirdre's ladies. She
was well-spoken for an uneducated commoner and her
courtesy was boundless, even with those men who chose
to make sport of her or those who attempted to arrange a
tryst. Certainly she is hvefy enough to grace Homana-
Mujhar— Abruptly he caught himself. He had pointedly
told Jarek the Prince of Homana had no intentions of
elevating Rhiannon out of her present circumstances,
and here he was considering what it would be tike. But he
could not deny that he was attracted to her; for all
Rhiannon's quiet, demure demeanor, he sensed she was
also a passionate woman.

Who are you to contemplate bedding the girl when your
Erimush bride will soon be on her way? Sleeta asked,
casually deliberate.

He sighed. Who am I, indeed? Hypocrite, I think. Or
merely befuddled by too much wine. Brennan scrubbed
his brow. We should go home, Sleeta—ihere are ques-
tions I have for Maeve.

He pushed himself up from the bench, recalled Jarek's
solution to compensation for Rhiannon's tardiness, dug
into his belt-purse and set a gold royal on the hardwood,

119

129 Jennifer Roberson

knowing it worth considerably more than a week's lodging
and full meals.

Generous, Sleeta commented, rising to stretch all her
elegant lean length in the glow of candlelight.

Worth it— He smiled as Rhiannon came to halt before
him. "Jarek serves excellent wine and victuals, meijhana.
And you provide most attractive table service."

"Oh, my lord—are you going so soon?" Color sprang
up in her face, as if she felt her question too personal, or
too revealing.

"I must," he told her, "but I will come again." If my
jehan allows me to, he reflected wryly-
Slim fingers grasped the sapphire ring on the thong
around her throat as her eyes locked on his, and under-
stood what she saw there. "I—I am Jarek's woman, my
lord—" She broke off, then went on, as if determined to
make things very clear. "You—do understand. . . ."

"I understand." He smoothed a strand of loosened
hair away from her cheek, slipping it gently behind an
ear naked of adornment. "Let us be friends, then, meijhana
... if you will allow it."

"Allow it—r Rhiannon's laugh was half-swallowed.
"Oh, my lord—whoever would deny you friendship?"

Brennan's smile was mocking. "My cousin," he told
her wryly. "And I am assured there are others, as well."
He looked past her to Jarek, watching them from beside
the curtain divider. His face was a mask, but Brennan
saw something in the eyes that spoke of many things a
desperate man might know. "Tell Jarek I am not without
honor," Brennan said. "Tell him I respect what others
hold dear."

"Aye." Rhiannon nodded. "The gods go with you, my
lord."

"Cheysuli i'halla shansu," he returned, smiling at her
confusion. "A wish for Cheysuli peace."

Rhiannon nodded again, then abruptly turned away.
Brennan walked out of The Rampant lion.

He was but a street away from the gates of the palace
when Sleeta growled a warning. Within the fir-link it was

A RUDE OF PRINCES

121

incoherent, more cat- than fir-like, as if the threat were
something she might know in the world, and not a thing
of men and women.

Brennan spun in place, hand to knife, and saw the cat
crouch and hackle, ears flattened against her head. The
growl issuing from her throat was a sound he had never
heard from her, and it set the back of his neck to prickling.

Sleeta—

"Lir— That much was coherent. Lir—fir-
All he could think of were Ihlini.

"Sleeta—?" He backed up, pressed his spine against
the nearest wall, tried to slow his racing heart. He thought
of shouting—the watch could be just around the comer,
and the Mujharan Guard was one twisting street over—
but did not. It would have been lost in Sleeta's unnerving
scream.

Dogs! It overwhelmed the link and flooded his senses
with Sleeta's rage and fear. Dogs—dogs—men—

"Sleeta!" Her consuming emotions—visceral, primi-
tive, little more than instinctive responses and reactions—
nearly destroyed his own precarious balance. And he was
in human form; if he assumed fir-shape he was almost
certain to be overcome by Sleeta herself as well as the
threat she sensed. Lir, fir— within the link, in hopes of
reaching her—lir, what is it? Where?

The hounds—the hounds—

—and suddenly the hounds were on her. Jaws agape
... he could not count them all ... grayish shapes in
the darkness, legs and teeth and claws . . . baying, baying
. . . biting . . . trying to take her down, trying to tear her
throat—

"Now," commanded a voice. "Now, while he is
distracted."

—and Brennan knew then they wanted him, not Sleeta,
not Sleeta at all, except as a means to distract him, to
turn his attention from them, who meant to catch him,
hold him, rob him—

Or do they mean to slay me?

And all the while the hounds barked and growled and
Sleeta screamed her anger and fear and hatred.

122 Jennifer Robersw

He tried to turn. He tried to defend himself. But his
reflexes were curiously slowed. Only limply did his fin-
gers clasp the knife hilt, offering no defense. Vision
blurred. He cursed and thought to summon fir-shape
regardless of Sleeta's straits, but hands fell on his arms,
his wrists, his throat—fingers threaded themselves in his
hair and knotted there—so much weight, so much power,
all thrust against him, pressing him back against the wall.

"Sleeta—I" But hands closed his mouth, mashing lips
against teeth.

—Sleeta—But he knew he could not touch her, could
not reach her, not with all the hounds—

—failing: Sleeta—

"Strike him down," someone ordered. "One cat is threat
enough; do you wish to contend with two?"

And he thought: / know that voice—

But the voice said nothing more. And if it had, he
could not have heard it. With a club, they struck him
down.

He did not know where he was. For one horrible
moment, he did not know who he was; and then he
knew, and recalled the attack, and realized he had not
been robbed at all, or beaten, or slain. Instead, he had
been taken.

Sleeta—?

He tried to move. Iron rattled. Darkness pressed down
against his eyelids, blinding him entirely. There was no
sound save his ragged breathing, and the scrape of his
bootheels against the floor as his leg muscles bunched in
panic.

Sleeta—?

But there was nothing within the link; no answer, no
stirring within the pattern he knew as Sleeta.

Oh, gods—lir—

Nothing-
He lay flat on his back. The stone beneath him was
cold, hard, unyielding. The stone around him was equally
so; he was inside, then, not out. He could tell by the
closeness that weighed him down, the faint echo of the

123

A PRIDE OF PRIMES

iron as it chimed. Cuffed at wrists and ankles, all he
could do was stare blindly at what he might name a roof,
had he the light to see it.

"Sleeeetaaa—" The word was a sibilant hiss in a tone
akin to panic.

There was nothing in return. No sound. No stirring in
the hr-link.

_ Panic took his wits. He surged upward against the
iron, trying to break cuffs and chain; fell back again
when he thought his head might burst. Pain threatened
to blind him, except he was blind already. His belly
cramped, tried to spew out all the food and wine he had
consumed at The Rampant Lion; would have, had he not
clamped throat and teetH against it.

"Lion . . ." The gasp whispered in the darkness, run-
ning along the stone.

Jarek. His voice had given the order. Had he been so
insanely jealous as to order his rival imprisoned?

Brennan bit back a groan. The blow had split open the
flesh of his forehead and nearly cracked his skull. Even
thinking of movement made his belly squirm.

Sleeta?

Again, the appeal went unanswered.

Oh, gods—not my lir . . . oh, gods, I beg you, let her
be alive. . . . And he realized, to his surprise, the peti-
tion was bom not of fear for his own death, but because
he could not comprehend what the world would be like
without Sleeta. She deserved to survive, even if he could
not.

No light. Only darkness, and stone, and the weight of
an unknown future.

Blood rolled into one eye, the right; his spasmodic
lunge against iron had opened the wound again.

Spare my lir, he begged—

—and slipped again into nothingness.

He awakened shouting. The words he did not know,
being little more than gibberish; he shouted, he shouted,
and the sounds bounced back from the stone and beat
against his ears.

124 Jennifer Robersm

He stank of his own sweat. And he knew the smell.
The stench filled up his nose and he knew it, he knew it,
recalling how once before he had been trapped, trapped
and completely terrified, so utterly terrified he had
screamed and cried and soiled himself, beating boy's
hands against naked walls—

—the lir. All the lir, with beaks agape and claws un-
sheathed, all of them, beating wings against the air, against
his head, his face, his eyes—all of them trying to throw
him into the oubliette, the Womb of the Earth—to throw
him down and down and down, until he died of fear
alone, because everyone knew there was no bottom—

Gods, he was afraid.

—lir and lir and lir, shrouded in shadow, cloaked in
secrecy—he heard them . . . he knew they were there,
each and every one of them, speaking to one another,
telling one another he was not fit to be the Mujhar's son
because he was afraid, and Cheysuli feared nothing-
Bat this Cheysuli did.

—so afraid, as the walls closed in. So AFRAID—

The memory washed up from the blackest depths of
Brennan's inner self, battering at his awareness until it
broke through to crash upon the cliffs of consciousness,
and he remembered it all. Once, and once only, he had
been enclosed as he was now, against his will, made
helpless. There had been no iron, no purposeful impris-
onment, but the result had been the same. The fear had
been the same.

Then, there had been no lir; he was just a boy. Now,
there was no lir; Sleeta could not be found.

He caught his breath on something very much like a
sob. With no light, no world, no freedom, no lir, he
would surely go mad.

—so much weight-
Smew stood up in ridges, twisting beneath his flesh.

Again and again he jerked limbs against the iron, until

his wrists ran wet with blood.

—out—ouf—OUT—

"Sleeta—!" he shouted, and the sound came back to
engulf him. To swallow him whole again.

A PRIDE OF PKINCBS

12S

Later, when he came back to himself: "—afraid." The
voice was smooth as clover honey, but honestly sur-
prised. "Look at him, Rhiannon!"

Brennan did not move, did not speak, did not open his
eyes to look. He lay in absolute stillness, tensed and
rigid, in iron manacles and blood, and thought himself
gone quite mad,

It could not possibly be Rhiannon—

"You struck him too hard," she said.

Let it not be Rhiannon— And yet he knew it was.

"It needed doing," Jarek answered. "But that has
nothing to do with this. He is terrified."

"Too hard," Rhiannon repeated. "You have knocked
him out of his head."

—oh, gods, no—

Jarek's tone was thoughtful. *'I have heard of it before,
once or twice ... a fear of being enclosed. But—in a
Cheysuli warrior?"

"They are as human as the next man," she said sharply.
"Do you think him a sorcerer? He is just a man."

"Shapechanger, Rhiannon. And—as the zealots would
have it—pretender to the thron&s"

Rhiannon did not answer.

Lir—? he asked; he begged.

"He will be fit enough for the sacrifice," Jarek said.
"Whether he is in his head or no, the gods will not care.
Give them blood: they are content."

Brennan struggled to understand. Pretender to the
throne?

"And you?" she asked. "Will you be content to know
you have slain the Prince of Homana?"

"If it serves," Jarek answered, "and it will. Oh, it
will."

"There are two other sons. The Mujhar is rich in
sons."

Thinking: / have been a fool—the woman has made me
a fool—

Jarek: "And poor when all are slain." Movement. The
clink of iron links as Jarek tested the bonds. "Not so soft

i26 Jennifer Roberson

a bed, is it? Cold, hard stone . . . iron for the bedclothes
. . ." He laughed. "What was it he called you?—meijhana?
Perhaps a bedding name ... a sweet Cheysuli love-name."

"It means 'lovely one,* " Rhiannon said; then, laugh-
ing: "Do you know none of their Old Tongue? You,
Jarek, who claim to know them so well? Even / know a
little."

And J know less than nothing— Within the link, Bren-
nan sent again to Sleeta. Lir—lir—where are you?

But nothing answered him.

"Go, Rhiannon. There are things to be said that do
not require your presence."

"No?" Her tone was bitter. "Are you done with me,
then, now that I have served your cause?"

"We may find use for you again," he said smoothly.
"Now go."

"He is in pain, Jarek. You struck him too hard."

"By this time tomorrow, he will never know pain again.
Now, go." Movement. The susurration of cloth; bodies
moving. And then Jarek spoke again. "Well, my lord
prince, do you intend to pretend senselessness forever?
Have you no questions to ask?"

Brennan opened his eyes. A dish of oil with a twist of
wick filled his prison with smoky light. He saw squat
stone walls, very low, and a half-doorway barely large
enough to admit a man hunched over, with runes carved
around the opening. He had seen a similar place once
before, much younger, when the shar tahl had carefully
tutored the Mujhar's sons in clan history. He frowned,
then banished it at once as the expression pulled at the
wound in his hairline.

And then he knew. A cell. The sort of cell a priest
inhabited, not prisoner. But the runes around the low
door were Old Tongue, not Humanan; this place, then,
was of the Firstborn, and very old. Now freely profaned
by Homanan zealots.

Questions, Jarek had said. Oh, aye, he had one: "Why?"

Jarek nodded. "A good beginning, my lord." He shifted
his position, moving from a squat into a kneeling pos-
ture, and Brennan saw past him to the doorway. Seated

A PWOE OF PRINCES

127

just outside was a Homanan, clearly on guard even with
Jarek present. They took no chances. "There are many
answers. One is that Cheysuli are demons and must be
returned through death to the netherworld of Asar-Suti,
from whence they issued." He smiled as his overdramatized
voice echoed faintly. "Another is that the old gods of
Homana have turned their eyes from us, requiring blood
sacrifice to restore their favor." Jarek's grunt of laughter
mocked the statement. "And yet a third requires the—
reduction-—of those now close to the throne, to make
way for the rightful ruler." He glanced briefly toward the
guard.

Brennan's head pounded. But for the moment aston-
ishment kept the fear of enclosure at bay. "Have you
gone mad? I can refute each of those ridiculous reasonsi"

"Can you? The first two, perhaps—I no more believe
you are a demon than I am myself, and the old gods
perished long ago—but I do subscribe to the final reason
for your assassination, my lord." The guttering flames
from the oil lamp scribed shadows in Jarek's face. "I
personally have nothing against your race. Cheysuli have
as much right to live in this land as Homanans do, but—"

"Then why—'

"Why?" Jarek's tone was intent. "Because through a
miscarriage of a twisted prophecy and the blind acquies-
cence of Homanans overcome by Carillon's legend,
Cheysuli now hold the Lion Throne. And that, my lord
Prince of Homana, is why you—and others of your
kin—must die."

Brennan stared at him. "You have gone mad!"

"No," Jarek's demeanor remained unruffled. "There
is a man in the world much better suited to rule Homana
than your father."

"/ have gone mad," Brennan muttered in disbelief.
"This is nothing but a nightmare—"

Jarek merely smiled. His expression was oddly bland,
as if he enjoyed giving nothing away except what he
chose, and for specific reasons.

And suddenly, with ice-cold clarity, Brennan recalled

128 Jennifer Roberson

his cousin. "You are Cheysuli—?" It was question, state-
ment and accusation all at once.

Jarek's brows jerked upward; something flickered briefly
in pate eyes, then disappeared. He laughed. "Do I look
Cheysuli, my lord?"

In the distorted shadows, his face was alien, full of
planes and hollows. He was black-haired but brown-eyed,
a pale ale brown; in poor light, around the rims, almost a
yellow-gold. And though his skintones lacked the sun-
bronzing characteristic of most Cheysuli, so did Corin
and Keely.

"Cheysuli," Brennan said, shivering once in shock,
"and in league with Teirnan, with the a'saii—" He looked
at the man waiting just outside the low door. "You use
the Homanan zealots to mislead any who might work
against you, who might suspect what you are doing. . . ."
Iron chimed. "Everyone knows the story of Elek's
murder—how he supposedly died by the hand of the
Prince of Homana . . . and you use it. You use it and
other lies to twist the trust, to twist the prophecy—you
use the Homanan zealots to throw down the rightful
House and replace it with your own."

"Do we?" Jarek shrugged. "No, my lord. I am in
league only with those who believe Carillon bequeathed
us a better living legacy than the one who now holds the
Lion."

"Living legacy—" Brennan went very still. "Then if
you are not Cheysuli, and you are not a'saii—" He
stopped. "You mean Carillon's bastard son!"

"Carollan," Jarek affirmed. "Son of the last Homanan
Mujhar, and dispossessed king."

"Dispossessed! He was never acknowledged—and even
if he had been, he could not rule. He is deaf and dumb,
Jarek!"

"That does not alter the fact he bears the proper
blood. It does not alter the fact that he can sire sons who
are not deaf and dumb."

Brennan rolled his head against the hard stone beneath
his head. "This is madness, madness . . . this was settled
twenty years ago, when my father and Caro met. There

A PKIDE OF PsmcES              129

is no ambition in him. There is no desire for anything
more than a peaceful life. And he has it, with Taliesin
... do you mean to tear him away from it? To force the
Lion on him, even if he does not desire it?"

Jarek's face and manner were not those of a madman,
nor a zealot. He was quietly, wholeheartedly dedicated
to his cause, lacking the fanaticism that might tip him
into madness. He was utterly committed. Brennan saw in
him the same quiet fire that burned in Teirnan, and
wondered again if he was being purposely misled.

Jarek glanced over his shoulder at the Homanan guard,
then turned back and wet his lips. "Twenty years ago my
father was murdered by yours, my lord. Within the halls
of Homana-Mujhar, before Cheysuli Council, Niall struck
down my father to keep him from overturning the Cheysuli
claim to kingship. For that cause, my father died. I swore
an oath to carry out his commitment, and I mean to do
it. No matter what the cost."

"Eiek was sacrificed by his own people," Brennan said
wearily. "My jehan held the knife, it is true, but only
because in the crush of fighting someone put one into his
hand and then forced him to stab Eiek, It was carefully
planned that way to implicate my-jehan."

"I would expect Niatl's son to say nothing else." Jarek
smiled faintly. "It is old history, my lord, but history is a
living thing, bequeathing life and knowledge to others,
and the fuel to carry out ambitions and commitments.
Time grows short—Carollan ages, and with each passing
day Homanans forget the Lion belongs to them, not to
the Cheysuli . . . not to Niall, nor to you, nor to the
children you might sire upon your Erinnish queen." The
light flickered, nearly died. "It is our tahlmorra to wash
the Lion clean of Cheysuli claim, and give it to Homanans
once again."

"Tahlmorra—" Brennan could not summon the means
to spit. "If you do this—if you do this to me or to anyone
else—the gods will turn their eyes from you!"

"Then all the better we appease them with blood sacri-
fice." Jarek picked up the dish of oil and told the other
man to go.

130 Jennifer Roberson

Brennan tensed in his shackles. "You cannot simply
slay me out of hand ... in war, aye, but like this? In the
name of Carollan?"

"But we can." The light was stark on Jarek's face.
"You questioned if I could be Cheysuli, working with—
a'saii?" He nodded, went on. "Perhaps this will convince
you otherwise. For a six-month, now, we have been
catching and slaying Cheysuli—not warriors, unless we
are forced, because too many lir deaths would be re-
marked by other lir—but women and children. It is
necessary." He bent closer, lowering his voice. "Now we
reach higher, touching the royal family itself, to show no
one is invulnerable. That even the highest can be over-
taken." He paused. "Left to me, alone, I would devise
another means. Death is death, but there should be
dignity involved. Sacrifice is barbaric . . . but also useful.
For those who thrive on such things, it serves to keep the
fire burning. And we do need a fire, my lord—bright and
hot and clean—if we are to bum the Cheysuli infection
from the wound you have made in Homana."

"Jarek—"

But Jarek was gone, and he took the lamp with him.

Five

Eventually, Rhiannon came. She set the place alight with
a single candle and knelt by him in shadows. Her palm
was cool on his brow. Gently she parted sweat-stiff hair,
pushed it back to bare the wound.

He jerked away from her.

She drew in a startled breath, twitching in shock.
Abruptly she twisted to look over her shoulder toward
the tow entrance, as if she feared discovery.

Did she think he did not know?

He wanted to say: leave me alone, but he could not
find the words. Thinking: if I cannot be free of the place I
am imprisoned, let someone share it with me.

"Oh, my lord . . ." Her black eyes were blacker still in
the shadows of his prison. "My lord—*'

He cut her off. "Where is my lir? What have they done
with my lir?"

"They have put her elsewhere. My lord—"

"Is she alive?"

"Aye- Of course." A smudge of dirt marred her face.
"They want you whole. For the sacrifice. They will not
slay her before the proper time."

He bared his teeth. "I cannot touch her. There is no
Sleeta in the link!"

The flame danced, guttered, nearly went out; Rhiannon's
hand was trembling. "I swear, she is alive. I swear it, my
lord. Confined, as you are, but well enough."

"I cannot touch her!"

"Perhaps it is the drug." Plaited hair hung over her

131

132 Jennifer Roberson

shoulders, braided ropes of glossy hair, threaded with
crimson ribbon. "The wine—Jarek's wine, the second
jug—it was drugged, my lord. To dull your Cheysuli
magic."

The candlelight was kind to her face. Black hair, fair
skin, long-lashed eloquent eyes— Inwardly, the fear and
fury rose. "By the gods, woman, you tricked me! You
sucked me into this madness of Jarek's making."

"No! Oh, no, I swear . . ." Tears welled up into her
eyes. "I knew noth—"

Brennan's mocking laughter cut her off- "Oh, aye,
give me tears! No, no, woman, not again ... I will not
succumb to your posturing of innocence yet again."

"My lord—"

"I heard you," he accused. "You and Jarek, discussing
my health and welfare, and the plans for my demise. Do
you think I am a twice-born fool?" Iron chimed as he
fisted grimy hands. "Go, woman. Hie yourself back to
the man who is so kind, so generous, so—"

"Listen to me!" Her desperate hiss set the candleflame
aguttering and cast distorted shapes upon the curving
wall behind her. "Listen to me, my lord, when I deny
knowledge of Jarek's plans , . . when I deny willing
participation—"

"Oh, aye, you knew nothing," He writhed in his chains
and knew again the helpless fear of a man entombed.
"Oh, Rhiannon, I commend you; you played your part
so well. I fell into the trap like a green boy sick for love
of his first woman—"

"What do you want me to say?" she demanded. "Shall
I swear by your gods? By the Mujhar? By this?" Light
caught the sapphire ring dangling from its thong and set
the gemstone aglow. "Then I will swear by you, my lord
prince—by Brennan ofHomana, firstborn of the Mujhar's
sons, and destined one day to sit upon the Lion Throne."

"So glib," he retorted. "You spew out titles and des-
tinies like a shar tahl, woman, but I will not be suborned
by you again."

Rhiannon briefly bared small white teeth in a feral
display of frustration. "You fool—I came here to give

A PRIDE OF PRINCES                133

you what aid I can, and you spend your strength on
insults!"

Brennan's laugh was a short bark of sound. "Fool, am
I? No more 'my lord' this, 'my lord' that, now that the
truth is out."

"At the moment, my lord, there is little in your state to
recommend your heritage or your divinity!"

"Divinity . . ." This time the laugh was genuine. "Aye,
not much of a man in this malodorous shell, is there?"

"I came to help," she said curtly. "Tell me what you
would have me do."

He rattled his chains. "Set me free, Rhiannon. Prove
you are innocent of my accusations." Thinking: What lie
will you tell me now?

"Jarek has the key."

He wanted to strike the innocence from her face. "Are
you not his whore, then? Have you no bed skill, that you
cannot tease the key from him? Better yet, steal it!"

Color flamed in her face to rival the candlelight.
"Jarek—is my first man," she said stiffly, with an odd
integrity. "It has only been but a month . . . teasing
is—not something I do very well." Her knuckles were
white on the smoking candle.

He wanted to shout at her, to shake her, to force the
truth from her. And yet, against all odds he believed her.
"And if you do not try to tease, cajole, steal, Jarek will
have me slain." He saw how her chin trembled convul-
sively. More quietly, he said: "Do you want that knowl-
edge to compete with the memory of the ring I gave
you?"

One hand closed over the ring and clenched it so hard
the sinews stood up beneath the flesh. "If I am caught—"
She stopped. "If I am caught, three will be sacrificed."

Brennan closed his eyes and felt the sweat sting the
wound on his forehead. He would not deny the truth,
even if he thought she might believe him when he told
her Jarek would never consider such a thing. Jarek might.

Once again he tested ha bonds and found them firm as
ever, biting into weals and making them bleed again. He
turned his head from her and ground his teeth, trying to

134 Jennifer Roberson

keep himself from begging- If asking were not enough,
begging would merely diminish what little pride he had
left.

"My lord—" This time when she touched him, he did
not pull away. "My lord, Jarek said you were afraid of
places like this."

All the breath spilled out of his mouth. "I am." It was
easier than he had believed; the fear did it for him. "This
place—this weight—" He stopped short, shut his eyes,
smelled the fear-stench again. "When—when I was but a
boy, very small, I was trapped in a place not so different
than this—all stone, cold stone, so much darkness and all
the weight—' He swallowed, nearly gagged. *'I had for-
gotten, thank the gods, forgotten . . . until now. . . ."

"Oh, my lord."

"Rhiannon—" He stopped, began again, not caring
that this desperation was manifest; that the sound of his
fear filled up his prison. "I beg you—get me free!"

Her fingers briefly squeezed the cold flesh of his arm.
"I will do what I can do."

And she left him alone in darkness where he could cry
in privacy.

Rhiannon did not come again. There was no freedom,
no miracle that conjured a shackle key from the air to
unlock his cuffs. There was no escape in sleep or uncon-
sciousness. There was only the consuming knowledge
that time passed too quickly, and that at the end of
another day he would be dead, sacrificed in the name of
Carollan, his great-grandsire's bastard son.

Curse you. Carillon . . . curse the loins that sired a son
on some basebom Homanan drudge instead of on Solindish
Electro—

And yet he knew an insane amused irony in that curse,
for without the loins that had sired Carollan—deaf, dumb
Caro—there would have been no Niall. No Brennan. No
need for Cheysuli rule at all, for there would have been a
Homanan heir.

And no need for sacrifice. Uneven stone pitted his
fiesh through Cheysuli leathers. Oh, Sieeta, give me the

A PRIDE w PRWCES              23S

strength to die as a warrior dies, not hating myself for
losing control in this fear of small, harmless places—

Footsteps. Torchlight, reaching in through the low open-
ing to set his prison aflame. And the shape of a man,
ducking down, bending to enter, to kneel at his side with
an iron key in his hand.

"My lord, your time is come upon you. The gods are
thirsty tonight."

"Put no hands on me."

"What? And leave you here to go mad from close
confinement?" Jarek unlocked ankle shackles. "Lest you
forget, my lord, we have your lir as well. Try to escape,
and she shall surely die." His face was mostly hidden in
distorted shadows. "The drug was strong." Calmly, Jarek
set iron aside. It rang in the tiny cell. "An herbalist who
has knowledge of such things recommended a mixture of
ingredients deadly to most men, but merely temporarily-^f
powerfully—discomfiting to a Cheysuli. One ingredient
you may recognize: the root called tetsu."

Muscles spasmed. "Tetsu is deadly!"

"Does it matter?" Jarek laughed. "No, no, not when
used with certain other herbs—the root is dangerous, but
not deadly in proper proportion. Still, it exerts a power-
ful presence, does it not? Cut off from your lir, you are
no different from a Homanan." The wrist cuffs were
unlocked. "Come out, my lord. The gods await."

"And if I stay?" Brennan flexed painful wrists and set
his teeth against the cramping of his calves. "If I choose
to remain here, what will you do?"

"Brick up the door and leave you to die a madman."
Jarek shrugged. "It would discommode the gods briefly,
perhaps, to lose so princely a sacrifice, but there are
others. And who is to say the sacrifice be limited to the
Mujhar's sons? There are daughters, too—"

"No!" he cried, and heard it briefly echo. "No, not my
rujholla. Jarek—"

"Then come out, my lord. Come out into the air,
where you can breathe again, and know yourself alive."

Alive. For how long? Still, he stood a better chance of
escape out of the cell than in.

136 Jennifer Koberson

Jarek moved aside and gestured Brennan to exit first.
He went, stooped and cramped, and felt fresh air upon
his face. No chains—he was free-
frames were in his face. He thrust up a hand to ward
his eyes, felt heat and the lick of dripping oil. He stag-
gered, thought to run, felt hands upon his arms; the
strength of Jarek's drug still lingered in his system.

Behind the flames, he saw faces. Strangers all, ten,
twenty, thirty or more of them, but he knew them. He
knew them by their avid eyes and feral expressions; their
commitment to Jarek's cause.

Nowhere did he see Rhiannon.

The men closed on him. "Come, my lord," Jarek said,
as they forced him to the altar.

It was old, dark stone, stained black with the blood of
murdered Cheysuli. Beyond the flames of the torches his
captors carried he saw other torches, ten of them, thrust
into the earth to form a ring around the stone. All the
earth was beaten into dust beneath the trees around the
altar; now his blood would muddy it.

He stiffened, tried to twist free, was shoved toward the
altar.

"Your Ur, my lord," Jarek said quietly. "Do not forget
your lir.'7

They lifted him, even as he struggled; thrust him up
onto the stone; pinned him on his back.

"Justice," Jarek said.

"You are mad—all of you, mad!"

"The rightful line restored . . ."

"Carillon himself declared Donal heir in lieu of sons,"
Brennan appealed. "He wed Aislinn, Carillon's daugh-
ter, who bore him a son . , . whose son sired a son."

"The Lion shall have a Homanan Mujhar again . . ."

Brennan writhed; they held him down. "/ am Hom-
anan!" he shouted. "I am the Lion's get!" And he
thought in sudden, ice-cold clarity. But if they succeed—if
I am slain—there is still my rujho . . . Hart can be
Mujhar. . .

And the prophecy perpetuated.

Jarek still spoke, softly, calmly, as if he had practiced

137

A PRIDE WPSEVCES

it many times, "Elek's death shall be avenged ... his
memory replenished in the blood of his royal murderer's
son."

Brennan cursed them all, but they understood none of
it. They did not know the Old Tongue.

"Carillon's son shall have the Lion—"

"/ am Carillon's great-grandson!"

"—and the Lion shall know the proper line again, the
gods-blessed Homanan line. . . ." Jarek's smile was odd.
And then he began to laugh, but the laughter was odder

yet.

Brennan rolled his head against the stone. "Fools and
madmen, all—"

Grinning, Jarek gave the order. "Strip him of his
armbands."

He was stripped.

"Fetch the cat."

Sleeta—Sleeta—Sleeta—

Jarek stepped close. Torchlight glinted off the knife.
"Your earring, my lord." And touched blade to ear as he
took the lobe into his hand and stretched it down, as if
he meant to cut the earring free.

Brennan spat at him. "In the name of the sun and the
wind and the rivers, the earth and the sky and the seas—"

Jarek laughed.

"—name of the Hunter, the Weaver, the Cripple—"

And Jarek laughed.

"—i curse you, Jarek son of Elek—7 curse you to die
the death of a lirless man, beneath the jaws and claws of a

beast— "

Jarek bent close, still laughing, and bared his teeth in a
mocking challenge. "Levy all the curses you desire on
Jarek, son of Eiek, my lord. They will not touch me."
His eyes were black in the whipping torches, but the rims
were a clear, eerie gold. "What I do, I do in the name of
Asar-Suti, and he holds precedence over all your petty
Cheysuli gods!"

"Ihlini!" Brennan cried.

"Now!" Jarek roared, overriding Brennan's shout.

Now, Sleeta echoed, as the fir-link blazed to life.-

138 Jennifer Roberson

Brennan, tearing free of them all as out of the dark-
ness the cry of a hunting cat rose, hardly noticed that
Jarek's knife sliced through weighted flesh and severed
bis lobe. Pain was something he no longer acknowl-
edged. Only anger. A terrible, burning anger that swal-
lowed his knowledge of self and tipped him over the
edge.

—down—

Rage fed the flames.

—down—

He did not know his name. He did not know her
name, only that she was there, here, lending him needed
strength, giving him what he needed; what he had to
have, to use, to wield in the name of his anger.

Anger and something more. Something he knew as
fear.

He reached out for the strength, the fear, the rage;

touched it, snared it, hugged it to his breast.

—now—

Before an Ihlini, he knew, his Cheysuli gifts were
muted nearly to nothingness, but now—oddly—he felt
stronger than ever before.

—now—

Jarek no longer laughed. "Slay him!" he screamed.

—now— Brennan whispered. And within the webwork
of the link, he tapped Sleeta and all the terrible heritage
of his race.

In the guise of a tawny mountain cat, he shredded
Jarek's throat.

Six

—run—run—run—
A litany in his head.

—run—run—

On four feet, curving claws raking divots of debris, the
tawny cat ran. Running with him, Sleeta; black on black
in the darkness of the night.

—run—

Deep in his chest, he coughed. Wreaths of vine and
underbrush fouled his course, lacing his eyes with the
whip-snag of tiny branches. Thorns caught at his pelt,
breaking, clinging, burrowing into his flesh.

Still he ran. Flowing, like honey through a flame.

And then, unwanted, came the memory of what he
had been, of what he had done, and he tumbled out of
A'r-shape into the man-shape known as Brennan.

He landed on one elbow; it gave, folding beneath his
weight, and threw him over onto a shoulder, his left one,
and then all the pain he had forgotten came rushing back
again to set his bones afire.

Tangled in deadfall, he lay breathing heavily. His belly
convulsed with it, until the grunting and gasping sub-
sided, and he knew what he was again.

Man.

Brennan pressed himself up. Damp leaves formed a
clammy cloak on naked arms against the night. He shud-
dered once, twice; gagged, and nearly spewed the con-
tents of his belly onto the forest floor.

139

140 feanifer RobersM

"Too fast," he croaked, touching his pounding head.
"Too soon . . . agh, gods, my head—"

Sleeta's eyes were oil lamps in the darkness. Lir—lir—
She pressed her chin against his shoulder, rubbing as if to
offer strength and sympathy.

The pain of his abused head nearly took precedence
over the &r-link, which frightened him. He tried to set it
aside and think only of Sleeta, but the pain was so bad
even his teeth hurt with it.

Lir. Sleeta leaned against him.

Forcing himself to ignore his own discomfort, Brennan
tried to assuage hers, soothing her with gentle hands and
tender words. Through the link they were reunited, re-
confirming their need of one another; the cat's fear,
shock and weariness were echoes of his own.

"Gods . . ." In human speech, it was the only word he
could manage. He was disoriented, tangled up in the
sensations of cat mixed with man, until for a moment he
could not distinguish himself, being neither human nor
feline, but thing.

An owl hooted from near by. Another answered; in
the distance Brennan heard the rising howl of a wolf, the
yapping of his pack. He drew up both knees and rested
his forehead against them, willing the pain to fade.

Lir. Sleeta again, still pressed against him. His hand
touched matted fur, sticky blood, fluid seeping from an
open wound. And he was outraged at the sacrilege.

"Sleeta—" This time the words began to make sense.
He knelt, gently examining her head, throat, shoulders,
carefully fingering ribs and belly and haunches. In the
darkness much of her disrepair was hidden, but he knew
she was not unscathed. The dogs had taken their toll.
^Ku'reshtin," he muttered. "Setting hounds upon a lir."

Effective. Sleeta licked at his neck. They distracted me
from you. She paused. Blood, Ur. Did he set the hounds
on you?

Brennan carefully touched his left ear. No more lobe,
no more earring. Only blood marked the place where he
had borne the cat-shaped ornament.

141

A PttIDE OF PRINCES

No hounds, Ur. This was done by man. This was done
by Ihlini.

No! Sleeta's shocked response was immediate. / would
have known an Ihlini.

So I thought, he agreed grimly. But in the past other
Ihlini have walked unknown into Homana-Mujhar itself
. . . who is to say what spell was cast to blind us to the
truth?

She was fretful from pain and incomprehension. The
gods set us to guard the Cheysuli, to know enemy from
friend, to recognize ill intent.

And to know Ihlini?

That more than anything else.

Brennan sat very stiU, not even daring to move his
hand against her pelt. In but a few words Sleeta had said
more of the purpose of the lir than he had ever heard
from her before. As a child he had been taught that a lir
was a gift of the gods, something incredibly special; the
bond between warrior and animal was a blessing no one
else could possibly comprehend, a thing to be cherished
above all else. Such handing down of absolutes left little
room for questions, even less for answers- The lir them-
selves had always been oddly secretive about so many
things.

"Why?" He asked it aloud because somehow it made
it more substantial; he asked it gently, casually, because
he was afraid she would give him no answer if he sounded
too intense. "Why are you to know Ihlini above all
else?"

Having more power, they offer more threat. Sleeta licked
his shoulder.

It was not the answer he wanted; it told him nothing
he did not know already. "Surely anyone with power
offers equal danger."

Her breath was warm. Who is his own worst enemy?

"/ am my own, of course—that tells me nothing." And
then he stopped speaking. His fingers dug deep into the
thickness of her pelt. "Unless, of course, you are con-
firming my jehan's contention that Cheysuli and Ihlini
are bloodkin."

142 Jennifer Roberson

Sleeta butted her head against his shoulder. Ur, lir,
enough . . . can we not go home?

Home. Did she mean Clankeep or Homana-Mujhar?
"SIeeta—" But he did not finish his question because he
heard movement in the forest.

He thought at first it was the Homanans come to find
him, to throw him down again on the altar to complete
the sacrifice. He thrust himself to a crouch, legs drawn
up to push himself into headlong flight, but he did not
run. The world spun slowly out from under him, and he
fell awkwardly over onto one hip, keeping himself up-
right only by dint of one rigid, outstretched arm.

No, Sleeta said. Think before you run.

He did as told, and understood what she meant him to
understand. No, what he heard was not the noise of
Homanans hunting him; not those fundamentalist fools.
The unveiling of Jarek as Ihlini would be enough to send
them fleeing. K there was one thing more horrifying to a
Cheysuli-fearing Homanan than a warrior assuming lir-
shape, it was an Ihlini sorcerer.

No wonder Jarek spouted all that nonsense about
Carollan—he used it to cover his real intent, to hide him-
self in the others.

He crouched in the darkness with Sleeta crouched
beside him. And then the cat gently butted an arm. The
girl, lir . . . the one who got me free.

Rhiannun. So she had done as she had promised.

The noise came closer- No doubt she thought she
moved quietly, using all the stealth she could, but to
Brennan, warrior-bred and trained, her progress was eas-
ily followed. She had not learned to move randomly, to
stutter-step, to wait, to move again, as if an animal. She
rustled, snapped boughs, snagged vines and underbrush.
He waited until she was close enough, and then he said
her name.

Her startled reaction sent her crashing back two steps
and then she was caught fast, clothing and hair snagged
on twisted boughs. He heard her rapid breathing and the
tearing of thin fabric as she sought to free herself.

"Meijhana—no. There is no need to flee me." And he

A PttlDE OF PKINCES

143

rose out of his crouch to stand, one hand splayed against
the trunk of a conifer to keep him from falling down.

"My lord?" All movement stopped. "Brennan?"

"Aye. And my lir, whom you were good enough to
release."

He heard more cloth shredded, the clink of something
metallic, the ragged eagerness in her breathing. And
then she was free and stood before him. Debris littered
her braids, clung to her clothing, marred her face. But
she smiled, and laughed, and held out glowing gold.

"Yours, my lord. When all the others ran, I took them
to give to you."

He had not thought to see the ftr-bands again. Nor had
he allowed himself the time to think on what the loss
represented. Although the /ir-gold did not make him a
man or a warrior in place of a boy, it was still an integral
part of who he was. The loss would have shamed him as
much for his manner of death as wearing them honored
his manner of living.

"Lei}hana tu'sai," he whispered. "Oh meijhana, I owe
you so much. For Sleeta ... my life ... for these. . . ."

Her eyes avoided his. "I could not find the earring, my
lord. Perhaps—if we were to go back—"

"No. It does not matter. I lack the lobe in which to
wear it." He smiled ruefully at her hiss of realization.
"These are enough, meijhana. That I promise you." Slowly
he slipped hands through the heavy gold circlets, one by
one, and slid the bands up past his elbows until the gold
was locked against living flesh. The bands were cool for
only a moment, and then they warmed, remembering
their customary place, and he was whole again. "Leijhana
tu'sai," he said again, tracing the cat-shapes in the metal.

Rhiannon shrugged a little. "The return of your gold is
still not enough to repay the pain I have caused you and
your cat. If I had known what Jarek intended—" She
stopped short, and tears welled into her eyes. "Oh, gods—
how could I have been so blind, so stupid . . . how could
I not have seen what he meant to do?"

He reached out and caught the back of her head against
the palm of one hand and cradled it gently. Slowly he

144 Jennifer Roberson

pulled her in until she pressed her fare against his soiled
jerkin, clinging to his arms. At first she held herself
stiffly, plainly made uncomfortable by his rank if not by
his compassion. Slowly he gentled her, as he had gentled
so many fillies.

"Shansu," he said softly. "Peace, meijhana—I think no
less of you for your grief." Yet even as he said it, he
wondered if he meant it. In the clans, grief was an'
exceptionally private thing. A Cheysuli showed none where
others might see it.                                        \

Traditionally. But traditions change ...                    j|

The tears did not last. Rhiannon moved back, out of     s
his arms, and wiped her face, succeeding only in smear-      f
ing grime across both cheeks. Twigs and leaves clung to
her braids. But he thought he had never seen a woman     ||
who looked lovelier, even in disrepair.                     |-

"Oh, my lord—" She reached up and touched finger-     <
tips to his neck where the blood from his stolen lobe had      ^
crusted. "My lord, they have used you so cruelly. First
your poor head, then the drug, the chains . . . now this."      -^
She caught one of his arms as he wavered and tugged     a
gently, urging him down. "Sit, my lord, I beg you. It is     ^
clear you are close to collapse."                  -          ^

"Is it?" Awkwardly, grateful for her assistance, Bren-
nan sat down. Sleeta lent him warmth by pressing against
one side; he wrapped an arm around her and gloried in
her presence. "Gods, what I did—" He broke off as the      s
world turned yet again, and bit back a curse as he tried     |
to stay upright,                                           j

"Lie you down," Rhiannon said. "Here—I will help—"     *-
And she moved quickly as he toppled, taking his head
into her lap. Tentatively she stroked sweat-stiffened hair
back from his forehead. Her fingers were cool and light,
and the pain was not so bad beneath her touch,

"Sleep, my lord," she said. "No more harm will come     ^
to you."                                               I

He smiled, though he did not open his eyes. "You     A
sound so certain, meijhana."

"I am. No harm, my lord Brennan—I promise. Your
iir is here, and so am I."

A PRIDE OFPRIWES               14S

For the moment, there was nothing more he wanted.

He dreamed of darkness and close confinement, and the
knowledge of his fear. Weighed down, he could not move.
Only his voice knew freedom, and even that was denied
him. Muzzled by a deep, disturbing sleep, the only sound
he emitted was a throttled wail, a muffled plea for release.

"My lord."

The woman's voice intruded. From a distance he heard
it. He reached out for it, trying to catch it and cling to it
like a babe to a mother's breast.

"My lord—" She paused, "Brennan . . . Brennan—-wake
up. I am here. I am here. I promise."

He struggled toward the voice. Something touched his
face: a hand, warm and kind, offering him compassion.
He reached out, caught it, clung, and the darkness began
to recede.

"Brennan—"

And he came up out of the dream into reality again, and
caught her against his chest, pulling her body beneath his,
knowing only one way to banish such gods-cursed fear;

how to prove he was alive, alive, after coming so close to
death.

"Please—" he whispered, and then abruptly he was
awake.

—oh, gods—

Even as he moved to relieve her of his weight, of his
uncharacteristic demand, her hands pulled him back down.
"No."

"But—you know what I meant to do—what I would
have done, whether you wanted it or no. . . ."

"1 know." She reached up to catch a lock of his hair.
"Do you think I am unwilling?"

A dozen questions spilled into his mind. He wanted to
speak of Jarek; of the line between lust and love; of the
differences in gratification and gratitude. He could give
her so many reasons for what he had so nearly done, and
what his body still wanted him to do. But looking into
her face, into her eloquent eyes, he saw no desire for

146 Jennifer Roberson

explanation. She knew as well as he. She wanted as much
as he.

She locked her hands into his hair and pulled his head
down, down, until her breath caressed his face. "I did
not love him, Brennan. That much I promise you."

For now, it was enough.

He gave Rhiannon into the care of serving women
when they reached Homana-Mujhar. Sleeta he tended
personally, as always. And, at last, he turned bis atten-
tion to himself, tarrying in a hot bath even when his
kinfolk came knocking at his chamber door with ques-
tions regarding his health, word of his battered appear-
ance having been passed among the servants and so to
his kinfolk. He sent them away with promises of a full
explanation, and fell asleep in the cask.

At last he faced his kinfolk in Deirdre's airy tower
solar, though now it was dark outside. He was more than
willing to give an explanation now that he was clean
again, clad in fresh leathers and smelling of cloves in-
stead of fear and close confinement. But he did not begin
at once, because lan stepped close and stopped him short
with a hand upon his arm.

He inspected Brennan's left ear attentively a moment.
'*A clean cut," he said after a moment. "You are lucky-
You might have lost the entire ear."

Maeve, standing near one of the tripod braziers, gri-
maced and touched her own, as if sharing a measure of
his pain. Keely, sitting crosswise in one of Deirdre's
chairs, combed unbound hair away from her face with
stiffened fingers. Her blue eyes were very thoughtful.

Deirdre, playing hostess, poured wine into a cluster of
cups and began to hand them out. As she came to Bren-
nan, he saw how tightly set was her mouth. She said
nothing at first, giving lan his portion, but he seemed to
sense she intended to and moved away smoothly. It left
Deirdre and Brennan confronting one another over a cup
of blood-red wine.

He took it from her, but her fingers pressed his own.
"Next time," she said quietly, "let the bath wait."

147

A PUffE OF PStMCES

"1 was filthy—'

"I know. And I am saying, let it wait." Her green eyes
were steady, unyielding. "Think of your father instead of

yourself,"

He opened his mouth to protest, to repeat how badly
he had needed the bath, but he shut it in silence instead.
A glance at his father, waiting quietly in a chair near the
fireplace, underscored the intent of Deirdre's words. Niall
would say nothing, but there was suddenly acknowledg-
ment in Brennan's mind that he had worried him deeply
and unnecessarily, even if for only the brief length of
time required by the bath.

He sighed. "Aye. Aye, I will." He touched Deirdre's
shoulder briefly in thanks, then went to his father. The
others would hear clearly enough, but it was to Niall he
would speak. "I am well, jehan. I swear. There is—
discomfort—" he shrugged "—but it will fade."

Niall looked up at him from the chair. "Who put you in
irons?" he asked quietly.

"Irons!" Maeve stared. "What does he mean, Brennan?"

The others, clearly, had seen only the lobeless ear.
The Mujhar had seen his wrists with their bracelets of
flesh rubbed raw. And now everyone else did as well.

Keely abruptly swung her legs around, rose and crossed
to him. Forthright as ever, she grabbed one of his hands
and pulled it out where she could see it and his wrist
clearly. He felt her fingers spasm briefly in shock, and
then she let him go,

"Who dared to chain you up?" Her tone was level, on
the surface unemotional, but he heard the truth beneath
the sound. Anger. Outrage. An abiding disbelief,

"His name was Jarek," Rhiannon said, and shut the
door behind her.

As one, all turned and stared at her. Even Brennan
did not move to her at once, though he meant to, be-
cause he was too startled. He had known she was attrac-
tive, but the women had made her l^eautiful.

Awkwardly, she curtsied deeply. Heavy skirts—a deep,
rich blue—draped on slate-gray stone. Her hair, bound
back smoothly in a single braid, coiled like glossy black

148 Jennifer Koberson

rope against soft wool. "My lord Mujhar—" And abruptly,
she lost her balance.

It was lan, closest, who caught her arm and raised her.
Her face blazed with brilliant color. She allowed lan to
hold her stiff arm and did not attempt to move again, as
if afraid she might embarrass herself further.

"Be easy, meifhana," lan told her kindly, offering her
his wannest smile. "There are times formality is required,
but this is hardly one of them." His fingers squeezed her
arm gently. "Be welcome among us, lady."

Brennan looked at his uncle instead of Rhiannon. It
was no secret among Deirdre's ladies—and therefore the
rest of the palace—that the Mujhar's brother was a man
worth having, as friend or bedmate—or both—but lan
had never shown any indication of desiring permanency
in feminine companionship. Certainly he did not now,
but there was no mistaking his attentiveness to Rhiannon.

He would do the same for any woman . . . and then:

She must be twenty-five years younger than my su'fali!

Smoothly Brennan moved forward and offered his hand
to Rhiannon- She took it at once, and he could not hide
the smile of subtle triumph as he turned her away from
lan.

He presented her to his father. "This is Rhiannon,
jehan. Because of her courage, I am here to stand before
you."

"You have my thanks," Niall said quietly. "Leijhana
tu'sai, in the Old Tongue. But will you be more forth-
right in an explanation than my son? We still are woefully
ignorant of circumstances."

"Why was he in irons?" Maeve demanded. "Do you
know, Rhiannon?"

"Gently," Brennan suggested. "Rhiannon is ally, not
enemy."

Rhiannon's hand was cold in his. "I know," she said,
and proceeded to tell them in a quiet, steady voice.

When she was done, the silence was palpable. And
then the Mujhar began to swear. Quietly. Calmly. Inven-
tively. In perfect eloquence he levied every curse against
the Ihlini he could think of.

A PRIDE OF PlUNCES

149

"Well," lan said dryly when Niall was done, "there is
no need for our retribution. Surely this is enough."

"Track them down," Keely said tightly. "Track them
all down, and slay them all as you slew Jarek."

"Jarek was Ihlini," Brennan reminded her. "For all we
know, so were the others."

"How?" Maeve asked. "Could they all hide them-
selves behind Homanan faces? Even before the Ur?"

Brennan shrugged. "Sleeta did not know him for Ihlini.
It is clear Strahan has learned well the spell that shields
Ihlini from the lir."

"And it makes them all the more dangerous," lan
said.

Niall shook his head. "I am not certain that is so. That
Jarek was shielded, aye—but the others? I think not. It
requires something tangible from a lir—a tooth, a claw, a
talon, a feather . . . how many lir have died in Ihlini
hands?" He sat forward in his chair. "Tynstar had Cai,
my grandsire's hawk. Strahan had four teeth from Storr,
Finn's wolf. But not enough, I think, for all of them."

"He might have had more than enough," Brennan
said. "He told me that although they preferred to sacri-
fice women and children to avoid" alarming the fir, they
did kill a few warriors."

"An endless supply of lir." lan, stark-faced, shook his
head. "It is not impossible. It may be all were Ihlini, not
Homanan at all, Jarek simply used the story of Eiek as a
ruse."

"But why?" Rhiannon asked. "If all were Ihlini, why
act as Homanans at all?"

"Think," lan said. "How better to infiltrate a realm
than by portraying yourself as a part of that realm?"

"Even before people you intend to murder?" Keely
asked. "That makes no sense at all, even for what I have
heard of Strahan."

lan shrugged. "I cannot say why Strahan does any of
the things he does. But if he is true to himself—true to
the Strahan we know—he will use every device in his
ken to harm us." He nodded at Rhiannon. "Had she not
freed Sleeta, thereby returning the power of Kr-shape to

159 Jennifer Roberson

Brennan, Jarek and the others would not have been
unmasked. He would still be ignorant of the truth, be-
cause Strahan's allies take infinite care to keep us in
ignorance." He spread eloquent hands. "How best to do
that? By playing out the role."

Keely shook her head. "I still say it is senseless. I
cannot see why any of them bother to portray themselves
as Homanans when they mean to slay us regardless."

"Because you have no guile in you," Deirdre said.

Keely looked at her in surprise. "What?"

"No guile," Deirdre repeated. "You're a woman for
saying what you mean."

"Even when silence is preferable." Brennan smiled at
his scowling sister. "Admit it, rufholia—you would sooner
charge in shouting your name and intention for all to
hear, than to work in silence and subterfuge."

"So should everyone," she retorted. "What good is
there in crawling on your belly when there are legs to
carry you?'*

"And what is wrong with waiting to move until all the
facts are known?" Maeve asked. "Keely, you are too
bold, too quick to say that you think when you would do
better to wait."

Niall silenced the brewing battle with a raised hand.
"Enough." The single word was sufficient.

Brennan made good use of the opportunity to put in
his own thoughts. "It is possible Jarek acted alone. Now
that I think on it, he seemed very aware of how the
others might preceive him, as if he had to think about
how he phrased things so as not to give himself away. To
me, he was always Homanan, in speech and attitude."
He paused. "At least—until he chose to divulge himself,
and then the others scattered."

Niall looked at Rhiannon. "It is for you to tell us what
you know of Jarek. Everything. Hold nothing back, or
you may deal us a blow Strahan would be proud of."

Rhiannon's face was pale as she stared at the Mujhar.
Her hand, in Brennan's, was still very cold. He squeezed
it to lend her reassurance; quickly she looked at him,

A PRIM WPltMCKS                151

smiled faintly, then withdrew her hand entirely and nod-
ded to the Mujhar.

Niall opened his mouth to speak again, but held his
question as Deirdre touched his arm lightly. "A moment,
my lord. Let the girl—and the rest of us—find a seat.'*
She poured wine into the remaining cup and passed it to
Rhiannon. "You're not to be holding us all in so much
awe," Deirdre told her kindly, green eyes alight with
humor. "Underneath all the gold and prickly pride, these
Cheysuli are no different from you and me."

Rhiannon clutched the cup. "But—are you not?*'

"Cheysuli?" Deirdre's brows rose. "No, no, not I.
Erinnish, I am, no more. There is no magic in my bones."

"Nor in mine." Maeve did not smile, though her tone
was even enough. "We are remiss in our gratitude. For
what you did in Brennan*s cause, all of us are grateful."

Rhiannon fixed her eyes on Brennan's face. What she
felt was clear for all to see. "There was nothing else I
could do."

lan fetched a chair and brought it forward, thumping it
down behind her. "Sit you down, meijhana.^ His smile
was exceedingly charming; the glint in his eyes was clearly
intended for Brennan's benefit. "Be at ease, as I insist—
and tell us whatever you can of Jarek."

Slowly she sat down, clutching her cup of wine. She
did not drink. She waited, watching as her hosts found
places to sit, and then she drew in a breath so deep it
made the sapphire glint in the candlelight. "He was a kind
man—to me." Blood rushed into her face as clearly she
heard the incongruity in her statement. "He said nothing
to me of Eiek, my lord Mujhar. He kept his affairs very
private, aye . . . but how many men share such things
with women? Even the women who share their beds?"
Color deepened in her face; she glanced briefly at Bren-
nan, then looked away. "He served Cheysuli willingly in
the tavern. I heard no words of hatred or hostility."

"Nor did I," Brennan confirmed. "Even when he and
the others threw me down on the altar, there was little of
true hatred about it, and nothing of madness at all." He
shrugged. "Again ... up to the point he gave away his

152 Jennifer Koberson

race by admitting he served Asar-Suti, Jarek was loyal,
dedicated, openly commited to the bastard's cause . . .
and I believed him. There was no reason not to."

Niall nodded. "I think you may have the right of it. He
misled them purposely so he could, if he had to, blame
them for your death. He would admit the truth of his
identity to none who was not Ihlini." His eyes softened
as he looked at Rhiannon. "Not even to you."

"What else?" lan asked white-faced Rhiannon quietly.
"Think of him in a new light, meijhana, and surely you
will discover something in his conversation, his behavior
... in the company he kept."

Rhiannon frowned thoughtfully. "Once, he said some-
thing of his birth. He said he was bastard-bom." She
shrugged. "I thought nothing of it—I too am bastard-
bom—but he said it mattered very much in the scheme
of things. That in the end, the bastard blood would give
him power no one else could hold." She glanced at
Brennan. "It was not a claim I paid much attention
to—until 1 heard him tell my lord he would bring down the
House of Homana- And then I knew what I had to do."

"Thank the gods," Maeve murmured.

Niall shook his head slowly. "Power from his blood
... for all we know, he may have been Strahan's son."

"Does it matter?" Keely asked. "He is dead."

lan shrugged. "Dead, aye . . . but I will curse the
nameless bitch who bore him anyway."

Rhiannon looked at him sharply. "But I do know her
name," she said. "I thought it pretty, so I remember it
easily," Rhiannon smiled a little. "His mother's name
was Lillith."

As one, they looked at lan.

Seven

"You cannot be certain," Niall declared. "Rujho—you
cannot."

lan's face was a peculiar chalky gray. "How not?" he
asked hoarsely. "Am I to ignore the obvious?"

"What is obvious?" Niall demanded. "Do you think
Lillith kept herself celibate before or after you?"

lan looked blankly at Rhiannon, who stared back in
growing alarm. "Have I said the wrong thing?" she asked.
"Have I said something I should not?"

Brennan intended to speak, to calm her fears, but lan
moved to stand before her, neatly shouldering him out of
the way.

"Rhiannon." For a moment lan said nothing more,
locked up within some private battle, and then he blew
out a breath between constricted lips and knelt down in
front of her. "Meifhana—" He took one of her hands
into both of his. "Can you tell me how old he was?"

"How old?" She stared in bafflement at lan, then
glanced up at Brennan as if to ask instruction. But he
could offer her nothing.

lan was singulariy intent. "How old was Jarek, Rhian-
non?"

"My age," she answered. "Twenty."

"Twenty," lan repeated blankly. He turned his head
to look at Niall. "The age is right . . . and he was
bastard-born of an Ihlini jehana whose name we know is
Lillith. What other proof do you require?"

The Mujhar looked infinitely older. "Perhaps none,"

153

154 Jefm^fer Roberwn

he said wearily, rubbing at the ruined flesh around the
patch. "Perhaps we have all we need."

"Aye." lan's face was oddly blank. "It was what she
wanted. A child of us both, to mix the blood, the heri-
tage, the power—"

"And now he is dead." Niall's voice was steady. "Why
hate yourself the more when the need for it is passed?"

lan's posture was incredibly rigid as he released
Rhiannon's hand and rose. Brennan, watching him in
growing alarm, thought he had never seen his uncle so
shaken, or so vulnerable.

"Thank the gods," lan said. He looked at Brennan.
"Leijhana tu'sai, harani, for ridding us of another
Ihlini—an Ihlini abomination!"

For all the words were brutal, Brennan heard the
anguish in lan's tone. He knew better than to believe it
derived from grief, but there was more than dispassion as
well.

How does a man deal with the death of a son he never
knew? Brennan slowly shook his head. "Su'fali—'

"Surely you recall the story," lan said harshly. The
mask slipped from his face; Brennan saw the hostility
that was so uncharacteristic of his uncle. "I was stud to
Lillith's mare. She ensorcelled my lir, ensorcelled me
... she stole the seed from me. Do you think I will
grieve for that misbegotten spawn?"

Looking at him, Brennan saw an angry man who tasted
the bitter fruit of shame. It was a new aspect of lan,
whose place in the household was one of abiding warmth
and affection. He was kinspirit as well as kin.

It is as if he wishes to flagellate himself since we will not
do it for him. "Su'fali—" Brennan began again, thinking
to ease lan's anguish, and realized there was himself to
think of as well. lan could not, for the moment, see past
his own feelings to those of his nephew. "Su'fali, you are
saying I killed a kinsman."

For a brief arrested moment there was acknowledg-
ment in lan's eyes, and then it was quickly banished.
"Ihlini. No more than that."

Slowly Brennan shook his head. "But he was. He was

A PRIDE w PRINCES               155

an enemy, aye, but we shared blood. He was my cousin,
just as Teirnan is. It does matter, su'fali.'1''

lan's look was intense. "Then I will put it another
way," he said with elaborate distinctness. "If you had
known he was my son as he began to carve you to pieces
on that perverted altar, would you have hesitated to kill
him?"

A neat trap— But Brennan shook his head- "No, su'fali.
No."

"Then do me the courtesy of attempting to understand
my feelings," lan said curtly. "I will not weep for a man
who was bom of my seed, but decidedly not of my beliefs
and loyalties."

"Ihlini and Cheysuli,*" Keely said rigidly. "Gods, who
is to say what arts he might have had? What magnitude
his powers?"

"Firstborn," Maeve said tightly.

"No." Niall's answer was quick and definitive. "No,
not a Firstborn. He lacked the other blood; therefore the
prophecy was unfulfilled . . . and even if it had been, do
you think the gods would countenance an accursed
kinslayer on the Lion?"

Brennan's belly twisted. "Kinslayer," he said hoarsely.
"Am / not accursed, then?"

He saw their eyes upon him. He could not read them,
even as well as he knew them, because what they all
considered was something entirely new. Killing enemy
Ihlini, Homanans, Solindish and Atvians in service to the
prophecy was one thing, and well accepted, but slaying
kin? It carried a heavy weight.

Niall slowly shook his head. "Weigh yourself against
Jarek, Brennan, and tell me which man deserved to die."

"Easy enough," Keely said sharply. "Rujho, you can-
not doubt it. You are heir to the Lion Throne. Would
you give it instead to Jarek?"

"No." He looked at his uncle, whose face was masked
to them all, and yet the world was in his eyes. "No, I
would not give the Lion to any man such as Jarek.
But—'* He paused, still looking at lan. "Su-fali, surely

156 Jennifer Roberson

you must wonder what he might have been if you instead
of Lillith had had the raising of him."

"Must I?" lan shook his head. "No, I must not- Else I
will begin to question my conviction that Ihlini and
Cheysuti cannot possibly coexist, within a realm or within
a conscience." His eyes were on the Mujhar. "You say
that once we were brother races, rujho; that the gods
sired us both. And I say they did not, being gods of
uncommon sense. But if you have the right of it ... if
we are brother races, intended for cohabitation once
again when the prophecy is fulfilled . . . then how do I
live with it? How do I live with the knowledge that my
son tried to murder yours?"

Brennan saw clearly that a measure of lan's pain was
his father's. Half-brothers only, sharing so little and yet
so much; he wondered if their bond was anything like the
one between himself and Hart.

"Then I will answer for you," lan continued, as Niall
did not respond. "I could not live with it. And even if
you have the right of it after all, and one day we are
expected to lie down with Ihlini again ... I would sooner
give myself over to the death-ritual than acknowledge
one as my kin," lan looked at each of them, one by one:

Niall, Deirdre, Maeve, Keely and Rhiannon. Lastly he
looked at Brennan, "Leifhana tu'sai," he said firmly, and
then he put down his cup of wine and walked silently out
of the solar.

The Mujhar sat down again and scrubbed at his rigid
face. "Ah, gods, spare my rujho this pain. . , ."

"My lord." It was Rhiannon, speaking softly, and Niall
turned his head to look at her. "My lord, is this true?
Jarek was his son?"

The Mujhar sighed. "It is an old story," he said gently,
"and a very private one. But aye, it seems likely Jarek
was lan's son."

"Then he also was Cheysuli? Like you. Like the Prince
of Homana?"

"And one step closer to the Firstborn," Keely said
flatly, answering in place of her father. She tossed back a
gulp of wine, then shook her head in disgust. "So, the

A PRIDE WPKMCES

157

Ihlini think to destroy the prophecy from within instead
of without. A Cheysuli sire, an Ihlini dam, and children
who do the bidding of the Seker."

"A formidable mixture," Niall agreed grimly.

Rhiannon frowned. "I do not understand.*'

Keely cast her an impatient glance, then looked at
Brennan. "You would do well to tell her, rujho. Her
ignorance is appalling."

"Keely, enough," Deirdre said quietly. "Are you think-
ing everyone knows what the Ihlini are to us?"

"Us?" Keely asked. "You are not Cheysuli."

"Keely, that is enough," Niall said sharply. "I will
tolerate no insults to Deirdre or Rhiannon."

Keely recoiled, looking startled. "No! Oh, no, I meant
no insult. Deirdre, I did not. I only meant you had less to
fear, not being a part of the prophecy."

Deirdre's smile was crooked. "Aye, 'less to fear.' I'm
only needing to worry myself over all of your father's
children, as well as the father himself."

"Something you should think about," Maeve told her
younger sister darkly.

"Aye, so I should." But Keely did not sound particu-
larly repentant.

"Well," Deirdre said. "I'm thinking 'tis time I showed
Rhiannon what there is to leam if she is to enter my
service."

Rhiannon stared. "Your service?"

"My service," Deirdre repeated. " *Tis hardly pay-
ment enough for saving the lives of the Prince of Homana
and his Ur, but I think 'twill be a beginning. If you are
willing."

"Willing?" Rhiannon echoed. "Do you mean I am to
stay here, with him—with you? I need not go back to the
tavern?"

Deirdre smiled and slanted Brennan a bright, knowing
glance. "There is a place for you here, if you want it,"
she told Rhiannon kindly. "You deserve better than serv-
ing wine to amorous young lordlings in tawdry taverns."

Brennan raised his brows. "/ was always polite, and
The Rampant Lion is not tawdry."

1SS Jennifer Robersos

" Tis for Rhiannon to decide."

Keely grunted. "Even Hart would not lay a wager on
that."

Brennan felt the familiar stab of loneliness.

Rhiannon looked at him directly a long moment. And
then she rose and curtsied to Deirdre. She was slim and
lissome in the rich blue gown. The rope of heavy hair
swung against her hip. "Aye, lady, I will stay."

"Good.** Deirdre's beckoning gestures encompassed
Maeve and Keely as well. "Come then, there are things
you must be learning. We'll be leaving the men to
themselves."

Maeve and Rhiannon moved to the door at once.
Keely, scowling darkly, finished her wine in a single gulp
and then thumped the cup down on the nearest table.
"Foolishness," she muttered, and was the last one out of
the room.

Brennan smiled a little as the door thudded closed to
punctuate Keely's temper. "Do you regret it, jehan?
Siring such unruly children?"

Niall grinned. "There are times. . . ." He let it trail off
and stretched out his legs, slumping back in the chair.
Candlelight glinted off the cup still held in his hand. "If
the gods are willing, you will know the same trials I do.
But in the end it is worth it... too long was the House
of Homana poor in children, poor in healthy sons." He
shook his head. "Because of my unruly children, I am
able to make Just distribution of our holdings, and im-
prove for our House the trusts held by other kings.
Within one generation I am able to secure threefold the
path of the prophecy. Believe me, that is something."

Brennan nodded. Idly he looked into his cup; his wine
was untouched. He drank down half of it in two gulping
swallows, then dropped into the nearest chair. His ear
hurt, and his head, and the rest of him as well. "There is
more," he said at last. "I saw Teir at Clankeep. He was
his usual self."

Niall shook his head in disgust. "I thought Ceinn knew
better than to raise his son on resentment and bitterness.
It does no good—the a'saii are disbanded."

1S9

A PRIDE WPRWCKS

"Teirnan says they are not."

The Mujhar went very still. "Not," he echoed. "And
do you say they again espouse a change in the succession?"

"With an additional change. Ceinn and the others may
have wanted lan to take your place, once, but this time
Teir wants the Lion for himself."

"The fool. The young, arrogant fool'" Niall thrust
himself out of the chair and paced to one of the case-
ments. It was full night outside, but the glow from bailey
torches banished total darkness. What he saw Brennan
would not venture to guess, but then he was not certain
his father looked at anything other than memories.

"He says they will appeal to Clan Council, charging
that Teir's blood has precedence over ours, jehan.9' Bren-
nan shook his head. "He seems not to care that a divi-
sion within the clans could well divide Homana."

"Teirnan never could see farther than his own immedi-
ate desires," Niall said in disgust. "Ceinn was shrewder
... he said they wanted Jan on the Lion, or—when it
was obvious lan would never claim it—the first son 'Solde
bore." He sighed and rubbed at ruined flesh, obviously
troubled by old memories and grief. "Never did he claim
it for himself. So—now he gives that son leave to win it—or
steal it—however he can."

"Jehan-"

The Mujhar's tone was weary more than angry. "If he
knew what it was to sit in the Lion Throne ..." But he
did not finish, turning instead to face his oldest son.
"Well then, I think it is time to have him come to
Homana-Mujhar.' *

"Here?" Brennan frowned. "Why?"

"I discounted the a'saii before, because I was foolish
enough to believe my place secured," Niall said. "I was,
after all, Cheysuli and Homanan, a part of the proph-
ecy." He smiled in wry self-deprecation. "It nearly got
me slain. I will not do it again . . . not when my son is at
risk."

Brennan stared at his father thoughtfully for a long
moment. Then he slowly shook his head as he under-

169 Jennifer Roberson

stood the ramifications. "You are taking Teiman hostage
against the a'sau."

"Am I?" Niall's bland tone divulged nothing of his
thoughts.

Brennan could not look away from the man. He had
seen the Mujhar on many occasions dealing with all
manner of circumstances, political and personal, but never
had seen him so intently purposeful while seeming so
unconcerned.

"He might not come, jehan.^

"I think he will. If I know anything of Teiman at all,
he will come to prove himself. To prove what he is to
us"

"I can tell you what he is," Brennan murmured darkly.

Niall smiled and walked slowly over to Deirdre's tapes-
try frame. He studied the pattern intently for a moment,
then turned back to Brennan. "I cannot expect you to be
boon companions any more than Ceinn and I were. But
perhaps you can—influence him."

Brennan scowled. "I can think of better company."

"Doubtless so can he."

The scowl evaporated, replaced by a wry smile. "And
if Ceinn objects? He is Teir's jehan.'"

Niall raised his tawny brows. "And I am Mujhar of
Homana. On occasions such as this, there is some value
in rank."

Brennan laughed aloud. "I think you want Ceinn to
object."

"There is no pleasure in discord." Smiling, Niali lifted
his cup and drank.

Son looked at father in detached appreciation. He did
not much resemble Niall, being wholly Cheysuli in bones
and color while the Mujhar was wholly Homanan, but
they often thought alike, spoke alike, experienced similar
feelings. There were times Brennan thought his father
knew what he was thinking.

He scrubbed at his brow; weariness threatened to make
him incoherent. He rose and set the cup down on the
nearest table. "Jehan, if you wilt give me leave, I am for
bed."

A PRIDE or PRINCES               161

"Brennan."

At the door, Brennan glanced back. "Aye?"

"You have bedded the girl."

Brennan took his hand off the latch and turned to face
his father more fully. "Aye." He felt a brief spasm of
guilt as he recalled the initial circumstances, but it faded
instantly. In the end, what he and Rhiannon had shared
had not been a thing of force or mere gratification at all,
but of entirely different dimensions.

The Mujhar's single eye was oddly opaque, but unwa-
vering. "Perhaps I would do well to remind you that
although meijhas are accepted in the clans, Aileen is not
Cheysuli."

He thought he was too tired to be truly angry, but a
trace of resentment flared. And was gone almost at once.
He knew very well that if it were not in deference to
Aileen's Erinnish sensibilities, his father would never
interfere in his son's personal life.

"I have no intention of offering insult to Aileen,"
Brennan said quietly, "any more than I intend to make
Rhiannon my meijha."

The Mujhar relaxed almost imperceptibly. He smiled.
"Go and eat. And sleep. I intend-to send men tomorrow
to leam what they can of this Homanan idiocy concerning
Caro—it may be nothing more than something created
by Strahan for effect—but I will excuse you from it and
from Council in the morning."

"Leijhana tu'sai," Brennan said fervently, and pulled
open the heavy door.

He slept heavily for part of the night and then awoke,
sweating, as he felt himself slide toward the abyss. Sleep
was banished. He sat up in bed and stared blankly at the
draperies dripping from the framework of his bed and
knew if he did not resolve his fear once and for all, he
would never sleep well again.

Sleeta was a lump of warmth and blackness at the foot
of his bed. Even in deepest winter he required no heating
pans; Sleeta was more than enough. Through the link he
felt her drowsy inquiry, and told her to go back to sleep.

162 Jennifer Roberson

What he intended to do required solitude, or the accom-
plishment—should there be any—would be tainted.

Brennan pulled on leggings, jerkin, soft houseboots.
Moonlight slanted through casement slits, providing more
than enough illumination for a man with Cheysuli vision.
He went out of his room into the torchlit corridor and
took the first down-winding staircase he came to.

In the Great Hall, the Lion crouched on the dais.
Brennan hardly glanced at it; nocturnal visits in child-
hood had inured him to the eerie, lifelike stare of wooden
eyes. And it was not the Lion that drew him now, but
something else entirely.

Brennan kicked charred wood and ash from one end of
the firepit, sweeping clean of debris the circular iron lid
set flush against stained brick. He thought briefly of
using a torch for a lever; dismissed it and bent to grasp
the twisted handle. He muttered a plea for help, then
braced himself and jerked upward.

The hinged lid yawned open and folded against the rim
of the pit with a muffled clang. Ash rose; Brennan
coughed. The exertion emphasized his need for rest and
recovery. Raw wrists stung as other muscles clamored to
protest abuse.

Brennan stood on the edge of the stairway leading
deep into the earth. It had been sixteen years since he
had descended the one hundred and two steps to the
underground vault called the Womb of the Earth.

Aloud, he quoted a tenet of the clans: "If one is afraid,
one can only become unafraid by facing that which causes
the fear."

The words fell away into silence.

He sucked in a deep breath through a throat that
threatened to close. "Prince of Homana? No. More like
prince of cowards."

There was no disagreement.

Brennan swore. He caught up a torch from the rack
and thrust it rigidly before him. It roared in the mouth of
the stairway.

"Down," he said aloud, and made himself follow the
order.

A PRIDE W PlUNCES

163

He counted. Each step took him nearer the Womb,
farther from the Lion. Deeper. Until there was no light
at all from the Great Hall, only the flames from the
torch, and he knew it was not enough.

Brennan stopped. Sweat stung his armpits and damp-
ened the hair against his face. The torch shook from the
rigidity of his grip, distorting illumination. All he could
see was blackness ahead and the promise of close
confinement.

Down.

More steps. One by one, he descended them, until
there were no more. He stood in a closet made of rune-
worked stone. Slowly he put out one hand and pressed
the keystone.

The wall fell inward, as he knew it would, and the
vault revealed itself to him. The torch roared, spat flame,
threatened briefly to snuff out. But it did not. And when
he could, Brennan stepped into the vault.

The walls ran wet with torchlight. Gold veined the
creamy marble and lent life to the lir imprisoned there.
Brennan saw wings and claws and beaks and eyes, all
frozen in the stone. Each wall, from floor to ceiling, was
alive with marble Ur.

"Ja'hai," he muttered aloud. But the gods made no
indication they heard his instinctive plea for acceptance.

Sixteen years . . . and I am no less afraid at twenty-one
than I was at five.

Brennan took three steps forward, then two more. He
stood at the edge of the oubliette. The torchlight did not
begin to touch the darkness of the pit. He could see
nothing past the rim.

There were stories about the Womb. Legends that said
a man, meant to become Mujhar, was required to be
bom of the earth herself, of the Jehana, and this was the
birthing place. No one knew if the stories were true, or
merely imagery handed down by the shar tahls to make
certain everyone would remember. Brennan himself could
not say, although he had heard one story more than once;

that Homanan Carillon, needing the blessing of the gods,
had of his own accord gone into the oubliette- And come

164 Jennifer Roberson

out again, whole, but with a greater understanding of
what it meant to be Cheysuli, even though he was not.

"Homanan," Brennan said aloud. "But I am Cheysuli;

is there really a need for such sacrifice?"

"Is there, my lord?"

He stood very still on the edge of the oubliette, taking
great care to maintain his balance. When he could move
again without fear of falling, he turned -

Rhiannon stood in the open doorway. She had ex-
changed gown for linen nightrail and woolen robe.
Wrapped in deepest blue, cloaked in a mantle of raven
hair, she blended into the shadows.

In her eyes was the knowledge of what they had shared
the night before, and the desire to share it again. She was
not a bold jade such as many of the court women, but
neither was she a coy woman whose mouth was filled
with innuendo. That she believed herself in love with
him, he knew; perhaps she was. But he was not in love
with her.

She did not move from the doorway, as if she under-
stood quite well that to enter was to intrude upon some-
thing sacred, something of ancient and binding power. "I
went to your chamber and saw you leave it, so intent you
did not see me in the shadows. You looked so troubled—"
she shrugged, excusing her boldness easily,"—I followed.
I found the stairway in the firepit, and knew what you
meant to do."

"Did you?"

"Aye." She raised her chin slightly. "Whatever you
may think of yourself in the aftermath of what Jarek did,
you remain a brave man. A man of pride and strength
and determination, not one to let a thing like fear cripple
his tahlmorra." She smiled. "Deirdre is a remarkable
woman, my lord. She answered my questions before I
asked them, and told me what it was to love a man so
bound by a prophecy. She told me how to share a Cheysuli
with his tahlmorra."

He would not spare her the truth. "And did she also
tell you that within a matter of months there will be a

16S

A PRIDE Of PftSNCES

Princess of Homana who will share those things with

9"

me.7

"Aye," Rhiannon said.

He had expected tears, disappointment, resentment.
She gave him none of those things. What she gave him
was pride to match his own, and integrity, and an hon-
esty he so rarely saw in Homana-Mujhar, except when he
spoke with Cheysuli.

He smiled a trifle sadly. "Where is the innocence?"

A tinge of color entered her face. "Do not mistake
me, Brennan. I want nothing more than what I had last
night. You wanted it—needed it—then . . . and I think
you want it now."

He did. For different reasons, perhaps, but he would
not lie to himself any more than to her.

"Her name is Aileen." His words were brutal by de-
sign; he offered a final chance for withdrawal.

But it was not accepted. "I know," she said evenly.
"Afy name is Rhiannon."

He took her hand. He led her out of the Womb of the
Earth. He brought her to his chambers. To his bed.

To something he did not, could not regret.

Eight

Teirnan threw himself down in the Lion Throne. He
grinned, caressing the ancient wood, then laughed aloud
in joyous exultation. "Do you know how long I have
wanted to do this? Can you guess?"

Brennan, who did not particularly care, merely shook
his head.

"For as long as I can remember." Still Teirnan stroked
the clawed armrests, glorying in the texture of age-polished
oak. "Since my jehan first told me I was kin to the House
of Homana."

Brennan's mouth twisted in irony. "And how carefully
did he tend you, Teir? How subtle was he in impressing
upon you his belief that you should rule in my place?"

Teirnan luxuriated in the throne, sitting back so that
his head was shadowed by the gaping lion's mouth. "There
was no subtlety at all, cousin. I am the son of dead
Isolde, rujholla to the Mujhar ... my blood cries out
for the Lion."

Brennan, arms folded, paced slowly to the dais and
climbed it, posting himself directly before the throne.
"There are no a'saii, are there? Only you. And Ceinn, of
course—but I think Ceinn's teeth were pulled many years
ago, when my jehan named him shu'maii in his Cere-
mony of Honors."

Teirnan's hands clenched the claws of the Lion. "I
have as much right to it as you."

"Do you?"

"My blood hearkens back to the days of the Old

166

A PSIDE OF PKINCES                167

Mujhars, the CheysuH Mujhars, who had no need to
marry unblessed foreigners in order to secure Homana.
It was ours already, given us by the gods themselves."

"And the Ihlini?" Brennan shrugged as Teiman broke
off to stare at him in shock. "I do not deny that through
Ceinn your blood is purer than mine . . . that because of
Ceinn, you count some of the oldest and cleanest blood
in your heritage." He tipped his head to one side in a
brief gesture of idle acknowledgment. "After all, even
your jehana—kin to the Mujhar himself—had decidedly
mixed blood, while yours is admittedly less so.'* Brennan
was motionless, holding him with the understated gentle-
ness of his tone. "But if you wish to sit here and prate
about it how you are improved by such purity, recall that
it was precisely because certain clans refused to marry
out that this dynastic manipulation became necessary.
This realm to that realm, this warrior to that woman
. . ." He shook his head. "Perhaps you should also con-
sider that it becomes more and more likely we are bloodkin
to the Ihlini."

"No." Teirnan was deadly serious as he pulled himself
out of the throne. "You speak heresy, Brennan."

Brennan shook his head. "I speak of probabilities."

"How can you say that?"

"Look at the UrF Brennan said. "Will they attack the
Ihlini? No—even though they will do their best to de-
stroy anyone else who means us harm. Will they tell us
why? No—all they ever say is that they follow the law of
the gods." He drew in a breath, understanding things
more clearly himself even as he spoke. "It does seem
entirely possible, cousin, that the reason that law exists is
to keep children from slaying children—"

"Children—?"

"The children of the gods." Brennan exhaled slowly,
"I find it hard to believe the gods would give their
children the weapons with which they might kill one
another when what their parents desire is for them to live
in accord."

"But Ihlini kill Cheysuli!"

"And Cheysuli kill Ihlini." Brennan drew in a breath

Sennffer Roberson

of dull acknowledgment, understanding it at last. "But
without benefit of the lir. Without benefit of a full com-
plement of powers ... so that the battles are battles of
men, and not the get of the gods, who have more power
than perhaps they should to live in a world of men."

Teiman's breath rasped loudly in the hall. "It cannot
be," he said.

"How can it not be?" Brennan asked. "You know the
prophecy, Teir. Its aim is to merge bloodlines and unite
deadly enemies. We know the four realms; Homana,
Solinde, Erinn and Atvia. Even now we are closer to
fulfilling that portion of the prophecy. I will hold Homana.
Hart will have Solinde, Corin Atvia, and Keely will wed
into Erinn. As for the two magical races, who else can
they be but Cheysuli and Ihlini?"

Teirnan's face was gray. "May the gods strike you
down!"

"Why?" Brennan asked. "It was the gods who gave us
the prophecy."

Teirnan backed up a step and ran into the throne. He
stopped abruptly, rigidly, and stared blindly at his cousin.
His face was a death-mask.

"Teir," Brennan said with abiding patience, "I do not
advocate we go to Strahan with words of peace in our
mouths. But I think perhaps my jehan has the right of it:

the time is come for the Cheysuli to begin acknowledging
all Ihlini are not dedicated to Asar-Suti. There are those
who serve themselves because they believe in peaceful
unification as much as our prophecy demands it."

"Unification," Teiman echoed.

"Blood merged with blood," Brennan told him. "And
a chance for lasting peace."

Teiman looked at the Lion- He touched it again, ex-
ploring it with his fingers. His face was immobile in its
intensity, the angles hard as stone. "What will happen
when the prophecy is fulfilled?"

Brennan frowned; Teiman was leading up to some-
thing. "Peace. Cohabitation. The Firstborn will live again."

"Aye." Teirnan overrode his words. "Aye, they will—
and do you know what will happen?"

A PRIDE OF PitWCES                169

Brennan raised his brows. "Who can say? Their power
will be complete . . . there will be no weaknesses."

"And what of us?" His cousin asked intently. "What
of the Cheysuli, who do have weaknesses?"

"Teir—"

"Blood merged with blood, until the new overtakes
the old. Do you see what will happen? There will be no
more need for us!"

Brennan started to put out a restraining hand, thought
better of it. He could not predict what Teiman might do.
"The gods would hardly guide us to fulfillment only to
discard us when we have reached it," he said dryly. "We
have been such faithful children."

"Faithful, aye . . . perhaps too faithful." Teirnan
frowned and fingered the hilt of his Cheysuli long-knife.
"Aye, I have heard some of this heresy you spout. Niall
has made it no secret for the last twenty years. Peace, he
says, as you have said, with the coming of the Firstborn.
But what else? What else, Brennan? Have you not heard
that we are also to lose our lir?"

"I think that is exaggeration."

"Oh? It was the Mujhar who said it, and his loyal liege
man, our su'fali." Teirnan shook his head. "I think per-
haps the heresy may hold a kernel of truth. For all I and
others have continually denied it, including the shar tahls,
I think perhaps we are to lose our lir. And for that—for
that alone—I think we should reconsider what the proph-
ecy really means."

Brennan sighed. "Is this nonsense compensation for
your pride because you know you will never hold the
Lion? Teir—"

But Teirnan shook his head and stepped abruptly away
from the throne. "I renounce it."

After momentary astonishment, Brennan opened his
mouth to compliment his cousin on recovering his senses,
but said nothing as Teirnan spoke again.

"I renounce it. I renounce you. I renounce anything
to do with the House of Homana, even Maeve."

The latter had already been settled; Maeve had admit-
ted to making a vow to become Teiman's meijha, but in

m

Jennifer Robersm

ignorance of his ambition. Discovery of it had driven a
wedge between them, and she had not returned to
dankeep. Neither did she have, she said, any intention
of honoring her vow; Teirnan's declaration was therefore
an empty one.

Brennan sighed. "Teir—"

"Do you see?" Teiroan demanded. "We will be dimin-
ished. We will be used up. There will be no more need
for flawed children when the Firstborn live again."

"You/oo/." Brennan's disgust was manifest.

"Am I? No. I think I am the only one who under-
stands fully what will happen." Teiman moved away
from the throne again. "You have the right of it, Bren-
nan; there were no a'saii. Only an overly ambitious cousin.
But now—now I think the need is come again. . . ."
Teiman rubbed his face with both hands, as if to make
certain he fully understood the consequences of what he
intended to say. "I renounce the prophecy."

Shock turned Brennan icy. He shivered violently. "You
cannotF

"Why? I am bound by nothing more than my willing-
ness to serve it. Now I choose not to do so."

"If you renounce the prophecy you turn your back on
the clans, your race, your tahlmorra—"

"Then I will do so."

"Teiman!" Emphatically, Brennan shook his head. "You
deny the afterworld."

"I begin to think this world is more than enough."
Teiman moved past him and descended the dais steps to
the stone floor. Before the firepit, he turned to face his
cousin. "I thank you for your frankness, Brennan. For
explaining how necessary it is for us to breed Firstborn
on Ihlini, and how the results will change the world.
Because if you had not, I would still be blindly serving a
prophecy that will undoubtedly insure the destruction of
our race."

"I could gainsay you," Brennan told him angrily. "Here,
in this hall, we coutd settle this idiocy."

Teiman swung to face him squarely, beckoning him on
with empty, eloquent hands. "Then come, cousin. But if

A PRtDE OF PMVCES

m

you do, be certain the fight will be to the death." Ten-nan's
eyes blazed with a feral light. "If you truly mean to
gainsay me, then you will have to kill me."

They stared hard at one another. Teirnan's face was
alight with some inner exultation, a kindling of new and
abiding commitment. Brennan looked at him in disgust
coupled with frustration, and considered calling his bluff.

But there is every chance Teiman does not bluff. And
if he does not, and I should kill him in some stupid,
pointless battle, I become kinslayer yet again. He shook
his head. Teiman is not worth it.

"Go," Brennan said harshly. "But remember that you
are now a clanless man. Your rune will be painted out of
the birthlines- Your name will be struck from the histo-
ries. 'Yowjehan will have no son."

It was a powerful inducement to make a warrior recant
his renunciation. But Teirnan was not induced. "Unless
he should come with me."

"Ceinn would not—" But Brennan broke off. It was
possible Ceinn would; he had raised this rebel. It was
also possible others would; Brennan was realistic enough
to know there were warriors who might prefer the old
order to the new.

Teirnan smiled a little. "Aye. I see you understand."

Brennan's mouth was dry. "You would willingly divide
the clans?"

Teirnan shrugged. "I offer an alternative. It will be
their choice."

"It will be no choice!" Brennan cried. "What kind of
warrior are you?"

"A'saii-," Teirnan said evenly. "Giantess, runeless, and
free—free to serve myself."

It was all Brennan could do not to shout at him. "You
profane this place," he said in a deadly tone. "You
dishonor your jehana."

"Isolde is dead," Teirnan said curtly. "As for profan-
ing this place, I will take myself out of it."

Mute, Brennan watched his cousin go. He could find
no protests in the face of such deadly determination.
And when he was alone again, save for the massive throne,

172 Jennifer Roberson

he went to it and sat down. It was not the first time. He
and the Lion were on good terms.

"He will change his mind," Brennan told it, as much
to reassure himself as to placate the Lion. "He will never
leave his clan." But there was no answering reassurance
from his conscience. Uneasily, he touched the lobeless
ear. "Perhaps I should \e\\jehan."

Brennan did, over the Mujhar's evening meal, which
Niall took alone in his private solar; Deirdre was other-
wise occupied. His father pushed aside his platter of
unfinished food so sharply his knife rattled against the
silver. "I cannot believe you were so foolish as to incite
Teir to such idiocy! You know what he is like."

Brennan sat slumped over the table, chin propped up on
one hand. He was disgruntled enough; his father's dis-
pleasure made him feel worse- "Aye, well, I think we
need not worry, Teir often says much but does very
little."

Niall's tone was decidedly cool. "That is your opinion
after carefully considering what would happen if he did
precisely as he threatens?"

"How could he turn his back on so much?" Brennan
asked in guilt-bom exasperation. "His clan, his race, his
tahlmorra—"

"Obviously he is willing to do so. For all he gives us
impotent threats much of the time, this one may be real.
How many warriors do you know even jest about such
action?"

Brennan scowled. "None, but—"

"But." Niall's tone was distinctly harsh. "I suggest you
leave for Clankeep now and see if you can repair the
damage."

"Jehan—"

"I myself will go in the morning. This sort of threat
will be of concern to the clan-leader as well as the shar
tahl." Niall scraped his stool back and rose, his meal
unfinished. "Well?"

Belatedly, Brennan also rose. He was grateful they
were alone so no one else could see his frustration. "Teir

A PUDE OF PRINCES

173

will do nothing tonight. Why not let me go with you in
the morning?"

"Because 1 have told you to go now."

Brennan sighed and shoved the stool out of his way.
"Aye,jehan—aye, aye," he muttered, and strode angrily
toward the door.

"Even kings must take responsibility for the conse-
quences of their own actions," Naill said as Brennan
opened the door. "Begin now, and it will be that much
easier when you are Mujhar."

His heir shot him a look of deep disgust and closed
the door with a resounding thud as he stepped into the
corridor. Lir, we have been sent on a foolish errand.

Sleeta was one floor up in his chambers, but the link
dissolved the separation. We? she asked pointedly.

Do you berate me, too?

She sighed. Where are we going, lir?

Clankeep.

Her tone brightened. Then I will bestir myself.

Upon Brennan's orders his newest horse was brought,
saddled and ready. It was late afternoon and the weather
was cool; winter was not so far away. The stallion, all
black save for a splash of white upon his nose, sidled and
snorted, stomping noisily on the cobbles. His eyes rolled
as he espied Sleeta, who waited on the steps-

"My lord, I can saddle another," the groom said as the
stallion's lips peeled back to display large teeth.

Brennan avoided the bite. "No. I am in the mood for
Bane." He caught the reins and swung up into the Cheysuli
saddle, clamping legs against sleek sides as Bane laid his
ears flat back and essayed a tentative sideways leap.
"The Mujhar rides out in the morning."

"Aye, my lord." The groom stepped away quickly,
dodging flying hooves as Bane commenced dancing across
the bailey. Brennan rode out the worst of the stallion's
customary protest, then signaled the gates open. "I can-
not say when I will return," he called, and let the stallion
go as Sleeta bounded through.

He was at the border dividing meadowlands from for-
est when Rhiannon caught up to him. After the first

174 Jennifer Koberson

short gallop across the plains to work out frustrations and
Bane's bad temper, Brennan had slowed the stallion to a
walk. Rhiannon clearly had kept her mount at a run; the
bay mare was lathered with sweat.

He waited until Rhiannon had caught up before reach-
ing across to grab one rein. "You know better," he said
sternly. High color stood in her face. She was breathless,
black eyes alight with exhilaration; the wind had blown
tendrils of hair free of confining braid.

"I know better," she agreed, "but there was no help
for it. You did not heed my call to wait."

He frowned. "When did you call?"

She laughed. "When the horse tried to smash your
knee against the gatepost. You were swearing, my lord; I
am not surprised you did not hear me."

He smiled ruefully. "Aye, well, I am somewhat fond
of my knee, and the gods know I have more need of it
than Bane." He released her rein and jumped down from
his horse. "Dismount, meijhana—the mare should be
walked."

"Aye, of course." She slithered out of the saddle in a
tangle of tassled boots, blue skirts and midnight mantle.
The heavy rope of hair was lost in the folds of the
mantle, but he saw a glint of silver ribbon threaded
through the plait.

He reached out and caught one slim hand, pulling her
close. Rhiannon, laughing, stretched up for his kiss, then
locked hands around his neck to pull him closer yet.

"Do you mind?" she asked as he released her. "I
wanted to be with you. So often I must spend all my time
with Deirdre or the ladies, when I would rather be with
you."

He felt a twinge of guilt. It was no secret that Rhiannon
shared his bed, yet the Mujhar held his silence, Brennan
had no doubt Niall knew, but perhaps he knew also that
repeated reminders of Aileen's imminent arrival would
merely promote discord.

"I do not mind, meijhana, but you may find it tedious.
I am sent to Clankeep to settle things with my rebellious
cousin."

A PRIDE w PKMCES             175

"Teir is a fool,** Rhiannon declared. "Maeve loves
him—had he any sense, he would try to gain the Mujhar's
favor so he can take her for a wife."

"Then perhaps Maeve is the fool." He turned Rhiannon
toward the wood. "Come, meijhana—the mare needs
cooling."

She fell in beside him, leading the tired mare. "Where
is Sleeta?"

"Gone ahead. Hungry, she says, but she will not be
far."

Fingers twined. They walked in companionable silence,
leaving behind the open plains for the shadows of the
wood. The track was wide and beaten smooth; Clankeep
was no longer closed to those who were not Cheysuli.
Homanan goldsmiths came to trade for ornaments, and
other craftsmen as well.

'There was another reason," Rhiannon said quietly. "The
Mujhar meant to send a man to tell you, but I said /
would go." She looked up at him gravely. "Word has
come. Aileen's ship has sailed from Erinn."

Brennan nearly missed a step. Behind him. Bane nib-
bled irritably at his shoulder.

"I wanted to be the one to telt you."

He looked down at her. Her face was mostly averted,
but he heard the merest trace of a waver in her voice.
"Mei/nana—"

"I know," she said. "I have always known. You will
marry her."

"It was a cradle-betrothal." He sighed. "It was more
than that, meijhana—it was agreed before I was born."

"I know." She shrugged, speaking brightly. "I am no
one. I could bring you nothing. Nothing but—" She
hesitated, then halted and turned to face him squarely.
One hand was splayed across her belly. "Nothing but this
child."

He caught her shoulders and held her firmly in place,
ignoring the mare's snort of fright and Bane's rolling eye.
"Are you certain?"

"Quite certain, my lord." Rhiannon's smile was odd.
"Does it please you?"

176 Jennifer Roberws

"How not?" He was astonished that she could ask it.
"A child, Rhiannon . . . how could I not be pleased?"

"A bastard, my lord."

"Do you think I care about that? A child is a child."

Rhiannon laughed. "And an IhUni-Cheysuli child? What
do you say-to that?"

"His fingers locked in the folds of her woolen mantle.
"Ihlini-"

One cool hand was a shackle on his wrist, clinging,
pressing, squeezing, until the flesh began to protest.
"Ihlini," she said distinctly, "Ihlini and Cheysuti. Why
else do you think I wanted you?—why I made you want
me?"

She was a woman, and weaker than he; angrily Brennan
tried to break her grip, twisting sharply; to shock and
dismay he found he could not. Because even as he moved,
thinking to thrust her violently away, he felt the explosion
of pain through the link.

Sleeta was nearly incoherent. Lir—iir—lir—

Even as Brennan tried to twist free again, meaning to
run toward the source of Sleeta's anguish, Rhiannon
prevented him. With one hand only, fingers spread rig-
idly against his breastbone, she coolly forced him off the
track and against the nearest tree. "Back," she said only,
supremely indifferent to his aborted bid for escape.

Lir— The cat's helplessness was his own, transmitting
itself through the link with frightening ease and accuracy.
Though Rhiannon exerted little pressure, Brennan was
slammed against the tree.

"Sleeta—"

"She is ours." Deftly Rhiannon pulled the reins free of
his clutching hand and freed both horses, sending them
away with a burst of purple flame from negligent fingers.
"I suggest you do not try to struggle, for Sleeta's sake if
not your own. My servants hold her now."

He wanted to overpower her. He wanted to snap her
elegant neck. But Sleeta's welfare was paramount in his
mind, and there was no doubting Rhiannon's confidence.
He dared not try to move, or risk his Ur's life as well as
his own.

A PRIDE OFPRINCKS                177

Sleeta?

Lir—lir—Ihlini— And abruptly her pattern was bro-
ken, like a candle snuffed rudely out.

Rhiannon's hand still rested on his breastbone, promis-
ing violence. That she used some form of arcane force,
he knew; she was strong, too strong. The rough bark of
the tree ground against his spine, even through the leath-
ers. Within he raged at her; without he made no effort to
escape or attack.

"Good man," she said, "good warrior. Do not move
and she wilt live."

"Slay her and you slay me."

"Empty threat," she answered. "/ have what I want of
you."

He tried to reach Sleeta through the privacy of the
link, but nothing answered his frenzied search. There was
emptiness in the pattern. "You have already killed her!"

"No, my lord. Not yet. She has been overcome by
brutal force, but she lives. For now. Until we are through
with you."

"How do you intend to kill me?" Bitterly. He could
not believe he had been so gullible.

"Strahan wants you alive."

"Strahan—" He nearly gaped. "This is Strahan's doing?"

"Strahan's suggestion. My doing." Rhiannon smiled
and reached up to caress his face even as he tried to jerk
away. "It could have been worse, Brennan. Much worse.
Seduction is better than force."

His lips peeled back from his teeth in an instinctive
expression of feral disgust. He thought he might be ill.

"Lillith believed I could not do it," Rhiannon said
quietly. "She feared I was too young, even by human
standards. But then my mother forgets that Ihlini women
are born to seduction as Cheysuli are bom to the lir."

His muscles spasmed beneath her hand. "Lillith—"

"—is my mother. My jehana, you would say. As lan is
my jehan." Rhiannon laughed softly. "We are cousins,
you and I—in addition to being bedmates."

"But—Jarek—" Brennan stopped. He required no ex-
planation. In the face of her triumph and confidence, he

m

knew she spoke the truth. "Not Jarek at all... nothing
but misdirection, to make us believe ourselves safe ... it
was you all the while. . . ."

"It was me all the while." Rhiannon smiled. "Jarek
was a fine diversion. Thinking him Ihlini, you did not
look at me." She laughed. "A clever plot to take you
. . . send Solindish Jarek into Homana as a Homanan,
where he would pose as Elek's son to win Homanan aid.
And then we would take you in the name of Carillon's
deaf-mute bastard."

"Was it your idea to let lan believe Jarek was his
son?" he asked bitterly. "Your idea to let me believe I
was kinslayer?"

She pursed her Ups. "Tie first? No. It was my moth-
er's idea; a gift, she said, for lan." Rhiannon smiled. "As
for allowing you to believe you were kinslayer, well . . .
it made you more vulnerable to me. That was my idea."

He drew in a deep breath, longing to spit in her face,
but knowing better. Ihlini held his lir. "A complex and
clever plan."

"It took a great deal of time to lay this plan—more to
execute." She shrugged. "But then time is nothing to
us." Black eyes narrowed. "And now we go, my lord.
Strahan grows impatient."

His struggles were futile, and he knew it; Rhiannon's
power over Sleeta was too pronounced. But he ignored
the pressure against bis breastbone and caught her wrist,
thinking to snap it in two, to shatter all the bones. Or to
crack her fragile skull with a blow from his other hand.

And yet he could do none of those things. Even as he
tried to move, he found ha body would not answer. His
hand fell away form her wrist; he slumped against the
tree, pinned by slender fingers. In her eyes was triumph
and the knowledge of burgeoning power.

Angrily he bared his teeth in a feral, mocking smile.
"Valgaard is a long ride from here. If you think it will be
easy—"

"Who said anything of riding?" Rhiannon pulled some-
thing from beneath her gown; he saw a glint of familiar
silver. It was the ring he had given her, but the sapphire

A PRIDE OF PRINCES                179

glowed an eerie purple instead of clear blue. "We Ihlini
have better ways."

He manged to laugh, albeit was little more than an
impotent bark of sound. "You forget; I am Cheysuli.
Your sorcery will not work."

"You forget, my lord—I am Cheysuli also." She smiled.
"Ask why Sleeta did not know me. Ask why I hold you
so easily. Look into your mind and find the link I have
forged through careful and subtle means, all done in the
throes of passion, when you would not notice my intrusion."

He rolled his head against the tree in desperate denial.
"You cannot. . . ."

"Can I not?" She was magnificent in her pride. "But I
can, cousin ... the merging of our blood gives me a new
dimension of power altogether, when that blood is also
joined with Asar-Suti."

Her serenity alarmed him. "But you are not a First-
born—"

"No. Not yet. But closer. Closer even than you. Be-
cause in the end, it will be the blood of our child—of
Ihlmi-Cheysuli children—who will hold dominance in
Homana. Dominance in the world."

Rhiannon unhooked the silver chain that had replaced
the ring's original leather thong. And though he tried to
twist his head away, she clasped it around ha neck. The
chain was ice against his throat.

One last time—

"Brennan." Calmly she interrupted his futile attempt
at fir-shape. "I do not love you, but neither do I hate
you. What I do, I do to serve my race, as much as you
serve yours. We are kin, close kin, and I have no wish to
spill your blood; I share more than a measure of it. lan is
in us both." She caught his hands and linked her fingers
with his, even against his will. "But we cannot control
the Firstborn unless we make our own."

"Ihlini—" He writhed against the tree.

Rhiannon kissed him. And then the world was gone.

Interlude

Where she walked, smoke followed. Disturbed by the      |t
motion of heavy skirts, it tore apart like a webwork of      ^
lilac lace, then repaired itself in her wake to renew its      |
delicate dance.                                            J|

God fire hissed in the whorls of glasswork columns.      |
Down and down, around and around; light glistened in      ^
the twisted strings of the Seker's magnificent harp. She      ^
thought once to. touch the closest column to see if it      t-
would sing, but she did not. It was not for her to do.         S

She walked, and the smoke followed. All the way to the      j.
rent in the flesh of the earth, where flame instead of      I
blood issued forth in a blinding glare. Beyond it, poised      i.
on the rim of the Gate, stood her mother and her uncle.       ^

On the near side, Rhiannon halted. She folded her
hands in her skirts-                                        ^

Lillith smiled. In her daughter she saw herself, and      ^
took pride in the girl's loyalty as well as her loveliness.      ^
"How soon will the child be bom?"
"Seven months. Brennan was—most accommodating."
"And you?"                                            ;

"I?"                                                       ;;

"You are young," Lillith said kindly. "Cheysuli and      .:

Ihlini are bloodkin, bom of the same gods, and meant to      |
he together. It is understandable if this was—difficult,      ^
There is no shame in wishing it could be another way."

Rhiannon lifted her delicate chin. "Was it difficult for
you, when you seduced my father? Was it hard to break
that immense Cheysuli pride?"

180

A PRIDE OFPmwES

181

"lan's pride was never broken," Liltith answered. "He
may have thought so, but it was Uriessness he felt, noth-
ing more." She paused. "When you speak of breaking
pride, remember that what is theirs is also ours."

"They will never accept it," Rhiannon said. "Never
will they accept us as anything more than enemies."

"Good," Strahan said coolly. "If the day ever comes
that an Ihlini and a completed Cheysuli lie down together
willingly, the Seker is defeated. The gate will be seated
forever, and the Firstborn shall rule the world. We will no
longer exist."

Rhiannon frowned. "What is a 'completed' Cheysuli?"

"One with all the necessary blood, save our own," The
glare increased, leeching shadows from Stratum's face,
then faded away to a dull glow, as if the god listened.
"The prophecy is a true one, Rhiannon, The Cheysuli
weave it like a tapestry, and the pattern is nearly com-
pleted. But we can still alter it. We can tear away the
brightest yams, as we have torn away Brennan, and use
them to fashion another."

Lillith nodded. "Link by link, we must shatter the
chain."

Godfire hissed; the flame rose, swelled, died away
again -

"What will you do to him?" Rhiannon asked.

"Break him," Strahan answered. "Then mend him
most carefully."

"How?" she asked intently.

Strahan's eyes narrowed. "Have you a suggestion?"

Rhiannon's laughter echoed amidst the columns and
set the glassy strings to thrumming. "Lock him away,"
she said. "Lock him away in a small stone place . . . with
no light, no lir, and no hope at all for escape."

PART III
HART

One

Solinde was an inhospitable, barren land. Hart thought,
until he left behind the borderlands and entered wooded
hills. The wide track leading out of Homana into Solinde
traded plains for huddled hills, winding like a tunnel
through heavy vegetation. Thick and deep, the shadows
held dominance over sunlight.

He was thankful he had exchanged sleeveless jerkin
for something a bit more substantial. The doublet, dyed
a rich emerald green and belted with bronze-plated leather,
was of stiffer leather than a Cneysuli jerkin and, though
still immensely comfortable, its long sleeves provided
warmth against the breath of a fall day. In the wood, in
the shadows, the chill seemed to seep through flesh into
his bones.

Hart shivered as the trees closed in, branches reaching
for his face. The tunnel shrank and the shadows deep-
ened, until he felt singularly oppressed. All around him
were trunks and limbs and vines. The wood smelted of
decay.

Lir, he said uneasily; Rael was out of sight.

Here. The hawk answered instantly. Above you, lir,
above the trees, where it is bright and warm in the sunlight.

Hart tilted his head back and searched, but all he
could see was the screen of limbs, a latticework thrown
up by trees and vine and shadow. Perhaps I should leave
the horse behind and go on as a hawk.

And then you would arrive without all your finery.

Hart laughed aloud, casually patting the saddlepacks

18S

186 Jennifer Roberson

that clothed most of his stallion's rump. "Little enough
of that, I fear. Aye, I could have brought every trunk,
but what is the sense in that? I have leathers, food and a
fortune-game . - - what else do I require?"

Good sense, Rael retorted. Or am I expected to supply
the wisdom while you supply the gold?

"I intend to win the gold, not supply it," Hart ex-
plained. "Sweet Solindish gold ... I hear it is red as
copper, but with twice the weight and thrice the value of
Homanan."

Then you will need thrice the amount of your allowance
to make the games worthwhile, Rael countered. Sooner
wagered, sooner lost.

"I win, Hr. I win."

Tell it to the Mujhar.

Hart scowled blackly at the branches overhead, trying
to see the hawk, but gave up after a fruitless search.
Feeling oppressed yet again by the wood, he pulled up
and held the stallion in place.

All was silence initially, as if the wood paused as he
did, waiting to see what he would do. And then the
impression passed and the wood was a wood again, full
of familiar song. And even one Hart welcomed: the
splash and gurgle of a stream.

"Water," he said aloud, then leaned forward to pat the
stallion's chestnut shoulder. "Not as good as wine or ale,
I'll wager, for me, but it will do for us both until we
reach Lestra."

He guided the horse off the track into the thicker
wood, tearing vines and bracken as they went, beating
their way through brush. It gave way at last to spongy
ground and the rocky bank of a wide, shallow stream.
Hart swung off his sorrel and turned him free to pick his
way through rocks into the water; he himself balanced
precariously on a flattened boulder and bent to scoop up
handfuls as he braced himself with one splay-fingered
hand.

The water was cold and sweet. Hart lingered even as
the stallion did, ignoring the chill of his fingers. He was
weighted with bow and quiver in addition to his long-

187

A PRIDE OF PRWCES

knife, but at least he wore no sword. Even though he had
learned it in deference to his Homanan rank, he much
preferred fighting with Cheysuli weapons.

Hart felt the vibration first even as the stallion did,
transmitting itself through the water. And then the sound,
close upon its heels; the splash of hooves in water, run-
ning, and the clop and clack of rocks torn free of their
customary bed. He pressed himself up as the stallion
stumbled through the rock-choked stream to the bank
on the far side, to shy away into the shadows. Hart stood
his ground silently, knowing a Cheysuli's very stillness
was protection in itself.

Lir. He appealed to Rael for information.

A rider, the hawk answared. In flight from yet another.
And then. A woman, lir. In crimson, mounted on white.

He saw her, then, come running out of the shadows.
She was a palette of white and scarlet; hair white-blond,
gown bright red, the mare unsullied white. She hunched
in the saddle, bent low over the mare's neck, and the
vivid mantle billowed behind as she urged the mare
onward.

The mare would fail soon. Hart knew, or trip and fall,
snapping slender forelegs, perhaps even her neck. The
streambed was treacherous with rocks and deeps and
shallows; it was only a matter of time.

She was by him. And then he stepped out into the
center of the stream, water lapping just above booted
ankles, and unstrapped his Cheysuli warbow.

Lir.

A single man, Rael answered. Not far, not far, coming
on.

Coming on. Hart nocked an arrow, drew the black
string back to his ear, and waited.

The rider came on, splashing through deeps and shal-
lows. It was clear he did not see Hart, so intent was he
on his prey. Hart waited, waited; watched the horse
come closer, coming on, coming on, churning water into
spray.

And when the man was close enough. Hart ordered
him to hold.

X8S Jennifer Roberson

The rider drew up in shock, brown-haired, brown-
eyed, staring with mouth agape as he tried to control his
mount. And then he shut his mouth, reaching for his
sword, but did not unsheathe it, did not spur on as he
saw the arrow was intended for his throat.

"Hold," Hart repeated.

The man spat out a spate of Solindish Hart could not
decipher. But the emotions were clear: anger, astonish-
ment, outrage.

"You tempt me," Hart said quietly.

It was plain the Solindishman understood Homanan,
Color rose in his face. Impotently he raised a clenched
fist, but it was conspicuously empty of knife or sword. In
accented Homanan, he said, "It is my duty, my task—"

"And now your duty is failure," Hart answered. "I
have no knowledge of the place you are from—Lestra,
perhaps?—but I suggest you go back to it."

"Homanan!" the man cried. "It is my responsibility—"

"Go back," Hart said calmly. "Gods, but you do tempt
me."

The Solindishman glared angrily past Hart toward the
prey he had lost. Then he muttered an imprecation in
throaty Solindish and jerked his horse into a rearing pivot
and an awkward departure that splashed Hart liberally
with water.

He returned the unused arrow to his quiver, hooked the
bow over a shoulder and turned to face the woman-
She had not gone far past him, or else she had come
back. The white mare stood in the center of the stream,
sucking water gratefully; the woman sat erect in the saddle
with crimson skirts and mantle all tangled on equipage,
while her hair came free of its braid. Her expression was
serious, yet it did not hide the ^lawlessness of the delicate
bones of her face.

Fragility personified. But Hart thought he might be
wrong. He had seen her ride.

"My thanks," she said gravely, gathering up her reins.
For all her fingers were slender, they handled the mare
competently. And tightened, wary, as he splashed through
the water toward her.

A PRIDE w PRINCES               189

The mare eyed him in alarm and shied two steps, until
the young woman checked her with a rein. Hart halted at
once. From closer range, the incandescence of her beauty
was incredible. It unfolded like a lily in the sun, then
dominated its surroundings. Ice-white hair, ice-blue eyes,
with glorious, flawless skin.

"You have done me a service." Her accented Homanan
only attracted him the more.

Hart grinned. "Saving your life, or your virtue? Aye,
you might say so."

"No." Her long-lidded eyes were gray-blue. "No, he
meant me no harm. What he said of his duty, his task,
his responsibility—all was true- But not as you believed.
He was bodyguard, not ravager. Certainly not assassin."

He stared up at her. Gods, but this woman is enough to
charm the teeth out of the Lion, and he would give them
willingly— He smiled. "Lady—he was not? Then what
service did I do you?"

Her laughter set the world ablaze. "Freedom—you
give me freedom ... at least until the others come search-
ing for me." Some of her gaiety was banished. "And
they will. They will."

He could well imagine they would. He would. "So,
you allowed me to chase away the man who guarded
you." He laughed out loud in genuine amusement, ap-
preciating her wit. "The man must now be cursing me for
a fool, or himself."

Her eyes were full of laughter. "Aye, cursing us all—or
cursing those who set him to his task." Almost abruptly,
the humor spilled out of her face. An odd grimness
replaced it- "But do they expect me to do nothing, meekly
accepting their will?"

He heard a trace of bitterness in her tone and wondered
if perhaps she had intended to use him to rid herself of
her hound. "You said nothing, lady," he told her quietly.
"And if I had slain him, what would you have told those
who gave him his duty to ward you against enemies?"

She shook her head decisively. "No. No. I would not
have let it go so far." She tightened reins and prepared

199 Jennifer Roberaon

to go. "My thanks, Homanan. But my business is better
left to me,"

He caught one of the reins, stepping closer. "And
what do you give me for your freedom?"

She frowned. "Give?"

He shrugged, "I have done you a service- Now I ask
payment, lady."

"If you think—"

"I do." He pulled the mare closer. "A kiss, lady.
Small token of your gratitude, payment for my service."
He grinned, arching suggestive brows. "Not so much, I
think."

"More than you know, from me." One booted foot
kicked out and caught him flush on the jaw.

He staggered back, swearing, and lost his grip on her
reins. By the time he could see clearly again, the woman
had spurred the mare on and was gone.

Rael, he said. "Rael!"

Not so far, lir. Mount your horse and catch up.

He whistled the stallion out of the trees and splashed
through the stream to the bank, swearing all the while.
She had caught him squarely, snapping his head sideways
toward his right shoulder; neck muscles protested in uni-
son with the jaw. Had she been man instead of woman,
she might have broken his neck.

Were she man instead of woman, you would never have
asked a kiss.

Hart, swinging up into his saddle, laughed aloud as he
heard the hawk's tone. No, I would wager not. He urged
the chestnut through the water onto the bank on the
other side. Where, lir? Which way?

Westward, along the track. Riding toward Lestra.

The mare, he knew, was tired, and had drunk too
much water to sustain a comfortable gallop for long. His
own mount was rested; he would be on them soon enough.

He was. Rounding a curve in the tunneled track, he
saw a flash of white tail ahead. Closer, closer yet; divots
of dirt and turf were thrown up into his face. He ducked
down and let the stallion shield him even as he ran.

A PRIDE wPftMCES

m

The girl looked back once, then again. Her face was
lost in the tangle of unbound hair; like the mare's tail it
streamed out behind, a whipping pennon in the wind.
Hart, grinning as the stallion closed, saw the girl reach
up swiftly and catch her hair at the nape of her neck,
winding it swiftly into a single plume. And then she
stuffed it beneath the neck of her gown with both hands,
the mare running free, and caught reins again to pull the
mare off the track into the shadows of the wood.

Hart nearly rode by the broken opening in the vines.
A decisive hand on the reins checked the stallion into an
abrupt slide on his haunches, and then Hart spun him
and sent him crashing after the mare,

Lir? he asked.

Hard to see, Rael answered. She twists and turns, but
still heads westward.

"Lestra," Hart muttered, and swore as vine leaves
slapped mouth and eyes.

No more track, save for what he could break open in
her wake. No more headlong run, but leaps and stumbles
instead, as the stallion tried to negotiate bracken and
fallen trees. The world was a maze of green and brown
and black, all shadows in the daylight, with little or no
sun to illuminate their passing. The sound of his own
mount obliterated hers. It was only when he saw a flash
of white and crimson that he knew he drew closer again.

A quick glance over her shoulder; the curve of one fair
cheek. And grim determination in the line of her lovely
mouth. He saw her jerk the mare offstride and then
turned her northward instead of west.

She will kill the mare yet— But the thought was never
finished. The mare's passing startled a hare from cover
and he broke. The stallion, startled, leaped sideways, stum-
bled, ran directly into a huge felled tree and, in trying to
leap it off-balance, merely succeeded in snapping front
legs. His rider was thrown headlong out of the saddle into
the nearest tree.

Lir— But the light of the world was snuffed out.

192 Jennifer Roberson

A sound. A voice: a woman's, with desperation in her
tone. Telling him in accented Homanan to wake up, and
then when he did not, pleading something else in indeci-
pherable Solindish,

Solindish,

His eyes snapped open. He was conscious almost at
once of extreme discomfort, all tangled in vine and bracken
and clawed by boughs and limbs. His head throbbed
unmercifully; he recalled, dimly, that it had collided with
a tree trunk.

He shut his eyes again. Gods, but my head hurts. . . .

He heard a rustle in deadfall and underbrush. Through
his lashes he saw the bright colors of her clothing, now
dulled by debris and mudstains. That she meant to come
to his side was plain; equally plain was that Rael, a flurry
of wings and talons, would not allow her to.

"Oh, wake up," she begged. "Wake up and call off this
hawk!"

Rael swept down again from the tree and slapped a
wingtip across her raised arm, driving her away once
more.

Enough, Hart said dryly. Have you no eyes, lir? The
girl is magnificent—let her come as close as she wants.

Rael's relief was tangible as it thrummed throughout the
link. But his tone belied the truth. Was this a ruse, then, to
trick her into giving you your payment?

Have you ever known me to willingly suffer so much
pain in the name of a woman?

Rael lighted on a tree limb. No, he said dryly, and
folded his wings away.

Hart opened his eyes again. "If I try to move, lady,
will my head fall off? Or is it still attached?"

She twitched in surprise, then shifted a trifle closer.
"Alive, then," she said in relief. "Oh, I thought I had
killed you."

"No." He levered himself carefully up on one arm and
wished he had not; his head throbbed alarmingly and a
bough stabbed him in the ribs. "Well, perhaps you did."
Tentatively he fingered his forehead. "Gods, lady, I would
say you need no bodyguard, nor even my protection."

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

193

She said something in Solindish, then shook her head.
"I meant no harm to you. I wanted to escape you, aye,
but not at the cost of your life."

"And my horse?" Hart looked over to where the chest-
nut lay. The stallion's breathing was labored. That he
had exhausted himself trying to rise with his shattered
legs was plain; Hart cursed aloud in the Old Tongue with
as much eloquence as he could muster. "You acquit
youself well," he said shortly, and pushed himself out of

F     the underbrush with another bitten off curse. He wa-

^     vered and clutched the tree for support. But the stallion's

F     plight was more imperative than pain; grimly he un-
hooked his bow and jerked an arrow from his quiver,

"'•     walking unsteadily to the chestnut.

a,      "The hawk—" she began-

' a       Hart did not so much as glance at her. "Rael will not

i     harm you." He nocked the arrow.

^       She rose, skirts tangled on her boots, and came to
stand beside him. "Had I the strength, I would do it

^      myself."

^'       Mocking: "Aye, lady. Of course." He raised the bow

\     and drew back the string.

^       Released. It sang briefly, so briefly, and then the stallion
was dead.

He hooked an arm through the bow, settling it across
his back, and bent to unfasten the saddlepacks. The
horse was slack in death, and very heavy; Hart had to
[ H"     expend more energy than he had left to free the saddle-
packs. His head ached, and he sat abruptly to avoid
falling down.

"Give them to me. I will put them on my mare."
Slender hands beckoned him to comply. "Where do you
go, Homanan?"

|       "Lestra. Lady—there is no need for that."

|       She took the packs anyway and slung them across her

>     mare's white rump, buckling them onto the saddle. Then
she brought a skin of wine and knelt beside him. "She is
not accustomed to carrying two. You will ride, and I will

i     lead."

194 Jennifer Roberson

"Nor is there need for that." He drank, returned the
skin, rose unsteadily.

She swept the glorious hair away from her face and
showed him lifted brows. "And do you intend to fly?"

Hart laughed. "Aye, lady, I do."

She nodded calmly, plainly doubting him. "Even Ihlini
cannot do that."

He looked at her sharply and recalled this was Solinde,
the realm the Ihlini called home. Here they lived with
impunity. "Thank the gods," he said curtly. "No, such
things are for the Cheysuli."

"Aye, but—" She broke off. The coter ran out of her
face, leaving her wan as death. She looked quickly at
Rael, then back at Hart. In silence she asked the question.

"Aye," he told her, "I am. Rael is my lir."

She pulled her mantle more closely around her slender
body, as if to ward off a chill, "I thought—I thought him
merely well-trained, when he would not let me near."

"Lir are not trainable; they do what they will do." He
resettled his bow and quiver. "And now, lady, I suggest—"

But she did not allow him to finish. "I have heard they
have yellow eyes. Yours are decidedly blue."

He raised his brows. "Doubtless you have heard many
things . . . some of them may be true." He smiled as he
saw her frown of indecision. "Aye, most Cheysuli have
yellow eyes. I do not because I am also Homanan. But
the rest of me is Cheysuli."

She looked at Rael again. "You become him."

"No. I become another. Rael remains Rael."

She looked at his hands, at his fingers, at the shape of
the bones of his face. As if she searched for some clue
that would make him bird instead of human. Raptor in
place of man. "The Ihlini have said—"

He overrode her. "Do you traffic with Ihlini?"

She stiffened. "This is Solinde, not Homana! The Ihlini
have freedom here."

"Freedom to raise a rebellion? To rule this realm in
place of those who should?"

"What is it to you?" she asked angrily. "You are a

A PKSDE OF PRINCES

195

Homanan, a Cheysuli . . . what is Solinde to you? You
have no stake in what happens in my land!"

"Do I not?" He smiled. "Oh, but lady, I think I do ...
because one day I will rule it."

"Will you?" She faced him squarely, tangled hair hang-
ing to knees, skirts caught high on her boots. "You say
so, to me?"

"I will say so to anyone, because it is the truth." That
she was genuinely angry, he knew, because it was shouted
from her posture and the expression in her eyes. He had
seen such anger before, such cold, controlled anger, born
of a true hostility shaped by war and heritage. He had
seen it in the clans, in the older warriors who had come
through Shaine's qu'nwhiin and decades of Solindish"
Ihlini wars. But he had not thought to see it in her.
"Lady, I do not lie in hopes of impressing you—"

"Oh, no?" she asked. "Men have done it before.
Homanans have done it before. Why should I believe
you are any different?" Icy eyes swept him from head to
toe; contempt was implicit in her posture. "I think your
sincerity requires practice, Homanan. You are not partic-
ularly convincing."

Hart stared at her. She was either completely unaware
of her disarray, or else so angry she did not care- Or else
she realizes that nothing could dull her beauty.

He wet his lips. "Lady—" he began patiently.

"No one rules Solinde," she said coldly. "No one. A
regent sits in Lestra claiming right of authority from
Homana's Cheysuli Mujhar." One arm gestured toward
the city and a rigid finger divided the air. "But is that a
ruler?—no. A travesty, no more. We are a proud land,
shapechanger, and unused to kowtowing to a foreign
Mujhar who rules out of ignorance, holding Solinde in
trust for a man we do not—cannot—know- So, shape-
changer, when you tell me lies for your own amusement,
to impress me or otherwise, it bears no fruit at all. I am
impervious to such things."

"Impervious to the truth?" Without waiting for an
answer he moved past her to the mare and dug into his

196 Jennifer Roberwn

saddlepacks. When be had found the thing he sought, he
turned back again and put it into her hands. "There,
lady—the truth."

She stared at the thing in her hands. It was small for a
thing of so much significance, and yet the shocked tears
that sprang to her eyes belied the seeming worthlessness
of it. "This is the seal," she said, "the Third Seal of
Solinde!"

"Aye."

She stared at him; all the color had left her face. "The
Trey was broken when the war with Carillon was lost.
When Bellam was slain." Her heavy swallow was visible
against the fragile flesh of her throat. "The regent has
one seal, the Mujhar the other two. But—this is the
Third Seal!"

He had not expected her to know it so precisely, only
to know the cipher. Nor had he expected the seal to have
such an effect on her, that she would stare at him in
shocked discovery. He had every intention of telling her
who he was, if only to prove he was not a liar, but it
seemed she already knew,

She clasped the seal against her chest, shielded by
pride and hair. "So." Her voice was cool, dulled by
shock and hostility. "5o, the Mujhar at last sends his
wastrel son to sit in judgment on Solinde."

Wastrel son. It hurt. Worse than he had expected.
"Lady—"

She backed away a step, edging toward the mare. "If I
took this ... if I took this with me and sent men back to
murder you—"

"—you would be executed." He moved too swiftly for
her, catching her hands in his own. "Aye, lady, wastrel
son that I am, I am also the Prince of Solinde."

She laughed. She laughed so hard she cried, and then
thrust the seal at him. "Take it! Take it! Without the
other two it is nothing. Even in my hands!"

"Lady—"

But she was free of him, shedding his hands easily as
she leaped for the mare and scrambled into the saddle.

197

A RUDE W PttWCES

Curtained by hair, there was little of her face he could
see. But he heard her words all too clearly.

"Hart, Prince of Solinde, know you that battle has
been joined!"

And before he could speak, she was gone.

Two

Oil braziers burned in every comer of the room, casting
a pall of clean bright light that obliterated the shadows of
early evening. It glittered off the silver and crystal wine
decanter, off the fine-mesh ceremonial mail shirt showing
at hem and sleeves of his rich blue Solindish overtunic,
off the polished silver plate that conjured his reflection:

black hair, still damp from the bath, starting to curt
against his shoulders; bright blue eyes in an angular face
of burnished bronze, not even remotely Solindish; and a
somewhat rueful set to the mouth as he pushed hair aside
and studied the swelling on his forehead. The pattern of
the tree bark was impressed in his flesh.

Hart sighed, turned from the plate and faced the man
who waited so quietly, so patiently, by the table near the
fireplace. "I will survive," he said mildly as he saw the
man's expression. "I promise."

The pale brown eyes watching him narrowed minutely,
fanning outward a webwork of tiny creases. Tarron, re-
gent of Sotinde by authority of Niall the Mujhar, was not
a man who gave up his thoughts without careful delibera-
tion. But neither was the newly arrived Prince of Solinde
ignorant in the ways of reading men, even lifelong politi-
cians; Hart had learned to discern the inner man in
dozens of dicing games.

Tarron inclined his head slightly. "As you say, my
lord—surely you would know better than I."

Surely I should . . . Hart agreed inwardly. As surely as
I know my head is likely to fall off.

I9S

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

199

Rael, settled on his oaken perch in a corner of the
royal chambers, remained eloquently silent. Hart ignored
him altogether and smiled blandly at the regent, hoping
to turn Tarron's irritation into good humor. His abrupt
arrival in /(/--shape had ruffled feathers other than his
own, figuratively speaking; Tarron, he felt, was displeased
more by the lack of pageantry associated with the arrival
than by the sudden usurpation of his own authority. Hart
knew a messenger from Homana must have arrived be-
fore him, if only to prepare Tarron, because his father
would have seen to it.

Jehan would know better than to spring me on Solinde—
or on Tarron—unannounced. Hart's smile widened to a
crooked grin of wry humor as he recalled what the girl
had named him. But I wonder what the regent thinks now
that the wastrel son has arrived? He gestured toward the
polished table and two padded chairs. "Sit you down,
regent," Hart suggested, and did so himself.

What Tarron thought of his lord's wastrel son remained
unspoken as he seated himself at the table and accepted
the wine Hart poured. The regent's ascetic face was
smooth and serene again, a polite, politic mask. He was
older than the Mujhar himself. Hart knew, having served
as councillor to Donal before Niall's ascension and Tarron's
subsequent appointment to Solinde. He was well experi-
enced in dealing with men of all ranks and races. Even
Cheysuli.

"Is all to your liking, my lord?" Tarron inquired.

Hart laughed, amused by his attitude. They faced one
another like two men in a fortune-game, seated across
the table with nothing at all to bind them together save a
royal command. They did not play with dice, they did
not wager, but the game was surely on. "Aye, and how
not? Since my somewhat unusual arrival less than two
hours ago, I have been bathed, clothed, fed, examined
by a chirurgeon, and ensconced within royal apartments
as luxurious as my own in Homana-Mujhar." A gesture
encompassed the chambers. "The servants have been so
thick around me I can scarce move my elbows for fear of
blacking an eye or knocking loose a tooth. Only now am

Jennifer Roberson

I given room to breathe, and I find myself attended by
no less than the Mujhar's regent himself, when I would
do well enough on my own." His mouth twisted wryly.
"If I said no, you would have it all done over again, and
that I could not bear."

Tarron did not smile. "You are the Prince of Solinde."

Hart laughed aloud. "Aye. But even you must know
my reputation; it is what puts me here instead of Homana-'
Mujhar." He leaned forward, looming across the table.
"I am Hart, the second son, the wastrel son, who spends
his gold and wits in taverns, dicing his life away, I am the
man responsible for setting the Midden aflame, though
unintentionally, and for killing thirty-two people—men,
women, children- And I am punished for it: I am sent to
rule Solinde." He sat back again, all humor banished,
flopping against the chair. "But where does that leave
Solinde, regent? Where does it leave you?"

Tarron did not hesitate. "It leaves me in fear for the
future of this realm," he said quietly. "It leaves me
wondering if the Muj bar's prejudice interferes with his
intellect. And most certainly, in these past two hours, I
have seen nothing in you that assuages my fear, and
everything that leaves me wondering how I can possibly
do what my lord has commanded, and teach a hopeless
reprobate how to govern." He paused. "Even a royal
one."

Hart stared at him a long, rigid moment. He had
expected anything but censure from the man; Tarron was
too well-versed in the delicacy of politics and the exigen-
cies of rank to ever be so blunt and risk his entire career.
But Hart knew better than to beKeve he had misheard,
asking to have them repeated; the words had been ex-
plicitly distinct, displaying neither malice nor bitterness,
only heartfelt sincerity.

That kind of honesty was a thing Cheysuli honored.
But Hart was more than Cheysuli. He was also Prince of
Solinde.

"Ku'reshtin," he said without heat, more surprised
than offended. "Is this how you spoke to Donal?"

A PKSDE OF PRINCES                201

"Your grandsire never required it," Tarron answered
quietly.

Hart gazed at him thoughtfully. The regent wore un-
derstated clothing of plain, unrelieved black, as if to
downplay the importance of his rank. His dark brown
hair was graying at the temples and brushed back from a
face almost stark in its severity of expression, but it was
derived of sharp bones rather than of nature. And yet
Hart sensed little or no humor in the regent; he won-
dered if Tarron recalled the follies of his own youth.

Unless there were no follies. He sighed a little and
tapped fingertips against the wood of the table. "No
doubt you feel I deserve it; perhaps I do. Perhaps this is
why my jehan sent me to you. Perhaps I am to develop
some sense of guilt for past indiscretions, merely by
seeing the condemnation in your eyes." Hart sat up and
pushed the chair back to rise, scraping wooden legs against
marble floor. "And perhaps I will, one day—but not just
yet."

Belatedly Tarron rose as Hart moved to open the
door. "My lord—where are you going?"

"Out," Hart said succinctly. "The urge for a game is
upon me, and the sweet perfume of a smoky tavern."

"My lord—"

Rael, Hart summoned, ignoring the regent's protest;

the hawk flew out of the open casement even as Hart
walked out of the room.

He went out of the palace and into the bailey, follow-
ing blurted directions he had asked of a Solindish ser-
vant. Lestra's royal palace was enough like Homana-
Mujhar that he had no difficulty finding the bailey and
hence the guardroom; when he paused by several off-
duty soldiers lounging by the entrance, he saw they as-
sessed him indifferently, not knowing who he was.
Anonymity suited him well enough, at least for the
moment.

"I am looking for a game," he told them, tapping his
heavy belt-purse significantly. "Not here—undoubtedly

202 Semafer Roberaon

your captains prohibit wagering within the castle walls—
but elsewhere. In the city. Can you suggest a tavern?"

They were Solindish, not Homanan, for their woolen
tunics were indigo banded with silver braid, not the crim-
son and black livery of the Homanan Guard. Four pairs
of eyes reassessed him, noting the richness of silken
overtunic, the glitter of costly mail, the quality of leather
trews, silver-buckled belt, polished kneeboots. To them,
Hart knew, he was an enigma: a Homanan garbed Solin-
dish. It altered their responses.

And if they knew I was CheysuU? He smiled; Rael had
perched himself on the roof of the guardroom.

"Homanan tavern, or Solindish?" one of the soldiers
asked in accented Homanan.

Hart shrugged. "Does it matter?"

The Solindishman, red-headed and green-eyed, showed
his teeth briefly in a humorless smile. "It matters. Lestra
is a Solindish city, for all the Mujhar might have it
otherwise; the Homanans cluster together like chicks about
a hen."

"Avoiding the fox, no doubt." Hart smiled benignly
and spread upturned hands. "By all means, let it be a
Solindish tavern. Wagering has a tongue all its own."

The four men exchanged glances, murmuring among
themselves in low-pitched voices. Finally the spokesman
shrugged and looked back at Hart. "The White Swan,"
he said. "Not so far from here- Do you require escort?"

"Is it customary?" Hart asked evenly. "Without one,
is a Homanan likely to be accosted?"

Again they exchanged glances. The red-haired man
smiled. "In the shadows, one man is very much like
another."

Hart grinned back. "A chance I might have to take
. . . but I know a little Solindish. Perhaps this phrase
might be enough?" And, though the accent was horren-
dous, he told them, in their own tongue: "A Cheysuli
never walks alone."

On their benches, they straightened. "CheysuU—"
blurted one, staring. Two of his comrades muttered in

A PRIDE w PHMCES              203

Solindish; amidst the mostly alien words Hart heard his
own name twice-

The fourth man, the redhead, slowly rose and faced
him. They were of a like height and similar build, though
the shapes of their faces and coloring was entirely different.

"My lord," the redhead said formally, "word of your
arrival has been given out. But I think we expected
another sort of man. The animals ... all the gold—" He
broke off, shrugging awkwardly. "There are stories, my
lord."

Hart laughed, "My things were misplaced earlier to-
day. Fine as it is, Solindish clothing is somewhat more
elaborate than Cheysuli leathers." He tapped his left
arm. "Beneath all this silk and mail and linen lies the
gold you refer to. As for my lir—" he gestured "—Rael
is always with me."

All four craned their heads and saw the hawk, little
more than a silvered shape upon the edge of the roof.

The redhead looked back. "Shall we escort you, my
lord?"

"No, Rael is escort enough. Simply give me directions
to The White Swan."

"You might do better at another tavern, my lord."

"A tavern catering to the chicks clustered around the
hen?" Hart grinned as the other man reddened, "The
White Swan, soldier."

He was given explicit directions, and a warning.

"The White Swan is a supremely Solindish place, my
lord," the redhead told him. His discomfort was quite
plain. "You may not find the welcome to your taste."

Hart grinned. "I am Cheysuli, soldier; even in Homana,
even sixty years after the ending of the royal purge that
nearly destroyed us, we know the taste of hatred and
prejudice. But I have learned that where a man may not
be welcomed, his wealth always is."

After a moment, the Solindishman smiled. "Aye. The
custom is no different in Solinde,"

Hart thanked him, saluted him, left the palace entirely
and entered Lestra proper with a winged shadow overhead.

294 Jennifer Roberson

The White Swan was, he thought, one of the finest
taverns he had ever entered, certainty as nicely appointed
as Mujhara's own Rampant Lion. Good wax candles in
clay saucers stood on every table, lighting food or play.
The beamwork of the ceiling was higher than most, which
pleased Hart immensely. Cheysuli height often resulted
in the need for constant ducking, for Homanans were
almost uniformly shorter, and built taverns accordingly.
But here he could stand and move with impunity. He
admired the clean, sweeping lines of the blond beams;

whitewashed walls made the tavern look large and airy
instead of cramped and dark.

Rael he left outside perched atop the roof, knowing
better than to invite immediate trouble by taking the
hawk inside. The window were of thin, costly glass; had
he need of Rael, he could summon the bird easily through
either one.

If I am to judge the stakes of the games by the richness
of my surroundings, the winnings will be well worth any
rudeness I may encounter.

But he encountered none at all, save the curiosity
extended any stranger entering a tavern patronized by
friends and comrades. The cut and quality of his cloth-
ing, particularly the ceremonial mail, marked him a wealthy
Solindishman, obviously a noble, and worthy of attention
because of that alone. The hawk-shaped earring was
mostly hidden in his hair, but Hart believed that even
had his eyes been as yellow as Brennan's, no one would
have named him Cheysuli. This was Solinde, even though
ruled by Homana; no one expected to see a Cheysuli in
the heartland of Ihlini.

The tables were mostly full. None was entirely open,
though not all boasted a full complement of gamblers or
other patrons. But Hart knew he could not very well
invite himself into a game; his lack of Solindish—and
command of flawless Homanan—would instantly mark
him an enemy to those men who chose to regard the
Homanans as such.

One of the wine-girls came up to him and curtsied
briefly in deference to his obvious wealth. What she said

A PRIDE OF PRINCES               205

he could barely discern, for he spoke very tittle Solindish
even after childhood tutoring—he had been a supremely
indifferent student—and only very slowly; she chattered
at him like a magpie. He knew better than to attempt an
answer in her tongue. Instead, he drew from his belt-
purse a heavy coin: the gold royal of Homana. He placed
it in her hand and shut her fingers over it. "There is
more," he said distinctly, "much more, for the man who
gives me a game."

The Homanan words silenced the tavern instantly. As
one, shocked faces looked up from games and drink to
stare at him, and then the shock turned slowly to hostility.

The girl tore her hand from his. The falling coin rang
dully against the hardwood floor. She backed away from
him, wiping her hands on her skirts, and stopped only
when she fetched up against a table. She was black-
haired, black-eyed, pretty; she reminded him vaguely of
the girl from The Rampant Lion, who had been so im-
pressed with Brennan. But that girl had been Homanan,
and this one was clearly Solindish, with all attendant
resentment of her foreign overlord.

Hart was unperturbed. It was no more, no less than he
had expected, after what the soldier had said of the
Swan. Calmly he untied his belt-purse and dangled it
before them all. He shook it once, twice; the clash of
gold and silver was plain for all to hear.

"A game," he said, "not a war."

They stared, did Solindish eyes. Out of hard, eloquent
faces, full of hatred, full of anger; of a burning, brilliant
resentment that seemed to intensify as he waited.

Supremely Solindish, the soldier had said. Aye. That
was one way of putting it.

Perhaps I have misjudged them . . . perhaps something
is stronger than the lure of gold or gems. Disappointed,
he began to tie his t)elt-purse back on his belt.

"/ will give you a game," said a voice in accented
Homanan.

Hart brightened even as there was murmuring from
the others. He heard one word mentioned more than
once, and thought it might be a name.

206 Jennifer Roberson

It was. The man rose, scraping his stool against the
hardwood floor, and gestured Hart to join him. "I am
Dar," he said. "I give you no welcome to the Swan, for it
it is ours, and only ours, but I will give you the opportu-
nity to buy your life back."

Hart paused. "Buy my life back?" he echoed.

Dar did not smile. "It was forfeit the moment you
asked for a game."

Hart looked at the others. All remained clustered at
their tables, but no games were played, no wagers laid,
no food and drink consumed. The atmosphere of the
place was decidedly unfriendly, but he smelted the tang
of anticipation as well. They waited for something, the
Solindish. They wanted something specific, just as he
desired a game.

He looked back at Dar. "I said a game, not a war. I
am not here to rehash old battles, nor discuss political
things, I have no interest in either. I am here to wager,
nothing more."

The other studied him briefly, marking height, weight,
strength, and the indefinable self-confidence of a Cheysuli
that others called arrogance.

The Solindishman nodded slightly, as if his decision
were made. "You asked for a game without knowing the
stakes," he said coolly. "Know them now, and clearly:

for a Homanan, what he wagers is nothing less than his
life."

Hart looked at him closely. Dar was perhaps a year or
two older than himself, sandy-haired, brown-eyed, with
strong, bold features that marked him a singularly dedi-
cated man, no matter what the cause. Like the others in
the tavern, he wore clothing and appointments of good
quality—tawny leather trews, russet quilted velvet dou-
blet, a belt-knife hiked with gold. Obviously, The White
Swan catered to the wealthy and high-ranking. Just as
obviously, Homanans were unwelcome regardless of wealth
or rank.

His own assessment finished. Hart nodded a little. "A
good way of winnowing out the undesirables," he said

A PRIDE w PRINCES               267

lightly. "How many men did it cost before the Homanans
learned to go elsewhere?"

Dar did not smile. Neither did he hesitate. "Two," he
said, with deliberate clarity and succinctness.

He was not a man much intimidated by others, particu-
larly when a game was in the offing. Hart knew the type
well, relishing their eagerness for play as much as his
own. The Solindishman's baiting bothered him not in the
least; if anything, it added a fillip to the game.

Hart shrugged negligently, aware of the familiar flutter
in his belly. It spoke of risk and danger, of success and
failure. It sang a song of possibilities; of hope and need
and desire. But he showed none of it to Dar, knowing
better, "And so it shall remain," he said lightly, striding
to the table to hook out a stool and plop his belt-purse
down upon the table. Pouring out a stream of gold and
silver, he sat down and looked at Dar. "Match it," he
said gently, "with red Solindish gold." He paused as the
other slowly sat down. "Unless, of course, you stake
your own life as well as mine."

For a moment the other hesitated, arrested in mid-
motion. There was a brief flash of recognition in his eyes,
and then it was gone. "Oh, no,"-Dar said quietly. "I am
Solindish, not Homanan; I am of the occupied race, not
of the oppressor. My life is not required." The irony was
subtle and yet exceedingly clear to Hart, who chose to
ignore it altogether.

"Let us play man to man, not soldier to soldier; wagerer
to wagerer, not oppressor to occupied," he suggested.
"The game is all that matters."

Dar's sandy brows rose to disappear beneath thick
hair. "The game? Well, since it is your life we wager,
you may choose the game."

"Considerate." Hart looked at the wine-girl, standing
so close to his shoulder. The others had drawn near as
well, clustered in ranks around the table. He had seen it
happen before in games of high stakes; men who could
not or would not risk so much preferred instead to watch,
gaining a measure of the pleasure without the threat of
loss. He smiled at the girl. "Have you a fortune-game?"

208 Jennifer Roberson

She was patently unimpressed by his charming smile,
which might have perturbed him had he not been more
caught up in the need for the risk, the chance to play the
odds and win. Her lips drew back. "Homanan!" was all
she said.

Dar laughed. "Translation: the Swan has no Homanan
games."

"Then I will play a Solindish one," Hart said evenly.
He studied the other without bothering to hide it, know-
ing Dar assessed him as openly. It was all a part of the
eternal dance. After a moment he nodded. "1 judge you
an honest man, Dar—I think you would prefer an honest
win,"

Dar rubbed an idle thumb along his lower lip. "You
judge quickly, Homanan. Too quickly, perhaps?"

"I think not. I have seen your kind before . . ." Hart
grinned at narrowing brown eyes and tautening jaw. "Aye,
I have, just as you have seen me before, in many men.
Why bother to deny it? When it comes to it, Solindish,
the game is more important than the man who plays
it—or his loyalties."

The Solindishman laughed, eyes suddenly alight. For
the moment, the quiet hostility was banished. "Aye, so it
is. Perhaps we are more alike than we know, for all it
paints me an unflattering color." He drew out his own
belt-purse and opened it, pouring out the rich red gold of
Solinde. The shape and weight as well as the color was
different than Hart's Homanan wealth, and the value,
coin for coin, was uncalculated, but it no longer mat-
tered. They both knew the other for a man who wagered
for the love of it, the need of it, not for the actual value
of the winnings. "There you are, Homanan—red gold
against your life."

It was red gold indeed, deeper, brighter, richer than
Hart's yellow Homanan hoard. He ached to touch it, to
feel its texture, its warmth, knowing what it represented.
Not money. Not wealth. But victory over the game.

Dar grinned. With a single finger he flipped over first
one coin and then another, so that they rang against one

A PtttDE OF PRINCES

209

another. In the heavy silence of the common room, the
siren song was eloquent.

Hart smiled. For the moment, they were kinspirits.

Dar turned and said something to the girl, who disap-
peared a moment and came back with a small wooden
bowl. She set it down on the table; it was filled with flat,
bone-colored oblong stones the size of a man's thumbnail.

Dar pulled several stones from the bowl and set them
down on the table. Each bore a shape incised and col-
ored, save for one blank one. "Bezat," he said. "A
Solindish rune-game. Very simple; even a Homanan may
learn."

"Did the others?" Hart asked. "The two who died?"

Dar's smile was faint.-"They learned not to wager
what they could not afford to lose."

"Show me," Hart said intently, thinking only of the
game.

After a moment, Dar did. "You see the marks. Each
rune represents a thing from Solindish folklore; I will not
bore you with the stories, or we will be here all night and
most of the next." He grinned. "Let it suffice you to
know the runes have value within the context of the
game: the moon, the sun, the plow, the scythe, famine,
plague, war . . , and, of course, death." He touched the
blank stone. "This supersedes the others. No matter
what value the others give you, even the highest, this
takes precedence." His expression was carefully noncom-
mittal. "You do understand?'*

"I understand death very well," Hart answered read-
ily. "And I understand that in this game, for a Homanan,
the death is literal,"

After a moment Dar nodded. "We draw eight. The
moon, sun, plow and scythe rank higher than famine,
plague or war, but there are fewer of them. We match
my stones against yours: the highest grouping wins."

"And the death-stone?"

"Stones," Dar said clearly, emphasizing the plural.
"Bezats. Fewer yet, but hardly timid."

"How many times do we play?'*

Dar shrugged. "As many as you like . . - ordinarily. In

219 Jennifer Robcrswt

tfus case, with these stakes, should you turn up a bezat—**
he smiled, "no more games are possible.'*

Hart smiled back, unmoved by the possibilities. His
luck would see through. "Once,** he said, and a flutter of
anticipation pinched his belly. "Once. To make it worth
our while."

"Once," Dar agreed. "You wiU draw eight stones, I
will draw eight stones—both of us drawing blind . . . and
then we give them to one another.'*

Anticipation was smothered by shock. Hart went cold.
"Are you saying you will draw my stones? The ones on
which I wager?"

Dar laughed. "But of course! Therein lies the game.
You wager that I will give you good stones, while I do
the same with the ones you draw for me."

Hart no longer smiled. "Then my life—literally—is in
your hands."

Dar shrugged casually. "It is the luck of the draw."

Hart grabbed the bowl and upended it, spilling stones
across the table. One by one he turned them over, baring
rune after rune. There were suns, moons, and other
things—four stones were blank as death.

"Did you fear all of them were blank?" Dar smiled
and nodded as Hart began to drop them back into the
bowl. "Did you fear you had misjudged me?"

Hart was deliberate as he replaced the stones. One by
one, they rattled into the bowl as he watched Dar's face.
He knew very well he could refuse to play, but he would
not. It was poor manners; worse, it marked him a coward
and cheat, when he was neither. If anything, the stakes
made him reckless.

A true test of a man's mettle, and certainly of his skill.
If I beat this Solindish ku'reshtin, I can win back a mea-
sure of pride for the Homanans, who have been so readily
insulted in this tavern. Moreover, I can win back respect
for those who died.

But even more than that, much more, it was the challenge.

Hart flipped the last stone into the bowl. "It is a
foolish man who wagers without knowing the stakes, or
tiie contents of the game. And I am not a fool." No

211

A PRIDE OFPRWCES

longer did he smile. "I have accepted your stakes; now I
accept the game."

Dar looked at the wine-girl. "Stir them," he said, in
clear Homanan. "Stir them well, Oma."

She put a slim hand in the bowl and stirred the con-
tents, steadfastly keeping her eyes on Hart's face as if to
emphasize her honesty. When she was done, she lifted
the bowl in both hands and held it out over the table, so
that neither of them could see in as they drew the stones.

"You may draw first," Dar said politely. "If it is a
bezat—a death-stone—I lose at once, and the game is

done."

And if he draws a bezat for me . . . Hart smiled. He
reached in, drew a stone; placed it face up on the table in
front of Dar. It bore the rune for famine.

"Not good," Dar said conversationally, tapping a fin-
ger against the tabletop. "Beaten, should I draw you a
sun or moon, a plow or scythe."

"Draw," Hart said.

Dar did so, turning up the rune for scythe, represent-
ing a generous harvest. Through seven stones they went,
one by one: suns, moons, famine and war . . . and then
Dar drew the final stone for Hart.

He put it down in the center of the table, turning it
from one side to the other, so that both were clearly
visible to Hart and all the rest.

"Bezat!" the wine-girl cried.

"Bezat!" the others echoed.

Dar drew his knife and place it in the center of the
table, next to the blank death-stone. "Bezat," he said
quietly, and took his hand away.

Hart looked at the stone, at the knife, at the man. And
then he began to laugh.

Three

Dar's eyes narrowed. "It is a fool who laughs in the
face of death, or a very brave man. Which are you,
Homanan?"

Still Hart laughed, though the initial burst of amuse-
ment faded, and then the laughter died away. He shook
his head, grinning, and idly stirred his pile of Homanan
gold and silver. "Neither, I think ... or perhaps a little
of both."

No one else spoke, though Hart was aware of the
tension in the common room. The others stared hard at
him, scowling, or looked to Dar in expectation. The
knife blade gleamed a promise in the candlelight.

"Did you think I jested?" Dar inquired in an elegantly
dangerous tone of voice. "Did you think, when I spoke
of your death as the stakes of the game, I meant nothing
of what I said?"

"Oh, I know you meant it," Hart answered, smiling.
"I can smell the stink on all of you, this desire for my
death." Again he stirred the coins, admiring their patina
in the candlelight. Still he smiled a little, but mostly to
himself; he preferred not to provoke the Solindishman
further, and yet a part of him did not care. He met Dar's
eyes and shrugged. "But I have learned that even a life
may be purchased—or bought back—when the loser is
wealthy enough." He paused. "Or has other means to
force it."

Dar himself smiled. "There are three men behind you
with knives in their hands. And more behind them."

212

A PRIDE wPpmcES              213

Hart shrugged, shaking his head. "It makes no differ-
ence. The force I speak of has nothing to do with
weapons."

"Mine does." Dar touched the hilt of his knife with a
single eloquent finger.

Hart laughed. "Effective against a man, perhaps, but
what about a hawk?"

"I think—'* But Dar stopped short, interrupting him-
self. He looked at Hart in silence a long moment. And
then, though his expression did not change, the tone of
his voice altered perceptibly. "Cheysuli," he said flatly.

"Aye," Hart agreed.

Silence filled the room. And then was swallowed by
murmurs of shock and muttered Solindish epithets.

Dar's nostrils were pinched, his mouth drawn flat and
tight. For only a moment his fingers remained near the
knife, and then he took his hand away. "Cheysuli," he
repeated. "An accursed shapechanger in our midst."

"Now," Hart said, "shall we negotiate this loss?"

Dar smiled tightly. "It was a loss," he said, "and you
knew the stakes. Your life against the stones. Cheysuli,
Homanan, it does not matter. The wager stands."

Hart matched his tone, "I have only to summon my
Hr"

"Do it." Dar laughed as Hart frowned his incompre-
hension. "Do it, shapechanger—or should I say, try."
His glance went past Hart to another man. "Even / know
that a Cheysuli has no power before an Ihlini."

Hart swung on his stool and felt the knife blade against
his throat. He sat very still, but he saw the man Dar's
glance had indicated. "Ihlini?" he demanded.

The man inclined his head politely, though his smile
was coolly derisive. "This is Solinde, is it not? Here, we
go where we will go, just as you do in Homana."

For the first time since entering the tavern. Hart went
into the Wink to contact Rael. And instantly felt the
blankness that signaled Ihlini presence and canceled out
the link.

Oh, gods—oh, lir, what have I done now?

214 Jennifer Roberson

"Now," Dar said gently, "shall we speak again of the
wager?"

Oh, gods, where is Brennan when I need him?

On his stool. Hart swung back around to face Dar,
wary of the knife so near his throat. He forced a smile and
tapped the pile of silver and gold. "Surely there is enough
here to buy my life from you."

"No." Dar's tone did not waver.

"This is worth—"

"Worthtess," Dar said distinctly. "This is Solinde,
Homanan; do you think your coin has value here? I have
seen how you look at our red Solindish gold; how you
covet it with your eyes." His own narrowed. "Eyes which,
I might add, are blue instead of yellow. Cheysuli? I think
not. I think you are a liar who lives on the legends of
other men."

That touched prickly Cheysuli pride. Hart went rigid
on the stool, but dared not move with so many knives
prepared to take his life. He scowled blackly at Dar.
"And is every Solindishman the same color?"

Dar's mouth twitched. "But I have heard so much
about the beast-eyes of the Cheysuli. . . ." He grinned,
unable to suppress his amusement. "Glare at me all you
wish, Homanan—blue eyes are less effective, I think,
than yellow."

"Ku'reshtin\" Hart snapped. "Were there no Ihlini
here— "

But there is," Dar said coolly, "and your claim has no
validity."

Hart stripped black hair behind his left ear. "Oh no?"

The Solindishman shrugged negligently. "Many men
wear similar adornment."

Hart gritted his teeth. "Then give me leave to show
you other adornment."

Dar laughed. "If you wish. But if you mean to show us
your weapon, Homanan, recall there are women present."

Even Oma laughed, eyeing Hart with derisive amuse-
ment. Heat coursed through his body and stung his arm-
pits, but he rose slowly and unbuckled his belt with
careful deliberation. He dropped it and the heavy knife

215

A PRIDE W PlW/CES

on the table, then stripped out of the rich blue tunic. It
left him aglitter in silver mail, and he saw a flash of
irritation in Dar's eyes as well as envy in the eyes of

others.

"I am laced," Hart said tightly.
Dar gestured. "Oma, unlace him. Tend him as benefits

a Solindish lordling."

The girl's fingers were deft as she undid the laces of
the mail shirt. When she was done Hart shrugged out of
it, letting it slide to his stool where it lay in a shining pool
of exquisite mesh. Ceremonial only, it was lighter than
traditional Homanan ringmail, but was more than he

cared to carry,

It left only the quilted linen shirt used to keep the links
from his flesh. Quickly Hart divested himself of it and
draped it casually over Oma's shoulder, though she im-
mediately threw it to the floor. He smiled, knowing no
man—or woman—in The White Swan would dare call

him liar now.

Dar kept his face expressionless, but there was no
hiding the grudging acknowledgment in his eyes as he
looked at the massive rtr-bands. There were mutters in
the room, but he nodded. "Well. enough, blue-eyed or
not, you have the right to call yourself Cheysuli. But it
does not change the wager."

Hart pointed. "There is my coin. If it is not enough, be
assured I have the means to get more."

"I have already said Homanan gold and silver has no
value here," Dar said patiently. His eyes were still on
Hart's armbands. "Cheysuli gold, however—"

"No." The refusal was distinct.

"Then what?" Dar asked idly. "You say you have the
means to buy your life from us, and yet you offer nothing."

No, / do have something, though undoubtedly Tarron
will not like it. Hart drew in a deep breath. "Then I will
buy it with something emminently Solindish." He pointed
to the leather belt-purse. "There is something in there
which should more than cover the worth of my life,

Solindishman."
Lazily Dar reached out and took up the leather pouch,

216 Jennifer Robersw

upending it. He shook it; a ring fell out onto the table. It
rattled, rolled, stopped. It was solid gold, red Solindish
gold, and large enough to hide half of Hart's forefinger
when he wore it. But he had never worn it.

And now I never will.

Oma bent close to look; Dar's rigid hand thrust her
rudely away from the table. In the light from the fat wax
candle, the heavy ring glowed.

"The Third Seal," he said in disbelief.

"Part of the Trey," Hart agreed. "Enough, do you
think, to purchase the life of the Prince of Solinde?"

"There is no Prince of Solinde—has been none for
eighty years or more, ever since Bellam's son ElHc was
killed by Shaine the Mujhar." But Dar's tone was dulled
by shock and comprehension. Slowly he reached out and
took up the ring, turning it so the light fell fully on the
incised pattern that formed the Third Seal of Solinde,
and the key to almost limitless power. "No prince," he
said distinctly, "until the Lady lisa weds and bears a
son." He looked at Hart in dawning recognition. "There
was a man, she said—a Cheysuli warrior, who carried the
Third Seal ... a man she nearly killed."

So, her name is lisa. Hart smiled crookedly and pulled
hair aside, baring swollen brow and ugly scrape. "Nearly.
But not, quite."

Dar tipped the ring into his palm and rolled it back
and forth. "With this, a man could rule Solinde."

"No. Even she told me that much: without the other
two, this one is not so important. And the other two are
safely held by the regent and my father."

Dar looked at him thoughtfully. "Niall is your father."

"Aye. My jehan. Mujhar of Homana." He glanced at
Oma and the others, marking how attentively they watched
him- The hostility had altered significantly to shock and
wonder. He found he preferred the latter. "I did not
come of my own accord," he said, for their benefit as
much as for Dar's, who held his life. "I was sent, I am to
leam to rule Solinde . . . and I want it no more than you
do."

Dar looked at him sharply. "You do not?"

A PVOE OFPRMCES               217

Hart shrugged. "Not now. Later, aye—I have been
bred and raised for it, and have no intention of turning
my back on my tahlmorra—but as for now, my interest
lies in other directions." He looked at the ring in Dar's
hand. "Is it enough?"

"To buy back your life?" Dar's tone was incredulous.
"This is worth much more than you can imagine, my
Homanan-Cheysuli princeling. This is worth a woman."

Hart frowned as Dar began to laugh. "A woman?"

Still laughing, the Solindishman shook his head- "Ah,
shapechanger, how you amuse me with your ignorance.
Obviously you have no aptitude for ruling, else you would
have steeped yourself in the politics of Solinde. And I
refuse to be your tutor. "'He grinned- "Your life is duly
bought. Take your borrowed clothing and your hawk and
all your worthless Homanan coin and get yourself back
to the palace."

He had never been dismissed so arrantly by anyone,
even his father, who had more right. And yet he dared
not vent his anger on Dar or any of the Solindish; in a
way, he acknowledged their right to treat him as they
did. He knew nothing of them at all, or their realm, and
yet he came expecting to rule them, whether he wanted
to or not.

In taut silence, Hart put on the linen shirt and gath-
ered up mail, silken tunic, belt and belt-purse. Then he
turned and walked out of the tavern.

In the morning Hart went to see the regent and briefly
explained the circumstances of the evening before, gloss-
ing over the very real threat to his welfare and stressing
instead the need to learn more about the woman called
lisa, who could give Solinde a prince merely by wedding
and bearing a son. He expected Tarron to express relief
at his escape and compliment him on his resolution;

instead. Hart was mildly startled to see the regent of
Solinde gape unattractively, banishing his habitual dignity.

Tarron grasped the arms of his chair and thrust himself
out of it stiffly. "You lost the Third Seal?"

"In return for my life, I allowed Dar to keep it," Hart

218 Jennifer Roberson

explained again. He shrugged. "One ring is as good as
another. Have a duplicate made; it will serve as well."

"Will it?" Tarron's face was red, though the color
slowly faded to white. He sat down again, but the motion
lacked anything akin to grace. The regent stared blindly
at Hart. "You have no conception of what you have
done."

Hart sighed. He was restless, wanting little more than
to go out of the palace and into the city again, leaving
behind the responsibilities Tan-on intended him to as-
sume. Hands on hips, he faced the regent in Tarron's
private council chamber. "What I have done? Aye, I
think I do. I think—'

Tarron did not wait for him to finish. "/ think you
have placed all my work in jeopardy . . . possibly even
the entire succession." He shook his head in disbelief.
"The Mujhar warned me—he said you required watching
until you learned the importance of your role. But I
thought surely he exaggerated—" He shut his eyes. "By
the gods, you have given over the Third Seal into the
hands of those who would wrest this throne from your
father . . . from those who would gladly see you dead so
they can crown their own candidate Prince of Solinde. . . ."

"Tarron—"

"Be silent!" The regent sat upright in the chair and
glared at Hart, who gazed back in astonishment. "Hold
your tongue, my lord, while I try to think of a way to
make certain you may keep the head that wags it!"

Hart scowled. "May I remind you—"

"May I remind you?" Tarron snapped. Then, more
quietly, "Listen to me, my lord, and perhaps you will see
that I am less concerned for your rank and personal
pleasure than for your life."

After a moment. Hart nodded and sat down in the
nearest chair. "I will listen."

Tarron sighed a little. "To put it as succinctly as possi-
ble: you understand, of course, that Solinde is an occu-
pied land in vassalage to your father- All judgments
concerning the welfare of this realm are made by him,
and him alone, although he encourages and acts on ad-

A PRIDE wPumcKS              219

vice from me as well as other Homanans he has placed to
administer the governing of Solinde."

"Of course."

The regent nodded. "It is a necessary practice that doc-
uments requiring triple seals—the Trey of Solinde—must
be sent to Mujhara for the Mujhar's acknowledgment.
For all the days of his rule, Niall the Mujhar has held the
First and Third Seals of Solinde, while I held the Second.
Nothing in Solindish law can be done without the Trey,
the complete Trey. No orders can be carried out, no
armies paid, no judgments rendered to the petitioners
who gather at court for such things. Without the Trey,
the wheel stops turning." Tarron drew in a calming breath.
"He gave you the Third Seal so that you could have an
active role in governing the realm that one day you will
rule absolutely, with no fealty paid to Homana."

Hart sat upright. "Do you mean he intends to give me
sole responsibility? But—1 thought I would rule in his
name . . ." He frowned. "I thought things would con-
tinue mostly as they are."

The regent's smile was bleak. "How many times has he
told you Solinde would one day be yours?"

Hart shrugged. "As long as I can'remember, but—-"

"But nothing," Tarron said flatly. "On the day of his
death, you will become king in your own right. Solinde
will be yours, my lord. Yours. To do with as you will."

Hart snorted inelegantly. "And if I choose to give it
back to the Solindish?"

"So be it." To his credit, Tarron did not flinch. "Al-
though you may have done that already."

Hart grunted skepticism. "How?"

"You gave over the ring, my lord. The seal. And into
the hands of one of the men most likely to order your
death."

Hart shook his head. "Dar had the chance last night.
He let me live."

Because while the lady delays her decision, he has no
power. Only promised power—whatever man she weds
becomes Consort, and a son by him on lisa will be

220 Jennifer Roberson

named Prince of Solinde. Power, my lord, is often gained
through marriage. Or through children,"

Hart grunted. "That I know well enough. Of five chil-
dren, my jehan betrothed two of us before we were ever
bom."

"And you, my lord?"

Hart grinned. "A free man, Tarron, with no marital
obligations."

Tarron did not match his humor. "If the lady weds
before you are fully accepted, she provides a threat to
your security."

"IfshewedsDar."

H she weds any man, although she will not wed 'any
man.' She is too highly bom. Too close to the old Solindisb
line of succession; her grandmother's mother was youn-
gest sister to Bellam, the last king of Solinde." Tarron
tapped his hand on the chair arm. "Dar is only one of
several Solindish lords who desire to wed the lady, al-
though it is said he has a better chance than most. He is
young, handsome, wealthy—and dedicated to Solindish
rule."

Hart scowled at the regent. "I know the solution as
well as you, Tarron. You intend to tell me that / should
wed her, if only to keep her out of Solindish hands."

"I intend to tell you no such thing," Tarron retorted.
"For all I know, you may prefer a CheysuH woman. So
long as the lady weds no man, your path is safe. We
watch her very closely, my lord—more closely than she
likes. And she shows no signs of choosing any man."

"But she is aware of what it could mean to Solinde?"

"Very aware," Tarron said grimly. "My lord, tread
gently. I have seen the lady ... I understand very well
how a man could lose his head over her. But if you press
her for anything, anything at all, she will bolt. And, most
likely, she will bolt to the closest den."

"Dar's." Hart nodded thoughtfully. "An interesting
position, regent. If I pursue her, she bolts. If I ignore
her, she may simply go to the same den more slowly."
He smiled. "What would you propose?"

Tarron's voice was steady. "I would propose that you

A PMDE OF PHINCES                221

get the ring back from Dar, my lord, before he puts it to
use. With it, he stands a better chance of winning the
lady. With it and lisa, your time in Solinde is done."

Hart swore beneath his breath. He was of no mind to
wed, not even for the sake of a realm. Let Brennan make
the sacrifice with Aileen of Erinn, and Keely with the
girl's brother, Sean. His choice would be his own, and
the timing of it.

The Third Seal— Abruptly he brightened. "There is a
way I might be able to get it back, and without blood-
shed. But it will require something from you."

Tarron did not hesitate. "Anything, my lord."

Hart smiled warmly. "Change my Homanan gold for
Solindish."

Four

"My lord," the servant said, "the messenger will speak
only to you, though he sends this with me."

Hart, more concerned with the dice he tossed across
the table than the messenger's intentions, glanced only
absently at the speaker. But his interest sharpened as he
saw the palace servant carried the saddlepacks lost to
lisa. He rose at once and took them from the man,
relieved he could finally trade borrowed Solindish cloth-
ing for familiar Cheysuli leathers. "Have him come up at
once."

The man bowed yet again. "My lord, he waits outside,
in the bailey. He says he may not leave the gift intended
for Hart of Homana, nor bring it into the palace."

Hart, digging leathers out of the packs, looked at the
servant in distracted surprise. "A gift?"

"Aye, my lord."

He shrugged and resumed his search. "Well, then, I
shall go down and tend to this gift. Tell the messenger I
am coming."

"Aye, my lord." The servant departed at once.

Hart found the leathers he wanted and dumped the
packs across the table, scattering dice. Quickly he stripped
out of his borrowed finery and into leggings and jerkin,
buckling on a wide leather belt tooled with runic glyphs.
The buckle was heavy gold set with lapis; the knife he
retrieved from the Solindish belt and slid it home in the    |;

Cheysuli sheath. Bare-armed at last, his race was plain to

222

A PRIDE wPw/ces              223

No more doubts from Dar or his ilk, he thought in
satisfaction. Now, lir, shall we go?

We go, Rael agreed, and lifted from the perch.

The gift was nothing at all a messenger might bring
inside the palace, being a tall chestnut stallion with four
white stockings and flaxen mane and tail, who eyed Hart
with intense interest as he came into the bailey. At the
stallion's head stood a man in blue-and-white livery, the
royal colors of Solinde.

Though he was not the expert in horseflesh Brennan
was, Hart nonetheless knew well enough the stallion was
magnificent. The chestnut's height was impressive, as
was his conditioning; a deep chest, long shoulders and
strong legs bespoke his stamina. Fox-red ears tipped
inward toward one another, and his brown eyes were
large and intelligent. He stood quietly enough, but there
was a quivering expectancy about him that told Hart he
required a rider who was alert to equine tricks.

Another way to attempt my death? Hart smiled as Rael
drifted down to perch upon the bailey wall. Quietly he
approached the stallion and gently caught his head with
both hands, cupping nose and jaw. The firm flesh quiv-
ered at once; the stallion lifted his upper lip to display
awesome teeth as he tried to catch an unwary finger.

"Shansu," Hart said quietly. "You and I will settle our
differences another time; for now, you will leave my
fingers intact." He nodded to the messenger. "I am Hart
of Homana, now the Prince of Solinde."

The man's face was a polite mask, though his tone was
civil enough. "My lord, I am given no title other than
your name. It is my lady's contention that there is no
other than your name. It is my lady's contention that
there is no Prince of Solinde."

"The Lady lisa is stubborn." Hart laughed.

The man ignored that. "The Lady lisa sends to say this
stallion cannot replace the one you lost, but will nonethe-
less provide a means of transportation. She acknowledges
her part in the loss of your mount, and repays the debt
freely." He held out the reins perfunctorily.

Hart accepted them, automatically stroking the firm
layers of muscle tying beneath the flesh of the stallion's

224 Jennifer Roberson

underjaw. "Tell the lady I am honored by her gift, if not
by her refusal to acknowledge my Solindish title." He did
not really care if she chose to ignore his status, but it was
all a part of the game. "And tell the lady I will one day
claim her forfeit."

"My lord, I will." lisa's messenger fell back as Hart
swung up into the saddle. The gear was Solindish and
unfamiliar, but he found it not uncomfortable. The stal-
lion bunched massive hindquarters and essayed a single
sidestep, then relaxed beneath Hart's quieting touch.

He grinned down at the messenger. "You may tell the
lady I am pleased indeed."

"Aye, my lord."

Hart signaled and one of the stable lads came running.
"Have word sent to the regent that I am about the
business we discussed. I may return very late." And then
he summoned Rael and rode out of the double gates.

Rael's dubiousness became patently clear as Hart reined
in before The White Swan. Are you certain? the hawk
inquired.

Quite, Hart answered. If Dar is not here, I will look for
him elsewhere. But he must be found, and the seal won
back.

There are other ways, lir.

And do you suggest I turn thief? Hart asked wryly.
Worse, yet, murderer?

No. I suggest you think about what you intend to do.

Hart laughed and jumped off the stallion. / intend to
take you inside with me, and enter into a game. What
other thinking need I do?

Rael's tone was resigned. More than that, I think.

Hart tied off the stallion and waited for Rael to settle
upon his forearm. The hawk was large, too large; it was
not a comfortable position, but an impressive one—for
the moment, precisely what he wanted. Once inside,
Rael would find another perch.

The stallion snorted and shook his head, clattering
brass appointments. The setting sun glinted off the metal,

225

A PKSDE OF PVNCES

flashing in Hart's eyes. He turned away and thrust open
the door.

He had not expected a welcome and did not receive
one. Casual glances turned into frozen stares, and once
again he heard the cacophony of the common room die
into expectant silence. A single word through the link
loosed Rael into the room, and the great hawk lifted
to stir the air against staring faces. He flew to the roof-
tree and perched himself upon it, shedding a single black-
edged feather -

"Dar," Hart said only.

As one, the faces turned from him to stare at the man
who walked out of the shadows into the candlelight.
Standing, he was at least as tall as Hart, though his
quilted Solindish doublet and padded trews hid much of
such things as true weight, frame, strength. Hart's snug
Cheysuli leathers did not.

Dar carried a silver goblet in one negligent hand. On
his forefinger Hart saw the heavy ring he himself had lost
but three nights before. Dar smiled faintly, and it was
not without its share of honest amusement taken at no
one's expense, least of all at Hart's.

"I thought you might be back." He waved a hand at
the nearest table. The patrons deserted it at once.

Hart jerked his belt-purse loose and held it up in the
light. "Solindish gold," he said pointedly. "Red Solindish
gold."

Dar grinned, "Bezat, my lord? Or did you find the
stakes too high?"

Hart crossed the room and hooked a stool free. "Bezat,"
he agreed calmly. "You had your chance at my life, and
accepted payment in its place. This time we play for
gold."

"Until I have won all of yours, and then you will wager
something else." Dar sat down. "I know your kind,
Cheysuli. You live for the wager, the risk—everything
else is too tame." He slapped the flat of his hand down
upon the table. "Oma! The bowl!"

She brought it at once and thumped it down on the
table. Hart grinned at her and was rewarded, as he

expected, with a muttered Solindish curse between small
Solindish teeth.

Dar laughed, ordering a jug of wine and a cup for
Hart. "She is all sting and no venom. Be assured, if you
want her, you have only to win my golf,!. Oma goes with
the man who has the most.*'

Hart busied himself with stirring the contents of the
bowl. "My taste runs to fair-haired women."

Dar looked at him sharply, but Hart's face gave noth-
ing away. He placed his own belt-purse on the table.
"My taste runs to women, period. I have no preferences."

"None?" Hart smiled blandly. "But then, a man who
aspires to wed the Lady lisa might not even see the
others."

Dar did not smile. "You have learned well in three
days, my ford."

^o survive in Solinde, I have to." Hart pushed the
bowl in Dar's direction. "Stir them?—or shall I?"

Tight-mouthed, Dar stirred, and Hart drew the first
stone for him.

They played the hours away, burning the candle down
to a stub. Red Solindish gold changed hands many times,
making one man a pauper, another wealthy, and then
went the other way with the draw of a single rune-stone.
Blank bezats held no threat for Hart, who had weathered
the first high-stakes game and felt the others far too
tame. But he would not risk himself again.

When at last he and Dar stared at one another across a
pile of stones—red-eyed, dry-mouthed, stiff from hunched
postures—no man could be called a victor. Each shared
equally in the wealth.

Dar scraped his stool back. "Enough, shapechanger.
The cock will crow within an hour, and my bed beckons
me."

"One more time," Hart said intently. "Once more,
Dar."

The Solindishman shook his head. "I have wasted
enough time for now—"

"Then I will see to it there is no waste." Hart shoved

A PRIDE OF PRMCES              227

his pile of gold forward. "All of it, on but a single
game."

Dar looked at the gold thoughtfully. Then he shrugged,
dismissing it. "Not worth the effort,"

"Wait—" Hart rose. "If we made it worth the effort?"

Brown eyes narrowed. "With what? You will not risk
your Cheysuli gold; you have said so." He looked across
the room at Rael, still perched on a limb of the roof-tree.
"Unless you mean to put up your hawk."

Hart was incredulous that Dar could even think it.
And then he laughed, realizing the man could not possi-
bly know what the hawk was to him. "No," he said
clearly, and thrust his left hand into the air. "Sooner this
than my lir."

Dar shrugged. "Then again I must say, what have you
to offer?"

Hart looked down at his right hand. On his finger
glittered the heavy sapphire signet ring of his Homanan
rank. Quickly he stripped it off and tossed it into the pile
of coins. "This."

A light came up in Dar's brown eyes. It was not the
ring so much. Hart knew, but the sudden desire for
higher stakes, high stakes; they both of them lived to
walk the edge of the blade.

"More," Dar said quietly.

Hart laughed. "You do not have nearly enough to
match it. The wager would be no wager."

Dar's eyes narrowed. "Try me," he said. "I will match
in worth whatever you have to wager."

Hart assessed him a moment. Then, smiling, he said,
"A horse."

Dar shrugged. "I breed the finest horseflesh in Solinde.
It would be difficult to offer me better than I have."

"Judge him for yourself. He is tied just outside."

The Solindishman's mouth twitched in amusement. "So
prepared to lose . . . well enough, let us judge the worth
of this horse."

Hart led the way outside. Once there, he was pleased
to see the look of shock on Dar's face. "My horse,
Solindishman. Worth enough, do you think?"

228 Jennifer Roberson

"That is lisa's horse! I myself bred him, raised him,
trained him ... I sold him to her only because she
refused to accept him as a gift." His face was white with
anger. "How does he come to be with you?"

"A gift," Hart said lightly, "from the lady to me."

Dar's breath hissed. "You lief'

"Send a messenger to ask her." Purposely, Hart kept
his tone light. He had known all along divulging the
source of the stallion would force Dar's hand, although
he bad not known the man himself had bred the stallion.
It made the challenge all the sweeter. "If you will recall
from the lady's story of our meeting in the wood, my
own mount broke both forelegs and had to be destroyed.
This horse was sent to replace him."

"This horse—" Dar was nearly incoherent as he swung
to face Hart directly. "Name your wager, shapechanger.
This horse is worth more than the gold I offer."

Blandly, Hart smiled. "The Third Seal of Solinde."

After a moment of taut silence, Dar said something
succini in explicit—and idiomatic—Solindish. Hart's grasp
of the language extended only to a few halting phrases;

slang was beyond him. But the tone told him more than
enough.

"Undoubtedly I am whatever you claimed I am," he
said cheerfully. "Now, shall we go back inside and settle
this?"

Dar looked at the stallion, who tugged at his reins and
tried to reach out to the Solindishman. It set white dents
of anger at the corners of Dar's mouth. His eyes were
black as he stared at Hart. "You risked the Seal without
knowing its worth," he said flatly. "I am not so foolish—I
know its worth. Do you think I will risk it on a thing so
inconsequential as a game?"

"Perhaps not," Hart said calmly. "But will you risk it
for a woman?"

Dar spat at the ground, just missing Hart's boots.
"That for your game!" he said tightly. "Inside, shape-
changer, and we shall see who gains that woman."

In silence, they played a final game of Bezat. Hart did
not look at the Solindish ring that sat atop the pile of red

229

A PKIDE OF PKWCES

gold in front of Dar; he did not dare to. Nor did he look
at his own pile, upon which waited the sapphire ring he
risked as well as the horse. The stakes were not anything
like the game in which he had risked his life, but he
found it no less fascinating. If he won, it would prove
there was a place in the world for his gaming.

// he won. If he had won.

But he did not.

Dar laughed aloud as he turned over the final rune-
stone. No bezats, but the worth of his stones outweighed
the worth of Hart's. And so the man who had risked
more won more; Hart was left to stare at the gold that
was now Dar's, knowing the sapphire and the horse were
lost also.

The Solindishman raked red gold across the table amidst
hearty congratulations. The Solindish ring he slipped onto
his forefinger again; the sapphire he tossed to the wine-
girl, Oma. "There!" he cried, in Homanan for Hart's
benefit. "A token of my thanks, Oma, for good service
throughout the years."

Hart found himself on his feet. "That ring is worthy of
more respect, Solindish!"

"Is it?" Dar shrugged. "It is-Homanan, is it not? And
I say again, this is Solinde." He poured his winnings into
his belt-purse. "I will tell the lady how little you thought
of her gift, shapechanger; so little you wagered it in a
silly gambling game." His smile was eloquently derisive.
"lisa does not entirely approve of such feckless pursuits,
being so personally involved in something as important
as the future of her realm."

"What of you?" Hart demanded. "Will you tell her
how often you wager your wealth in silly gambling games?"

Dar laughed. "I thought I would leave it to the lady to
reform me." He tied the now-bulging purse onto his belt.
"I bid you good night and good morning, shapechanger
. . . and my thanks for a worthwhile game,"

Inwardly, Hart swore. Outwardly, he took his lir and
left, hating the laughter that followed him.

^-•:

i.'"<

230 Jem^er Robersou

In private chambers, the Homanan regent of Solinde
perused parchments attentively. He read through one
carefully, nodded thoughtfully, set it aside for further
review. The next he scanned, then put it atop another
pile. Briefly he glanced at the young man who waited
impatiently near the table.

"You—lost?" Tan-on nodded before Hart could an-
swer. "Aye, I thought that was what you said. Well then,
we must live with the fact the Third Sea! is in the hands
of the enemy, and we can no longer govern Solinde." His
faint smile was wintry. "I have written to the Mujhar."

Hart swore, then scowled at Tarron. "There is still a
chance I can get it back from him."

"In yet another game?" Tarron sat back in his chair.
"My instructions from your father are quite clear, my
lord. I am to give you no money other than the allow-
ance he will provide."

"Payable how often?"

Tarron smiled. "Once a year."

"Once a year!" Hart nearly gaped. "How am I to
make it last the entire twelve-month? Has he gone mad?
Have you gone mad? How am I to live?"

"By learning not to wager it in foolish fortune-games."
Tarron picked up another parchment. "My lord, if you
will excuse me, there are things I must attend to."

"Then give it to me now."

After a moment, the regent glanced up from the parch-
ment. "My lord?"

"My allowance. Give it to me now."

"I think not, my lord. It has not yet arrived from
Homana."

Hart bit back another curse. "Then loan me the coin
until it comes, and pay yourself back from that."

"I think not, my lord."

"Tarron!"

The regent set down the parchment. "Aye, my lord?"

Hart stepped very close to the table. "I can order
you," he said quietly. "I am your liege lord,"

Unexpectedly, Tarron laughed. "No," be said, "you

231

A PRIDE W PKIWES

cannot. Because you are not. My liege lord is Niall of
Homana."

Hart glared at him angrily. "Do you think I have no
resources, regent? Do you think I need your coin? No-
No. I have gold, good Cheysuli gold, and plenty of
gemstones, in wristlets, buckles, rings—countless other bau-
bles. Do you think denying me coin can keep me from the
game?"

Tarron's face was austere, yet oddly compassionate.
"My lord, you are welcome to strip your caskets of every
piece of jewelry you possess; it changes nothing. You may
beggar yourself, my lord, but it will not change my mind.
I have my orders from the Mujhar."

Pushed too far. Hart -bared his teeth at the regent.
"And when I am king in his place?"

The answering tone was very calm. "The day that
happens, my lord, I will excuse myself from your service."

Hart's anger evaporated instantly, replaced with cold
shock. He stared at the man in dawning acknowledg-
ment. "You hate me that much."

"What is there to hate, my lord?" Tarron asked. "No.
I dislike you, aye, because you waste yourself. I know
your father well; I know his good sense, his mettle, his
generosity. I know the Prince of Homana; he is a respon-
sible, mature adult who will do as well as his father when
he assumes the throne. But what do I know of you?" He
spread his hands. "I know you prefer taverns to council
chambers, games to governing, personal gratification to
responsibilities. Certainly there are many men who feel
as you do. But none of them are Prince of Solinde."

Guilty, Hart chafed beneath the gentle reprimand. "Aye,
aye, I know—and one day I will become the man you
think I can be— "

"But not yet?" Tarron did not smile. "If you are not
very careful, you will not live long enough to become
that man."

Hart pressed both hands against the regent's table and
leaned forward. "I can win the ring back, if you let me,"
he promised, working hard to charm the man. "I know I
can. And I will. All I require—"

232 Jennifer Roberson

"No."

"Tarron—"

The regent was not charmed. "No."

"You ku'reshtin—"

But Tarron cut him off. "My lord, if you will forgive
me, there is much I must attend to. Without the Seal,
many things must be handled with delicacy and delibera-
tion." He gestured toward the stacks of parchments.
"Unless you care to aid me—?"

Hart merely laughed at him.

Tarron nodded. "Well enough, I shall deal with it- But
if I may suggest it, my lord, you might wish to consider
what you will wear to the feast."

Hart, heading toward the door, turned to look at him
blankly. "The feast?"

"The feast to celebrate your arrival, my lord. In one
week's time." Tarron waved a negligent hand. "All the
Solindish nobility will be here, as well as all the Homanans
in the city."

All the nobility?"

"Aye." Tarron's face was oddly expressionless. "In-
cluding the Lady lisa, and all the lords who wish to wed
her."

"Ku'reshtin," Hart muttered. "I know what you mean
to do."

"Do you?" Tarron's raised his brows. "I think perhaps
not, my lord. What purpose would your marriage to lisa
serve if you refuse to rule Solinde in the realm's best
interests? What purpose if you died unexpectedly? She
would still be Princess—or even Queen—and it would
make it that much easier for the Solindish to throw us
out of Solinde." He smiled thinly. "Such a wedding
might well prove a disaster."

Hart jerked open the door. "I may be the wastrel
second son, regent, but I am not stupid- And if you think
I am blind to your backward attempt to push me into this
marriage, you are the stupid one."

Tarron merely laughed. Swearing, Hart banged the
door closed behind him.

Five

Hart walked quietly into the Great Hall of Lestra's pal-
ace with Rael perched upon his left forearm and saw the
faces, one by one, turn to stare. Conversations eddied,
trailed off, died out as the gathered Solindish nobility
and the Homanans who governed them recognized the
Cheysuli Prince of Solinde. And then the noiae began
again: whispers, murmurs, comments, in Homanan and
Solindish, until Hart could no longer quite control the
amusement that threatened to overtake his painstakingly
practiced solemnity.

Those who know you, know better. Rael said pointedly.
Aye, but how many here know me? Tarron? No. He
only believes he does. Dar? He knows me only as a mark.
As for the lady . . . inwardly. Hart sighed, by now surely
the lady knows me only as a fool who risks her realm in
silly games.

The chamberlain mounted the white marble dais and
formally announced the Prince of Solinde. Hart, unac-
customed to such pageantry arranged solely for his bene-
fit, winced visibly, then recovered himself almost instantly.
His years in Homana-Mujhar had taught him that kings
conducted themselves with decorum at such formal fes-
tivities even when they did not feel it. He was not a king
yet, but he needed the practice. Besides, the Solindish
would expect it.
Now? Rael asked.

Now, Hart agreed. The better to impress them.
Accordingly, Rael lifted from Hart's arm and circled

233

234 Jennifer Roberson

the huge hall, banking toward the high-backed chair set
upon the dais. Women cried out at his passage and men
set hands to knives; Rael swept relentlessly to the throne
and settled himself upon the carved back. He spread his
wings and shrieked aloud his dominance, then settled,
folding his wings away, and surveyed all down the sharp
hook of his deadly beak.

Hart moved toward the dais, mounting the steps even
as the throng fell back. He was aware of the whispers
and hissed questions, as well as the subtle hostility on the
part of the Solindish. From the Homanans he sensed
only a quiet, abiding pride; if they did not relish the
thought of having Homana held by shapechangers in
place of Homanans, they at least were willing enough to
put the Solindish in their place by using the reputation of
the Cheysuli.

He turned, trying to still the flutter of nervousness in
his belly. Never before had he faced so many people as a
ruler. Even in Homana he was only the second son, the
prince who would-trade his home for foreign lands. He
was not Brennan, whose duties included nearly as many
rituals and formalities as his father, the Mujhar, In
Homana, he was simply Hart; Prince Hart, perhaps, by
dint of his birth, but he had been easily overlooked.
Now, he found he could not be overlooked, even if he
preferred it.

How they stare, all the eyes.

He drew himself up, though his posture did not require
it. And then he smiled. "I am Hart," he said quietly,
pitching his voice low; he had learned from his father the
art of making men listen by underplaying the moment.
"Hart of Homana, second-born son of Niall the Mujhar,
and styled Prince of Solinde." He saw narrowing eyes
and tightening faces among the Solindish; how glibly he
stole their title. "I am sent to leam kingship in the land I
will rule; to learn how to govern a people in vassalage to
Homana." Solindish mouths drew taut and flat, though
some of the faces were conspicuously blank so as not to
give anything away. "It is my wish that Solinde know
peace, not war; that the hostilities of the past be buried

A PRIDE OF PRINCES                235

along with those who have died." He drew in a steadying
breath. "It is my personal desire that the overweening
ambitions of the Ihlini be laid bare for all to see, so that
there need be no discord in a land that deserves far
better."

That, as he expected, sparked shocked murmurs and
curses of disbelief among the Solindish; the Homanans
merely watched him curiously.

"It is known to Cheysuli and Homanan alike that the
Ihlini call Solinde their homeland," Hart continued qu-
ietly. "It is not my intention to banish them from it,
because not all serve Asar-Suti. But it is my intention to
halt the hostility that they foment, and let Solinde remain
Solindish—instead of a servant of the Ihlini."

All the eyes stared back, divulging nothing and every-
thing; Hart realized, somewhat belatedly, that he had
learned more from his father than he had thought.

He smiled, spreading his hands. "Enough of such talk;

I am more in mind of a celebration than a declaration of
war. Let the dancing begin." And abruptly he stepped
down from the dais into the gathered throng.

It did not take long for Tarron to make his way through
the couples who danced, or those who stood in groups
and discussed politics. The regent, clad in habitual black,
stepped to Hart's right side and said, quietly, "My lord,
perhaps it would have been better if you had worn
Solindish garb. Perhaps you should have left your hawk
in your chambers—"

"—and perhaps it would have been better had I not
attended at all." Hart smiled coolly at Tarron. "Would
you say so to the Mujhar, regent? Would you bid him
dress Homanan when he is a Cheysuli warrior?"

The brown eyes reflected shock. "My lord—"

"I am not my jehan^ Hart said quietly. "I do not
mean to be. But I am, first and foremost, Cheysuli. If I
choose to wear leathers instead of velvets, I shall. If I
choose to take Rael even into my bridal chamber, I shall.
I shall, regent, do precisely as I please when it comes to
my personal conduct." He caught up a cup of wine from

236 Jennifer Roberson

a passing servant. "The Solindish will have to accept me
as I am, Tarron, So will you."

"So much gold, my lord." Tarron's distaste was plain.
"They will say you are a barbarian.'*

Hart grinned. "At least a wealthy one." He sipped
wine, watching the regent over the rim of his cup. He
was not surprised Tarron found his garb displeasing, for
he was a man who abhorred ornamentation. The regent's
black clothing, though of good cut and quality, was very
plain. Hart's soft leathers, equally black, were also equally
plain—except he had put on rune-scribed wristlets, torque,
plated belt, sheath and knife, all of heavy gold.

Tarron's mouth was flat. "And how long will you keep
it?" he asked grimly. "You will lose it all in a fortune-
game."

Hart grinned. "Here it is called Bezat."

The regent's jaw bunched as he gritted teeth. "My
lord, if you will excuse me—"

"No." Hart smiled blandly. "It is time you made the
introductions, regent, as you are the one who knows all
the Solindish nobility. May I suggest you begin with
those lords who desire to wed the Lady lisa?"

Tarron stared back. "Now, my lord? All of them?"

"Those who desire to wed the lady," Hart said evenly.
"Those whom you think may well have a chance."

Tarron's expression gave away nothing. "Aye, my lord.
Of course,"

Over the next two hours Hart met more men than he
cared to acknowledge, and yet he had to. In execrable
Homanan they greeted their newly-arrived prince and
bid him courteous, insincere welcome, politely offering
whatever assistance or companionship he might require.
And as he opened his mouth to answer the first of them,
he realized he dared give him only Homanan, or he would
never be understood.

Jehan~and Brennan—always said I should pay more
attention to my language lessons . . . that one day my
ignorance would catch me up. . . .

Hart looked at the gathered Solindish aristocracy. Un-
comfortably, he realized that the vanquished always were

A PRIDE OF PRINCES                237

required to give up more than land or status. They gave
up language and culture as well, replacing both with the
preferences of the victor.

How was it during Shaine's qu'mahlin? he wondered
idly. How was it for the clans that had to flee Homana to
live in foreign lands?

"My lord." Tarron again. "My lord, may I present
Dar of High Crags, born of one of the oldest lines in
Solinde."

Hart came out of his brief reverie to find Dar standing
before him in silence. The Solindishman's smile was blandly
polite, offering nothing more than the courtesy demanded
of his rank, but Hart saw the glint in his brown eyes and
the twitch of amusement at the comer of his mouth.

"Dar of High Crags," Hart repeated. "How old a line
is it?"

"Very old, my lord," Dar answered politely. "At least
as old as the Lady lisa's; my kin has served hers for more
than seven centuries."

"And in all of that time has none of you ever wed into
the royal house?"

The barb went home. Dar's eyelids flickered, but he
managed a benign smile. "History changes from one
night to the next, my lord . . . surely you know that
better than most. Is it not true that the Cheysuli ruled
Homana for a thousand years, then gave it over to the
Homanans?" He paused for the benefit of Homanan
ears. "And now you take it back?"

"In accordance with the wishes of the gods," Hart said
smoothly. "Have you not heard of our prophecy? Surely
you have, Dar . . . surely the Ihlini in service to the
Seker have made certain you know of it, if not the
truth." He sipped wine. "The Wheel of Life is a thing no
man may fully know, except that the gods have a purpose
when they set it into motion."

"TaA/morrfl." Dar nodded. "Aye, I have heard of the
fatalism that rules your race. And I have heard how
blindly you serve it."

Tarron cleared his throat. "My lord of High Crags—my
lord prince—"

238 Jennifer Roberson

"I think you may leave the lord of High Crags with
me," Hart interrupted, without taking his eyes from Dar's.
"Are there not things you must attend to?"

"Aye, my lord." In obvious relief, Tarron bowed
quickly and departed.

"Neatly done." Dar scooped a cup of wine from a
passing servant.

Hart was not ready to change the subject. "There is a
purpose in all things," he said quietly. "All things, Dar
. . . even the handing over of a Solindish throne to a
Cheysuli warrior."

The woman's voice was cool. "And was there a pur-
pose in risking my horse in a game?" she asked. "And
the Third Seal, my lord—what purpose in losing that?"

Hart inclined his head to acknowledge lisa's arrival.
"He was my horse, lady—freely given- As for the Seal,
well—" He shrugged, grinning ruefully '*—had I known
it was the price that bought your willingness to marry,
surely I would never have risked something so valuable."

She gazed at him wide-eyed in unfeigned astonish-
ment. "My willingness to marry?"

Dar interrupted smoothly. "Lady, he seeks only to
turn the subject. That he should be so thoughtless as to
risk your horse on the very day the gift was received, or
to risk him at all—"

Hart looked only at lisa. "You might ask him," he
suggested. "You might ask him how he considers the ring
as a way of securing you for a cheysula^

She frowned. "A what?"

"Wife," he amended, "Do you intend to marry him?"

Dar's hand was on lisa's arm. "That is none of your
concern, shapechanger."

She slipped free easily, obviously well accustomed to
avoiding the possess! veness of men, and turned to face
Dar squarely. "But it is my concern." Delicate color
deepened in her face to compete with the frost in her
eyes. "Is it true, Dar? Do you think I will wed you
because you hold the Seal, when it should be mine
regardless?"

Brown eyes narrowed minutely, weighing the need for

A PRIDE w PVNCES              239

frankness against the requirements of diplomacy; Dar
discarded his elegant courtier's manner instantly. "I think
you will wed the man best able to help Solinde," he said
flatly. "You must wed such a man—a strong, loyal,
dedicated Solindishman, who wants only the best for his
land ... a man who can forge the warring factions into
one united front—"

"And take Solinde back from Homana?" Hart inter-
posed. As they stared, he shook his head. "You reckon
without the Cheysuli, who require this land—or at least
the bloodlines from it."

"And do you require me?" lisa demanded icily. "The
last of Bellam's line, bom of the oldest House of Solinde
. . . how could you overtook me?"

"How could I?" Hart grinned. "Not easBy, Lady Dsa—no
more easily than Dar."

She looked from him, to Dar, back again. And then
she laughed, surprising both of them. "And do you think
I would wed either of you?"

"Dsa—" Dar began.

Still she smiled, though her eyes remained cool. "No,"
she said, "I would not. I want no man who values games
over the welfare of Solinde.'*

"Then I will stop," Dar said flatly. "I witt stop al-
together, here and now, no more to waste my time and
wealth in foolish games of chance."

lisa turned to Hart. "What of you?" she asked. "Will
you make me the same promise?"

Without hesitating. Hart shook his head. "No, lady, I
will not."

Her mouth twisted, briefly ironic. "Honesty from you,
at least, displeasing though it may be." She looked at
Dar. "You are all you have described—strong, loyal.
dedicated, and capable of uniting Solinde. I will indeed
require a man with the same abilities, but I will choose
him myself." Coolly, she smiled. "I find it shameful that
Solinde demands a man to rule when a woman could do
as well—and I am deserving of it." She put out a slender
hand. "Give me the ring, Dar. You know it is rightfully
mine."

246 Jennifer RobersoH

He spread eloquent, empty hands. "Alas, I have left it
home."

Her tone was very grim. "Dar—"

"lisa." He cut her off, "We are old, old friends, and
older adversaries in this game of men and women. You
ask for honesty? I give you honesty . . . I give you a truth
you may not like." He glanced at Hart as if regretting
his presence, but continued regardless of it. "The Third
Seal is mine, won fairly from a man who did not know
what he risked. He lost. He lost it all, including his only
chance to marry the woman he needs to marry, in order
to hold this realm. But I won. / won. And I keep what I
win, regardless of who else might want it... unless they
are willing to pay the price."

She was awash in candleglow. In crimson and gold she
set the hall ablaze; rubies glittered in braided hair. But
they could not compete with the determination in her
eyes, or her pride. That and her dignity were palpable.
"I am lisa of Solinde," she said evenly. "I can rule
without the ring.'7

"But not without a Consort." Dar sipped wine; his
eyes were alight with inner amusement. "The lords of
Solinde will require a male heir as soon as is humanly
possible, lady, to insure the succession. It seems to me
you have need of me as much as I of you."

"But I can take another man," she reminded him
gently, patently unaffected by his challenge. "Where will
that leave you?"

"Without," Hart said succinctly.

Dar shook his head. "She will do what is required. lisa
has pride, integrity, honor . . . and an incredible sense of
duty." He bowed his head in a courteous salute. "In the
end, rather than leaving it to others, she will make the
decision herself."

"Then leave me to it!" lisa said sharply. "Leave me
altogether!"

Dar bowed. "Aye, my lady. At once."

As the Solindishman left. Hart looked at lisa in mild
surprise. "A sharp tongue, lady."

"With him, I need one." lisa took the cup of wine out

A PRSDK wPsmcES              241

of Hart's hand and drank down what remained, eyes
aglitter over the rim. Abruptly she pressed the cup back
into his hands. "Dar always makes me angry, which
makes me all the angrier."

Hart skillfully eased her through the throng, guiding
her slowly toward a quiet comer. "Are you enemies, or
bedmates?"

lisa looked at him sharply. "Not bedmates," she said
dryly. "Nor enemies, to tell the truth." She sighed and
sat down on the padded bench against the wall, deftly
spreading crimson skirts to decorously cover gem-crusted
leather slippers. "Since we were young, there was talk of
uniting our houses. It was believed that Dar could pro-
vide Solinde with the strong leadership she requires."
She slanted him a glance from eloquent eyes. "You know,
of course, that we prefer self-rule. We want no foreign
overlord."

"I know. And were there no prophecy, I might be
disposed to grant it, once in the position to do so." Hart
shrugged as he sat down beside her. "But I am not, and I
am a dutiful Cheysuli. I serve the prophecy."

"Why?" she asked bluntly. "If it does not please you,
turn your back on it."

"Because I aspire to the afterworld." Hart grinned and
leaned back against the wall, stretching out long legs.
"Out of character, she is thinking. A man who wagers
the Third Seal of Solinde could not possibly concern
himself with what happens after death." Then, more
solemnly, "But I do. Every Cheysuli does. The gods
have given us a place here in the world, and promise a
better one when we are dead." He smiled wryly. "We
need only be faithful children."

"Faithful to a daydream dreamed too many years ago."
But lisa's smile removed the sting of the words. "So, you
serve your prophecy in hopes of reward after death. It
seems such a futile thing . . . and perhaps a little childish."

"I am not a child."

lisa looked at him a long moment. "No. I think you
are not."

He gazed out at the people: at those who danced; who

242 Jennifer Robersm

clustered to mutter of politics; who advocated rebellion
and the taking of his life. "We are an old race," he said
finally- "Thousands and thousands of years. We are chil-
dren of the gods: it is what Cheysuli means." Still he
stared, though his vision blurred and he saw only colors
and candlelight. "The Homanans tried to slay us all, to
annihilate us entirely, in a purge that lasted decades . . .
the Ihlini have done it again and again, through sorcery,
plague, intrigue. So many centuries of hatred, prejudice,
fear ... so many years of being the hunted, not knowing
if we would survive." He blinked and turned his head to
look at lisa. "We survived because of the gods. Because
of the aftenvorld. Because of the prophecy." Silently he
turned a spread-fingered hand palm-up. "All of it shapes
our lives. Without it, we would perish."

She said nothing for a long moment, seemingly unable,
And then she shook her head. Rubies glistened in her
hair. "How is it a man—a Cheysuli—who is so dedicated
to this prophecy can risk himself in a game?"

Hart laughed; it was a single burst of sound. "Because
I cannot help it."

lisa frowned. "Cannot?" She shrugged. "I say, simply
stop."

" 'Simply stop,' " he echoed, and grinned to himself.

"If you pride yourself on the discipline of the Chey-
suli—"

"I pride myself on nothing." Abruptly he rose to tower
over her. "Lady, we speak of private things. Let us
dance instead."

lisa rose also, but disdained to take his outstretched
hand. "No," she said coolly- "I think I would rather
not." She turned to go, took four steps, turned back so
abruptly rich skirts swung against the floor. Golden gir-
dle chimed. "Dar has the right of it," she warned with
infinite distinctness- "In the end, regardless of how I
feel, I will do what is best for the realm,"

Hart-watched her rigid back as she slipped into the
crowd and was lost. He was more than a little stunned by
her sudden retreat—no, it was not a retreat. She had

243

A PttlDE OF PlW/CES

simply left him; he was not a man much accustomed to
women leaving him.

Not accustomed to it at all. Morosely, he searched for
her in the throng. Had she gone to Dar? Possibly. He
thought it entirely possible—until Dar himself approached.

He carried two silver cups in his hands and offered one
to Hart. "I swear, there is no poison. It would cheat me
of my wager."

Hart, still stinging from lisa's rebuke, slanted her fore-
most suitor a black scowl. "No doubt the bet is against
me."

Dar grinned. "Not entirely, though it does involve
you." He tipped his head in the direction of the departed
lisa. "Shall we drink to- the lady, my lord, and to her
unerring tongue?"

Reluctantly, Hart smiled. And then he laughed rue-
fully. "Aye, she has that. And uses it on us both."

They clanged cups and drank; the wine was dry, hearty,
powerful. Hart liked it very much.

"The lady has used it on me for many years," Dar
remarked. "It is time she had a new target, though not a
permanent one." His smile offered a challenge. "Are
you interested in my wager?"

"And if I said I was not?"

"You would be a liar, and I think you are not that."
Dar smoothed a lock of sandy hair away from his eyes.
"For all we are Cheysuli and Solindish—and rivals to one
another—I think we are much alike," he said lightly.
"Once, had a man suggested that, I would have slain him
outright; Cheysuli and Solindish? But I am a man for
realities if nothing else; you are here, you intend to stay
here, and—short of having you slain—there is little to do
about it."

Hart grunted. "You might still try."

"To slay you?" Dar shook his head. "I think not- I
think it would result in too much trouble, for me and for
Solinde. No. No killing. Perhaps a wager will do as
well."

Hart sighed. "What wager?"

"One worth our time, my lord. One worthy of both of

244 Jennifer Roberwn

us." Dar paused. "I propose we place a wager on the
lady . . . and on ourselves."

"Dar—"

The Solindishman gestured expansively. "Deny it all
you wish, but I have seen that expression before when a
man looks at lisa. It has been on my own face often
enough." He shrugged and smiled ruefully. "You want
her, / want her, every man in Solinde wants her. But
only half a dozen stand a chance, and only one will get
her.'*

"You," Hart said dryly.

Dar grinned. "I am willing to wager on that."

Hart smothered a laugh as he lifted the cup to his
mouth. He drank, thinking it over, and watched the
anticipation light Dar's eyes. He is as bad as 1. . . . After
a moment, he sighed. "What is the wager, then?"

Dar's face was very intent. "For all she says she will
marry who and when she pleases, lisa knows full well it
cannot wait much longer. Perhaps a month at the most;

the lords already request a decision from her." His eyes
shrewdly assessed Hart's carefully arranged noncommittal
expression. "She need only wed a Solindishman—myself,
or another of equal wealth and station—in order to unite
the warring factions of this realm. We cannot hope to win
Solinde from Homana until we are as one, and there is
only one way of uniting us: under a single man."

"You," Hart said, tasting ashes in his mouth.

"Or my son." Dar's tone was steady. "Under our laws,
the man who weds lisa does not become King of Solinde,
he becomes lisa's Consort—a position lacking the magnif-
icence of a proper royal title, perhaps, but none of the
power accorded his place beside lisa. Nor will she be
Queen; Solindish law requires a male sovereign. But a son
born of the lady and her Consort does become king upon
his majority." He smiled. "Until he reaches that major-
ity, his father acts as regent."

"And if she weds me?"

To his credit, Dar's expression did not alter. "If lisa
weds you, it would alter the traditional lines of succes-
sion. No doubt you would claim yourself King . . . since

A PRSDE OFPftSWES                 245

Solinde is a vassal to Homana, it seems likely that title
would not be contested." He shrugged. "We have been
soundly beaten repeatedly by your ancestors. I doubt
there would be any rebellion."

Hart shook his head. "There is no wager, Dar. lisa
would never allow Solinde to be ruled by a Homanan."

"Would she not?" Dar stared grimly into his wine.
"Do not discount yourself, shapechanger. There are those
in Solinde who do not want another war, preferring
peace even to self-rule. They are very persuasive. And
lisa—" He broke off, scowling blackly, then continued.
"lisa is guarded by those who desire peace."

Hart recalled the man. who had accompanied her the
day they had met. A Solindishman whose task it was to
guard her, and who allowed her so little freedom in order
to protect her welfare.

He looked hard at Dar, assessing the man's intentions.
He knew Dar wanted lisa, wanted Solinde, wanted self-
rule. He knew also that Dar enjoyed the challenge of a
wager as much as he did, which was substantially indeed;

he could not live without it. But he did not know how far
Dar was prepared to go.

Idly, Hart drank wine. "What are the stakes?" he
asked.

"The highest," Dar answered. "I wager with my life."

Hart looked at him sharply. "Your life," he echoed,
disbelieving the man.

"Aye," Dar agreed curtly. "Let it stand so: if lisa
chooses you, I will give up my life and give back the
Third Seal of Solinde."

"I do not want your life."

Dar's eyes did not waver. "If you do not take it, my
lord, be assured I will do what I can to throw you down
from the throne of Solinde."

Hart knew the Solindishman meant it. "I do not want
you for an enemy."

"If you win, you will have one."

Hart sighed. "Aye, aye, well enough—if I win the
lady, you forfeit the Seal and your life. But what of me?
What if you win the wager?"

246 Jennifer Roberson

Dar smiled. "You go home to Homana.''

Hart stared. "Go home—"

"Alive. Unharmed. Quite well . . . very much as you
came." Dar, still smiling, shrugged. "But you will forfeit
your claim on Solinde."

"And if she chooses neither?"

"Then we will find another game."

Hart chewed at his bottom lip, hearing the siren song
of the challenge. /// lose Solinde, my jehan will forfeit
me—

But he found himself clasping Dar's forearm; the wa-
ger was made and accepted.

Six

Hart awoke with the haunted feeling of something gone
wrong. He snapped out of sleep and into daylight so
abruptly it left him disoriented, and then he realized the
disorientation had less to do with the sudden awakening
than from late hours and excess drink; he and Dar and
three other Solindish lordlings had wasted most of the
night closeted in a private chamber, gambling and drink-
ing, while the rest of the guests disported themselves in
the Great Hall.

A pang of guilt pinched his belly; such behavior in
Homana-Mujhar would be considered unconscionably rude,
particularly as the celebration had been in his honor, and
he sincerely doubted he would have been allowed to slip
away. But here no one dared attempt to dissuade him or
otherwise remark on his behavior.

Hart sighed grimly. Save for Tarron.

But Tarron had said nothing, because Hart had taken
care to slip away unnoticed, too hungry for a game to
consider the consequences.

Consequences. The haunted feeling came back. Hart,
tangled in tumbled bedclothes, frowned up at the draperied
canopy of the tester bed and tried to name what caused
his discontent.

Abruptly, he remembered.

His eyes popped open. The wager . . . the wager with
Dar, on lisa. Swearing, he rolled over onto his belly and
buried his face in feather-stuffed bolsters, half hoping he
could smother himself and forget all about Dar and his

247

24S Jennifer Roherson

infamous wager. Oh, gods, lir . . . I have wagered away
my freedom'

Rael stirred on his perch. Have you?

Hart groaned aloud and clenched ringers in the silk of
his bedclothes. The wager with Dar, on lisa—on who will
win her hand— He groaned again, feelingly. How could I
have been so foolish?

The last is easy to answer. Rael's tone lacked sympa-
thy. When the craving is on you, you are no man, no
warrior, no prince—you are nothing more than a hound
smelling a bitch in season . . . save the bitch is no dog at
all, but the wager itself.

After a moment Hart lifted his face out of the bolsters
and turned his head to stare at the hawk through the
gauzy draperies. "How eloquent," he said grimly; there
was no humor in his tone.

How do you know you have lost your freedom? Rael
asked. In order to lose it you must win the woman, and
there is nothing that leads me to believe you will.

Unexpectedly, the dry summation hurt. Hart frowned.
"Nothing?"

Nothing. Rael's pattern within the /w-link was infi-
nitely assured; for once he did not offer the crutch of
meaningless reassurance to his irresponsible lir, though
the habit was hard to break.

Hart sat up and tried to drag the hangings aside, swear-
ing as fabric tangled and obscured his vision of Raet
entirely. Finally he ripped them apart and climbed out of
the huge bed, naked save for Ar-gold.

"Nothing?" he repeated, elaborately distinct.

Rael heard the subtle challenge in Hart's tone. He
stirred on his perch and fixed his lir with a bright eye.
Tell me what you offer the woman, then.

"A title. Improved status. Greater respect in the realm."
Hart shrugged, spreading his hands. "Power as well,
though not as much as I hold."

What power do you hold?

He smiled, victorious. "I am the Prince of Solinde."

Who spends his time wagering on improbable outcomes
such as who the last of Bellam's line will wed. Rael

249

A PttSDE OF PRINCES

couched his words in brutal candor. Say again what you
offer the woman, lir—and then realize that she can have
precisely the same if you are sent home to Homana ... or
if you are dead.

It banished the smile entirely. Hart felt as if one of
Brennan's horses had kicked him in the belly—no, not a
horse, and not the belly. It was one of Rael's talons, and
he stabbed lower than the belly, aiming for something
very different, something personal, something eminently
more vital.

"Rael—"

Think, lir. For once. See yourself as others see you.
Rael paused. No. See yourself as the lady herself must.
And tell me again you have wagered away your freedom.

It curdled the wine in his belly. Hart turned from the
hawk and went back to the bed, clutching one of the
testers for support. It was never pleasant listening to
others decry his habits, but he had always had the envi-
able capacity to cheerfully dismiss the comments, the
fraternal and paternal lectures, knowing no one stayed
angry at him for very long. He was not a man for moods
and high temper, as Corin was; neither was he willing to
shoulder all the burdens of his rank and future, as Bren-
nan had always been. What he offered was friendly ca-
maraderie, cheerful companionship, generosity of spirit.
He was not a bad man. He was not a bad brother, bad
son, bad friend, or bad warrior.

"But I am a bad prince."

Rael did not answer. Hart shut his eyes and set his
forehead against the wooden tester, regretting the wine
he had drunk. More than that, he regretted his willing-
ness to overlook so many things in pursuit of personal
pleasure.

After a retrospective moment Hart turned back to the
hawk. "She will not have me."

No.

"And if she takes Dar in my stead, as is likely, the
wager is lost . . , and I will be sent out of Solinde in
disgrace."

Much as you were sent out of Homana.

259 Jennifer Robersw

Again the talons stabbed into him.

"If I go home, having lost Solinde—" Abruptly Hart
sat down on the bed, realizing the enormity of his situa-
tion. "Gods, Rael, if I lose Solinde because of something
so infinitely trivial as a wager—'

If you lose Solinde for any reason, Ur, you alter the
prophecy.

It snapped Hart's head up- "No," he said firmly. 'Wo.
I will not allow you to give that guilt to me."

And if it is the truth?

"How?" Hart challenged. "I am a second son, the
middle son, obligated to no betrothal- It does not matter
who I wed, how many children I sire—or who they wed.
Let Brennan know that burden, lir ... I need not."

The wine has replaced your wits. RaeFs tone lacked the
bite of earlier comments, sliding instead toward custom-
ary patience and wry acknowledgment of Hart's short-
comings- But it did not make his words less telling.
Whether you wed a Solindish woman does not matter—it
does not matter if you wed at all—but it does matter if you
hold Solinde. The prophecy involves four realms, not
three. If you lose Solinde now, it will be lost forever . . .
and the Ihlini victorious.

Hart swore feelingly, knowing guilt as well as conster-
nation. "If only there were no wager . . . then there
would be no risk."

Is that not the point of the wager?

He raked tousled hair with rigid fingers, trying to
make sense of the circumstances; knowing it unlikely.
"Aye, aye, always before it was the risk, the chance I
might lose, and the pleasure in knowing I had won—or
would win, next time. But now—" Hart shook his head.
"This is different. The game is different. The stakes are
too high—" Trapped, desperate, despairing, he swore
again. "Gods, Rael, it is the ultimate wager . . . and now I
cannot enjoy it."

Which do you mourn? Rael asked gently. The loss of
that enjoyment, the loss of your freedom. . . or the loss of
a realm?

Hart did not answer at once. He stared blankly into

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

252

the room, lost inside his head, knowing only that his
need of the game had accounted for more than his cur-
rent predicament. For the first time he fully acknowl-
edged that he alone was responsible for the fire, for the
loss of life in the Midden. Regardless of the kind of
people they were, they had not deserved to die because
of his selfish irresponsibility.

"Thirty-two people," he said hollowly, and his mind
fashioned a vision: Brennan, standing before the stained-
glass casements in the Great Hall of Homana-Mujhar,
visibly stunned by the loss of life; Brennan, shouting at
Corin that it did not matter if he felt inconvenienced
about having to go to Atvia when people were dead; Bren-
nan, feeling more keenly the deaths of the people in the
Midden because he was a responsible man.
Oh, rujho, I wish you were here to tell me what to do.
But Brennan was not. And so Hart did his own
responsible decision-making for the first time in his life.
He put on his clothing and went to see the subject of the
wager.

Hart was admitted at once into the city home in which
lisa dwelled and was shown to a small walled garden. At
first he did not see her, wondering if he was meant to
wait for hours while his impatience grew; then he did see
her, and his fine intentions went out of his head. He
could think of no way to speak plainly with her, to tell
her of the wager that reduced her to chattel instead of
independent woman, knowing how she would feel. And
knowing what she would say.

And so, lamely, he smiled, and drew for strength upon
the abundant charm he had used unthinkingly so often in
the past.

Only the night before he had seen her clad in brilliant
crimson, ablaze with gold and rubies. She had been ele-
gant, incandescent, incredibly beautiful. He found her no
less so now, though the fine gown, gold and gems were
gone, replaced by nubby wool skirts of a cream and
russet weave and an amber-colored tunic belted with
supple leather- She wore scuffed boots in place of soft

252 Jennifer Roberson

slippers, mid there was mud on one cheek. The glorious
white-blond hair was bound back in a single tight-plaited
braid, tied off with brown leather. Around her face the
shorter hairs came loose, straggling, curling, tangling,
serving only to make him want to smooth them back.

Looped over one arm was a basket full of flowers. A
profusion of delicate, black-eyed moss roses, ruffled like
crumpled parchment, all of bright golds, rich yellows,
pastel apricots. In her right hand she carried small silver
scissors connected to her belt by a fine-linked silver chain.
She rose, intently tucking flowers into the basket, and
then turned toward him only to stop short.

"Come out with me," he said. "Come ride with me,
lisa."

Winged brows rose. "Ride with you? On what, my
lord? You wagered your horse away."

He crossed the garden walk and put out his hand to
take the basket from her, bending to set it down beside
the path. Her wrist was slender in his larger band, almost
to the point of fragility. She seemed delicate as a lily, and
yet her spirit and pride burned brightly as his own.

"Aye," he agreed, "I did. Foolishly, selfishly, I sought
to goad Dar into a wager that would win back the Third
Seal, knowing he could not turn his back on the knowl-
edge you had given the horse to me. And the gambit was
successful."

"Except you lost the horse."

"Losing is always a risk, lisa. Even now." He did not
release her wrist. "The palace is rich in horses, though
none so fine as the one you gifted me. I have another."
He smiled. "Come with me, lady. Come out of the city
and know a little freedom once again."

"We have nothing to say to one another."

"Oh, lady, we do." His thumb rubbed the top of her
forearm, glorying in the delicate texture of her skin.
"Come with me, lisa. Please."

Coolly she pulled free of his hand and its intimacy,
bending to scoop up the basket. She hooked both arms
through calmly, as if to put up a barrier between them.

A PitSDE OF PitMCES

253

"I will order a horse saddled for me. You may wait, my
lord."

And he did, somewhat impatiently, wondering why
women took so long to ready themselves for a ride when
the wind would only muss them almost instantly. But lisa
did not, and when she appeared he discovered she had
not changed at all, save to clean the mud from her face
and to put on a fitted leather doublet with silver-rimmed
horn buttons. Engaged in working hands into snug gloves,
she hardly looked at him as she walked past him toward
the front entrance.

Hart exited with her. "You need take no guard. My lir
and I are enough, I think, to ward you against most
dangers."

She slanted him a cool glance over one shoulder as she
turned toward the white mare she had ridden at their
first meeting. "Are you? I think a man need only offer
you a wager, and you would name me as the stakes."

He stopped short, staring at her in shock. She knows
. . . oh, gods, she already knows, and this is nothing more
than a travesty.

But lisa gave no sign, no hint she knew anything of the
wager between Hart and Dar. She merely waited for him
to hand her up into the saddle, and when he did not
move to do it at once she led the mare to a mounting
block and did it on her own. Belatedly, Hart hastened to
lend her a hand, though now she did not require it.

The white mare nosed him, pressing muzzle against
neck and blowing even as he tried to turn her head away.
He looked up at lisa, backlighted by the sun, and opened
his mouth to speak. Then abruptly turned away.

Hart swung up into his saddle and waited for lisa to
fall in beside him. It was midmoming and cool; the air
chilled his bare arms and lent an icy sheen to his fir-
bands. He had brought nothing out of Homana save
Cheysuli leathers. Solindish clothing would be warmer,
but he preferred familiar garb.

How can I tell her? How can I explain?

Rael offered no answer. In silence. Hart escorted lisa
out of Lestra and into the countryside beyond.

254 Jennifer Robeiwn

He found it no easier when they were free of the city.
He did find it easier to forget about the wager altogether,
losing himself in the pleasure of the moment. And so he
did.

lisa was an accomplished rider, as her flight through
the wood had proved. He did not hold back now; to-
gether they galloped across the turf and lost themselves,
for the moment, in the sheer joy of good horseflesh-
Running on, running on, he could forget all about wagers
and risks and titles, thinking only of how the stallion
should move beneath him; how fast, how smooth, how
willing. For an unblessed human, it was the closest thing
to fir-shape.

The moment was spent too quickly. Hart eased his
mount from a gallop to a canter, then to a walk, even as
lisa did. In companionable silence they listened to the
horses blow, jangling bits and shanks and ornamentation.
He could smell the acrid tang of his stallion's sweat, the
scent of flowers in the turf, the promise of summer
coming. It was a good time to be alive. Better yet, it was
a good time to share it with a woman.

"Is that your hawk?" she asked, pointing.

He glanced up and saw the shape against the sky; the
outspread wings and lazy spiral. "Aye. Rael. He keeps
his distance today, knowing this is a thing between man
and woman, requiring no fir.*'

She looked at him sharply- "He knows such things?"

Hart laughed. "Did you think him mute? A pet, or a
tame bird like those kept mewed up at the palace?"
Grinning, he shook his head. "No, lady. A lir is far more
than anything you might imagine. Rael is an extension of
myself, though his conscience is his own. We are bonded.
He speaks to me, I to him, though it is all done silently."

"And does he value games as much as you?"

He heard the dry tone in her voice. So close to the
edge of contempt; it hurt. "No," Hart said quietly. "Rael
does not. Rael does, however, suggest I turn to things
more important, such as learning how to rule."

"Then indeed, he is wiser than you."

A PUDB wPitwass             2SS

"The Ur always are." He felt safer discussing Rael than
his irresponsibility. "Do you know nothing of them?"

She shrugged. "I know only the things I have heard:

that they are magical animals with awesome arts, allow-
ing the Cheysuli to assume shapes other than their own."
Her glance betrayed no distaste, but quiet curiosity. "You
can really become a hawk? With wings and feathers and
talons?"

The laughter was gone. "Aye."

"Does it hurt?"

Hart frowned. It had been so long since he had thought
of far-shape in terms other than an automatic exchange of
human form for raptor that the words were harder to
find than ever. In Homa-na, the Cheysuli were no longer
the enemy, but part and parcel of the present. No one
required explanations.

"There is no pain," he said thoughtfully. "Not as you
know pain. But there is an oddness, an alienness, when I
put off my human shape for another." He shrugged a
little. "Knowing what I will become, it does not frighten
me. I will come through it; I always do, and back again.
But the first time, not knowing, is frightening and exhila-
rating all at once." He looked at-her intent face, wishing
he could share far-shape so he need not struggle for
words that were inadequate no matter how glib his expla-
nation. "From birth we are told that to be whole we
require a lir. And although we have no reason to antici-
pate being left without one, the hidden fear is always
there ... the fear that somehow the gods have forgotten
to prepare the animal that is to become your Ur." He
shrugged. "The first time you assume fir-shape, you are
so eager the fear recedes and you think only of the need,
not the fear of what you do."

lisa looked into the sky to watch Rael's soaring flight.
"And when you are a hawk, what do you feel then?"

The answer was instant. "Freedom." As she looked at
him, he smiled. "Freedom. No more am I earthbound;

no more do I require legs, feet, horse, or other means of
transportation. I have only myself, requiring only myself
. . . and I become the freest thing alive."

256 Jennifer Koberson

"But you are still a man."

"Mostly. I keep my human thoughts and feelings, al-
though I experience things as a hawk. Human instincts
are augmented, not overcome. I know I am a man in the
form of a hawk. I am still Hart."

She turned from Rael to him. "Is there danger in it?"

He shrugged. "There is a question of balance. A
Cheysuli in /ir-shape is both and neither; it is possible for
him to lose himself to the animal form, but it only rarely
happens. It is something we are carefully taught, this
balance," He saw the comprehension in her eyes, and
the realization of the dangers. "I will not he to you, lisa.
If a warrior in fir-shape should grow too angry, relying
too much on animal instinct instead of both, he can tip
over the edge and lose humanness altogether,"

"And remain an animal."

"Or something made of both." He plaited the mane of
his bay stallion, thinking through the best way to explain
to her what he had learned quite young. "It is one reason
the shapechange is more difficult in extremity. In pain, a
man might lose himself. In anger also, and sheer exhila-
ration- The shapechange requires concentration, and re-
sponsibility. There is always the risk that a warrior in
fir-shape may become something other than himself."

"And risk is something you understand very well." lisa
smoothed hair back. "I have known Dar nearly since
birth; his family has served mine for centuries. I have
seen how it is with him, this need to risk his wealth in
wagers. The coin means little to him, other than repre-
senting victory over the odds." Briefly, her mouth twisted
ironically. "I see much the same in you, although you are
worse. Dar enjoys a good wager, but I think you need
it."

"For as long as I can remember." He did not smile,
not try to avoid the topic. "I do not lose myself in
fly-shape, perhaps, understanding the need for self-control
. . . but a wager is different. I do lose myself."

"And so the balance is broken, and you tip over the
edge." lisa looked at him squarely. "Last night you told
me you take pride in nothing- I think you lied, albeit

A PRIDE OFPRWCES                257

unknowing. If nothing else, you take pride in being
Cheysuli; in the ability to become a hawk and know the
freedom of the skies."

He did not look away. "Aye."

"Then I offer you a challenge, my lord. I offer you
risk." lisa smiled a little. "Put it aside, Hart. Set aside
this need of the game, and look instead to becoming a
prince in fact. Solinde is in the palm of your hand. Grasp
it, my lord, or surely you will lose it."

"It is out of my hand," he said. "Blame me, blame
Dar, blame us both, but we have undertaken a wager
that will end this controversy over Sotinde. One of us will
be the victor, the other the vanquished . . . with you and
Solinde in the middle."

lisa went rigid in her saddle. "What have you done?"
Her face was taut and pale. "What have you done?"

Hart drew in a deep breath. "I came to see you intend-
ing to tell you the truth at once. I delayed it because it was
easier, as always, to avoid speaking of it at ail, and
because I wanted to spend time with you. And so now the
time for truth is on me once again, I find I have no more
desire to spoil what is between us. than I did before."

"Hart—"

"You must wed," he said clearly, overriding the begin-
nings of her protest. "And wed soon, for the sake of
Solinde. For all I avoid responsibility whenever possible, I
am no stranger to political intrigues and marriages. Three
choices face you, lisa: wed me, wed Dar, or wed another
powerful Solindishman with the ability to help you hold
Solinde."

She said nothing.

Hart did not look away. "If you delay, my own hold on
Solinde increases; are they not advocating you wed within
a month?" Grimly he nodded, though she remained locked
in rigid silence. "If you wed Dar, Solinde will one day
revolt; he has as much as promised it. If you wed another
Solindishman, there will always be those who advocate
rebellion. If you wed me—'

lisa cut him off. "Why?" she asked flatly. "Why would
I wed you? You offer me nothing, my lord wagerer . . .

25S Jennifer Roberson

you offer nothing to Sotinde save irreverence and irrespon-
sibility."

"The wager is this," he said quietly. "If you wed me,
Dar gives over the Third Seal—and his life. If you wed
Dar, I am sent home to Homana . . . and Solinde re-
mains Solindish."

"Under a Homanan regent!" Color spilled into her
face, then out again. "Dar put up his life?"

"Aye, lady—at his own behest. I do not want it."

"But you accepted the wager!"

"I am on the edge of the blade," he said clearly. "If I
go home to my jehan, having lost Solinde, I will have lost
him as well. Worse, I wilt have destroyed the prophecy."
Hart nodded slowly. "Aye, lisa, I accepted the wager.
Dar gave me no other choice."

"What choice did you give him?'1'1 He saw tears in her
eyes. "If he loses this wager, he loses his life! I think that
is more important than a Cheysuli prophecy—"

"One life is little when balanced against a race," Hart
told her quietly. "Hear me, lisa, when I tell you that
above all, I serve the prophecy. Wastrel that I have
been, I am fully committed to this. Aye, you spoke of
pride—and I do take pride in something. I take pride in
the prophecy."

"So you leave the choice to me," she said bitterly.
"Yet again you turn your back on responsibility and
reduce the future of Sotinde to a wager and a woman's
choice of husband." She said something more, equally
bitterly, but the words were Solindish, and he did not
know them. He knew only that he had angered her far
more than even he had anticipated.

"lisa—"

"Did Dar put you up to this?" she asked abruptly.

He considered lying, knowing the truth made him ap-
pear vindictive. But he nodded. "It was his suggestion."

lisa shook her head, pushing hair out of her face in
irritation. "You are a fool, my lord prince of wagerers.
Dar knows me too well, and he has learned you also. As
he expected, all my pride screams at me to wed Dar if for
no other reason than to force your loss, and your subse-


259

A PRIDE OF PitWCES

quent loss of Solinde. And I would ... if my better
judgment would allow it." She looked at him squarely,
"If only to pay him back, I should refuse him. But it
would cost him his life, and that I cannot bear."

"There is an alternative," Hart said quietly. "Wed
another man entirely."

"What other man?" lisa asked bitterly. "There is no
other man in Solinde who can do what Dar can to rally
the Solindish to war again. We are too weary of such
things. Niall and those before him have defeated us soundly
too many times. Without the right leader, what good
would it do us now?" She shrugged. "But Dar could do
what is necessary, and .would. If I wanted this war, I
would be a fool to wed a Solindishman other than Dar."
He saw the turmoil reflected in her eyes, in her features.
"But if I wed you to save my land from war, it costs me
Dar. And that price I will not pay."

"Then wed no one."

lisa's sharp laugh was little more than a sound of
despair. "If I do not choose someone, I will be forced to
it. The situation warrants it; they have not done it only
because they respect me personally, and my heritage.
But for Solinde, to thwart Homana, they will. They will
have no other choice."

"lisa—"

She gathered her reins and turned the mare toward
Lestra. "Forgive me, my lord, but I desire solitude. I
have no taste for your company."

He knew better than to allow her to depart under such
circumstances. But he knew also that to stop her was to
destroy all hope of winning her. And so he let her go.

Seven

Tarron's move to assemble more parchments was ar-
rested in mid-motion. "I must have misheard you. You
want what, my lord?"

Helpfully, Hart gathered the parchments from the ta-
ble and placed them on the stack in Tarron's arms. "I
want you to teach me how to rule. It is what I came for,"

"No," Tan-on said plainly, "you came because you
were sent."

Hart scowled at him. "Aye, aye, all right—I came
because I was sent. But I am done with shirking my
responsibilities. Teach me how to rule."

"Have you seen the Mujhar do none of it?"

Oh, aye, he had, in bits and pieces. But he had stead-
fastly refused to attend council sessions, petition hearings
and other assorted requirements of kingship, perfectly
willing to let Brennan do it all instead. He had a rudi-
mentary knowledge of what constituted governing—the
ruler had to sit in judgment on citizens who had disputes,
settle treaties between other realms, levy taxes, tribute,
and so on, plus innumerable other duties— but when it
came down to it, he had not the faintest idea what was
expected of him. Particularly in a foreign realm.

"Teach me,*' he said only, hoping it was enough.

Apparently it was, although Tarron eyed him doubt-
fully. "Well enough, my lord; follow me. I am bound for
a hearing regarding a petty dispute between two northern
Solindish lordlings. They are feuding over a boundary

269

A PlUDE OF PRINCES

261

formed by a river; the river has changed its course, and
now they dispute ownership of the land it has laid bare."

Dutifully Hart followed Tarron out of the chamber
into a corridor, though his heart was not in it. He opened
his mouth to beg off, then shut it sharply. It was time he
learned to accept tedium as gracefully as his father and
brother.

"Without the Third Seal, what can you do?" he asked.

Parchment crackled. "Delay," the regent said succinctly.
"No real business can be conducted without it, but until I
hear from the Mujhar I cannot let slip the news the Seal
is lost. We must hope the Solindish do not grow restless
over countless delays and obfuscation ... I think they
will not understand why it is you lost it in a game."

Hart ignored the latter. "And if Dar has already let it
be known?"

"It would certainly serve his own interests." Tarron
nodded as guardsmen in Homanan livery swung open the
heavy wooden doors of the audience chamber. "But per-
haps this will serve yours, my lord; if you are the one to
make the decision, it will let the Solindish know you are
indeed planning to rule." He nodded greetings toward
the men waiting in the chamber'and made his way to a
table on a dais.

"Me?" Following, Hart kept his voice low. "I have no
experience in such things."

"I suggest you get it, my lord, as any man does: by
listening, and by determining which party deserves the
judgment rendered in his favor." Tarron put the stack of
parchments on the table and stepped away, motioning
Hart to accept the only chair. "And now, my lord, I
leave you to it."

Astonished, Hart watched the regent turn and walk
away. He wanted to shout after him, to order him back,
but he would not, not before the Solindish lordlings who
waited to present their case.

Oh, gods. Lamely, he smiled at the lords. They stared
back grimly, hard old men, prepared to humor no one.
Oh, gods. But he summoned what he could of his cour-

2S2 Jennifer Roberson

age and sat down, intending to do whatever it was a ruler
did to the best of his ability.
Even if he had none.

After dark. Hart ordered a horse and rode to The
White Swan. He felt after a day spent listening to two
old Solindish lordlings arguing who had more right to the
new parcel of land—mostly in incomprehensible Solindish
no matter how many times he requested Homanan—he
deserved an evening's entertainment. But he made up his
mind not to wager, only to while away the hours in a
hospitable-tavern.

Or even an inhospitable tavern.

By now most of the regular patrons were accustomed
to his presence. He still was not precisely welcomed, but
neither was he greeted with hostile stares and crude
comments. Now most of them shrugged and turned back
to their games, leaving him to his own devices.

Unless Dar was present. But this time, for the first
part of the evening, he was not, so Hart sat by himself at
a table and drank ale, forgoing wine entirely.

The wine-girl, Oma, made a particular point of flash-
ing the Homanan signet ring in his face whenever she
could. Eventually he called her over and offered to buy it
back, but she merely grinned and shook him off. She was
too shrewd to give in so easily, and too pleased by the
grim frustration she caused him. And so in the end he
gave it up entirety, turning back to his ale, and lost
himself in contemplation.

Until Dar came.

The Solindishman glittered with silver and sapphires at
collar, cuffs, wrists, fingers and belt, ice against indigo
velvet. The royal colors. Hart knew, and wondered if
Dar had dressed for him in the spirit of the wager. But
then he spoke, and Hart knew he had dressed for no
man at all.

"I have been with lisa," he said calmly, sitting down at
the table without bothering to wait for an invitation. "A
most sumptuous meal, and served by the lady herself." A

263

A PKSDE OFPRWCES

raised finger brought Oma with a cup and his favorite
wine- "She told me an interesting tale."

"Did she?" Hart drank ale.

Dar waited for Oma to pour his cup full, then waved
her away. Over the rim of the cup he assessed Hart. He
sipped thoughtfully, then thumped the cup down onto
the table. "So, you thought to win her through frankness."

"I thought to be frank with her for the sake of honesty
and honor, not because of the wager," Hart said quietly.
"Let us end it, Dar. It is a travesty. It is unfair to lisa
and Solinde."

Dar did not smile. "Then declare it a forfeit. Go home
to Homana in the morning, and do not come back again."

Hart matched him stare for stare. "You know I cannot."

"I know you should . . . and, one day soon, you will.
When I have won."

"You are so certain of her, then?"

Dar smiled. "What choice is there, shapechanger? She
wants me to live—she told me so herself—so she will not
choose you. She would prefer Solinde remain Solindish;

again, so she will not choose you. She would prefer a
man she knows as Consort, so she will not choose one of
the other lords." He drank again-, then leaned forward
intently. "She will name my name, shapechanger. Be
certain of it."

Hart smiled. "Then why are you so uncertain?" His
smile widened as Dar's lids flickered. "No matter what
she may have said to you tonight, you still are not sure.
You still have doubts. You know there is a good chance
she may choose me after all."

"lisa will do what is right for Solinde."

"She will do what is best for all concerned," Hart
poured more ale into his cup. "It is how such decisions
are made; one weighs all issues, and then one decides
which best serves all involved." It was what he had done
with the old lords and their river dispute, though he
could offer nothing until the Seal was recovered.

Dar said nothing for a long moment, then shouted for
Oma to bring the Bezat bowl. But Hart shook his head
as the stones were offered.

264 Jennifer Robersw

"No?" Dar's sandy brows lifted. "You say no?"

"I say no." Hart drank ale. "The game begins to pall,
Dar ... I will pass."

Dar slapped his belt-purse down on the table. Red
gold chimed.

Hart smiled. "No."

Dar stripped his fingers and wrists of gem-studded
silver.

Still Hart smiled. "No."

"What do you want?" the Solindishman asked. "The
Seal is already wagered." He smiled suddenly. "The
stallion. You want to win back the stallion lisa gave
you."

Slowly Hart shook his head.

Dar's brown eyes narrowed. "Then what?"

"To watch you squirm," Hart said softly, "and now I
have seen it without wagering even a silver penny." He
pushed his stool back, scraping it against hardwood, and
rang down a red coin on the table to pay for his ale.
"You will lose, Dar. lisa. Solinde. Your life. Because I
have learned when to stop, and you have not even begun,"

Dar rose abruptly. "Shapechanger—"

"Cheysuli," Hart said gently, and walked quietly out
of the tavern.

He was in a private room adjoining his bedchamber,
slumped in a chair and lost in thought, when a servant
knocked at his door. He considered ignoring the knock,
then gave it up and went to the door.

"My lord." Not a servant at all, but Tarron. "My lord,
a message has come from the Lady lisa. She requests
your presence at once." He paused. "I know the messen-
ger; the summons is genuine."

"Now?" It struck him as odd she would send a mes-
sage at night, though it was not late.

"Aye, my lord." Although perfectly polite, the tone in
Tarron's voice told Hart the regent thought it just as
unusual. "The message is that a decision has been made,
and she would have you and Dar of High Crags know it

A PRSQE W PRINCES                265

at once so the travesty may be ended." Tarron frowned.
"My lord—"

Hart raised a silencing hand. "Do not ask, regent.
When I return, you will have your answer. It may please
you—or it may not." He chewed his bottom lip a mo-
ment, thinking deeply. "Tell her messenger I will come
at once."

"Aye, my lord." But still Tarron lingered. "If there is
anything you wish to confide in me, be certain I will hold
it in strictest confidence."

Hart smiled. "I trust you, Tarron. But this is between
a man and a woman—no, between men and a woman—
and until I know the lady's answer, there is no sense in
confiding anything. When I can, I shall,"

The regent inclined his head. "Aye, my lord. Of course."
And he was gone.

Hart shut the door and turned to look at Rael, perched
on his now-empty chair. "Well? Do I dress to celebrate,
or to exile myself from yet another realm?"

// you delay to change your clothing, she may change
her mind.

Hart grinned, "Aye. And if she has chosen in my
favor, I would do well not to give her that chance." He
nodded thoughtfully and opened the door again. "We
go, Ur . . . to gain a cheysula, or lose a realm."

He thought of Brennan as he ordered a horse saddled
and brought. No doubt his rujho would compliment him
on his decision to take a cheysula, even if it was not his
decision at all. Brennan would tell him he was finally
growing up, maturing, becoming the man he was meant
to be.

He sent a wry glance heavenward. Brennan would no
doubt tell me I am only answering my tahlmorra.

And perhaps you are. Rael, sounding insufferably smug,
circled over the bailey as the horse was brought.

Hart sighed and swung up, gathering reins hastily as
the bay stallion stomped and snorted his displeasure at
having his evening meal interrupted. Hart took a deeper
seat and reined him in, calling his thanks to the groom,
and went out of the bailey at a long-trot.

266 Jennifer Robeiwn

Iron rang on stone as Hart guided the bay through the
winding streets of Lestra. lisa's dwelling was not far from
the palace, but the journey took too long nonetheless;

his belly was so twisted up he was afraid he might never
be able to eat again. He could not begin to predict lisa's
decision, though he had been foolish enough to wager on
it. And, the gods knew, wagered more than he could
afford to lose.

Much more, he thought hollowly as the shadows and
torchlight played tag along the walls. Fool that I am, /
should have known better. It is no wonder jehan banished
me for a year; I have been gone but three months, and
already 1 have risked a realm, myself . . . the prophecy.
He gritted his teeth. Rael, what do I tell him if the wager
is lost?

The truth. Rael responded. No matter what the punish-
ment, the hss of Solinde is worth it.

It was not the comfort Hart sought. Disgruntled, he
withdrew from the link altogether.

One of lisa's servants waited outside as Hart drew the
stallion to a halt. He dismounted slowly, delaying the
moment of truth, and handed over the reins. Rael perched
himself upon the roof. No light showed from the house,
for all the windows were shuttered against the night air.
Hart drew in a breath so deep it made him light-headed,
and then he knocked on the door.

He was shown to a private receiving chamber warmed
by a blazing fire and was offered wine, ale or usca. He
declined all, too nervous to drink, and asked when the
lady would present herself.

"As soon as my lord of High Crags arrives, my lord,"
the servant answered, and bowed himself out.

"Except the lord of High Crags is already present."
Dar stepped out of a curtained antechamber. With him
were six men, all in Solindish livery.

Oddly, Hart felt relieved. At last the man had shown
his true colors. "Where is lisa?*'

"lisa has gone to bed," Dar said quietly as one of his
men moved to lock the door from the inside. "lisa has

A PHIDK w PRINCES               267

done her part of this night's work by summoning you
here; the rest is left to me."

Hart nodded. "And what are your plans, Dar? To
pack me off to Homana before the wager is settled?"

Dar grinned and waved a casual forefinger. His men
moved closer to Hart. "Which wager, shapechanger?
The one between you and me—or the one I struck with
Strahan?"

That, Hart had not expected. He was unsurprised by
the six men who clearly meant him no good, but he had
not considered that Ihlini would enter into it. "What has
Strahan to do with this?" he asked curtly, trying to
ignore the tightening of his belly. "You are not Ihlini;

Rael would have known it."

"No, I am not Ihlini," Dar agreed. "But I am an
ambitious man, as well as one desirous of winning favor
with those in power, and Strahan offered me something I
could not pass by. Of course, he couched it as a wager;

he said he did not believe I could do it. So now I have
done it, and he will pay me my price." Dar grinned.
"One way or another, the lady will be mine."

Hart felt strangely relaxed. There were no Ihlini in the
room, and Rael was on the roof; Although the windows
were shuttered against his entry, his closeness still lent
Hart all the power he needed to assume /tr-shape. Dar
had badly underestimated his enemy.

"Dar-~"

But he was given no chance to finish his sentence. Six
men laid hands on him, and none were gentle.

"Bring him here." Dar indicated the ironwood table.

Hart resisted, but six to one were not good odds.
"Dar, it is easy enough to trap a man, but not so easy to
trap a hawk—"

"Draw your sword." Dar ignored Hart altogether, speak-
ing to one of the men. The Solindishman did so, waiting
attentively.

Rael— Triggering the link, Hart drew on the magic in
his blood.

"Hold him," Dar said. "Stretch out his left arm so the
flat of his hand is on the wood. Quickly^

26S

Jennifer Rohersw

Hart tapped the power.

Smoothly, Dar drew his knife and stabbed it through
the splayed hand, pinning it to the table. "There," he
said. "Shapechange now, shapechanger."

Pain burst in his hand and set the world afire. Too
shocked to do anything more than gape, Hart knew the
shapechange was banished. As he had so clearly told
lisa, a man in extremity lacked the required concentration.

Dar's eyes were dilated black. **0nce you told me you
would sooner wager your left hand than your Ur, shape-
changer. Well, you have lost the wager. And now you
have lost the hand." He signaled the man with the sword.
"Hack it off-Now."

The blow was swift and very clean, slicing through
flesh and bone to stop short in the ironwood. And pain-
less, so stunned was Hart. Standing only by dint of the
men who held him up, he stared at the arm that now
ended at his wrist.

Rael—Rael—RAEL-

Dar made a moue of distaste. "So much blood," he
said. And then he himself fetched the iron from the fire
and slapped white-hot tip against stump.

Hart meant to scream. But it died aboming as he
collapsed into the arms of Dar's men.

Interlude

Lillith looked down on her brother. Strahan knelt on one
knee at the rim of the vent, at the edge of the Gate itself.
One hand was outthrust, palm down, as if he intended to
summon Asar-Suti himself. As perhaps he did; white
flame licked up, touched, curled around the fingers, gloved
his hand entirely, then deepened to lilac, to lavender, to
deepest lurid purple. In its reflection, Strahan smiled his
beautiful, deadly smile.

She saw a tendril of flame slip beneath the cuff of his
doublet, beneath the white edge of his linen shirt. Where
it went she could not follow, for it cloaked itself in his
clothing; then, abruptly, it blossomed at his collar, ca-
ressed the flesh of his neck, touched a gentle fingertip to
the sharp-edged line of his jaw.

Still Strahan smiled. Even she no longer smiled, but he
was lost to her utterly, caught up in eerie intercourse
with the god of the netherworld, who made and dwells in
darkness. Still he knelt, smiling, as the flame flowed out
of the Gate to his hand, then upward to his neck, and
began to lap at his face.

Strahan's lips parted. A thin, tensile wire of flame
touched, withdrew, touched again, then flowed up to
shape his mouth into something more than flesh. Em-
boldened, more tendrils appeared, and within a matter of
moments Strahan's face was alive with a webwork of
fragile purple lace. It overlay his features, shaping them
into those of another man—or into the god himself.

"Strahan—" But Lillith stopped herself. It was not her

269

270 Jennifer Robersw

place to remonstrate with her brother, who was the god's
own chosen. It was her place only to serve, accepting all
that was asked, offering whatever she could,

Strahan laughed. He was ablaze with delicate fire, and
yet fabric and flesh was untouched. Kneeling, he was an
incongruous torch; laughing, he was far more than merely
human, even by sorcerous standards.

And then, abruptly, the webwork came undone. Ten-
drils withdrew, untying knots; untied, the knots fell into
disarray. Within moments Strahan was merely Strahan,
and the god was gone from him.

He shut his eyes and released a shuddering breath of
deep satisfaction, as if he had lain with a woman. Head
bowed, he made his obeisance to the god, and then he
rose to face his sister across the glowing Gate.

"Done," he said. "Dar has won his wager."

"One you are pleased to lose." Lillith sighed herself;

he seemed perfectly normal again. "And the woman?
Will you pay his .price?"

Strahan smiled. "Dar is an overly ambitious man with
overweening pride. One day he and his pride will stum-
ble over those ambitions, and he will fall."

It was not precisely the answer she wanted; perhaps he
was still caught in the thrall of the god, speaking of
things she could not know. "How will you break this
one?"

Strahan shrugged. "I think it is already done, or very
nearly so. The Cheysuli can be a hard, seemingly heart-
less race, even with their own; the clans require whole
men as warriors, unmaimed—whole in flesh as well as
spirit—in order to maintain the viability of the race.
Much like animals, they cull the pack of the weakest in
order to protect the rest." Again he shrugged. "Perhaps
they have the right of it; / have no use for the weak."

Lillith, smiling secretly, thought it an understatement.
"And how will you 'mend' this one?"

Strahan laughed. "By offering him a reason to live
again. Service to me can make him whole, though not in
the way he might wish. But by then it will not matter—he
will be too firmly bound."

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

271

Deftly she smoothed the velvet of her skirts. "Only
one—the youngest—remains. It is time I went to Atvia."

Strahan looked at her, but she knew he did not see
her. "Safe journey," he said only, then knelt again at the
edge of the Gate.

PART IV
CORIN

One

Faster. Faster. Faster-
He bent low in the saddle, low, so that the pommel
ground into his belly and his cheek was pressed against
the stallion's dampening neck. Whipping gray mane stung
Conn's eyes until they teared; he found release in it,
knowing he need not be ashamed of tears shed because
of irritation to the eyes themselves, and not anguish of
the heart.

Faster—

The world was a collage of green and blue, brown and
gray, all blurred together by tears. He clutched leather
reins and pushed them forward against the stallion's neck,
giving him his head. On and on the blue roan ran, doing
his rider's bidding.

Beneath clamped legs fluid muscles bunched, rolled,
stretched, tautened, fed by the pumping of the stallion's
great heart. Corin tasted dirt and horsehair; smelled the
acrid tang of sweat and wet blankets. In his ears was the
song of a winded horse; the rhythmic pounding beat of
iron-shod hooves against hard-packed road. In his heart
was anguish.

Oh, gods—forbidden my home for a year— And he
squeezed the stallion yet again with legging-clad legs,
urging him faster yet.

You will kill the horse.

For a moment Corin did not recognize Kiri's tone. He
was so caught up in the sound and rhythm of the horse

275

276 Jennifer Roberson

and the weight of his own pain that he had neglected to
think of the vixen.

He turned his head against damp horsehair and peered
over his shoulder. Far behind, in the sienna-colored dust
of his passing, he saw the rich red flash of his lir.

If not the horse, you will kill me.

That stopped him as nothing else could. Corin sat
upright in the saddle, gathering reins, and eased the
stallion down- Slowly, carefully; for all he was angry and
hurt and frightened, he had no wish to ruin the roan.

If he had not already.

Slowly. Slowly. From gallop to canter, canter to trot,
trot to winded walk, head dropped, nostrils sucking and
blowing great gulps of air as the stallion tried to answer
the demand of his heaving lungs. Guiltily Corin freed his
right foot from the stirrup and swung it over the roan's
damp, blue-washed rump, letting his weight linger briefly
in the left stirrup and against his thigh. He did not halt
the stallion but let him walk on, knowing the roan needed
careful tending if he was to recover completely.

Corin dropped off and kept moving, dragging reins
free of the dangling head to lead the horse onward.
Sweat ran down the roan's face. Lather flecked chest and
flanks. He stumbled over hooves but newly-shod.

Still walking, Corin half-turned and looked over a shoul-
der for Kiri. No longer did she run, trotting instead; he
could see the brush of her black-tipped tail swinging
behind her hocks. Closer now, he could see the glint of
eyes in her mask, and the lolling of her tongue.

Remorse surged up at once. Oh, lir, I am sorry. I
should know better than to punish you.

Save your apologies for the horse. I have a choice; he
does not.

Corin looked again at the roan stallion. He had served
well and faithfully for three years, and was rewarded
with thoughtless, cruel behavior. Walking on, not daring
to stop until the stallion was cooler, Corin ran a soothing
palm down the proud nose and promised him better
treatment.

Guilt clenched the wall of his belly yet again. It is no

A PRIDE OF PRINCES                277

wonder jehan feels it necessary to punish me ... / give
him reason enough.

Then stop, the vixen suggested.

"How?" Corin asked aloud, clearly frustrated. "There
are times I grow so angry I cannot control myself, know-
ing only that I have been wronged. And when I try to
explain, jehan will not listen."

What is there to explain when your behavior has ac-
counted for the lives of twenty-eight people—perhaps even
more?

The guilt rose higher in his belly, reaching out cruel
fingers to grasp, twist, pinch. "That was Hart." He had
meant it to defend and accuse all at once, but his tone
was subdued instead, full of acknowledgment. Aye, twenty-
eight people dead, probably more, all because he and
Hart had insisted on going to the Midden, which was a
place none of them frequented for a very good reason.

Well, it had been Hart's idea.

And yet he had contributed.

"To save my life," he said aloud. "They would have
slain us all,"

Kiri caught up and trotted next to his left leg. Briefly
she pressed a shoulder against Ilim, then dropped aside
again. Courage, lir—the Mujhar disputes your self-defense
less than the reasons for your presence in the tavern. All
of you disobeyed orders—that is the bone of contention.
Had you not, no one would be dead. She paused thought-
fully. Or at least they would be dead by their own murder-
ing hands, and not by careless fire.

"No one meant it to happen," he murmured unhap-
pily. "And yet jehan refuses to listen to that, hearing
only that his sons were involved in yet another tavern
brawl." Corin shrugged a little, rolling shoulder blades
uncomfortably in an attempt to assuage his guilt, or to
push it away. "Had he given us the chance, we might
have been able to help. He might only have stripped us
of our allowances, giving them to the survivors, rather
than of our freedom."

Lives cannot be bought. Kiri's tone lacked even a trace
of sympathy. As for freedom, you would not know it tf it

278 Jennifer Roberson

bit your nose from your face. A man can only know true
freedom when he understands or experiences its loss, so
the value becomes greater.

Conn slanted her a resentful glance beneath half-shut
lids. "Are you finished?" he asked grimly.

Are you?

Conn sighed heavily, expelling acknowledgment along
with breath. "Aye," he said unevenly, "I am. One way
or another, I will have to learn to depend only on myself.
And right now, that does not please me. Another man
would not depend on me—how can I? I know what I am
as much as anyone else." He kicked a stone out of his
path and watched it skitter across the road into the turf
of the meadowlands. The stallion was so winded he did
not even notice. "I am, betimes, sullen and resentful,
selfish and moody, unresponsive and angry. Or so my
jehan has said, and Deirdre, and lan, over the scope of
years. No doubt others have said more, and worse." He
sighed. "I like it no more than they, but I cannot help
myself."

You are already helping yourself.

Corin drew in a breath that rilled his belly with doubt.
"And you? What of you, Kiri? Do you stay with me only
out of duty to the gods, and not through loyalty to me?
Do you dislike me for my temper?"

/ dislike your temper, not you, the fox said quietly. As
for staying with you, what choice have I? I was chosen for
you and you for me... there is a purpose in all things the
gods do. As for personal loyalty, why question it? I would
not leave you even if you beat me.

"I would never beat you!"

Yet you beat the horse in the name of your fear and
anger.

Corin looked at the stallion. The roan breathed more
easily and was no longer wringing wet, although he was
hardly fully restored. Corin stroked the blue-white nose
again, scratching the heavy jaw, and promised he would
never ride him so hard again.

Lir.

Corin glanced around. Kiri had stopped, standing in

A PitIW OF PRINCES                 279

the center of the road, and stared upward into the sky.
Corin did likewise, holding the stallion back, and lifted a
band to shield his eyes against the sun.

"Hawk—" he said. His puke quickened; was it Hart
sent to fetch him back? Corin had left a day early. Had
his jehan repented of his sentence?

But he knew better. Niall had made it a royal decree
as well as a parental one; the banishment would hold for
the precise number of days it took to fulfill twelve months.

The hawk spiraled, drifted, floated down, and Corin
nodded as the blur of the shapechange swallowed the
raptor. His senses, as always, reeled momentarily, then
settled; the disorientation faded quickly as the hawk ex-
changed bird-form for human.

Keely grinned. "Did you think I would let you go out
of Homana alone?"

He stared at her. "You cannot mean to come with
me!"

"Why not?" She spread her hands. "There are no
duties incumbent upon me except to give my rujho what-
ever aid and support he requires/

Corin looked at her. She was slim and wiry in snug
Cheysuli leathers, dressed like" a warrior though there
was no doubting she was a woman; the brass-buckled
belt hid nothing of slender waist or the smooth swelling
of breasts and hips. Gone were the days she could stuff
her hair beneath a huntsman's cap and swagger like a
man with impunity. Now she did neither, for her tawny
hair hung free in a plaited braid, and she made no
attempt to swagger. She had no need of it; as much as
any of them, Keely claimed inbred pride and confidence
of carriage.

He smiled, and the smile spread slowly into a grin.
Trust Keely. . , . "You should not come," he told her,
though it lacked true conviction. "The banishment is my
punishment, not yours. In this we need not share."

"We share in everything, rujho." Her blue eyes were
very steady. "Everything—except, perhaps, your taste for
bedding women." Her mouth hooked ironically. "That I
leave to you."

299 Jennifer Koberson

"Your taste runs to bedding men?"

The humor slipped perceptibly. "My taste mns to be-
longing only to myself," Keely said grimly. "If that means
I keep myself apart from men, so be it. I am willing."

He grunted. "Sean of Erinn may have something to
say about that."

"Sean of Erinn will have nothing at all to say." Keely
was very calm, too calm. "Sean of Erinn will take what
he gets—or look to wedding another woman entirely."

Corin laughed. "If he does get you, Keely, be certain
he will take you." He used the word in the crudest sense,
knowing it might be the only way she would hear what he
had to say- "Aside from needing an heir for Erinn, he
might wish to enjoy his cheysula."

" 'Enjoy,' " Keely said grimly. "Indeed, 'enjoy.' I hope
he will enjoy a foot of steel in his belly if he presses me
when I have no desire for it."

He shouted aloud with laughter. "Since I think you
will be naked in your marriage bed, Keely, it might be
difficult to hide a knife." Corin raised a hand as she
started to protest. "Have you come to discuss your per-
sonal dislike for the betrothal, or my own banishment?
You will forgive me, I trust, if at the moment I am less
inclined to sympathize with your plight when I have my
own."

Abruptly she was contrite. "Oh, Corin, I know. It is so
unfair! Jehan had no right to do it, no right at all ...
how can he do it? How can he send two of his sons out of
Homana into things they cannot know?"

There were times he wished he shared more of Keely's
temperament in addition to coloring. She was outspoken
and high-spirited, and equally subject—as he was—to out-
bursts of hot temper, but she was more charitable, more
generous in her feelings. She thought less of herself than
of others, and always supported him without thought for
what such support might mean to her father's opinion of
her.

"He can do it," he said, "because he is our jehan, and
because he is the Mujhar."

"Rank excuses nothing," she flung back instantly.

A PRIDE wPsmcEs              281

"Aye," Corin agreed wryly, "and jehan would say it
certainly does not excuse the behavior of his sons."

Trapped, she glared at him. "Do you want to go?"

"No," he said succinctly. "Do you?"

Keely opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. After a
moment she shook her head a little. "Defy him. What
could he do to you? You are his son. Moreover, you are
a part of the prophecy."

"A dutiful son does as his father commands. A part of the
prophecy knows better than to defy him."

"But you have never been dutiful," Keely retorted,
"and who is to know what your tahlmorra is but you "
She shrugged. "Come back to Homana-Mujhar and face
him down, Corin. Defy him. Refuse to go. He cannot
have you tied up and hauled bodily to Atvia. It would
soil his own honor as much as yours." Keely grinned. "If
we both faced him—"

"If we both faced him, it would only underscore the
need for discipline," Corin said grimly, "and all the while
Brennan would be standing there like the dutiful son—
nodding, agreeing, supporting our Jehan—because that is
what he does best. Jehan need only look at his heir to see
the sort of son he desires, and then he would order me
tied up and hauled bodily to Atvia."

Exasperated, she glared at him with rigid hands clamped
on hips. "Then what do you intend to do?"

"Go to Atvia." He sighed and rubbed the roan's muz-
zle. "With a stop in Erinn, as jehan has ordered."

Keely's eyes narrowed. "You would do well to listen
to yourself sometime, rujho. On one hand you blow and
bluster and threaten to do this or that ... on the other
you meekly give in and do what you have been asked—or
told—to do. If you intend to do as told, why make so
much noise in the first place?"

For an answer, Corin turned sharply and walked on,
taking the stallion with him. And then he stopped short,
swinging to face her again. "Listen to yourself," he sug-
gested curtly. "It is no wonder Deirdre despairs of ever
making a woman out of you."

"Oh?" Her tone was infinitely deadly.

282 Jennifer Robersoit

Conn indicated her clothing. "Do you ask why? You
are in leggings every time I see you, disdaining skirts or
gowns . . . you talk our su'fali into teaching you the knife
and sword and bow when the Homanan arms-master will
not. . . you absent yourself from Homana-Mujhar to run
wild in the wood . . . you spend no time with Deirdre's
women, learning how to behave as the Lady of Erinn
must- . . ." He shook his head. "You drink usca, Keely,
and dice nearly as much as Hart—"

"—and nearly as well." She smiled grimly. "Go on,
Corin. Do not stop now."

He signed. "And you persist in denying a willingness
to wed a man who will one day be king of Erinn and,
through you, a part of the prophecy. You deny your own
tahlmorra, and then tell me to do the same with mine."

"It is hardly a denial of willingness when I do not wish
to wed him," she said coolly- "As to the others, I will not
deny that I would be as soon forswear womanly things
altogether. Given a choice, I would be warrior in place of
wife."

"And man in place of woman?"

Keely laughed in ge.nuine amusement. "No, you fool—
even you seek the easy answer! I have no desire to be a
man . . . what I want is to be myself. I want the freedom
to choose what I will do instead of fulfilling expectations
of my behavior." She shrugged. "I would do better in the
clan than at Homana-Mujhar, but even there I would not
know the freedom I crave. There are no women warriors
. . . and I am the daughter of the Lion. They see that
before alt else." She sighed and tugged pensively at her
braid. "Shall we go, ruy'/io? I ache to see Hondarth. I
have never been anywhere but Clankeep or Mujnara."

Corin considered ordering her home; discarded it at
once. He considered suggesting she go home; he knew
better. For all she prated of having no freedom, she
claimed more than most. It took a stronger man than he
to enforce his preferences when Keely's determination
was so firmly entrenched.

/ will leave it to Sean. Corin surrendered, nodding. "I
am walking, for the moment. The roan needs rest."

A PRIDE w PRWCES             283

"So I see." Keely shook her head. "Better you shout at
me, next time, than burden your horse with your anger.
At least I know when to defy you."

"Defiance," he muttered. "Is that all you know?"

"Better to ask the same of yourself." Sweetly, she smiled
at him. "Shall we go? Hondarth beckons."

He raised his brows and pursed lips thoughtfully.
"Hondarth will never recover."

But he said nothing more as he started walking and
Keely fell in beside him. His lir trotted ahead, head
dipping as she sniffed grass and dirt. The day was warm,
the sun bright, the sky infinitely blue. Moreover, he was
Cheysuli; it made him a man truly blessed.

Abruptly, unexpectedly, Corin was content. If he had
to go to Atvia, at least he had the best company he could
think of.

They sold the stallion in Hondarth, much as Corin
hated to part with him. There would be no room on the
ship for a mount, and he could get another in Atvia. He
would have sent the roan home with Keely, except she
refused to go back. And so with their purses considerably
plumper, they stopped before a tavern.
Keely gestured. "As good as another, ry/Ao."
He looked askance at her. "A waterfront tavern? I
think not. We would do better to go farther from the

docks."

She stood with booted feet planted. "I want wine, and
I am hungry. If you fear trouble because I am a woman,
remember I have a knife."

"See how I shiver from fear?" Corin asked dryly. "I
think the men who frequent taverns of this sort will
hardly be deterred by a knife in a woman's hand."

She shrugged. "Then I will resort to A'r-shape, if they
force me. Corin—let us go in—" She caught his jerkin
and dragged him toward the door, even as he craned his

head to look for Kiri.

Inside, Keely had the good sense to release his jerkin,
which he absently pulled back into shape. He thought
briefly, in case of trouble, he would claim her his woman;

284

a glance at Keely's face made him think better of it. In
sleeveless jerkin, leggings and boots much like his own,
with identical coloring and similar features, no one would
believe it. Their kinship was too evident.

Keely sniffed. "Fish."

"Hondarth is a seaport." Corin glanced around the
tavern. He had seen better; he had certainly seen worse.
The light was dim, but not nonexistent. Nothing led him
to believe they courted trouble. There were no covert
glances hiding ill will, no rude comments on Keely's
apparel, no private jests about the vixen who flanked one
side. The patrons looked at the newcomers curiously, as
anyone would, then turned back to private business with-
out excess incivility.

"A table." Already Keely was striding toward it, boot
heels thumping against hardwood floor. Men watched
her, elbowed partners, made comments, but they watched
with an appreciation significantly lacking in rudeness or
raillery.

Corin let out a breath, surprised to discover he had
been holding it. All his life he had done what he could to
keep his headstrong sister free from trouble, and some-
times he succeeded. But the task was more difficult when
she seemed purposely to flout convention. He did not
entirely blame her—he himself would go mad as a woman,
confined to women's work—but neither did he fully un-
derstand her dedication to defiance. She was a woman—
should she not behave as one?

She is also a Cheysuli, and gifted more than most, Kiri
reminded him. She has the Old Blood in abundance. Do
you expect her to behave as a dutiful Homanan woman?

The thought of Keely portraying herself as a meek,
docile woman thinking only of her man's pleasure made
Corin grin. But he was doing an injustice to the female
portion of Homana's population; they were not all meek
and docile. Certainly enough of Deirdre's Homanan la-
dies were spirited, in bed or out of it.

Women. Following his sister, he cast an assessive glance
around the tavern. If there was a likely wine-girl present,
he might pass the night pleasurably indeed.

285

A PRIDE OF PRWCES

And then he recalled Keely. Glumly, he reflected he
could hardly tell his sister to hunt up a private room for
herself while he disported himself with the wine-girl. It
would only invite trouble- He sighed. With Hart or Bren-
nan things were much less complicated; although Bren-
nan tended to keep himself to court ladies, neither he
nor Hart were averse to spending time with wine-girls,
and they certainly made no protest when Corin did. But

Keely might.

He reached the table. She was already seated, hunched
forward on a stool, and looking about with interest.
Corin could not remember a time he had taken her into a
tavern, even in Mujhara;. away from the palace, away
from Clankeep, they generally frequented inns or road-
houses, where the clientele was different.

Corin hooked out a stool and sat down slowly, one
hand touching Kiri's heavy ruff. Her presence, he saw,
had been noted, remarked on, accepted. If there were
mutters of beasts and shapechangers, he heard none of
them. And yet he recalled the stories of how his grand-
sire, Donal, had met only hatred and prejudice when he

had come to Hondarth.

A step sounded behind him. He thought nothing of it
until he saw Keely's hand slip to her knife, and then
he half-turned. He was stopped by a big hand on his

shoulder.
"Be ye Cheysuli?" asked the man with the paw of a

bear, or so it seemed to Corin. "Or a Homanan mas-
querading as such?"

Corin tried to shake off the paw. Keely, he saw, was
leaning forward as if to rise; beside him. Kin's lips peeled
back to show sharp white teeth. "Why?" he asked coldly.
"And why should it matter which?"

"Because if ye be Gbeysuli, I'll be buying you a drink,
you and the lass. If ye only play at it, lad, I've no

business with either of ye."

The accent was familiar, though far thicker than Deir-
dre's fading lilt. Corin grinned, and even Keely began to
relax. "Erinnish?" he asked.

286 Jennifer SobersoH

"Aye, lad, name o 'Boyne. But ye have yet to answer
my question."

Boyne was a huge, bearlike man, black of hair and
beard, though gray generously salted both. His nose was
bent from some accident—or fight—in the far past, and
he lacked two teeth to boot. But the smile was genuine,
lighting dark eyes as Corin nodded.

"Aye, Cheysuli, both of us." He gestured. "Will you
join us?"

Keely's jaw was tightly set; he saw the reprimand in
her eyes. But it was too late. Boyne had plopped his bulk
down on a bench and was shouting for fresh wine.

He grinned at them both, eyes alight as he looked at
Keely. "Captain Boyne," he said, "sailing home to Erinn
on the morning tide. But when I saw the fox and all your
gold, I knew ye must be Cheysuli, and I said to myself I
must buy ye a dram before I sail."

"Why?" Keely's tone was cool.

He raised black brows. "Because o* the ties between
our countries, lass, why else? Erinn's own fair AUeen will
wed into the House o' Homana, and Prince Sean will
take the Mujhar's Cheysuli lass for his bride. Tis good
manners to drink to such happiness, lass!" He reared
back as a wine-girl thumped down a jug and three cups.
He poured generous measures, then handed them out.
"To Aileen and her Cheysuli prince; to Sean and his
sweet lass!"

Following his lead, Corin raised his cup. Keely's mo-
tion was considerably slower, but Boyne seemed not to
notice as he clacked his cup against theirs.

" *Sweet lass,' " Keely said sourly, and tossed back a
gulp of wine as if to wash away the taste of unpleasant
words.

Boyne leaned forward. "Aye," he said, "sweet lass.
Would Sean be having any other?" He grinned, guf-
fawed, slapped the flat of one huge hand down upon the
table. "Hot for her he is, too, our lusty lord . . . 'twill
only be a matter of weeks before he sends for her. He's a
man now, our Sean, and of no mind to wait longer for his
bride. Tis time he started a son!"

287

She lifted one tawny brow in an eloquent arch. "Is that
how he values a woman, then—by the children she can

bear?"
" Tis her only value, lass . . . what else can she do?"

Boyne gulped wine, then set his cup down so hard the
remaining contents slopped over the rim. "Mind ye, I
can hardly be speaking for my lord, but I can say he's no
wilted flower. He'll be wedding her, bedding her, getting
a son upon her . . . within a year, I'm saying." He
slopped more wine into his cup, then thrust it upward
again. "To all the fine wee bairns'."

Keely set down her cup and refused to drink. Corin,
knowing Boyne meant well and that to refuse was rude
as well as unnecessary, sipped his own and tried to ignore

the look on his sister's face.

"We too are sailing for Erinn in the morning," Corin
began, intending to ask passage of the flamboyant cap-
tain. But Keely interrupted.

"No," she said coolly, "we are not. Only my brother

sails."

Astonished, he nearly gaped.
Keely's smile was excessively insincere. "I am needed

at home."
"Have you gone mad?" It did not bother him that

Boyne was an interested onlooker. "You said you were

coming with me!"

Keely sipped her wine thoughtfully. "I have changed
my mind," she said after a moment. "Is it not what a
woman does? Certainly the sort of woman Boyne's be-
loved prince might prefer."

He scowled at her. "You might have changed it before

I sold the roan."

Keely shrugged. "I will buy him back."

"And if he is sold already?"

"Then I will steal him back." Keely grinned at Boyne
to remove the sting from her words; the big man's an-
swering smile was fatuous.

For all she protests womanly behavior, she knows how
to use it when it suits her, Corin reflected irritably.

"Keely—"

288               Jennifer Roberwn

"We will speak of it later," she said calmly. "As for
now, I want some food,"

Boyne nearly overset the table as he rose to shout for
service.

Later, when they were alone in the small room Corin
had rented, Keely faced him squarely. Never did she
avoid a confrontation or deserved punishment; nor did
she now.

"Why?" he asked.

She watched in silence as he sat down on the edge of
his cot and drew off his boots, one by one. The belt with
its long-knife was next; the remaining leathers he would
sleep in.

"You heard him," she said finally, working at the
lacing that bound her braid. "You heard that big-mouthed
fool of a man, bellowing about how his lusty prince was
hot for his Cheysuli bride." She stopped fussing with the
knots and crossed her arms instead, all her unexpected
vulnerability suddenly evident. "You heard how he will
wed her, bed her, and get a son upon her—all in the space
of a year!"

"Aye, well, I think Boyne exaggerates out of habit."
Corin scooted back on the cot and leaned against the wall
as Kiri jumped up and settled herself next to him, "He
enjoys the sound of his own voice, Keely, little more.
There is no malice in him. Only goodwill."

She sat down on the edge of the other cot, no more than
four feet from his own. "I cannot go, Corin. I cannot."

"You are afraid."

She did not demur. "Aye."

"Of what? From what Boyne said, Sean is a good man
. . , kind to dogs, horses, children—" He grinned. "In all
likelihood he will be as kind to his woman."

But he had erred in thinking humor might soothe her.
All it Ad was drive her farther from him, knees drawn up
to shield most of her face as she hunched against the
wall. "I want none of it," she said. "No wedding, no
bedding, no children ... I want none of it, Corin! All I
want is to be myself, and if I go with you to Erinn, I will

A PRIDE OfPRWCES

289

lose myself that much sooner. At least this way 1 may
wait until Liam of Erinn and jehan decide it is time."

"Sean himself may have a say in it. And if he does—"

"If he does, let him do it the way it is always done,"
she said bitterly. "He will have to tell his jehan, who will
in turn send to ours ... it will buy me a little time. If I
go with you, that time is halved." She sat up straight and
stared at him. "I cannot afford to lose it, rujho . . . not
even a single day."

"But there will come a day—"

"I know." She cut him off. "I know. But that day is
not tomorrow." Keely bent forward and Jerked her boots
off, dropping them to the floor. "I am sorry, Corin—but
in the morning I go back.'"

He nodded as she blew out the single candle. In the
darkness he heard the crack of the leather webbing that
bound her mattress to the frame. In the darkness he
heard the sound of her uneven breathing, and knew she
was more frightened than he,

And he swore to himself that when he arrived in Erinn
with his words of Aileen's betrothal, he would also speak
of his sister's.

Two

Boyne stood next to him at the taffrail as sea-spray broke
over the prow of the ship and splattered them both
liberally. "There, lad—d'ye see it? Tis called the Drag-
on's Tail. 'Tis what divides Erinn from Atvia—a league or
two of ocean, and centuries of war."

Conn clutched the rail. The Dragon's Tail was a nar-
row channel winding its way between two islands. Winds
lashed the water into heavy chop, turning much of the
shoreline of both islands into jagged teeth instead of
smooth beaches. But lest the fisherfolk lament such harsh-
ness, there were also two natural harbors, sheltered and
less treacherous.

"I did not know Kilore and Rondule were so close,"
Corin remarked in surprise. Next to him, Kiri pressed
against his leg.

"Aye." Boyne, beside him, leaned on the rail, wind
whipping graying hair into dark eyes. "Legends are saying
once the islands were joined into a single kingdom ruled
by a fair man. But that fair man's younger brother was
desiring a kingdom of his own, and so they fought."
Boyne grinned and spat over the taffrail into the slate-
gray ocean. "They battled day in and day out, day in day
and day out, till each realized if they kept it up, there
would be no men left to lead. And so they agreed to fight
no more."

When Boyne did not continue, Corin glanced at him.
"But that does not explain how two islands were made
out of one."

299

A PfUDE OFPlUfUCES

291

The big man tapped his badly bent nose. "I'm but
wanning to the tale, lad ... ye never rush a good story,
now, or ye'll be ruining the ending."

"Forgive me." Corin smiled in amusement. "I will
leave the telling to you."

Boyne nodded. Thoughtfully, he stared toward the
Dragon's Tail. "Twas the younger brother's doing. Not
satisfied with the truce, because it gave him nothing he
didn't have already, he sought the power to overcome his
brother, the king. He begged the aid of a powerful sor-
cerer, bargaining with his soul- And when he had slain
his brother and won the war, he was king by conquest."
Boyne grinned- "The opiy thing was, now the sorcerer
wanted his soul. Since no man, newly crowned, is want-
ing to give up his soul, he said no."

Corin nodded. "And so the sorcerer took his due."

"Oh, aye- He split the kingdom in twain and took the
soul of the king."

"Leaving two kingdoms in place of one, and no men to
rule either of them."

Boyne grinned. "Each brother had a son. Each cousin
took a throne. And to this day their descendants are
fighting over a single title."

"Lord of the Idrian Isles." Corin nodded. "That much
I do know." He wiped spray out of his eyes and tasted
salt. "What happened to the sorcerer?"

Boyne frowned dramatically, black brows knitted. "Well,
'tis said he got the soul he was promised. But 'tis also
said he soon grew tired of such pettiness and turned his
back on it all. Some say he died; others are saying he
went belowdecks and became king of the world down
there." An eloquent gesture accompanied the final
sentence.

Corin looked at him sharply. "Do you mean Asar-Suti?"

Boyne shrugged and turned to call out an order to one
of his sailors. When he turned back, he was frowning.
"I'm not knowing the name, lad. All I know is the story.
Whether there's truth in it, I'll not be saying one way or
another."

"Asar-Suti, the Seker, who made and dwells in dark-

292 Jennifer Roberson

ness," Conn mused thoughtfully. He glanced at Boyne,
knowing what he said would sound like a tale to rival the
captain's- "The Solindish Ihlini worship him as the god of
the netherworld. In his name, they try to take Homana
to make it part of his earthly kingdom."

Boyne shrugged. "I'm not knowing so much of Ihlini,
either, being Erinnish-bom. But they could be one and
the same: sorcerer and god."

It was a new concept to Corin, who was accustomed to
viewing sorcerers as men—or women—with magical power,
but no godhood. If indeed the sorcerer had become
Asar-Suti, then what was to prevent other sorcerers from
doing much the same?"

Strahan made a god? Corin felt a chill at the base of his
spine. He looked at Kiri. What becomes of our gods if the
Ihlini make their own11

The vixen's thick, bright pelt ruffled in the wind. It is a
question I cannot answer.

He looked at her more sharply. Cannot, or will not?

Bright eyes glinted as she turned away. One and the
same, lir. I have no answer for you.

Again Corin thought of Strahan. He had been raised
on stories of the man who led the Solindish sorcerers,
those who served Asar-Suti. The Mujhar had said more
than once that not all Ihlini did, and that only those
sworn to the Seker were men to be wary of. But Strahan
was different. Strahan was more than merely sorcerer,
being blessed with an uncanny charm that beguiled good
and bad alike. He was already extremely powerful be-
cause of his dedication to the Seker. If his reward for
such service and dedication was godhood, then he of-
fered more than idle threat to the Cheysuli and the
prophecy.

"Kilore," Boyne said. "And now, lad, I must tend my
ship."

Distracted by his thoughts, Corin watched the Ennnish
giant go. It had been a long time since he had thought
much about Strahan or the Ihlini, or even the prophecy.
That he was a link in it was old news. Except for Maeve,
all of NialTs children were; it was why Strahan had tried

A PRIDE w PKWCES              293

to kidnap them as infants with Gisella's participation.
But Boyne's fanciful tale had reawakened old memories
and questions.

Twenty years ago my jehana tried to give her children to
the Ihlini. No doubt he had a use for us then. But what of
now? What would he do with us now?

And then, as abruptly, he forgot about Strahan and his
half Atvian mother because the ship was docking.

Corin clutched the rail and stared. Kilore the city
spilled along the waterfront like a tangle of seaweed,
streets and wynds interlocking to form a webwork he did
not think he could ever decipher. And above the city,
thrusting up in a jagged line of palisades, were the
white chalk cliffs his father had mentioned so often.
Kilore was a place of mist and magic, Niall had said, and
Corin saw at least half of it was true. Shrouded in damp-
ness, the cliffs formed a bright white curtain wall against
the darker world.

And atop it, almost ominous in its bulk, stood the
fortress from which the city took its name: Kilore itself,
Aerie of the Eagles.

"Kilore!" Boyne called, and then added considerably
more in Erinnish, which Corin understood well enough,
thanks to years spent with Deirdre.

/ wish I were arriving home, like Boyne, instead of
here. Corin looked up at the castle and tried to suppress
his nerves. / wish I were doing anything but playing
messenger for my jehan, and proxy suitor for my rujholli.

The ship was secured handily, the ramps lowered, the
unloading commenced. Corin, having nothing more than
a set of shoulderpacks, proceeded down one ramp with
Kiri trotting behind.

Fish, she said fastidiously.

Corin smiled crookedly. Aye, fish indeed. Deirdre had
told him much of Erinn's economy depended on fish, and
the stench made it more than evident. He smelled fish,
old and new; sea salt and seaweed; the effluvia of ships
toiling for months on the Idrian and beyond. There was
nothing romantic about voyaging, Corin thought, when
one looked at realities.

294 Jennifer Roberson

He and Kiri picked their way around nets and coils of
rope, conscious of the shrieking of the gulls and the
chatter of fisherfolk going about their work. It was late
afternoon; the tide was in and so were the fishing boats.
He and Kiri, wandering along the quayside, were dis-
tinctly in the way.

"Hai, Cheysuli!" Boyne called, and Corin turned back
as the captain strode across the docks in his rolling sail-
or's gait. "Will ye be looking for someone in particular,
or biding your time for a spell?"

Corin, who had told the Erinnishman no more than his
name and destination, shrugged beneath the shoulderpacks.
"My business is with the castle."

Boyne's black brows rose. He was a garrulous man but
not a stupid one; he knew better than to ask questions
that were none of his concern, and had not during the
voyage. But it did not stop his thoughts, and he chewed
idly on a tattered thumbnail. "Aye, well, I'll not be
keeping ye from it, then. I thought to buy ye a wee dram
o' ale or wine in the grogshop before I saw to my own
business."

Corin looked up at the Aerie. No, not yet. He smiled
at Boyne. "No, captain, it is my turn to buy for you. Shall
we go?"

Boyne looked down at Kiri. "What of the vixen, then?
Will ye leave her on my ship?"

"Kiri goes with me."

The Erinnishman shrugged. "Aye, aye, and welcome
to her. Come along, then, lad. Let us be wasting no more
time flapping our mouths when we could be swilling ale."
He clapped Corin a buffet on the shoulder that nearly
knocked him down and strode off toward a row of build-
ings not far from the quay.

Boyne was engaged in another of his lengthy, colorful
tales when a woman's angry voice distracted both of
them. For a fleeting instant Corin thought she was pro-
testing Boyne's loquaciousness, then realized there was
more to it than that. It stopped Boyne dead in his tracks.

"Here!" he called, looking toward a narrow wynd that
twisted down toward the sea. "Hai, lass, here—"

A P»tDE OF PlUIVCES

29S

The woman's protest was silenced at once, and forci-
bly. Boyne slapped Corin on the shoulder and took off at
a run, filling the wynd with his bulk and voice. After only
a moment's hesitation, Corin followed.

Three men, Corin saw as he turned a corner—and a
woman bundled in blankets. Near the end of the wynd,
close to the quay. One of the men turned to face Boyne;

the other two lifted the women off her feet and effectively
controlled her struggles.

After a brief exchange between Boyne and the spokes-
man for the others, Corin realized civilities had been
abandoned.

Boyne shouted with mocking laughter. "Oh, aye, and
my mother was a queen!" He turned to Corin. "Yon
man is saying the woman is drunk, and they're taking her
home to her husband. But / know better than that—she
shouted for help, and there was no drunkenness about it.
And if these men are Erinnish, I'll be giving them my
ship! Atvian, more like, trying to spirit away an Erinnish
lass for evil purposes." He advanced a step. "Come, lad,
'tis a lass in need of us.'*

Kiri, Corin said within the link, and the vixen darted
past Boyne's opponent to the others. Even as Boyne
engaged, slapping away the knife that appeared in the
Atvian's hand, Kiri was nipping at ankles amidst kicks
and curses.

Corin grinned and waded into the fray himself. As
Boyne settled his score, reducing their number to two,
Kiri forced the men to neglect their prisoner. It was easy
enough for the girl to tear herself away even as Corin
and Boyne converged on the remaining opposition.

Boyne's fight did not last long. Corin's took longer,
since he lacked the other's sheer bulk and strength. But
as Kiri continued to nip at ankles, Corin smashed the
Atvian's nose and sent him reeling off balance. A second
blow snapped his head back and took his senses from
him. He collapsed on the cobbles.

"Aye, aye, lad, 'tis the way of it!" Boyne clapped him
on the shoulder. "We've saved the lass from the scum!"

Boyne's "lass" still sat on the ground where she had

296 Jennifer Roberson

landed, half wrapped in dark blankets. Slowly she lev-
ered herself up on elbows, feet flat, knees drawn up,
skirts tangled around her boots. She stared up at them
both, then put out a hand to yank heavy skirts deco-
rously into place-

Corin reached down an open hand. "Lady, will you
come up?" He caught her, pulled her, steadied her as she
rose, clasping one arm around her, pulled her, steadied
her as she rose, clasping one arm around her slender
waist.

She was pale and a trifle shaky, but apparently un-
harmed; slight, but decidedly not fragile. Another woman
might have cried or fainted or both; this one did neither.
She eyed him closely a moment with incredibly bright
green eyes, shrewdly assessing intentions, then pushed
tangled hair—very red hair—away from an oval face. She
blew out an explosive sigh of relief that also melted the
tension out of face and limbs.

Guardedly, she smiled; the mouth was eloquent in its
mobility, wide and willful beneath a straight, bold nose.
She was not a beauty, not as Corin reckoned women—
her coloring was far too flamboyant—but she was a strik-
ing girl, the kind of girl whose vibrant liveliness of spirit
made beauty unimportant. Almost without thinking, he
found himself responding.

"You're not Erinnish." She glanced at Boyne. "You
are, captain, but the lad's not."

"No, lass, he's Homanan- Cheysuli, more properly."
The big Erinnishman grinned at her expression of sur-
prise, then replaced it with concern. "D'ye fare all right,
lass? Did they have time to harm ye?"

She withdrew her hand from Corin's and deftly smoothed
clothing into place, tightening snug belt, twitching the
folds of her skirts, resetting the fit of tunic and under-
blouse. She wore the plain garb of a fisher woman, and
yet Corin had felt the softness of her hand, which did not
at all coincide. No more than her carriage or her man-
ner; he had seen the like in Keely.

And, by Keely, he knew her. Inwardly, he smiled.
Highborn, if not the highest.

A PitiDE or PKWCES              297

"They were meaning no harm," she said grimly. "They
wanted me for Alaric, I'd lay a wager, and not for their
own."

"Atvian scum!" Boyne turned his head and spat. "Come,
lass, we'll be taking ye to your husband or your father;

one or the Other'11 be wanting to know of this."

She tried to untangle the mass of hair and could not;

the task required a brush. Distractedly she combed it
back with her fingers, grimacing as she found additional
tangles. The curling ends shifted against her belt. "I have
no husband. My father's not in Kilore, nor is my brother
or mother—which made it all the easier for the skilfins."
She cast a scowl at the unconscious men. "But 'tis my
fault as much as anything else; I should not have come
down alone. I know better, as my father is one for telling
me. And now he can tell me again." She shrugged and
smiled a rueful smile. "For all I hate to say it, he may
have the right of it. All Alaric needs is leverage, and I
nearly gave it to him." And then she stopped short, as if
she had said too much to men who could not understand,
and cast a bright glance at Corin. "Why does a Cheysuli
come to Erinn?"

"Business with her lord."

Straight red brows jerked upward. She was not subtle
in her thoughts, but he found it rather engaging- "With
Liam, then? Well, 'twill have to wait. He's on the other
side of the island tending to disputes." She jerked her
head upward to indicate the fortress. "Will you come up,
then? Tis where I'm bound." She looked at Boyne and
grinned. "You as well, captain. 'Tis grateful I am for
your service, and you're both due reward. What would
you say to a meal in the Aerie, and a purse of gold
apiece?"

"In the castle?" Boyne stared. "Lass, lass, ye shouldn't
be promising things ye can't deliver."

"But I can," she said calmly. She glanced at Corin
briefly, saw his expression, and her bright eyes twinkled.
"But then I'm thinking you might understand."

He grinned. "Aye, lady, I do. And I think Boyne will,
also, although you will steal his tongue. I have heard him

298 Jennifer Roberson

speak, of you; I think he worships someone other than
the gods."

She grimaced wryly and indicated her mussed appear-
ance. "Not for much longer, I fear." One of the Atvians
groaned and shifted on the cobbles. She scowled. "Let us
tarry no longer. We'll be leaving the rats in the gutter
. . . they'll crawl home to their master and suffer for
their failure."

"Lass—" Boyne stopped her as she swung away, ready
to march out of the narrow wynd. "Lass—the castle?"

"The castle," she agreed. "D'ye think you're not fit
for it?" And as he nodded, she laughed and took his
arm, turning him toward the cliffs. "Not fit to face the
eagle when you've saved one of his fledglings?" She
paused. "Except the eagle is not in the Aerie, nor any of
the others. / shall have to do."

"Boyne." Corin fell into step as Kiri trotted beside
him. "Have you not told me what the Princess Aileen
looks like?"

The captain grinned as he slackened his pace to the
girl's. "Aye, lad, many times. 'Tis only from a distance
I've seen her, mind you, but 'twas enough." He grinned
and tucked her slender arm into his elbow. "Red-haired
she is, like this lass here, and I've heard her eyes are
green as Erinn's turf."

"Turf," the girl echoed morosely, twisting her mobile
mouth into something akin to an offended wince, al-
though the laughter in her eyes belied the truth of it. "Ye
might at least compare them to emeralds, man, not turf."

"Your eyes are the emeralds, lass," Boyne said gallantly.

At that she burst out laughing and stopped him in his
tracks. "Ye great-hearted, blathering fool, can ye not
hear what this Cheysuli is trying to say? / am Aileen,
man . . . / am the Princess of Erinn . . . turf-green eyes
and all."

Boyne gaped. "You're not."

"I am," she said solemnly, but her bright eyes were
alight with humor. "And when I invite you to take sup-
per with me and accept a purse of gold, you witt do as I
say."

A PRIDE w PRINCES               299

"Oh, lass—I mean, lady—"

"Fie on that blather," she said cheerfully. "Come up
with me, captain, and let me thank you for your courage."

Grinning at Boyne's discomfort, Corin possessed him-
self of silence. But he wondered what Brennan would say
when he met his Eririnish bride.

Three

Although Aileen struck Conn as an unaffected, uninhib-
ited girl, she was also a princess and well understood the
responsibilities of rank. Once within the towering walls
of Liam's fortress, Corin and Boyne were shown to guest
chambers to refresh themselves before the meal. It took
neither of them long—Corin bathed and put on fresh
leathers, Boyne bathed and put on his well-wom flam-
boyant silks because he had nothing else—and then they
were escorted into a private hall made ready for the

evening meal.

Corin was impressed. Both his father and Deirdre had
said Liam was not a man much concerned with show,
preferring simplicity over elaboration, and Kilore itself
reflected the tastes of simple men. But in a short amount
of time Aileen had ordered her guests treated with the
utmost respect and hospitality, the meal and hall pre-
pared, and her servants had quickly complied.

A figured white cloth covered the wide table. Iron
gimbles filled with candles hung from massive roof tim-
bers, providing a wash of illumination that glittered off
glass and silver. Covered platters looked like silver tur-
tles steaming. Servants neatly attired in Liam's green
livery waited quietly, indicating that Corin and Boyne
were to be seated. And then Aileen came in.

Gone was the fisher girl in homespun wool and knee
boots, with unruly red hair an unbound mass of tangles.
In her place was the Princess of Erinn, gowned and
garbed appropriately. And yet she maintained a simplic-

3W

391

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

ity in dress and manner, for there were no jewels or
haughty ways, merely a simple green gown, a slender
fillet of gold threaded through shining hair now free of
snarls, and a wide, impish smile.

Corin rose with alacrity, although Boyne's matching
response was so abrupt it overset his chair. One of the
servants hastened to right it as Boyne, unheeding, gaped
at Aileen.

"Lass," he rumbled, "oh, lass—"

Aileen's brows rose expectantly as he stumbled to a
stop; when he appeared incapable of continuing, she
laughed and bade them both be seated,

Good manners, Kiri approved.

Corin put a hand down as he sat and passed it through
the vixen's ruff. As always, the touch soothed him. Do
you judge her in Brennan's placef

I merely comment. Kiri settled her rump on the floor
next to Corin's chair and curled tail fastidiously around
black paws.

"We'll be dining first," Aileen told them, "and then
I'll be asking all the things I want to know."

The meal was superb, particularly after weeks of ship's
stores, which were intended for longevity and ease of
storing rather than for flavor. Corin's table manners reas-
serted themselves after the long voyage, but Boyne suf-
fered from inexperience. He quaffed wine freely, consumed
incredible amounts of rare beef, partridge, eel, oysters,
and a variety of fish. Corin and Aileen, with more re-
fined appetites, finished long before the captain, and
exchanged amused grins as Boyne continued his culinary

attack.

At last he shoved his platter away and belched con-
tentedly. "Aye, lass—lady—•'twas a meal fit for a lord.
My belly is in the way of being grateful."

" Twas only the beginning of showing you my own
gratitude." Aileen motioned the servants to begin clear-
ing as she rose. "If you'll come with me now, I'll be
showing you the rest."

She led them to an antechamber well-warmed by a
huge brick fireplace. Plush pelts covered the stone floor

302 Jennifer Koberson

and tapestries cut the chill from thick walls. There were
chairs, small tables, two wooden cabinets carved in
Erinnish knotwork patterns. Altogether the chamber
formed a homey, comfortable place, reminding Corin of
Deirdre's solar.

Aileen motioned them to sit, then withdrew something
from one of the cabinets. As she turned, Corin saw two
leather pouches in her hands. Her expression was solemn
as she faced them, but her green eyes were alight. "I
know neither of you did me the service out of greed or
ambition," she said, "and you weren't hoping for re-
ward, either—not from a fisher girl all wrapped in dirty
blankets—but 1*11 be giving you a token of my gratitude
regardless. And I'll not be hearing modest refusals from
you, either—would ye say them to my father?" She looked
each of them in the eye, forbidding them to answer, and
handed out the pouches. "You'll be staying the night as
my guests."

Boyne stared down at the pouch, dwarfed in the palm
of his huge hand. He chewed at his lip, scowling blackly,
then sighed and tucked the pouch away with the air of
resignation. Aileen, watching his struggle, smiled and
went to him.

"And as a measure of more personal thanks, a kiss."
On tiptoe she still had to urge him to bend, and kissed
him squarely on the cheek when he acquiesced. Boyne
turned scarlet.

Aileen laughed and stepped away. "Off with ye, cap-
tain, I'm no blind fool; you've been at sea a long time,
and no doubt you'd rather be spending the night with a
lady. Well, 'tis a host's responsibility to provide hospital-
ity, woman or no; I think you'll be pleased with the girl."

Boyne's color deepened. "Lass—"

"In my father's place, I am host," Aileen said cheer-
fully. "I know my duties, captain."

In the face of her matter-of-fact announcement, Boyne
was clearly unable to answer. And so he backed toward
the door, bowed awkwardly, and went out at once, bagged
coin clinking against one massive thigh.

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

393

Aileen laughed, eyes blazing amusement, and turned
to Corin.

"Did you really send him a woman?" he asked, won-
dering what she intended for him.

Her laughter was arrested. "Aye," she said in surprise.
"D've think I am a liar?"

"No, no, but—" Suddenly uncomfortable, he shrugged.
"It—seems odd to think of a woman sending a man a
girl to share his bed."

" Tis not a habit of mine," she answered cheerfully.
"But I spoke the truth: there are customs of hospitality,
regardless of sex, and that is one. I could send him back
to the waterfront, but I thought a night in the Aerie
might be worth a drink or two in the taverns." She
shrugged disarmingly. "My father is a lusty, plain-speaking
man, and so is my brother. I know a man's needs, and so
I tend to Boyne's." Her mobile mouth moved into a
crooked smile. "Besides, 'twas Moira's desire to bed him.
She told me so as I bathed."

Corin laughed aloud. "Then what of me, lady? Do you
tend my needs also?"

She eyed him thoughtfully, then flung a gesture toward
a chair. "Sit, sit; Boyne was easy to predict, but you are
harder to know. And I have never met a Cheysuli."

She poured wine as he sat down, handed him a heavy
goblet and settled herself in a chair opposite his own.
The fire- and candlelight was kind to her coloring and
features, enriching the former and enhancing the latter;

Deirdre also wore Erinnish green frequently, but now
that he saw the color on Aileen, Corin felt Deirdre's
choice less suitable.

He set the pouch of gold on the table and made a
gesture indicating polite refusal. "Your words were well-
spoken and I admire their intent, but I cannot accept
your reward."

She arched a single eyebrow. "Too proud, then? Or is
it that Erinnish gold means less to you than those brace-
lets on your arms?"

Absently Corin touched one of the heavy hr-bands.
"No, nor am I too proud, though you may think other-

394

Jennifer Roberson

wise," He shrugged slightly. "Let us say it is—unneces-
sary."

"Why?" she asked bluntly.

Corin smiled. "Your father and brother are not the
only plainspoken eagles in the Aerie."

Aileen laughed and swung a foot. "No, no, I have my
share of a forthright tongue as well. 'Twas the price of
living with my father." Her eyes did not waver from his.
"Why is it unnecessary?"

"Because for a kinsman to do less is unconscionable.
For him to do it for reward is unspeakable."

The foot stopped swinging. "Kinsman."

"Corin," he said, "as I have told you. "But it is Corin
ofHomana ... 1 am the Mujhar's son."

"Niall's son!"

"Aye."

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. And then shook her
head. "But we're not kin. Through my aunt we would
be, but Niall and Deirdre are not wed." Her expression
was cool. "He holds to Gisella, does he not?"

"He holds to the laws of Homana," Corin told her
calmly. "You honor the customs of hospitality, Aileen
. . . he honors the laws of the land he rules."

She sipped wine, then shrugged and thumped the gob-
let down on the table. "So, you've come to see my
father. Official business? Or personal?"

Her eyes were watchful, no matter how casual her
tone. He opened his mouth to tell her the business con-
cerned her betrothal to Brennan—and found he could
not. "It is for me to speak with your father."

Aileen's smile was slow, but no less eloquent. "I am his
daughter."

"I have been charged with this message—for the Lord
of Erinn—by the Mujhar himself." He thought the eva-
sion was answer enough, and not so far from the truth.

She considered it, tilting her head slightly. Candlelight
blazed off the gold fillet and the glory of her hair. And
then she shrugged slightly, dismissing the topic entirely.
"Well, 'twill have to wait regardless. My father is, as I

A PKIDE OF PRINCES

305

have said, on the other side of the island. He could be
home tomorrow; he might come home in a month."

Corin thought of Keely, "Sean is not here?"

Aileen shook her had. "Sean has a new ship, the
Princess of Homana." She sighed and swung her foot
again. "Men and ships—who can say how long he will be
gone? Tis her maiden voyage . . - but he should be back
by spring." Her eyes were steady. "In time to have Liam
write the Mujhar about the betrothal between son and
daughter."

Corin drank hastily to cover the rigid expression on his
face. He could not very well tell Aileen his sister wanted
no part of her brother; it would be rude as well as an
insult. Plainspeaking she might be, and Liam, but in
negotiations between the royal houses such bluntness was
deemed unwise.

"She is lovely, your fox," Aileen said, looking at Kin
curled on the bear pelt beneath Corin's feet. "And so
quiet; I'd be thinking she'd prefer the out of doors to
castles."

He smiled. "She does. So do most Cheysuli; it is the
/(/•-shape in us. But a warrior adapts, and so does a lir."

Aileen bent forward to take a closer look. "We know
of Cheysuli, of course, but little of your animals. My
father says Niall had none when he was a guest here so
long ago."

"Guest?" Corin grinned. "You bend the truth, Aileen.
My father was held hostage against Alaric of Atvia."

She laughed ruefully. "Aye, aye, hostage then, but will
you be telling me he lost by it? In the end he got his
Atvian wife, but he got my aunt as well. And a bastard
daughter."

He inclined his head to indicate concession- "Maeve
and Deirdre thrive. Bastard or no, she is his favorite
child."

Aileen's brows rose. "You are not?"

"Hardly." Corin felt the familiar bitterness rising.
"Maeve is Deirdre come again; my father adores his
Erinnish meijha, and the daughter as well. As for me, I
come last in his regard."

396 Jennifer Roberson

"Why?" Aileen frowned. "Why do you rank your
brothers and sisters? Does he not love you all equally?"

"There is little to love in me." Corin blocked out her
face with the goblet, drinking deeply. "Equally? No."
He shrugged, "There is Brennan, who is the heir to
Homana and therefore the most important of us all."
Though he tried, for her sake, to mask the resentment in
his tone when he spoke of Brennan, he heard its echo
regardless. Quickly, he went on. "There is Maeve, duti-
ful daughter of his beloved meijha. And Hart, who is as
good-natured as he is irresponsible, and impossible to
dislike." He smiled. "And Keely, impetuous, passionate
Keely, who tests his patience with her wild ways, and yet
pleases him with her spirit. As for me," Corin shrugged,
"I am, perhaps, my own worst enemy . . . but I cannot
help it.'* He looked at her over the rim of his goblet,
seeing himself through her eyes, and found he did not
like it. But he did not look away. "There are times I
hate myself, and therefore I make it easy for others to
hate me."

Aileen looked straight back at him. "Then 'tis up to
you to change it."

He waited for the upsurge of anger or resentment. It
was a solution others had suggested many times, and
each time it had made him blacker of temper than ever.
But before Aileen, he found himself regretting his con-
trary moodiness for the first time. And sincerely desiring
to change it.

He smiled ruefully. "I have said more to you than
anyone save Keely, and half the time she supports me
instead of suggesting I change my behavior."

"It does a person no good to abet his insecurities,"
Aileen said flatly. "My brother is the proudest, most
honorable man you could ever meet, and yet he's hot-
tempered and hasty as well, and equally plainspoken. If
I stood by him when he is wrong, nodding and 'ayeing'
and buttressing his flank, I'd be doing him a greater
injustice than Sean his victim." Her tone was one of
understanding courtesy, and yet there was also an inflexi-
ble note of determination. "I'd make of him a tyrant,

A PftSDE OFPSWCES

397

believing in only himself without granting others the right
to disagreement or other forms of self-expression . . .
and 'tis a poor man that makes."

Corin laughed sourly. "My father has said as much,
and Brennan as well. . . but it makes more sense coming
from you."

" 'Tis usually the way of it." Aileen shrugged. " Tis
why 'tis important to listen to your kin. Let them show
you what you are and what you do, so you give others no
opportunity." She paused a moment, watching him. "And
then you won't be having to sit there across from me,
wishing there was a hole you might crawl into."

He grinned and rubbed at an eye, "Gods, but you are
good for me. Brennan is fortunate—" And he broke off,
realizing that yet again his brother would take prece-
dence over him. And this time, this time particularly, he
resented it badly. More than ever before.

But you have known all along she was intended for
your rujholli, Km told him. For all the days of your life.

Rigidly, he stared at Aileen. And then he set the
goblet down unsteadily and rose. "If you will excuse me
... it was a long voyage, and I would like to retire."

Aileen stood quickly and awkwardly, bewildered by
his sudden withdrawal. "Oh, aye—of course.1' She
frowned. "Corin—"

"I am weary, Aileen," he said curtly, and saw the
color blaze in her face.

Her eyes glittered with an acknowledgment of his rude-
ness. "Then go," she said coolly. "The servants will show
you to your chambers."

With Kiri, Corin left.

He was a child again, in his dream, overlooked be-
cause of his age. Around him the women gossiped, cluck-
ing over the latest of Harfs habitual pranks or Keely's
willfulness; praising Maeve's sweet temper and Brennan's
maturity. But they said nothing of him, nothing of Corin at
all.

In his dream he heard their praises, and Brennan—
Brennan—Brennan.

308

Jennifer Roberson

Conn awoke. He touched Kiri sleeping at his side.
And then fell into darkness again.

Older now, but no less overlooked unless he made them
look. And he did, whenever he could, using wits and
willfulness, forcing the women to look, to see, to hear,
even if the result was punishment, because then its name
was Conn . . . then they spoke his name. Even if cursing

it.

Asleep, he reached for Kiri, who heard him whenever
he spoke. And even when he did not.

In the dream, he was himself, no longer a child but the
Corin he saw every day when he looked in the polished
plate. And suddenly he was the polished plate; he saw
himself, as if he were someone else entirely, outside look-
ing in, and the Corin he saw was a stranger.

But not a stranger at all. Corin stood in the Great Hall,
before the Lion Throne, facing the Mujhar of Homana,
the man who had sired him. Alone, he faced him . . . and
then he was not alone, for with him was a woman, a slim,
red-haired woman with eyes clear and green as emeralds—
green as Erinnish turf—and the woman's hand was in his
hand, and she faced the Mujhar, as he did, and together
they recited the private Cheysuli vows that bound a war-
rior and his woman.

Bound . . . bound . . . bound—

—Until Brennan stepped out of the shadows and tore
Aileen's hand out of his.

"No!" Corin cried. "No—not againF

And he was awake, and knew it, and knew what he
had dreamed.

Four

The dream haunted Corin for days. He did his best to
ignore it, to push it away into the recesses of his subcon-
scious, but its aftertaste remained, like the sour flavor of
sweet wine turned to vinegar. When he looked at Aileen,
he saw the woman who had recited the Cheysuli vows
with him before the Lion of Homana, defying Niall him-
self. And defying her betrothed as much as Corin did
himself.

Theirs was an uneasy companionship at best. Aileen
hosted him with as much hospitality as she could muster
in the name of her absent father, but the uninhibited
generosity was gone. She eyed him warily at times, like a
dog with an unkind master; other times she relegated
him to obscurity, too busy to pay him mind. But occa-
sionally he saw an odd sort of compassion in her eyes, as
if she began to understand him and what made him the
man be was.

At last the dream lost its immediacy, freeing him to
relax, and Aileen responded at once, as if she had been
waiting.

The relationship changed. The companionship deep-
ened. They shared the things good friends shared, things
kin shared, things he shared only with Keely. But he
sensed a bond between them that superseded mere kin-
ship, much as the one with Keely. With Aileen he was
another man, freed of resentments and irritability; freed
of the insecurity of being the third-bom son. Here there

309

310                 Jennifer Roherson

was only Conn. No Brennan. No Hart. No ranking ac-
cording to birth. Here there was merely Conn—

Corin and Aileen, who saw what he was and cherished
it. As much as he cherished her.

Four weeks after his arrival—to celebrate, she said—
Aileen took him out to ride along the headlands over-
looking the Dragon's Tail. Kilore fell away from them,
dropping below the horizon as they moved ever west-
ward. The massive stone fortress gained invisibility; with
it fled the last vestige of moodiness. He laughed again,
unencumbered by doubts or recriminations, when Aileen
told him a tale about her brother, and gloried in the
banishment of the dream that had so plagued him. Free
of it, he was also free of Brennan.

Until Aileen said his name and conjured him between

them.

Such a simple question: "Is Brennan much like you?'*

They had run their horses, tearing across the head-
lands, laughing info the wind and calling out challenges.
Now they walked them, afoot, reins looped through their
hands. Ahead of them, Kiri trotted; between them hov-
ered Brennan.

"No," Corin said curtly.

She waited for more. When he gave her nothing, she
looked at him directly. "D'ye hate him so much, then?"

He opened his mouth to refute the question at once.
But nothing came out. Nothing at all; the denial died
aboming- He had never thought of it as hatred; even
now he felt the word incorrect. But he would lie to her

no more than to himself.
"He is my brother." Purposely, he used Homanan in

place of Cheysuli.

Aileen's mouth twisted. "Kinship has little to do with
like and dislike, when it comes to a man's heart.**

Corin sighed. The wind came up from the ocean below
and curled over the rim of the cliff to buffet them both.
He smelled sea and salt and fish.

"I asked for me." Aileen said quietly, "thinking of
myself. But now I ask for Corin."

A PRIDE OF PRPVCES               311

He looked at her sharply. And then at once away; he
could not bear to see the compassion in her eyes.

"No," he said finally. "No, I do not hate him. I dislike
him, but I dislike myself more for giving in to it."

Wind threatened to tear her hair free of its braid.
Shorter strands teased her eyes. She stripped them back
automatically, one hand still leading the horse. "Why?"
she asked quietly.

Corin fought his own losing battle with wind and hair.
"Because . . . because he is Brennan."

Aileen laughed. "Such a black scowl, Corin! Is he truly
so bad?"

"No. He is truly so good." He shook his head, feeling
a vague sense of guilt. Only Keely really knew how he
felt, because of their birth-link, and because she shared a
measure of his resentment. She and Brennan were no
closer than he and Brennan, although she was less both-
ered by troublesome resentments. Corin thought it was
because Keely, being a woman, knew there was no chance
she might inherit the Lion; in Corin's case, he was pre-
vented only by the order of his birth. "I should say
nothing more, Aileen ... he is your betrothed, and it
does no good to color your opinions of him when you
should form them fairly."

She laughed. "D'ye see? You don't dislike him as
much as you think ... if you did, you'd not be defending
him to me."

He sighed again, deeply, giving up the final vestiges of
decorum. This was a subject he had avoided from the
beginning, unable to raise it with the woman Brennan
would wed. But if Aileen wanted frankness, he would
give it to her.

"Since I can remember, it was always Brennan this,
Brennan that . . . Brennan, the Mujhar's son; Brennan,
the Prince of Homana; Brennan, heir to the Lion. Part of
the past and of the future: Cheysuli and Homanan." He
slanted her a glance, fearful he might offend her, but saw
only that she listened without judging. "All my life he
has been held up as an example of what a man can and
should be—what / could be if I tried!—and I am so

312 Jennifer Roberson

weary of it. If he had earned it, I would not care so
much, but it is because of his birth . - . because he was
born first—" He broke off, stripping tawny hair out of
stinging eyes. "It might have been Hart. Hart might have
come first, and then he would be heir to Homana"

"Or you." She said it calmly. "Is that what you're
resenting so much? That you were not born in place of
Brennan?"

Conn stopped dead. The horse nearly walked over
him, but he did not care. "Aye." He did not avoid her
eyes. "Aye, Aileen, it is. I have always wanted the
Lion."

She turned to face him. The wind ripped hair from her
face and bared it for him to see. "But you'll be having
that"

He followed the line of her lifted arm. Beyond her
hand he saw the island across the Dragon's Tail. "Atvia,"
he said sourly, "is poor proxy for Homana."

Slowly she lowered her arm. "D'ye want it because
you want it? Or because your brother will have it?"

He stared at her. He had never considered that view of
his desire. He knew only that for as long as he could
remember, he had wanted Brennan's place.

He looked at Kiri. Oh, lir, is that it? Do I want what
Brennan has only because he has i(?"

The fox did not answer. Corin shivered, discovering
something within himseli he did not like at all; acknowl-
edging it for the very first time, and liking it no better.

// I had what Brennan has, would I be content? Or
would I search for new unhappiness and ways of express-
ing it?

Corin looked at Atvia across the choppy gray water.
Slowly he sat down, giving the horse his head, and stared
out into the skies. "I want power," he said. "I want
freedom. I want contentment. But—mostly I want the
chance to be myself without being weighed against my
rujhoUi."

Aileen released her horse and sat down beside him,
deftly settling her skirts. "Not so much," she said. "You're
not in the way of being a greedy man."

A PRIDK OF PRINCES

313

The island across the channel was awash in spray and
sunlight, tinted with myriad colors. "Atvia is a land of
strangers," he told her. "A land of old hatreds and
resentments, of wars and vassalage ... I will not be
welcome there."

"No," she agreed. "But for a man who wants power,
you might look on it as a challenge. You can go in a
foreign prince, and come out a beloved king."

"Beloved." He smiled. "What king is beloved?"

"My father," she answered quietly.

Corin sighed- "And, I think, mine."

Aileen stared into the distances, seemingly lost in
thought. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet, but he
heard the subtleties in her tone as loudly as if she shouted.
"If Brennan is anything like you, perhaps I can be
content."

"Anything like me?" He stared at her in shock.
"Aileen—no . . . Brennan is nothing like me, and you
should be grateful for it!"

"Why?" Now she looked at him. "Should I be grateful
because he lacks your complexities? Because he lacks
your depth of emotions? Lacks your passion?" Her eyes
did not waver. "Should I toe grateful because there is no
need for him to say what is in his heart?"

"And if the heart is black—'

"Not black," she said quietly. "Only bruised by child-
hood resentments, and I'm thinking those can be easily
banished."

Corin shook his head. "Brennan is more suited to the
Lion. He thinks before he speaks, speaks before he acts,
then acts responsibly. He understands what makes a man
feel the way he does, and respects that man for his
feelings. He listens—" Abruptly, Corin broke off. And
then he began to laugh. "Oh, gods, woman—do you see
what you have done? From telling you why I dislike my
rujholli I am become his champion!"

"I'm thinking he needs none," Aileen told him.
"And—I'm thinking too that Atvia's gain is surely
Homana's loss."

Corin thought not. Conn thought something else en-

314

tirely, and found he must express it. Slowly he drew in a
breath. "And / am thinking that my loss is Brennan's
gain—" He broke off a moment, then went on bitterly.
"Except you cannot lose what you never had."

They stared at one another for a long moment, unable
to look away, knowing only that he had said what was
better left unsaid, between them; between the woman
meant for his brother and the man who wanted her for
himself, even as he had wanted so many things Brennan
had. But this time, this time, he wanted less to win her
away than simply to win her, period.

Slowly, she put out her hand and touched his, gently;

he felt the trembling in her fingers. "For that, I am
sorry."

Corin pulled his hand from hers and made a gesture:

an upturned hand, palm bared, fingers spread. ^Tahlnwrra
lujhalla mei wiccan, cheysu," he said grimly, "and I can
change the fate the gods have given us no more than I
can change the order of my birth."

He stood before the Lion Throne and faced the man
within it. Not his father; Niall was gone. In his place was
Brennan.

Corin inclined his head. "My lord," he said politely, "I
wish to steal your queen."

He sat up with a muffled shout. All around him was
darkness and the swathing of the bed. And once again,
as always, he reached out for Kiri.

Lir, oh, lir, I think I am going mad.

No, the vixen said, you are only losing sleep.

He was. Each night. He slept, dreamed, wakened,
then repeated the cycle. He was ashamed of some of the
dreams. He had thought, fleetingly, of bedding one of
the serving girls, if only to banish the dreams, but the
thought died nearly the instant it was born.

What he wanted was Aileen herself, not one of Ai-
leen's women.

Corin rolled over onto his belly. // / went to Atvia
now— But he knew he would never go. While Liam was

A PRIDE OF PlWCES

31S

from the palace, he had every right to wait. No one could
suspect him of remaining for anything else.

Not even Aileen could.

He slept. He dreamed. He awakened.

"Afy lord," he said politely, "I wish to steal your queen."
In his hand there was a sword—

Aileen touched his shoulder and the vision fled at once.
"Where are you, Corin? I see the look in your eyes."

He blinked, knowing himself back in Kilore. No more
Lion, no more Brennan. Only Brennan's betrothed.

"Nowhere," he said curtly, rising from the stool.

They had shared a meal, exchanged favorite stories of
mishaps suffered by their kin, told tales on one another,
recalled childhood games. Now they sat before one of the
giant fireplaces within a private chamber, and he knew
they tempted fate.

"Corin—"

"Will Liam never come home?"

Aileen, still seated, stared up at him as he turned to pace
away. Back and forth he moved, restless and angry, swal-
lowed by desperation. She saw it in him, and grieved.

"I can send for him," she said" at last. "I didn't do it
before only because you said there was no need for
urgency."

"No. No need for urgency." He stopped pacing and
swung back. "What I need I cannot have."

Clearly she understood him. She did not look away.
"Who is saying you cannot have it?"

"Brennan—"

"Brennan is not here."

Corin watched her rise. No more than three paces
separated them; he knew he dared not take them. Yet
hoped she would, so he could live with the guilt. And
knew it was unfair.

"Aileen—"

"You came unknowing," she said, "intending nothing.
I received you in place of my father, offering nothing
more than courtesy. And, eventually, compassion and

316 Jennifer Roberswi

understanding. From that grows the vine that tangles us
in its thorns."

"Then I will cut us free."

Aileen's smile was bittersweet. "Will you, now? But
how?"

"By telling you the message I have for Liam is that the
betrothal is to end." He saw the whitening of her face."A
wedding is desired; Brennan requires an heir."

Aileen said nothing for a long moment. And then she
clenched her hands in the folds of her heavy skirts. " Tis
a sharp knife, Corin . . . sharper than the thorns."

"Brennan will bind the wound."

"And who will be binding yours?"

"Oh, gods—Aileen—9

But she took the paces and closed the space between
them, closing his mouth as well with cold, slim fingers.
"No," she said, '*no. I'm wanting no cruelty from one
another, nor for one another. Ah, Corin—will ye hold
me? I've been wanting it so long—'*

He held her, as she asked, thinking he might fool
himself into believing he did it only because she asked,
but he knew better. He knew. He was lost, and so was
she.

And so was their innocence.

Lir, Kiri said, and someone threw open the door.

They broke, but not quickly enough. And then the
dogs were begging for Aileen's attention, so many dogs,
all wolfhounds, pushing them apart, and he knew Liam
was home at last.

"Lass," her father said mildly, and then he looked at
Corin.

Oh—gods—

Liam grinned and strode into the chamber, parting the
sea of dogs. He was a big man, a strong man, with
Deirdre's brass-bright hair and Aileen's green eyes; wind-
chafed, weather-bumed, hardened from years of war-
fare. He was fifty, Corin knew, but the years did not
weigh him down.

"NialTs lad," the lord of Erinn said in a vast and
abiding satisfaction. ** 'Tis in your face and your color,

317

A PRIDE OF PREVCES

though you lack the height and weight." He caught Corin
in a brief, bearish hug, then set him back for perusal.
Green eyes glinted; beyond him, white-faced, Aileen
stared. "I see none of Gisella in you."

Corin drew in a deep breath. "My lord—"

"So, have you come to woo my lass?" Liam strode to a
table and poured wine. "Or is she already won?" He
grinned and raised his cup. "To Brennan and Aileen,
future king and queen of Homana."

For one insane moment Corin wondered if it were
possible to keep Liam in ignorance. Hart, he knew,
might try it, merely to win a wager.

But this was not a wager; Aileen was worth far more.

"No," he said hollowly.'

One thick blond brow rose. "No?" Liam echoed. "Will
you not let me drink to your happiness?"

"You may drink to the happiness of Brennan and
Aileen," Corin said with as much control as he could
muster. "But I am not part of it."

Liam lowered the cup. "Are ye daft, lad? D'ye insult
my daughter so soon after you kiss her?"

"My lord." Corin moved to face Liam squarely, no
longer able to see Aileen. "My lord, you saw what you
saw. But I am not Brennan."

"Not—" Liam broke off. He set down the cup with a
thump; wine slopped over the rim. "Then who are you,
ye skilfin, and why were you kissing my daughter?"

"I am Niall's son, my lord ... he has three, if you will
recall. I am the youngest of them."

Liam's levity and high spirits were banished, replaced
with a frowning intensity. The sheer power in the man's
gaze made Corin want to squirm. But he held his ground,
unmoving.

"Corin," Liam said finally. "That much I know from
Niall's letters." He flicked a glance past Corin to Aileen
and his mouth tautened. "Wetl, lad, have you come to
tell me Brennan and Hart are dead, and you are heir to
the Lion?" His tone was harsh. "I'll accept no other
explanation for why you would take the liberty of kissing
Brennan's betrothed."

318 Jennifer Roberson

"Wilt you take this one?" Aileen spoke for the first
time since Liam had entered the room. She moved for-
ward to stand by Corin, facing her father even as he did,
but with less courtesy. "Will you accept it when I say I'll
be taking Corin in place of Brennan?"

Corin snapped his head around to stare at her in shock,

Liam's brows rose. "Will you?" he asked mildly. "D'ye
think it so easy, then?"

Corin had expected more than that from him. But
when he looked back at Liam, he saw the light tone did
not entirely dispell the intentness of his manner. He put
Corin in mind of a mountain cat feigning indolence until
it was time to leap-
But who is prey? he wondered uneasily. Aileen, or
myself?

"Not easy," Aileen said, "but right. I know it was a
political thing, the betrothal ... I have no quarrel with
that. But I'm saying we need only wed me to Corin in
place of Brennan."

Liam turned idly and walked around the table to the
immense fireplace. He stared into the flames, putting his
back to them. He wore black hunting leathers and golden
spurs; blond hair was tumbled against his shoulders,
combed by the wind of his ride. Around him, wolfhounds
gathered.

"Corin is pledged to Atvia."

It was all Liam said, and to the flames. Corin and
Aileen exchanged puzzled glances; she shrugged a little,
indicating ignorance of the reason for Liam's odd manner.

"Aye, to Atvia," she said finally, when it became
apparent her father intended to say no more. "But 'twould
be a good alliance, my lord . . . 'twould help to forge
peace between the realms."

" Twill be for others to do, when Alaric and I are
dead." Liam turned, warming his back, and Corin saw
the Lord of Erinn was not as indifferent as he sounded.

Not indifferent at all. . .he merely waits for the proper
time.

"What would it alter?" Aileen asked. "Brennan and I
have never met, nor even exchanged letters. He won't be

A PRIDE OF PRWCES              319

missing what he never had, nor made any effort to have."
She gestured. "There is Ellas, Falia, Caledon ... let him
have one of their princesses instead of Erinn's only one."

Liam's eyes flicked to Corin. "D'ye want her, lad?"

He raised his head. "Aye, my lord, / do.'"

Liam looked down at his dogs. "I could write Niall,"
he said absently. "I could write him . . . could be telling
him the very things you've told me ... perhaps it could
be arranged—" he looked up from his dogs, "—but then
'twould be the end of the prophecy ... the end of the
Cheysuli."

In shock, Corin stared back at him. In despair, he saw
the truth in Liam's compassionate eyes. He knew, did
Liam; he understood very'well. Better than Aileen, who
heard only the denial; better even than Corin, who knew
a great shame in overlooking the obvious. In nearly
betraying his blood.

"Are ye daft?" Aileen asked. "How could it be the
end of anything? And what does a prophecy have to do
with us?"

"Aileen." Corin wanted to touch her, but did not dare
it. "Aileen, I have told you of the prophecy . . . how it
governs Cheysuli lives."

"Aye, aye," she said impatiently, "you've told me all
about it. Tis a fine, shining thing, Corin, and worthy of
dedication, but what has it to do with us?"

"With you," he said cleariy. "The first son you bear
Brennan will be another link in the chain, taking us one
step closer to fulfillment."

Aileen shrugged. "And if I bore your son, would it not
please the gods as well?"

Corin slowly shook his head.

"Why nor?" she cried. " 'Tis a son they want, is it not?
Then I'll give them that son!"

"Aileen." Corin drew in a breath, "It comes down to
Brennan. It comes down to you. I do not figure in it."

"And why not?"

"Because—" he gestured emptily. "Because it has to
do with how the blood is mixed. Brennan is Cheysuli,

320 Jennifer Roberson

Homanan, Solindish and Atvian. You are Erinnish." He
sighed. "The prophecy requires—"

"But you have all those bloodlines, Corin!"

"But I am not the Prince of Homana!"

They stared at one another, transfixed by pride, by
anger, by anguish. And then AUeen made a gesture of
defiance and determination. "Does it matter so much
that I wed the Prince of Homana?"

"Aye," he said wearily. "It all begins with Homana
. . . one day it will end with Homana."

"Aileen." It was Liam, very quiet. "Aileen, has he
taught you nothing of the Cheysuli? D'ye see nothing of
his pride, his honor, the strength of will that rules his
life?" He looked older now, and saddened by what he
said. "Niall spent a twelve-month here, and in that time I
learned a little of the Cheysuli—enough to respect them
and their determination."

"D'ye not respect me?" she asked. "D'ye not think me
capable of judging a man? Why else d'ye think I want
him?"

"Then ask him," Liam said gently. "Look at him and
ask him."

After a moment, Aileen turned to Corin. "D'ye say
you're not wanting me?"

She would never be beautiful, but he was blinded by
her pride; by the brilliance of her spirit. "You showed
me what it was to look out of myself to others," he told
her gently. "You showed me how to be myself, not
judging myself against others, or what others wanted of
me. You taught me to be free in spirit if not in body,
bowing to necessity, and to accept the latter with grace."
He smiled a little. "Lastily, you taught me to love my
brother, and for that I am very grateful. Leijhana tu'sai,
meijhana . . . but I cannot steal his queen."

Aileen's face was a white blotch against red hair. Her
eyes swam with tears. But she said nothing, nothing at
all; she merely turned and walked from the room.

After a moment, Liam put a large hand on Corin's
shoulder and gripped it briefly, then released him. "Until
this moment I never regretted what Niall and I did,

A PiUDE OF PMWES

321

promising sons and daughters to one another. 'Tis the
way of royal houses; the requirements of rank." He
picked up Conn's forgotten cup of wine and put it into
his hands. "But it seems we dealt too lightly with unborn
souls."

Corin stared into the lukewarm wine. "I came here to
tell you my jehan desires the wedding to go forth." He
looked at Liam- "Aileen is to make ready for the voyage."

There was pain in Liam's green eyes, and more than a
share of regret- Slowly he reached out and took the cup
away- "Go to her, lad. She's a spirited lass, saying what
she thinks, and likely she'll have harsh words for you . . .
but go. I'll not be making the mistake my father did
when Niall was sent from' Deirdre. Go to Aileen and say
your good-byes. It won't be enough, but at least 'tis
something."

All Corin could do was nod. And then he left the
chamber.

At last he found her on the battlements of the fortress.
If she cried he could not tell; the wind scrubbed her face
clean of everything save the starkness she turned on him.

Her lingers clutched the brick: The line of her spine
was rigid. "Go, Corin. I'm wanting to be alone,"

"That is a lie," he told her plainly. "What you want is
for me to say I was wrong ... to say I'll take you
regardless of consequences ... to say I want you badly
enough to steal my rujholli's betrothed."

The mobile mouth was tightly drawn. "But you won't.
"You don't."

He stood next to her, turning to stare out at the sea
that pounded Erinn's shores. "I want you," he said sim-
ply, knowing no other way, no better way, to put it. "If it
is not enough that I say it without qualifications, then I
am sorry for you. But I know you better, Aileen ... I
know you better than anyone save Keely, if in an entirely
different sense."

"Do you?" They were close enough to touch, but
neither moved to do it.

"Aye." The wind carried most of it away, "I know that

322 Jennifer Roberson

if I turned my back on my kin, my race, my tahlmorra,
eventually you would hate me. Perhaps even tomorrow."
He turned to her, scraping leather knife sheath against
the wind-scoured stone. "There are women in the world
who would be pleased to have such sacrifice made in
their names, but you are not one of them."

Her hair was a banner in the wind, whipping back
from her face. "No," she said, "I ,am not . . . but I
almost wish I could be."

A laugh rose from deep inside of Corin, a single gust
of sound. "If you were," he told her, "if you were, I
could never love you the way I do."

Aileen swore bitterly and banged the wall with her fist.
"Why is it," she cried, "why is it I meddle where I
should not? Why is it I took it into my head to ease a
man's pain, to show him what it is to know contentment
within oneself?" Slowly she shook her head. "If I'd left
you alone, never trying to understand you, never trying
to ease that pain, we'd not be in this coil!"

"Why is it you took it into your head to show me that
underneath all my childish resentment, I really care for
Brennan?" Corin sighed and rubbed aching eyes with
rigid fingers. "Well, we have fashioned me into someone
I can live with, and now I must live without you."

"Brennan," she said bitterly. "Each time I look on
him, I will think of you. Even in bed—"

It was a vision he had purposely pushed aside, and
now she brought it back in all its intensity. He could not
bear it. "Aileen, stop." He caught her wrists. "Stop. You
punish me as well as yourself."

All the anguish was in her face, but so was her pride.
"And when I call him by your name?"

Corin shook his head. "Aileen, I swear, when you
meet Brennan you will understand. You will never mis-
take him for me. We are so different, so very different
. . . temperament, coloring, preferences ... so many
other things." He swallowed tightly. "I promise you,
Aileen, it will not be an empty marriage."

She jerked her wrists away. "I might prefer it that
way."

A PVDE OFPVNCES

323

All the pain rose up. "Do you think I want that?" he
cried. "Do you think I want to spend my life knowing
you hate every moment with my rujholli, when there is
nothing for me to do? No, Aileen. I would sooner be-
lieve you content enough than living your life in sorrow,
lost in some futile hope that someday I might come. It
would twist you, twist me ... it would destroy any hope
of happiness for either one of us."

"So," she said, "you tell me to go to Homana and wed
your brother ... to be his wife and bear his children . . .
to be everything to him that I want to be to you."

"Aye," he said harshly. "That is what I tell you."

She drew in a deep, unsteady breath. "You are a hard
man," she said, "and I wish I could soften you. But in
doing it, I would destroy the thing I love."

"Aileen—"

She thrust up a silencing hand. "No more," she said.
"No more from you, I say. And now I must go ... 'tis

time I began to pack."

He watched her go. And when she was gone, when he
stood alone on the battlements, he slid slowly down the
stone to sit with legs drawn up, staring blindly at his
knees.

Later, Liam came to him in his chambers. "Come out
with me, lad. Now."

"Out with you—?"

But Liam did not answer. He motioned Corin to fol-
low him out of the chamber and immediately left it, dogs
trailing in his wake, and after a moment Corin went as

well.

They left Kilore entirely, riding across the headlands
with an escort of giant dogs, and also Kiri, a blotch of
rust and black against emerald turf. Liam said nothing at
all of his intentions, nor what he expected of Corin; he
merely rode, wrapping himself in silence, and Corin rode

with him.

At last Liam halted. Before them was a grassy tor,
swelling out of the turf, and Corin saw a crude stone
altar on its crest. He thought they might dismount and go

324 Jennifer Roberson

up to it, but Liam remained in the saddle. In his eyes was
the opacity of memories recalled.

" Tis of the cileann, this place," he said finally. "The
oldfolk of Erinn, born of ages past. The tor is sacred,
blessed with ancient magic . . . can ye not feel it, lad?"

"Aye, my lord. I do."

Liam looked at the tor. " Twas where I took Niall
when he went out of Erinn to Atvia . . . leaving my sister
behind."

Pain rose; he would leave Liam's daughter behind.
Thinking: You forget, my lord. Niall left her, but Deirdre
came to him later. I cannot hope for the same.

"I was angry, lad ... angry with Niall, with Deirdre—
angry with myself." Liam grimaced. "I thought it a waste,
that a man such as your father had to bow to the dictates
of his/ate and trade Deirdre for Gisella. I saw what was
between them as clearly as I see the thing between you
and Aileen. And I cursed it, and them, and myself,
because I knew I would have to end it." He fell silent a
moment, and the wind teased his hair. "Lad, 'twas no
easier for me then than it is now. And I understand it no
better. But I know it must be done. Niall taught me that
much, and you have reminded me."

The horse stomped under Corin, who soothed it ab-
sently. "I am nothing like my jehan. I wish I might be,
that I could offer her better; or that I was firstborn, so I
would be more like Brennan—" He broke off. "But even
then, I could offer her nothing."

"And you're a blind man, lad." Liam turned his horse.
"Come, then. One day you will be king in Alaric's place;

we must speak now of trade and treaties, while we have
the time."

Silently Corin followed, while the wind blew down the
tor.

Five

She was, he thought, the most beautiful woman he had
ever seen. The power of'her allure touched him as it
touched all men, nearly engulfing his wits. But he knew
better. He knew her: UUith of the Ihlini, sister to Strahan
himself.

Corin drew in a steadying breath as he dismounted in
front of the palace steps. A boy took his horse. Alone,
afoot, afraid, he faced the sorceress.

She stood at the very top of the steps. She watched
him. And she smiled. "You are well come to Rondule."

"Am I?" He made himself mount the first step.

"But of course. Are you not the Crown Prince of
Atvia?"

A second step. "That is for Alaric to say."

"But of course." Still Lillith smiled. "H Alaric can."

Corin paused, then forced himself to climb. "An odd
thing to say."

"Not when you have seen him." She wore blue, deep,
rich blue, girdled with silver and pearls. Large, irregular
pearls, some creamy, some gray, some black, with a
tinge of silver-blue. More threaded the weave of her
braid.

Closer, ever closer, until he could see the silver tips of
her nails; the kohl-smudged lids. The eerie youthfumess
of features and form.

This woman seduced my su'fali.

Corin looked at her as he climbed. He began to under-

325

326 Jennifer Roberson

stand how. Lirless, lan had stood no chance. Her power
was manifest.

Lillilh smiled, "I see you have brought your Hr"

Someone, something, touched an icy fingertip to his
spine. He did not like the way Lillith looked at Kiri. To
change the subject, he said, "My jehan sent word I was
coming."

"No," Lillith said. "I already knew."

He stopped short. He was but three steps below her.
She was young, he saw, genuinely young. Not older. Not
age, masquerading as youth. He had only to compare her
to Aileen to know that the sorcery was powerful indeed.
It did more than lend her the illusion of youth and
beauty, it gave her both in full measure. The Seker was
an unstinting god.

Oddly, he recalled Boyne's story. The tale of a sor-
cerer become god. The memory made him shiver.

Lillith smiled. Calmly she stood at the top of the steps,
giving nothing away of her power, but showing it all the
same. "There is no doubt who sired you."

He had heard it before. He and Keely had both inher-
ited Niall's coloring—blue eyes, tawny hair, fair skin—
and a resemblance in facial structure, but neither claimed
his frame. Keely was tall for a woman, but nothing more;

he himself was considered short for his Cheysuli heritage,
being less than six feet. Brennan and Hart both topped
him by a bandspan.

"And no doubt who sired you."

Lillith laughed. "And did you know Tynstar well?"

"Only by reputation."

"With him, that is all that is needed."

Her tone was a trifle cooler, her black eyes more
assessive; Conn disliked intensely the sensation of being
judged. It was bad enough when his father did it; worse
when done by an Ihlini. "Lillith—"

"Come in," she said abruptly. "There are matters to
discuss, and better places to discuss them."

He wanted to refuse her, to leave her and go some-
where she could not touch him, even with her eyes. But
an innate sense of self-preservation and a desire to play

A PRIDE OF PitMCES                327

the game very carefully kept him from blurting it out.
This was Atvia, not Homana. Lillitb had been Alaric's
light woman for a very long time, and was Ihlini to boot;

her influence would be well established by now. Until he
knew better how things stood, it was not his place to
quibble.

At least until reason is plainly given. He 'followed
Lillith in silence.

She took him to a private chamber within the heart of
the palace. The servants they passed bowed quickly to
Lillith, but watched him with curious eyes. He wondered
how Lillith had known he was coming; he wondered if
she had not, and simply said she had. Mostly, he won-
dered how he would manage to last the year.

"Here." Lillith indicated a carved, high-backed chair.
The room was shadowed, lacking windows, illuminated
only by candleracks. Most were unlit, like the fireplace.
It dulled the colors of the tapestries and robbed the room
of welcome.

He sat down. Kiri took her place by his feet, sitting
rigidly in front of his legs. She watched the woman in-
tently as Lillith poured wine.

Corin shook his head as the cup was offered. Lillith
did not withdraw it. "A fool will often go thirsty."

"But at least the fool will live."

Briefly she looked at Kiri. She smiled. "You are a
fool, Corin. Why should I stoop to poison when I have
other means? And why, for that matter, should I desire
to take your life? You are more useful to me alive."

"Useful?" Lillith still held out the cup; he stared at her
over the rim.

She did not answer at once. Instead, she gazed thought-
fully at the cup she held, as if troubled by his refusal. She
lifted it to her own lips, sipped distinctly so he could see
she did indeed drink the wine. And then, idly—as if it
were no more than an afterthought—she tipped the cup
over and poured out the wine.

Corin jerked back into the depths of the chair, trying
to avoid the torrent. Even Kiri dodged aside. But there

328 Jennifer Roberson

was no need. In midair, as the wine spilled out of the
cup, it turned into coils of lavender smoke.

"One need not concern oneself with unwanted resi-
due," Lillith said obscurely, and threw the cup to Corin.

He caught it, as she meant him to, and then cursed
himself for following her lead. He leaned over the side of
the chair to put the cup down on the floor; as he did,
stretching out his arm, the cup began to change.

Aghast, he Jerked his hand away. But the cup fol-
lowed. In his hand the silver melted, reformed, braceleted
his flesh. Cursing, he tried to fling the silver away, but it
had formed a rigid cuff around his wrist. A seamless,
shining shackle.

"I will be very plain," Lillith said quietly. "If I wanted
you, I would take you. There is nothing you could do."

His hand trembled, then spasmed. "Take it off—"

Lillith shook her head. "For now, I will leave it. It will
be a reminder, so you do not forget who holds the power
here." She turned from him and moved to the nearest
chair, spreading blue skirts as she settled into black cush-
ions. She did not seem to notice that he was transfixed by
the silver cuff, unable to look at her. "I want you to
understand very clearly how things are in Atvia."

"Lady, I do" He fisted his hand and thrust it into the
air, displaying the shining shackle.

"Good." Lillith smiled. "I have no intention of rob-
bing you of your birthright."

He frowned before he could hide it.

"No," she said, "why should I? You are Alaric's grand-
son, kin to Osric and Thome and Keough, and all the
lords before them. I would be a fool if I stripped Atvia of
her rightful blood."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because it pleases me to be here." Lillith's tone was
bland.

"As it pleased you to seduce a Hrless Cheysuli?"

Black eyes glinted. "Does lan dream of me?"

"No more than I will, Ihlini." He tried to ignore the
silver on his wrist. But it was cold, so cold. "What is your
purpose? Why do you stay with Alaric? If you speak the

A PRSM WPftWCES                329

truth about my inheritance, you must know I will not
want you here."

"By the time you inherit this realm, there will be no
need for me here."

"Lillith—"

"We must speak of the future, Corin," she said qui-
etly, overriding him easily. "Alaric is an old man. His
wits fail. Atvia suffers from the lack of a strong hand at
the helm. If something is not done, Atvia will fall to
those who wish to conquer her and take her for their
own."

He frowned. "Who would benefit from conquering
Atvia? The realm owes fealty to Homana."

"Liam would take the island in a moment if he knew
of Alaric's weakness. It has nothing to do with Homana;

Atvia and Erinn have battled for years."

That he knew well enough. But he shook his head.
"No. I think Liam—"

"No." she said plainly, "you do not think. You know
nothing of Liam at all, having met him only yesterday."

"My/cAan—"

"Your father has not seen Liam in twenty-two years,"
Lillith said flatly. "And even then, he knew him as
Prince of Erinn, not the lord himself. Power changes
men. Power will change you." She spoke coolly, without
excess emotion, expressing things the way his father might.
He found he did not like it; Lillith was enemy. "I will not
waste my time trying to convince you Liam means Atvia
harm," she continued. "You would never believe me.
But I will say this: unless a strong man assumes the throne,
Atvia will fall. If not to Liam, to someone else." She
paused, and her tone was subdued. "There are other
realms in the world besides those we know."

It was an odd statement. To Corin, the world was
made up of a handful of realms: Homana, Solinde, Erinn,
Atvia, Ellas, Falia, Caledon, and the Steppes. In child-
hood, he had learned a little of them all. There had been
no others named.

"And you want me to assume the throne. Now. Ahead
of time."

Lfllith's shrug was eloquent. **Alaric's time yaws short.*'

"Then why precipitate it?"

"For the reasons I have given."

"No," he said flatly, "there must be something more."
He grasped the easorcelled silver with his left hand,
sensing a disorienting ambience in addition to the icy
touch, and tried to twist it off. But the silver was solid,
inflexible, hugging his wrist as firmly as the tir-bands
hugged his arms.

"It would serve you," she said. "Take the throne now,
establish your claim . . . make certain Atvia understands
you are the lord. Give the people no chance to be swayed
by foreigners.'*

Foreigners. Again she spoke of external threats. And
yet, to his knowledge, there were no foreigners; the
world was made of eight realms, those he had already
named. Four of them were part of the prophecy.

But this was Lillith. "You are lying," he said curtly.
"You are Ihuni, and you are lying, and I want no part of
your plots."

"But Atvia is your responsibility, Corin."

She was so cool, so calm, so certain of her influence.
"Not yet," he answered firmly. "Alaric is lord until the
day he dies, and I go home in seven months."

"Alaric will be dead within seven weeks," Lillith said
gently. "Unless, of course, I should prefer it be seven
days—or perhaps seven hours."

Corin swore, pushing himself from the chair. The sil-
ver was heavy on his wrist, heavy and cold, unneeded
ballast for his spirit. "So help me, Ihlini, I will have you
sent from Atvia now—"

Lillith also rose. They faced each other across a space
no wider than five paces, knowing centuries of contention.

Corin frowned as he stared at her. He badly wanted to
ask Kiri's advice, but their link was blocked by Lillith's
nearness. "What do you want?" he asked. "What is it
you want, Ihlini? My cooperation?—you know I will
never give it. My departure?—on Alaric's death the realm
is mine, regardless of where I am. But you stand here
and tell me to reach out my hand and take the throne;

331

A PRIM OF PitWCES

you hint you will put Alaric out of my way. Collusion?
No. I will never condone his death. And yet I wonder
... I wonder if I refuse it, if I go, does it serve some
unknown Ihlini purpose? Do you tell me to stay, to take
the throne, only because you know the asking will make
me go?"

Lillith laughed. "Have I confused you, Corin? Do I
show you the two-sided mirror?"

"You show me the perversity of your race," he re-
torted. "Do you think I will listen to you?"

"If I choose to speak, you will." Lillith gestured and
the door flew open to slam against the wall. "Simple
tricks," she told him derisively. "The old gods saw to it
the Ihlini could not level most sorceries against their
brother race, but some small powers remain."

"And Asar-Suti?" he asked. "Does he promise god-
hood in exchange for servitude?"

For a moment, a moment only, Lillith's color changed.
And then she smiled, smoothing her skirts, and gestured
for him to go. "A servant will show you to your chambers."

There was little for the servant to do with Conn's
shoulderpacks other than remove the contents and put
them away in trunks and casks. Corin, watching in si-
lence, realized there was little about him that denoted his
rank. He had come away from Mujhara with few belong-
ings; under the circumstances, he had not wanted to ride
with a baggage train. Now he was dependent upon Alaric
for such things as extra clothing, and he did not like it.

Had I thought about it, I might have planned more
carefully, he told Kiri, and then flinched away from the
interference in the link. Lillith's presence was every-
where in the castle, imbuing even the walls with the stink
of sorcery. Outside, at greater distance, he had no doubt
the link would be re-established, but within the walls of
the castle he was cut off from his lir in everything save
physical contact.

The servant bowed himself out. Corin, hardly noticing,
went instantly to Kiri. He sat down on the bear pelt by
the bed and gathered the vixen into his arms. She was

332

warm, alive, affectionate, but he badly missed their inte-
rior dialogue, the link that gave him the ability to change
his shape. He felt stripped of half his identity. "Gods,
Kiri ... I am so alone."

As be bent down, she pressed her muzzle against his
neck. He felt cold nose, warm breath; smelled her famil-
iar musky scent. Bright amber eyes seemed to tell him all
was well, but it served only to make him even more
restless and ill at ease. Suddenly Kiri seemed no more
than a tame fox, little more than a pet. It made him
angry, resentful, uneasy; it robbed him of his sense of
self, so important to the Cheysuli.

Is this what it was Uke for my jehan? Lirless all those
years, despairing of ever knowing the magic of our race
. . . Corin shivered once. Gods, I could not bear it. . .
this is bad enough, and I know it is temporary.

Against her fur the silver wristlet gleamed. He felt his
fingers curl, tighten, fist, until he wanted to smash it into
the nearest wall. It did not matter that he would shatter
delicate bones; he wanted only to rid himself of the
shackle Lillith had put on him.

"No chain," he said aloud. "No chain, but this is more
than enough."

He turned his hand over, baring the underside of his
arm. The silver was seamless, displaying no joints; a solid
ring of metal. Corin pulled his knife, slid the tip of the
blade beneath the cuff and tentatively pried. The shackle
was very snug, leaving no room for the blade. Steel
scraped on silver; a subtle stinging told him he sliced hair
instead of metal.

Tlie door swung open.

Corin, seated on the floor with Kiri in his lap and the
knife in his hand, prepared to send the servant away. But
when he looked up, scowling, he saw plainly the woman
was not a servant at all.

Cheysuli was the first word that came to his mind. And
then another: jehana.

Corm said it aloud. And then, awkwardly, he sheathed
the knife and rose, turning Kiri out of his lap.

He had, he thought, prepared himself for the meeting.

A PRIDE OFPsmcES              333

On the voyage from Hondarth he had, every night in his
bunk, carefully considered what he would say and do
when he saw Gisella. But now, seeing her, he could do
nothing at all.

"Which one are you?" she asked. "Which son does he
send?"

For a moment his tongue was locked in silence. Having
heard of Gisella's madness from his father, his uncle and
others, he had reconciled himself to incoherence, wan-
dering wits, perhaps even tantrums. But not such clarity.
Never such conciseness.

"Corin," he said hoarsely. "Third-bom of his children."

"Mine, too," Gisella-said. "Mine, too, Corin."

He drew in an unsteady breath. He was accustomed to
his father's disfigured face, even beneath the patch; to
the wear derived from worry and the experiences of his
past. And somehow Corin had unknowingly transferred
much of it to Gisella, expecting to see identical signs in
her flesh. But there were none.

At thirty-nine she did not share the same uncanny
youthfulness as Lillith, but she was not what Corin ex-
pected. She was, plainly, Cheysuli; the Atvian was un-
seen. Black hair was pulled back from her face, displaying
the widow's peak that lent her features an odd elegance.
There was no hint of silver, no trace of age in her coiled
braids. Her flesh was taut and dark, untined except for a
delicate tracery at the edges of yellow eyes. Most striking
of all, having borne two sets of twins, she retained the
slendemess inherent in Cheysuli women. And she cer-
tainly claimed the posture.

Corin and Keely were Niall; now he saw Brennan and

Hart.

"Jehana," he said again, and wished that he had not.

"Jehana," she mimicked, shutting the door behind ner-
"Aye, I am your jehana. Gisella of Atvia; Gisella, Queen
of Homana."

"Aye," he said carefully, wary of her mood.

"I have ordered the packing begun."

He blinked. "Packing?" He felt a fool, cursing himself
for his inability to say more than a single word.

334 Jennifer Roberson

Gisella smiled. "It is time I was a wife to my husband
again."

"Wife—" He stopped himself, drew in a deep breath,
tried to keep his tone uninflected. "There is no place for
you in Homana."

"Then I will make one." Yellow eyes glittered a mo-
ment; he was reminded of Brennan and lan. Of a preda-
tor stalking its prey. Gisella, watching him, laughed.
"They told you I was mad."

Corin was foundering quickly. "Aye," he said plainly
at last, giving up on diplomacy.

"Do you think I am mad?"

She waited expectantly, clearly unoffended by the pos-
sibility he might say he believed she was. He wondered
what he would say if it were given out that he was mad.
"All I know." he said slowly, "is that you tried to give all
of us to Strahan."

"Is that proof of madness?" Gisella asked. "It was not
what Niall wanted, nor any of the Cheysuli, but it hardly
makes me mad. It makes me an enemy."

"Are you?" He stared at her. "Are you an enemy?"

"Would I give you to Strahan now?" She laughed.
"Oh, no, no. That time is passed. I would rather keep
you."

That pleased Corin no better; he pictured himself a
lapdog on her leash. Or a dogfox in a cage. He looked at
Kiri uneasily, wishing they could converse.

Gisella moved into the room almost idly, playing with
the girdle that clasped slender hips and spilled down the
front of her skirts. She wore red, deep, rich red, and
rubies set in silver. 'That time is passed," she repeated.
"The time now is for me to stand at Niall's side ... to
share my husband's bed." She turned abruptly, catching
him off-guard. "To send that whore from my place."

Anger rose instantly. "Deirdre is my jehana. You will
not call her a whore."

He had never, to anyone, claimed Deirdre was his
mother. From childhood it had been made plain that
Deirdre was mother in blood only to Maeve; that she was
not cheysula, but meijha, not queen, but beloved of the

A PKIDE or PRINCES               33S

Mujhar. The lines of descent were too important for
dissembling or convenience, even among the Cheysuli;

all of NialFs children knew Gisella was their mother. But
he would not claim her now.

"AfeyAfl," Gisella said sweetly. ^Meijha, then, if you
like. It changes nothing. / am Queen of Homana. / am
NialTs wife. I am mother to his children, and I intend to
assume my place."

"He will never have you." He was adamant in his
certainty.

"Homanan law will make him." Gisella's eyes were on
Kiri, "I will go before the Homanan Council and I will
plead my case." Her voice was quiet and even. "I am the
forgotten wife, the forgotten Queen, conveniently pushed
aside in the name of Niall's lust. I bore him four healthy
children—three of which are sons—and I have borne
exile meekly, with no thought to disagree." Her eyes
were eerily feral. "But now I weary of such treatment. I
desire better. I desire the place to which I am entitled,
the privileges of my rank, the respect and honor of my
husband." Her lids half-shuttered her eyes, but he saw
the yellow glint. "I desire to know the love of all my
children."

"Get out." He was shaking. "Get out of my room.
Go. I want nothing to do with you—"

"But you do." Gisella stood before ,him. "You do,
Corin. You want to love me. You want to have me love
you in return. You want a mother, a jehana. You want a
cheysula for your jehan. You want things to be right in
your world, so you can feel good again. You want to
know that all those years were not wasted; that indeed,
your mother loves you. And would have loved you bet-
ter, had your father allowed it. Had he not sent me away
for the sake of an Erinnish princess."

"You would have given me to Strahan—"

"What other choice did I have?" Her shout stopped
him cold. "What choice, Corin? Lillith raised me. Lillith
shaped me. Lillith told me to."

"Ullith is Ihlini," he said tightly. "What did you expect?"

"I expected—and received—love," Gisella told him.

336 Jennifer Roberson

"It was what she gave me. It was what my father gave
me. In the name of that love, I did what I was told."

"To Strahan—"

Gisella looked away. "I was confused," she said softly.
"Confused, afraid—so afraid." She crumpled the silver
girdle so that the links bit into her flesh. "I did what I
was told."

Corin stared at her for a long, stricken moment. And
then he backed away. Hugging himself, he backed away,
Knowing himself as confused.

And perhaps equally afraid.

"Go." He stared at the floor. "Just—go."

She went. He heard the chime of silver links, the rattle
of clashing rubies, the swish of heavy skirts. He heard
the door thud closed. And then he was alone.

Alone with the wondering.

Six

Alaric of Atvia was indeed an old man, though Corin
could not venture how ofd. A few years more than sixty,
he knew, and yet he seemed much older. His hair was
white. His frame was wracked with palsy. When Corin
compared him to Liam, but fourteen years Alaric's ju-
nior, the contrast was astonishing.

And somehow frightening.

He had been called to attend his grandsire in one of
the massive halls. He had gone immediately, in defer-
ence to the courtesy Deirdre and Niall had taught him,
but he did not like it. And now, facing the man, he liked
it even less.

The old man, the old king, was a pile of bones in an
oversized chair. Rich cloth adorned the bones, but it did
not hide the fragility of his flesh or the brittleness of his
spirit. The loss of many teeth altered the line of mouth
and jaw. The flesh over the nose had thinned so that it
was little more than a blade-thin beak jutting out of a
hollowed face. His brown eyes were rheumy, nearly swal-
lowed by drooping lids, and he stank of insidious decay.

One hand stabbed out peremptorily, indicating a place
before the throne. "Here!"

Uneasily, Corin approached. Even with Kiri warding
one teg, he wanted to take his leave.

"Here!"

Corin stopped before the throne. The hand with its
rigid finger was little more than thinning hide stretched

337

338 Jennifer Roberson

over bone. He could see dark, mottled blemishes and
knotted sinews beneath the flesh.

"Here." The hand was lowered at last.

Corin waited. He could think of nothing to say, of
nothing to do, other than to force himself not to stare.
And so he looked at Alaric's feet, wishing himself any-
where but where he was.

"Gisella says you are my grandson."

"Aye."

"Look at me, boy! Tell me what you see!"

Startled by the thready shout, Corin looked at the
man. "My lord?"

" *My lord,' " Alaric mimicked. " 'My lord' indeed!
Tell me what you seeF

Conn's short-lived courtesy vanished; he did not like
this man. "I see death," he snapped. "Death, decay.
disillusionment, and the destruction of a man."

"Tell me what you see!"

"An old manF Corin cried. "The man who killed his
cheysula ... the man who destroyed his daughter . . .
the man who lay with an Ihlini witch in exchange for
petty power!"

"What power?" Alaric demanded. "What power do I
hold? Atvia? No. Sorcery? No. The control of my wits
and body?—no! Lillith has stolen them all.'*

Corin frowned. This was not what he had expected.
Alaric had always worked with Lillith, trying to shape the
downfall of Homana. "You reap what you sow," he said
shortly.

Alaric laughed, although the sound was unlike any
Corin had ever heard. And the tears ran out of his eyes.
"The seed of my destruction was sown so many years
ago," he said. "More than forty, when Lillith first came
to Atvia."

"You should have sent her away."

"At the time, she served a purpose." Alaric's fallen
mouth moved into a travesty of a smile. "I gave her
freedom. I gave her power. I gave her everything she
wanted, and willingly. There was no coercion. She,used
no sorcery on me. We worked toward similar goals." He

339

A PRIDE WPttWCES

bent forward, coughed; spittle flew out of his mouth. "I
even gave her my daughter."

"And now she wants your throne." Corin tried to keep
the distaste from his expression.

"Lillith has the throne in everything but name." The
old man thrust himself more deeply into the huge chair,
thin hands gripping armrests. "She is done ruling through
me. Now she wants you."

Cold radiated outward from the silver on his wrist and
encompassed his entire body. "No," Corin said. "Do you
think I would give in to her? I am not as you."

"But I am in you." Alaric smiled again. "Will you tell
me there is no ambition in .you? No desire for power? No
need to rule other men?"

"Grandsire—"

"Will you tell me you do not want it?" Alaric's add
tone, though diluted by age, retained enough of its arro-
gance and spite to stop Corin's protest dead. "Will you
stand there, blood of my blood, and tell me you do not
dream of holding the Lion Throne?"

Appalled, Corin stared.

"Aye," Alaric said. "'Aye ... I know what you feel.
Because / felt it. . . / desired it ... I even dreamed of
it. We know better, you and I. There is more to this
world, much more, than petty island kingdoms. There
are places such as Homana."

"You are disgusting," Corin said. "A disgusting old
man awash in the stink of his death. Atvia will be mine
on your death because I am your grandson, not because I
need it—"

"But you do. You do." With great effort Alaric grasped
the armrests and pulled himself out of the chair. He was
stooped, twisted, wracked. But the flame of his hatred
blazed. "She drains me ... drains me to feed Gisella
... to replace her addled wits. Once it is done, I am
dead. And then she will turn to you."

"Grandsire—"

"She means to send Gisella to Homana," Alaric said
steadily, "where they will see that she is not mad, not
mad at all, merely the victim of Niall's lust for Deirdre of

349 Jennifer Robersoa

Erinn. And because there are Homanan laws governing
the rights of husbands and wives, the lives of kings and
queens, they will make him take her back . . . they will
make her Queen again, not knowing what she is." Tears
ran down his face. "My beautiful, addled daughter. . . ."

"Grandsire." This time, Corin overrode Alaric. "Do I
understand you? Lillith is using you to restore Gisella's
wits?"

Alaric tapped his head- "It grows emptier by the day—"

Lillith laughed. "So it does, old man. I think your time
grows short."

Corin spun even as Alaric sagged and fell back into the
chair. Lillith stood in the open doorway, one hand on the
door, and then she swung it shut.

Kiri's upper lip lifted. Hackles rose, Corin could not
touch her through the link, but there was no need; what
both of them felt was obvious, requiring no conver-
sation.

"Old man," she said, "are you unhappy with your lot?"

Alaric mumbled something.

"Otd man," she said, "you knew it would come to
this."

The old man stirred uneasily in his chair. Between
them the tension was palpable; Corin wanted to back
away, to leave the hall entirely, wanting no part of this.

"Old man," she said, "it was what you wanted. To see
your daughter made whole."

"Gisella," Alaric whispered, and the tears ran down
his face.

Lillith looked at Corin. "He asked it," she said. "He
begged it of me: to make his daughter whole. To restore
her wits so he could see the woman she might have been,
had he not destroyed her mother."

"I know the story," Corin said hoarsely. "Alaric shot
her out of the sky. Bronwyn was in fir-shape, a raven,
and he shot her out of the sky."

"Not knowing it was her," Lillith said quietly. Her
hands were folded in dark green skirts, hiding the silver-
tipped nails. "Not knowing the fall would steal the wits
from his unborn daughter, whose birth was so rudely

A Pmw w PRWCES            341

precipitated." Her eyes were on Alaric, huddled form-
lessness in the throne. "He begged it of me, Corin: to
make his daughter whole."

Corin swallowed back the bile that tickled his throat.
"For how long?" he asked. "How long will it last?"

Lillith shrugged. "Once Alaric dies, the wits die. The
power is not unlimited. Gisella will become what she has
been from the moment of her birth."

"Mad," Corin said.

"We are all a little mad." Lillith approached the throne.
She put her hands on Alaric's head. "Oh, my lord, I
promise the pain will end. In a day, two, three, you will
not know its name anymore. You will only know sense-
lessness."

"Knowing she will go mad, you send her to Homana."

Lillith barely glanced at Corin. "It will be sweet to
trouble NiaU."

Beneath her hand, Alaric stirred. And Corin, looking
into the face of approaching madness, found he could no
longer. He turned and walked rapidly from the hall with
Kiri close beside him.

Lillith's laughter followed him. "Welcome to Rondule."

With Kiri, he left the castle. He ignored the servants
who asked how they could serve him; ignored the sol-
diers stationed at the gates who offered to fetch him a
horse. He ignored them all, too intent on escaping the
castle, and said nothing at all to them. He went out of
gates, out of the walls, out of Rondule entirely, climbing
to the headlands. To the top of the dragon's skull.

He shut his eyes and reached for the earth magic with
all of his strength. And as it came tumbling forth, surging
up to fill his bones with power, he summoned his other
self.

Now— His eyes snapped open.

It hurt. It hurt. Perhaps it was Ullith*s proximity that
twisted the power, perhaps it was something else. But
the shapechange was slow and sluggish, wracking his
bones with pain.

He gasped. He fell, kneeling on the turf, and tried to

342

Jennifer Roberson

thwart the pain. But it came at him in waves, as if
intending to keep the earth magic from reaching him.

Kiri—Kiri—Kiri—

He gagged, then retched, as his belly twisted. He felt
the shapechange start, then stop, then waver, then with-
draw, only to try again. What he was he could not say,
knowing only that if it continued he would no longer be
Conn at all, but someone else. Something else; beast
instead of man. Or something even worse.

He cried out, hearing the echoes of an eerie yapping
howl. Sweat blinded him, distorting his vision. Kneeling
on the turf with arms outstretched, fingers clawing at the
dirt, he saw the silver on his wrist. Lillith's seamless
shackle.

Muscles knotted. Cramped. Spasmed. Altered shape,
then altered again.

This time, Corin screamed.

Kiri.

Here.

Kiri.

Here. Her nose pressed against his neck.

Lir—

I am here.

He was stiff. He ached. Flesh, muscle, bone, all ached
with unremitting pain. Not blinding, screaming pain, but
the deep-seated ache of a body abused within and with-
out. Corin felt as though someone had stretched all his
muscles out of shape, binding them tightly around the
bones of an ancient man, to form a new one entirely.

Or was he a new thing?

He stirred. "Lir—"

Here, she said. Here.

He opened his eyes. The world was the world again,
though he could not speak for himself. He lay curled on
his side, arms and legs tucked up, and stared in shock at
the woman.

Giri, more like. She sat not so very far away, clad in
gray wool skirt and blouse, leather tabard, boots. And
she bared a knife in her hand.

A PRIW w PRINCES              343

Corin bunked. She did not vanish into the air. She
remained seated and silent, watching him warily.

He tried to move and found it incredibly painful. Grit-
ting his teeth, he forced arms and legs to straighten. It
drew a hiss of discomfort from him. The girl, he saw,
frowned. The knife glinted in her hand.

He swallowed. His throat was dry. Even his teeth hurt.
He tongued them, relieved to find human instead of
vulpine. He felt fully human. But he knew he could not
be sure.

"Am I a man?" he asked, and heard the croak that
issued forth. It stirred him into a movement his body was
yet unready for; he fell .back, gasping, and wished he had
not tried. "Am I a man?" he repeated; this time the
words made sense.

"With two arms, two legs, a head," the gin agreed.
"Did you think you might not be?"

He sighed. "Aye . . . aye, there was a chance." Slowly
he sat up, locking his jaw against the stiffness. and felt a
little of it fading. Perhaps once he was up and moving,
things would return to normal. He looked at nails, fin-
gers, hands. Then he touched his face.

"Man." she told him firmly. "What else might you
be?"

Corin touched Kiri, who sat so close beside him. "Fox,"
he told her. "Like this one, though dog instead of vixen."

Her eyes narrowed. She was brown-haired, brown-
eyed. Not pretty, not plain, though her features had a
familiar cast as well as an uncanny, arresting power.
Oddly, she reminded him of Aileen. "Are you Cheysuli,
then?"

He nodded. "Aye. Kiri is my Ar."

After a moment of consideration, she slid the knife
home in the sheath attached to her belt. "I heard you
shouting," she said. "I heard you screaming. So I came
to see what caused it, and found you there, on the
ground, all bound up like a newbom babe." One hand
splayed briefly across her abdomen; the gesture was elo-
quent, divulging much to Corin. "But when I found you,

344 Jennifer Roberson

I saw nothing that caused such pain. Nothing except the
fox, and she wanted only to protect you."

Corin rolled shoulders, head; flexed hands. Everything
responded, though a residual ache remained. "I tried to
assume fir-shape," he said. "Something prevented me.
Something twisted the magic." He looked more closely
at her, seeing a look in her eye that hinted at wariness,
and something close to fear. "I promise, I mean no
harm."

"Something might mean you harm," she said flatly,
pointing to his wrist. "That is the witch's handiwork."

Corin smiled. "You do not appreciate Lillith?"

The girl shivered. *'I would sooner live without her."
She pressed herself up from the ground, shaking out gray
skirts. "There is a tower not far from here ... an old
watchtower, built to warn us of Erinnish invaders- But it
is mine, now; will you come? I think you could use the
rest."

Corin got up slowly, hearing joints and tendons snap.
He could not recall ever feeling so stiff and sore, not
even after lengthy arms practice with Hart or Brennan,
or even against his uncle.

She took him to the tower on a cliff overlooking the
Dragon's Tail. The edge of the world, it was; jagged,
craggy, promising death to the man who fell over it. He
could see Erinn from here, and the palisades, showing
their chalk-white faces. It made him think of Aileen.

The interior was clean, washed white with lime. The
tower was round, supporting only a second story. A
wooden stair was tucked behind the studded door, wind-
ing to the upper floor and beyond, up to the watchtower
roof. There was a table, benches, chests, and baskets of
wildflowers. Also the dome of a tiny fireplace where she
undoubtedly cooked her food. It was a cozy, airy home
unlike any he had ever known.

She served him bread, cheese, ale. Her name was
Sidra, she told him; she owned a goat, some chickens,
grew vegetables, made cloth out of wool on her loom. In
town she traded for the other things she might need.

He looked at her in surprise. "You are alone?"

345

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

"Aye," she said; her chin rose a little.

"Why? Have you no husband "

"No husband."

"And no man to protect you?"

"I protect myself."

"With what, that knife?"

"I have also a sword," she said clearly, looking toward
one of the trunks.

Corin thought of Keely, so proud of her weapons-skill;

of her independence. But Keely, he thought, had sound
reason for both. She was skilled with sword and bow and
knife, because her brothers and uncle had taught her. As
well as her father's arms-master before Niall had stopped

it.
"Sidra," he said quietly, "what are you hiding from

me?"

She sighed, staring down at the table as she turned her
cup in restless circles. "No man will harm me," she said
quietly. "No man who knows who I am, and my father
takes care to make it known."

"Why?"

She lifted her head to look at him. "I am Alaric's
bastard daughter."

Seven

"Alaric's bastard?" Corin stared at her in surprise. And
then he began to laugh.

Sidra was unamused. Color stained her cheeks and set
her ale-brown eyes to guttering; she moved to rise, but
he reached across and caught her hand.

"No," he said, "no. Forgive me-1 do not laugh at you,
but at the situation." He suppressed another laugh, though
the sound threatened his throat. "How old are you,
Sidra? Eighteen? Nineteen?"

"Nineteen." She removed her hand from his. "Why do
you ask?"

"Because you are my su'fala." He smiled at her frown
of incomprehension. "Aunt," he told her plainly. "Gisella,
who is your half-sister, is also my mother."

This time there was no quick color in Sidra's cheeks,
but a draining of it entirely. "Gisella's—" She broke off,
staring at him blankly, and then she thrust her stool away
to rise and move from the table. "Cheysuli. . . aye, now
I see it. Gisella's son—one of them . . . would your name
be Corin?"

He affirmed it with a nod.

Sidra sighed, combing brown hair absently. She did
not braid it like so many other woman, but wore it tied
back with a strip of leather. Mostly free, it curled to her
nips. "Corin," she murmured, "Crown Prince of Atvia
... if the witch lets you have it." She turned back
sharply. "You do understand what she does, do you not?
The witch? My father's Ihlini whore?'*

346

347

A PRIDE OF PKWCES

Corin recalled very well what Alaric looked and sounded
like. He wondered how much Sidra knew. "I have seen
him only today."

"Then you do know." Abruptly she sat down again,
leaning forward against the table. "He was not like this,
Corin—not always. Oh, aye, I have heard all the stories—
you have little reason to love Atvia or my father—but I
swear, he was not always as you see him. That took her"

"Sidra—"

"I saw it," she interrupted. "I saw what she did to
him, and what it meant, and I told him. I told him to
send her away, to make her stop it, so she would not
destroy him. But I should have known. I should have
reckoned with her power over him." She shrugged a
little, pulling slender shoulders forward; the gesture was
eloquent as a sign of her helplessness. "Lillith had me
sent from the castle."

"Against Alaric's wishes?"

Sidra sighed heavily, staring blindly at her cup of ale.
"By then he had no more wishes—no more power to
demand them of her. But she is not a fool; she used no
sorcery against me, nor tried to have me slain. No. She
simply sent me here . . . where I am away from my
father."

Corin could not reconcile the Alaric of his father's
stories and the Alaric of the girl's. "Forgive me, Sidra—
but I do not see mm as you do."

"No." She scraped a nail against the wood and drew
an idle pattern. "No, you would not." She fell silent
again, then flicked him a glance from under heavy-lashed
lids. "It was after Gisella went to Homana to marry the
Mujhar. The Lord of Atvia, being lonely without his
daughter, turned to other women. My mother was one of
them. And on her he sired a daughter, whom he named
Sidra." Her mouth hooked down briefly. "My mother
died. He took me in. There was no secret of my birth,
but he did not care. He loved me, and made it known."

"What happens when he is dead?"

The question was cruel, but she did not avoid it. "What
more than this?" she asked. "I have no place in the

348 Jennifer Powersoft

succession. My mother was a simple Atvian girl whose
beauty, briefly, caught the eye of Atvia's lord. She was
nothing to him. Once, / might have been, but Lillith
ended that." Sidra shook her head. "I have nothing to
offer Atvia."

"Except the child you carry."

Again be saw the telltale hand splaying itself across her
belly. "How do you—"

"You give it away yourself." He mimicked her gesture
distinctly. "I have seen it before."

Sidra looked away from him. "It was one of .my fa-
ther's guardsmen. He is gone, now—sent away by the
witch . . . but at least she leaves me the child."

"For now." Corin shook his head. "I have grown up in
the midst of political intrigue, Sidra. Bastard you may
be, and the child, but it bears royal blood. If it is a son,
what is to keep the people of Atvia from deciding to
follow him instead of a stranger who shifts his shape?"

She stared. "Do you think it will threaten you?"

"You yourself said Lillith allowed you to keep the
child—at least for now. But once it is born, and if it is a
son, what is to say she will not take it for herself? Surely
a child would be easier for her to control than a Cheysuli
immune to her power."

"Immune," Sidra echoed. "Is that why you wear her
wristlet?"

He had forgotten. Now, reminded of it, he felt the
weigfat on his wrist. Cold. It was so cold. Bleakly, he
shook his head.

Unexpectedly, Sidra smiled. "Aunt," she said in amuse-
ment, "to a man who is older than I."

He might have smiled back, but he was thinking of
Aileen.

"What is it?" Sidra asked. "What troubles you, my
lord?"

It was the first time she had used his rank. It was
customary, and something to which he had grown accus-
tomed since childhood, but it was odd coming from her.
"Corin," he said. "I was thinking of a woman."

"Ah." She nodded, sighing. "Even as I think of a man."

349

A PRIDE OF PRMCES

His hand was lost in Kiri's pelt as she sat by his stool.
"Did he know there was a child?"

"No." Sidra poured more ale and drank. "No, he left
before I could tell him. Before I knew for certain."

"And if you sent word to him now?"

Her eyes filled with tears. "I could not begin to say
where he is- The witch would never tell me."

"And Alaric?"

Sidra brushed the tears away quickly, as if disdaining
them. "I doubt he knows. I doubt it was his doing."

"I might ask him for you."

Hope colored cheeks and glistened in widened eyes.

"Would you?"

"I promise nothing," he told her gently. "I will ask.
But I doubt Lillith would tell me anything more than she

has told you."

Sidra nodded, staring down at the hands she twined in
her lap. "Anything is welcome."

Corin rose. "I should go back. I left somewhat abruptly."
He was still stiff, still sore, but the rest had done him
good. "I will see what I can find out, and bring you word
as soon as I can."

"Oh, my lord, thank you!"

Corin shrugged as he turned toward the tower door.
"It is the least I can do after what you did for me." Kiri
trotted past him out into the afternoon. It grew late, and
dark; the sun slipped low in the sky and was hidden
behind a wall of heavy clouds. The wind had an icy bite.

Sidra, framed in the doorway, watched Corin go. "Be

wary of the witch."

"Here, I am wary of everything." He lifted his hand in
a farewell wave and turned away from her. And then,
abruptly, he stopped. "Why not come with me, Sidra?

Ask Alaric yourself."

"With you!" She gaped inelegantly. "I told you how I
was turned out of the castle!"

"This time you come at my invitation. If Lillith desires
to turn you out again, she will have to contend with me."
He put out a beckoning hand. "Come with me, Sidra.
We will approach Alaric together."

350                 Jennifer Roberson

She did not hesitate. She slammed the door shut be-
hind her and ran down the path to join him.

Lillith's black eyes glittered. "Yon are a fool," she said
coldly.

They faced her in one of the private receiving cham-
bers. Corin had meant to take Sidra immediately to
Alaric and had very nearly succeeded, but Lillith ruled
the castle. Guardsmen had halted them at the Lord of
Atvia's door. In short order, at LUlith's command, they
had been forcibly escorted to the chamber.

Corin did not flinch beneath her stare. He was too
angry, "What I am, Lillith, is Alaric's grandson and heir
to Atvia's throne. If you think to keep me from him, you
had better reacquaint yourself with the succession."

"He is dying," she said plainly. "He has the night to
live, or perhaps tomorrow. I can think of better ways for
you to spend your time than bringing bastards here."

"I will bring whomever I choose," he retorted. "She has
more right here than you."

"She was sent from this castle at her father's behest—'*

"Your behest," Sidra said sharply. "Why not let me
see my father? Let him say if he wants me here or not."

Lillith looked at Corin, ignoring Sidra altogether. "She
has no place here. There is no provision for bastards in
this castle."

"/ will make provision."

"How?" Lillith asked. "Who are you to do so? A
stranger. A foreigner. A shapechanger sent from the
Mujhar, who sucks Atvia dry of wealth. Do you expect a
welcome? Do you expect to be loved? Do you expect to
rule?"

"By the gods, Ihlini—"

"By my god!" Her voice rang out to fill the chamber.
"You are a long way from Homana, Corin. You are a
long way from your gods." Before he could speak, Lillith
crossed the room to him. She put her hand on his wrist
and the silver blazed to life. "You have no power here.
But do you feel mine?"

The pain was intolerable. He felt it run through bis

3Si

A PRIDE W PitWCES

body like fire, eating at every joint. Yet somehow, dredg-
ing up what remained of his waning strength, he man-
aged to pull away. And in doing so, he retaliated. Before
Lillith could avoid it he struck her full across the face.

She staggered and nearly fell. He saw the mark of his
hand upon her; saw the fury in her eyes. Never had he
witnessed such hatred. Never had he seen such control.

"What can you do?" he taunted. "I am a Cheysuli,

witch."

Lillith threw fallen hair back from her face. Corin's
handprint was vivid red against the pallor of her skin.
"What can I do?" she asked. And then, oddly, she
laughed. "I can watch, Cheysuli. That will be more than
enough."

It chilled his bones. "Watch what?"

But she was gone, leaving them alone in the chamber.

"Gods," Sidra said weakly, "I thought she meant to

kill you."
"Come," he told her grimly, "it is time we saw your

father."
He took her to see Alaric. But her father was already

dead.
"No," Sidra said, as they stood outside the chamber

door.
"Aye," the guardsman told them. "Only a moment

ago."

"Was Lillith here?" Corin asked curtly.
"My lord, she was. She was with him when he died."
"Convenient," he said flatly, and moved to go inside.
The guardsman dropped his halberd across the door.

"No, my lord, I beg you—let them prepare him first."
"Or let them hide the signs of Lillfth's touch." Corin

put a hand on the halberd. "Guardsman, move aside."
"My lord—" But the door was opened, and Gisella

came out of Alaric's chamber.
Corin fell back a step. "Jefeano—" And cursed himself

instantly.

She stared at him blankly. There was nothing in her
eyes save grief, and an odd opacity. Corin recalled what
Lillith had said about Gisella's borrowed wits. Now that

3S2

Jennifer Roberson

Alaric was dead, his mother would revert to madness, to
the woman who had so willingly agreed to give up her
children.

"Dead," Gisella said. "Dead—dead—dead—" But she
broke off the refrain. She looked at Corin expectantly.
And then she began to smile. "Have you come to take
me home? Has he sent you to take me home?"

Corin suppressed a shudder. "Jehana—no. Not to
Homana. Your place is here—"

She stopped him. She put out a hand and touched the
tawny hair that reached his shoulders. "My beautiful
boy," she said. "My strong, beautiful boy . . ."

He wanted to move away, to avoid her entirely, dislik-
ing the look of her eyes, but she had backed him against
the wall. And even as he tried to pull away her hand, she
locked fingers in his hair.

"Jehana--"

"Stay here," she said, "stay with me. No Homana.
Atvia. Atvia is my home. Stay. Stay. Niall has all the
others . . . you will stay with me—"

He nearly gagged as he jerked her fingers from his
hair. "Jehana—let me be—"

"Corin will stay with me—"

He caught her wrists and thrust her away, sacrificing
some hair. But he was free of her at last. And before she
could reach out again, before she could trap him again,
he turned and lurched away. He could not bear to face her.

"My lord." Sidra caught him halfway down the corri-
dor. "Corin, wait—"

He pulled free of her hand as well, wanting no one at
all to touch him. "Gods," he said. "Gods—" And he fell
against the wall, turning his face from her.

"I know," she said, and he saw the tearstains on her
face. "/ know. Come with me, Corin."

She took him away. She took him out of the castle.
She took him to the tower, and gave him bitter ale. She
herself took two sips, then pushed her cup away. There
was grief in her eyes, and weariness; a stark, bleak look.
But after a time it faded, and it was his turn to deal with
it.

353

A PVDE OF PRINCES

He sat on the floor and gathered Kiri into his arms.
"He was nothing to me," he said blankly. "Less to me

than to you."
"I know," she said gently. "To me he was always kind,

but I know what he has done."

He cradled the vixen against his chest, needing Kin's
strength. "I never wanted Atvia. I have known for as
long as I can remember that one day it would be mine,
but I never wanted it. I wanted Homana instead."

"It is your home," Sidra said.

"More." He stroked Kiri gently, lost in reverie. "More.
It was not just that I longed to stay in a familiar place
... it was that I wanted it for mine. To hold. To rule. To
love. I wanted to be Prince of Homana instead of Prince
of Atvia." He tilted his head and rubbed his cheek against
Kiri's fur. "I wanted Brennan's title. I wanted Brennan's
birthright. And now I want his woman."

Sidra sat very still.

"I went to Erinn to tell her it was time she wed my
rujholli, and fell in love with her myself. Knowing she
was Brennan's. Wishing she might be mine." He stared
blindly into the gloom of Sidra's tower. "But she must
wed the Prince of Homana."

"Oh, my lord ... I am so sorry for you."

Corin sighed and shut his eyes. "He will have Aileen.
He will have the Lion. He will have Homana."

Night had come down fully. It had begun to rain. Sidra
rose and lit a second candle, shielding it with her hand.
She turned and looked at him over the flame. "We
needed to know," she said. "We needed to have the
key." And then she opened the door to Lillith.

The storm was in the room. "Strahan wants you,*
told him. Behind her were Atvian soldiers.

she

Corin looked at Sidra.

"Strahan's child," she said.

He did not waste time thinking. Almost at once he was
up and running, with Kiri darting ahead. Together they
scrambled up the stairs to the second story, then higher
still, heading for the roof. He unlocked and threw back
the trap-door at the top of the ladder, boosted Kiri

354 Jennifer Roberson

through, lurched through himself. Slammed the door down,
knowing they would break through.

Slashing wind and rain stripped his eyes of vision. He
was soaked through in an instant. Cursing, Corin made
his way to the low wall and peered out into the storm.

Everything was blackness. No stars, no moon, no
torches. He could not see the edge of the cliffs. He could
see nothing at all.

Behind him, the door was thrown open.

"Kiri—" he said aloud. "Let me go first, fir—let me
break your fall."

He caught the edge of the wall. Climbed over, clinging
to the rocks. Boot toes grabbed for footholds. The stone
was wet, slick, unforgiving. In a moment he would fall.

He heard the shouting of the soldiers. And let go.

He fell, scraping bare arms. And then he landed, top-
pled, fell—pushed himself up again, wet, muddy, aching.
He stared up at the wall, fighting the rain, trying to see
the vixen. Now she could jump. Now he could catch her.
Without him, the fall would kill her.

"The fox is taken." Cutting the darkness he saw a lurid
glare of purple light and Lillnh's silhouette.

"Kiri—"

"Give yourself up," she called. "He has no plans to kill
you any more than to kill your brothers. Strahan has
need of you."

He knew better than to surrender. If Strahan wanted
him whole, the Ihlini would never harm Kiri. Corin knew
it would be difficult, but there was a chance he might
free his tir.

Provided I free myself.

Accordingly, Corin turned and ran.

Through the rain and the wind and the darkness—

—and fell off the edge of the world.

There was no time for even a scream.

Interlude

^
<;

^
^

The glare from the Gate backlighted Strahan, making
him little more than a shape before her eyes- She could
not see his face. She could not see his expression. But
she heard the satisfaction in his tone.

"One, two, three." He paused. "Though I might have
wished the youngest was less damaged."

"He will heal," Lillith told him. "It was—unexpected.
There was no one who could stop him. I think he was as
surprised as any of us when he fell from the top of the
cliff."

Strahan considered it. "I think it'will have its uses . . .
if, for nothing else, to help me sway the others." Light
was a nimbus around him. "I think it is time to begin."

Lillith smiled. "Who will be the first?"

Flame licked out of the Gate, fell back in a shower of
sparks. It illuminated Strahan's face. "First I must test
them, one by one, to learn who is the weakest link. None
of them will be easy. It will be a task of discovery ... I
must be very gentle. Nothing will be done in haste." He
knelt. His back was to her. She saw him bend over the
rim of the Gate, extend a hand, then he rose to face her
again. In his hands was a silver cup. It was filled with
viscid liquid and a pungent purple smoke. "I think the
first-born shall be the first."

Lillith drew in a breath. "He will be the hardest of
all."

; The cup glowed silver-purple. "What I have to offer
Brennan may not be enough ... it is possible he has

3S5

356                Jennifer Robersm

overcome his fear. But I can use his brothers ... I can
use his twin. The bond between them is nearly as strong
as that between warrior and fir."

"And do you think Hart will break?"

"He may be the easiest. What I offer him is continuity
as a Cheysuli. They are an immensely proud race, as we
have reason to know, and more intractable than they
should be," Strahan smiled and rubbed thoughtfully at
his bottom lip. "But now he lacks a hand. Now he is
warned. Lacking a hand, he lacks a race ... I think it
should be enough."

"And if Hart does not break?"

Over the cup he looked at her. Smoke wreathed his
face, but the eyes were still paramount. "Then all will be
left to Corin. With one, I can break them all." Strahan
slowly nodded. "He is an ambitious man, and jealous of
the eldest. It is a formidable weapon. It should not be
difficult."

Lillith frowned. "Do not misjudge them, Strahan. None
of them is weak."

"But all of them have weaknesses. And I intend to
exploit them."

It did not erase her frown. She was older than her
brother by nearly two hundred years. She knew the
Cheysuli better. She knew them very well.

Lillith looked at her brother. Strahan drank from the
cup.

One

The door was opened. Light spilled into the cell. Bren-
nan, hunched against the wall, shut his eyes at once.

"Come out," the voice said.

The syllables were strange. Brennan did not at first
know them, hearing only sound. And then he pieced
them together, understood them, stared through the crack
he made in the shield of his fingers.

"Come out," the voice repeated.

He pressed himself against the wall and tried to climb
inside it.

"Bring him out," the voice said, and hands were laid
upon him.

They got him as far as the door. Light fell full upon
him. To a man who had lived too long in darkness, the
flame was intolerable.

But no more so than the fear.

He was poised on the threshold, blinded by the light.
He turned his head aside, shutting his eyes, trying to
avoid it; a torch was held nearer yet.

"Behold the Prince of Homana."

The voice was Rhiannon's voice. Brennan opened his
eyes.

Alone in the darkness, he had lost track of time. He
knew it bad been weeks; he had not expected months.
But she was big with the weight of his child.

"Behold the Prince of Homana." Her tone mocked
him. Then she gestured to those who held him. "Take
him at once to Strahan."

3S9

360 Jennifer Roberson

Slowly it penetrated. He was out of the ce\\—free of
the cell—they had taken him out of the cell. The stink of
it clung to him, but the scent of hope replaced it.

They took him up endless spirals of winding stairs. He
was weak from inactivity, cramped from the tiny cell,
bound up by the burden of fear. He knew he was not
mad; he knew also he was not quite sane.

More stairs. And then at last a door. They opened it,
thrust him through, shut the door behind him.

Brennan spun, staggering, and tried to claw open the
door. They had shut him up again.

His nails broke on the wood. The latch did not give
beneath his desperate fingers. The door was securely
locked. It was no less than he should have expected. He
closed his eyes and pressed his face against the wood,
trying to calm himself, but the fear was ever-present.

It was all he had known for months.

Finally he turned. Expecting anything, he set his back
against the door. But the room was empty of men or
women. No one inhabited it. Brennan drew in an un-
steady breath.

The chamber was small, but large to him, after captiv-
ity in his cell. The walls were black—Valgaard's domi-
nant color—but soft rugs carpeted the floors even as
tapestries brightened the walls. Fire blazed in the fire-
place. There were chairs and tables and candleracks, all
ablaze with light. It made him squint; he was yet unac-
customed to light.

And then he smelled the food.

His belly cramped instantly. They had not starved him,
preferring instead to keep him alive, but the food had
been much less than he was accustomed to, and the diet
very plain. His body cried out for better, and now it was
offered to him.

Brennan stared at the silver platters. Hot meat: beef,
venison, pork and poultry. Fresh bread: brown, white,
hard and soft, redolent of fresh baking. Wheels of cheese:

creamy ivory, pale yellow, ocher-gold. Baskets of fruit:

apples, grapes, pears, peaches, plums and countless oth-
ers. Beakers of wine and ale and usca.

361

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

Quickly he crossed to the table, reaching out to scoop
up the food. He grabbed a goblet of wine. Tore off a
chunk of beef. And then, even as his belly cried out, he
ate and drank none of it.

His hands trembled. Wine slopped over the rim of his
goblet, dripping on his boots. The aromas were over-
whelming.

He dropped the beef onto the platter. Set the goblet
down. It overturned in the unsteadiness of his hand,
ringing against the wood of the tabletop. All the wine
spilled out in a river of blood-colored liquid.

Brennan backed away. And then, still shaking, he
sought a chair and fell into it, leaning forward to press
his face against his hands'.

The flesh was slack and lifeless. His nails were rimmed
in black. He smelled the stink of himself. He was awasn
in the filth of his cell. The Brennan he knew was gone.

And his belly cried out for food.

"You insult me," Strahan said.

Brennan started. He had heard nothing, nothing at all,
and yet the door was open. And then Strahan closed it
and came to greet his guest.

"I offer you food." He indicated the table. "I offer
you wine, ale, bread. Yet you touch none of it."

Brennan had spoken to no man for weeks, for no one
had spoken to him. All he could do was stare.

Strahan's eyes narrowed slightly. And then he smiled,
and sat down across fr6m his kinsman.

Brennan had not, until now, ever seen the Ihlini. He
had been raised on stories of the man, on tales of his
sorcery, but never had he seen him. And now that he
did, now that he sat but four paces from him, he realized
the stories paled beside the man. Strahan was power
incarnate.

The eyes, Brennan thought. Gods, what evil eyes.

One blue, one brown, set slightly oblique in a face
built of flawless bones. His beauty did not in any way
make him effeminate, but the features were as arresting
as those of a beautiful woman. Straight, narrow nose,

362

winged blade brows; the fall of raven hair, held bade by a
silver circlet.

He was a man who ruled through beguilement, and
Brennan felt its touch.

Strahan looked at him. Looked at him and smiled.
"You should see yourself.*'

Brennan did not need to. He knew what Strahan saw;

what he had ordered shaped to precise specifications.

The Imini's skin was fairer than Brennan's. Slender
white hands were ablaze with brilliant gemstones: ruby,
sapphire, emerald. A diamond and a bloodstone. His
nails were clean and buffed. Idly, he leaned his chin into
one hand and tapped at his upper lip.

Brennan did not know at which eye to look, and so he
looked at neither.

Strahan sighed a little. His leathers, soft and gray,
were far cleaner than Brennan's soiled brown ones. He
smelled of scented unguents more fragrant than Bren-
nan's stink.

"It is unfortunate," Strahan said quietly, "that you have
come to this state. A prince should never be brought so
low, nor a Cheysuli warrior."

Brennan locked himself up in silence.

Strahan gazed at curiously. "Was it the Womb of the
Earth that did it? I have been there, you know. I have
seen the marble to", the bottomless oubliette, the rune-
carved walls of the narrow passageway.'* He nodded. "I
myself have never been afraid of small places, but it must
be a difficult thing to bear. Particularly for a Cheysuli."
He paused. "Particularly for you."

Brennan was no longer in the room. He was back in
the Womb, seeing the marble Ur. Seeing the oubliette.
Learning the meaning of fear.

"It must be terrifying to know yourself locked in,
unable to leave ... to know yourself trapped and help-
less, alone in a tiny place. Knowing no one can hear your
screams. No one can soothe your fear. No one can bear
it for you."

Brennan's breathing quickened. Rigid fingers made
knots of his bands.

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

363

"And so filthy, too," Strahan said sympathetically.
"Such humilation, on top of all the fear. Having to
relieve yourself in a comer like an animal instead of like
a man . . . contending with dungeon vermin . - . smelling
the stink of one's own body." He shifted in his chair;

gemstones glittered on his fingers. Glittered to mirror his
eyes. "Hearing things . . . seeing things . . . and too
afraid to sleep."

Brennan shut his eyes.

"And knowing all the time such a simple thing will free
you."

Brennan opened his eyes.

Strahan leaned forward and took up a cup of wine.
"Will you serve me, Brennan?"

Brennan's scalp itched. Lice infested him. All he could
do was stare.

Strahan drank wine.

Brennan drew an unsteady breath. The room was warm,
dry, brightly lighted, filled with the beguiling aromas of
food and drink. His body cried out for kindness again.
His battered spirit demanded it.

Strahan put down the wine. "I have a smaller cell."

Brennan flinched, and hated himself.

"More suitable to your condition."

Brennan wet cracked Ups. "No," he croaked, prepared
to argue it.

Strahan rose. "You will excuse me, I am sure; there
are things I must attend to. My servants will escort you
back."

He turned away. A casual flick of one linger caused
the door to swing open. Men waited there.

"The prince prefers his cell." Strahan's tone was one
of complete indifference.

Men surrounded him. They lifted him out of the chair
and put him on his feet. Before he could speak a word,
before he could begin to struggle, they had taken him
from the chamber. Back down the winding stairways into
the depths of Valgaard's bowels.

At the cell door, he rebelled. But they were too strong

364 feiinffer Robersw

for him. The door was opened. They flung him through.
They locked it on his outcry.

Brennan stared blindly into the darkness and knew
Strahan was not finished. And then he began to shake.

A second door was unlocked. A second man brought
out. Him also, they took to Strahan.

The sorcerer turned from the casement as Brennan's
brother was ushered in. He looked at Hart's gaunt face,
looked at the leather-wrapped stump, looked back at the
haunted eyes. "I apologize," he said kindly. "Dar was
overiy enthusiastic."

Hart was plunged back instantly into the room at lisa's
dwelling. To when they had pinned his hand to the table.
To when the blade had fallen. To the moment he real-
ized be no longer had a left hand. And the memory of
the pain.

Rage boiled up inside. But he said nothing at all; he
would not give Strahan the satisfaction.

"It makes you angry»** Strahan said. "Do you think I
cannot see it?"

As was becoming habitual. Hart cradled the stump in
bis remaining hand, pressing it gently against his chest in
an unconsciously vulnerable gesture of retreat and
self-protection.

Strahan indicated food and wine. "Will you eat? Will
you drink? I should hate to see it go to waste." And then
he paused, as if arrested in mid-motion. "But of course, I
had forgotten . .. someone will have to cut it for you.

Humiliation tied Hart's belly into knots and briefly,
too briefly, colored his face a deeper bronze. It took all
his strength to keep the anguish from his tone. "What do
you want me for?"

"Sit down, my lord of Solinde ... I see an alarming
pallor in your face."

Hart fully intended to ignore the suggestion. But the
pallor was unfeigned; shock coupled with fever had served
to sap his strength. Slowly he seated himself, preferring
the chair to falling down. He found the motion uncom-
fortable; he was accustomed to using two hands.

A PRIDE w PHMCES              365

"Does it hurt?" Strahan asked. "Is the toss of a hand
anything like the loss of an ear?"

Hart looked at him in shock. He had forgotten that
Strahan had only one ear. The other had been cut off in
a fight with one of Hart's own kinsmen long ago on the
Crystal Isle.

Strahan hooked long hair back and bared the side of
his head. "We all suffer losses, some of us more dramati-
cally than others." He moved the hair back into place.
"It was my misfortune the ear was lost entirely. Had I
found it, the Seker might have made me whole . . . but I
was somewhat pressed for time."

Hart stirred. "If he is as powerful as you claim, why
did he not simply make you a new one?"

"Flesh born of flesh," Strahan said. "The original was
required."

Hart looked down at the stump of his wrist. He felt the
hand there, and yet when he looked he saw nothing at
all. When he moved it, nothing grasped. But the reflex-
ive pain was undiminished.

"I know, of course, the loss of a hand precludes you
from returning to your clan." Strahan's mouth shaped
the words with a deep and abiding compassion. "We
Ihlini are not so harsh. A man's mind may be useful even
if the body is not."

Hart gazed blindly at the hand that no longer existed.

"But it would be so difficult for a maimed warrior to
contribute to his clan," Strahan remarked. "How can
you use a bow? How can you mount a defense? How can
you ward your woman and children against the enemy?"

Hart did his best to ignore him, but the gentle probing
found its mark.

"And, of course, as part of the prophecy . . . well . . .
what is left to you?" Strahan poured wine. "What is
there for you to do? How can a warrior serve when he is
no longer recognized as a warrior?"

Hart stirred at last. "My jehan lost an eye."

Strahan made a dismissive gesture. "Oh, aye, he did
. . . but then he had another."

"I have another hand."

366 Jennifer Roberson

"A hand is not an eye." Strahan paused. "What will
they do?" he asked. "Will they strip you of your gold?
Blot out your rune in the birthlines? From the path of
the prophecy?"

Breath caught in Hart's tight throat. He felt the slow
churning of his belly.

"Will they tear down your pavilion? Take cheysula or
meijha from you?" Strahan paused. "Or will no Cheysuli
woman be allowed to speak your name?"

"Stop," Hart whispered.

"Will they strip you of your fir? Or will the far go
regardless?"

"Stop. "Hart said.

"There is no place for you. Hart. You are now a clanless
warrior, unable to serve your race."

Hart stood up so fast he overset the chair. "Ku'reshtin!"
But before he could move to strike him, Strahan caught
hold of his wrist.

"No," the sorcerer said, and closed his lingers on the
leather that warded the healing stump.

The pain was excruciating. Hart wavered on his feet.

"No," Strahan said, "I can offer you better."

Sweat ran down Hart's face to mix with tears of pain.
"You offer me loss of honor ... the loss of who I am—"

"Service to me will replace it."

Hart tore his wrist free, then hugged it against his
chest. Pain robbed him of the words. All he could do was
shake his head.

Strahan sighed. "You Cheysuli are so stubborn. Nearly
as stubborn as I." And before Hart could answer, he
summoned men to take him away.

The hand was cool on Corin's brow. It took the heat
away. For so long there had been heat. Heat and unbear-
able pain. And now Strahan took it away.

"You are a fortunate man," the sorcerer told him
gently. "You very nearly died."

The eyes transfixed him utterly.

"But you are better now. The bones begin to heal. I
think you will walk again, though possibly with a limp."
Strahan paused. "Do you recall what happened to you?"

A PRIM w PRINCES              367

Vividly, Corin did. "I fell." The voice echoed the
weakness in his body. "I fell off the dragon's skull." He
gazed clear-eyed up at Strahan. "She said it was your
child."

Strahan's winged brows lifted to touch his circlet. And
then he smiled. "May the Seker grant it perfect health."

Corin itched. He ached. He wanted badly to get up,
but knew he could not. "Kiri?" he said plainly.

"Mine. She is well, I promise you." Strahan made a
sign and a stool was instantly brought. He sat down close
to Corin's bedside. "You understand, I am sure, why I
wanted you."

"You want Atvia."

"But only for my lord. I am not a greedy man."
Strahan smoothed the covers. "Is there much pain, Corin?
I can drain it from you."

Corin recalled how Lillith had drained Alaric of wits
and life. He said no distinctly.

Strahan smiled, and then he laughed. "Why do you
think the worst of me? If I wanted you dead, I would
have left you at the bottom of the cliff, to wash out into
the sea. Perhaps to wash up on Erinn's shores, where
Aileen could grieve over you." -

Corin shut his eyes. "I will not give you Atvia."

"Atvia, for the moment, is quite within my grasp."
Strahan's palm touched his brow again. "I was thinking
of Homana."

Corin's eyes snapped open.

"Aye, I thought that might get your attention." The
fingers dripped with ice; the fever began to fade. "Sidra
tells me you want your brother's bride. That you want
your brother's title. That you want your brother's throne."

Corin bit his lip. "Take your hand from me."

After a moment, Strahan did. The pain renewed itself.
"The Seker is a generous god. What a man wants, he
often bestows.'*

"Then why does he not simply give you the realms you
want?" The level of pain was rising. He was transfixed by
Strahan's stare. "Why does he not simply take them?"

"Through men like me, he will." Strahan tore back the

368 Jennifer Koberson

covers to bare splints and linen wrappings. "Both legs,
Conn. And ribs I cannot count. You are fortunate the
bones of your head were left intact, else I could offer you
nothing."

"You offer me nothing I will accept." Corin threaded
bruised fingers through his hair and stripped it back from
his face, pulling hard purposely to deflect the pain from
his mending bones- "I will heal. The pain will die. You
offer me nothing at all."

"You will heal. The pain will die. But I can offer you
much more. I can offer you what you want."

Corin grunted his irony. "Homana is not mine to give."

"And if it were?" Strahan asked softly. "If I offered to
share it with you?"

"Share what?" Corin demanded. "You will make me a
minion regardless, and then I will need no throne."

Strahan carefully covered him up again. "A minion has
its uses, but so does a living man. I would prefer to use
the latter."

Corin turned his head away.

"I can turn your legs to jelly," Strahan said softly.
"You have the power to heal, but I can undo it all. With
only the touch of my hand." Jewels glittered on his
fingers.

"You have my lir," Corin said hoarsely. "How can I
hope to refuse you? What pleasure is there in it for a
man like you?"

^'You should hope instead to aid me." Strahan touched
Corin's head. "I will be here if you need me. Dream
awhile, my lord. Dream of your red-headed princess . . .
dream of your brother's throne."

Corin slipped into darkness. He dreamed of his broth-
er's bride.

Two

Light spilled into the cell. Strahan stood in the doorway.
"A gift for my stubborn kinsman."

Brennan turned his back.

"Surcease from your fear."

The voice was endlessly tender. Brennan shut his eyes.

"Behold," Strahan said. "I show you the life of a
warrior."

Brennan stood facing the wall. Spread fingers touched
fetid slime; nails dug into slick stone in an effort to beat
off beguilement. He hated the cell. Hated what it did to
him. Hated himself because of it. He had grown used to
the stench, but not inured to the distaste. It made him
want to vomit.

And then the wall moved. Stone melted away. Bren-
nan opened his eyes.

The world unfolded before him.

Homana. The grassy plains outside of Mujhara, stretch-
ing east toward dankeep. He was free of Valgaard at
last—free of the tiny cell—free of consuming fear. All
around him lay the world, a bright and shining world,
made of earth and sky and sun and moon and the warmth
of a summer day.

Brennan's breath hissed out of his mouth. Filth sloughed
off of him. Fresh leathers adorned his body. He was
young and strong and full of life, bursting to run free.

Then come. Sleeta said. What keeps you from it, lir?

And he ran, he ran, trading human flesh for feline,
knowing the endless freedom of rtr-shape. Running on,

369

379 Jennifer Roberson

through meadowtands, woodlands, forests, shedding the

weight of fear. All he knew was freedom and the promise       ^

of the day.                                                   *[

Gods, he exulted, this is the best of all—                     €

And then all was snatched away. All was torn apart.       ^
All was swallowed whole by the darkness of the cell.           }

Beneath his hands was slime. Banished was his free-       ";

dom, traded for degradation.                                T?

"Sleeta," he said only.                                       ^

"Come out with me," Strahan said. "There is some-       ^
thing you should see."                                    X

Brennan was too dazed to mark his way. He knew only       §
that Strahan's servants took him up stairs, then down       H
them, then through narrow passageways. Eerie godfire       ||
glowed, negating the need for candles. Beneath his booted       H.
feet fell away stair after stair, shallow, hollowed, smooth,       ||.
worn down after decades of use. Or was it centuries?          H

Down, down, down. Briefly, he thought of the Womb      H
of the Earth. But this was far deeper. Blacker. It stank of       ^
the netherworld.                                        H

One man before him, one behind. Fleetingly, he con-
sidered an attempt at escape. But it fled the moment he
thought it; he was in no condition to try such folly.
Captivity had worn him to the bone just as time had
worn the steps. Even a child could knock him down;

Strahan's men were not children.

Down, down, down.

Something gibbered in the wall.

Brennan's breath was an audible rasp. He tried to
silence himself, but the months had stripped him of con-
trol. He was frightened, and it showed. Strahan knew his
man; knew how to diminish his pride.

Down.

And then the servants stepped aside.

On the threshhold, Brennan halted. He thought to
turn and run, but a door closed quietly behind him.
Through the columns, an echo ran.

"Behold," Strahan said, "the Presence Chamber of the
god."

Brennan looked down the columned corridor, stunned

371

A PRIM OF P»INCES

by the vastness of the cavern. It unfolded before him into
a multitude of vaulted glasswork ceilings, arch upon arch,
each reaching higher then the last. Much like the rune-
carved hammer-beamed timbers in the roof of Homana-
Mujhar, the cavern displayed a filigree of fretwork. A
lattice of delicate glass, set aglow from the glare of the
Gate,

Something hummed through whorled columns. Godfire
rose, then died.

"Come forth," Strahan said, "and behold the Gate of
the god."

Steadily, Brennan walked. Behind him, humming
followed.

Beyond the Gate, Strahan waited. He wore black leath-
ers and a velvet doublet of deepest, blood-red purple.
Godfire glowed in the creases. On his brow, the circlet
blazed. Raven hair cloaked shoulders.

Brennan walked steadily on, transfixed by the maw in
the earth. Around its lips flames danced, licked, beck-
oned; the spittle of the god was foul.

"There," Strahan said. In his hands was a rectangular
black-lacquered box alive with writhing crimson runes.

Brennan halted. He was but two steps from the rim of
the Gate, but he did not look. Strahan faced him across
it. Between them lay the glowing sphincter of the Seker's
netherworld. The realm of Asar-Suti.

He was afraid. But in that moment, anger swallowed
fear. "One might think." Brennan said, "the Seker would
smell better."

Strahan's smile vanished.

"One might realize," Brennan said, "that a Cheysuu
cannot be broken." He paused. "Not by his brother
race."

The runes ran in frenzied circles around the edge of
the box until there were no runes at all, only a blur of
lurid light red as blood. Strahan's expression was unread-
able.

"Lock me up," Brennan said. "Lock me up forever.
But I will never serve you. Not in madness or sanity."

Strahan's winged brows rose slightly, touched the curve

372 Jennifer Roberson

of the gleaming circlet. It was of gnarled, twisted shapes,
wracked in blood-born silver. "I am suitably impressed
by your confidence." One eloquent finger tapped the lid
of the wooden box; the runes fell back into place. "I
admire your strength of will. But I make no idle boast: I
can break a Cheysuli. And I intend to do it."

"How?" Brennan asked. "You hold my lir; so be it. I
can do nothing to free her. You may slay her if you
choose; doing so frees me forever, and you will lose me
entirely."

"There will be no death-ritual," Strahan told him. "No
escape from the madness lirlessness will bring. Do you
sentence yourself to that?"

Madness was anathema to the Cheysuli. The loss of
control in fir-shape or out of it was considered inexcus-
able, in addition to being potentially deadly. A Cheysuli
warrior made hrless was, in time, little better than a
beast; death was preferable. And so the ritual had been
born. But in order to make the ritual have meaning,
suicide was taboo. A paradox. And clearly, Strahan knew
it.

Brennan had been raised to respect the customs of his
race. At his Ceremony of Honors, following the bonding
with Sleeta, he had accepted the responsibilities of a
warrior knowing full well that even the Mujhar of Homana
owed his life to the will of the gods. The ritual bound
Niall's heir as well as others, and he had accepted it.

And now, his commitment was tested.

"You have spent the better part of several months
attempting to drive me mad,'* Brennan said. "Lirlessness
will succeed where imprisonment could not, but of what
use am I then? What good is a mad Mujhar?"

Strahan's smile was sweet. "More malleable than one
who is sane. Look at Shaine." A tendril of living flame
licked up from the Gate, touched his boot, tapped, as if
to remind him; fell back as Strahan nodded. "Look at
Shaine, your distant kinsman, who once gave us Homana-
Mujhar because he preferred Ihlini to Cheysuli."

"But Carillon took it back ... it and Solinde. Your
homeland, Strahan . . , and now a vassal to the Cheysuli."

53.

373

A PMDE OF PWNCES

yf i
V;

^K-

Brennan shrugged. "Do your worst, Ihlini. I can hardly
gainsay you, but idiocy may thwart you."

"And if I chose to kill the cat with an excess of—
incivility? What would you say then?"

"That I will suffer," Brennan answered. "No doubt I
will beg you to stop. But when you have stopped, and I
have my wits about me, the cycle will start again.*'

Strahan shook his head. "You do not understand. I do
not need you sane ... I can control a hollow man easier
than one stuffed fuH with Cheysuli pride."

"Then why this mummery?"

Strahan sighed. "An amusing divertissement. But now,
shall we to the bargain? You may find it interests you."

Brennan merely shrugged.

"I want Homana," Strahan said. "Through you I can
have it."

Brennan shook his bead.

"In good time, you shall have it; I will not take NialTs
life. Let him live out his years ... I have as many as I
need." Strahan's eyes narrowed. "The bargain, Brennan:

serve me, and I will spare your father's life. I will spare
the life of your lir. I will give you the years of your life
and beyond, through the benificence of the Seker."

"I have no desire to live forever." Brennan folded his
dirt-crusted arms. The fir-gold was dulled by grime, but it
did not dull his determination. "I will not accept your
bargain."

"Not even to save your kin?"

He dared give Strahan no advantage. Brennan set his
teeth. "You can only kill them once. Then where is your
power?"

"I can destroy the prophecy."

"You have tried so many times."

Strahan sighed. "This, I see, leads nowhere."

"No." Brennan smiled. "What have you left. Ihlini?"

"This," Strahan said, and opened the wooden box.

Through the smoke, Brennan looked. And then he
stared in disgust at Strahan, his distaste as plain as his
bafflement.

374 Jennifer Roberson

"Do you not recognize it?" Strahan asked.

"A human hand," Brennan said flatly. "Ensorcelled,
no doubt; else it would have decayed by now."

"More than a human hand. It is a Cheysuli hand."

As he was meant to, Brennan looked again. His belly
knotted itself.

Strahan closed the box. "I should be very careful. Hart
may want it back."

When he could, Brennan breathed again and swal-
lowed back the bile. "There was no ring," he said tightly.

"He wagered it away." Strahan looked past Brennan.
"Why not ask nun yourself?"

Brennan swung around. Through the columns came his
brother. At his left wrist there was no hand.

"I have the power." Strahan spoke with infinite kind-
ness. "Serve me, Brennan, and I will make him whole."

"Rujho\" It was Hart, whose voice echoed shock
throughout the cavern. "Gods, Brennan—not you! I
thought he had only me!"

Strahan smiled warmly. "Welcome to the Gate."

Hart barely spared a glance for the Ihlini. He ran
forward toward Brennan. "Rufho—" But he slowed as
he reached the Gate. The light was odd on his face,
limning gauntaess and despair. "Brennan, are you whole?"

Brennan swallowed tightly. "More so than you," he
said. "Oh, gods, rujho—" Abruptly he turned away.

"Brennan!" Hart halted raggedly. Shock made him
awkward. "Do you already cast me out?"

"Asfc him!" Brennan spun and thrust out an arm to-
ward Strahan. "Ask him. Hart!"

Hart turned toward the Ihlini. Shock at seeing Bren-
nan had overtaken the immediacy of his disability, but
now it was obvious that Brennan had been told. He had
expected it. And it obviously made a difference.

Emptiness overwhelmed him. Despair was overpower-
ing.

"I offer your brother a choice," Strahan said, "now I
wiH give it to you."

Hart sighed wearily, too weary to protest as he stripped
fallen hair out of his gaunt face. Cheysuli were character-

A Psaw or PHMCES             37S

istically angular, formed of remarkably striking bones,
but captivity, illness and strain had fined Hart down too
far. If the dark skin were any tauter, the cheekbones
would cut through flesh. "You asked him for Homana.
Now you ask me for Solinde."

"But your bargain is different." Strahan's fingers splayed
across the lid of the box, tapping idly. "He says there is
no inducement to make him accept my service. But you
are a different man. What would you have of me?"

Hart's laughter had the edge of madness in h. "My
freedom," he said promptly. "The freedom of my rujholU.
No further dealings with you."

"Unacceptable." Strahan smiled. "Serve me. Hart. Ac-
cept the Seker as your lord."

"And destroy the prophecy." Hart shook his head. For
all he meant to sound fierce and adamant, unimpressed
by Strahan's words, he knew he sounded precisely what
he was: badly frightened, nearly worn through, on the
brink of breaking down from the loss of hand and dan. It
took all he had to speak steadily, betraying nothing of
what he felt inside the dwindling shell. "You have taken
my hand, Ihlini . . . you have stolen my heritage from
me. I am, as you have said, clanless and unwhole. There
is no place for me among the Cheysuti." He spread his
arms and displayed hand and stump. "What have I left to
lose?"

"Your Ur"

Hart laughed at him, though it had a ragged sound.
"Rael is free .. . Dar never caught him. Try again,
Ihlini."

"He may be free," Strahan conceded after a moment,
"but you are separated. Eventually, the fi^bond shall
grow thin, too thin . . . grow brittle, so brittle . . . until it
cannot survive, and breaks."

Hart drew in a deep breath. "So be it, Ihlini. Madness—
and eventual death—is preferable to serving you and
your noxious god."

Strahan tilted his head toward Brennan. "The life of
your twin-bora brother."

Hart looked at Brennan. He saw the rigidity of the

376 Jennifer Roberson

body, the bleakness in yellow eyes. He looked for some
suggestion, some hint of what Brennan desired him to
say. But there was none. Brennan looked soundly de-
feated, cocooned in futility.

That shook Hart more than anything else. He drew in
another deep breath. "An idle promise, Ihlini. Brennan
would sooner be dead than have me become your minion
merely to save his life."

Brennan's smile was bittersweet.

Strahan considered it. He stroked the wooden box. "I
will give you the girl."

Anger flared anew. "Is she not what you promised
Dor?"

"Dar is expendable." Strahan brightened. "Would his
life be enough for you?"

Hart drew in his left arm and hugged it against his
chest. "You will kill whomever you choose, regardless of
what I want. I would be a fool to accept such terms."

"Give in." Strahan suggested. "Tie service will not
harm you. You will still be Prince of Solinde. Still have
the white-haired woman. Still have your games of chance.
What more could you want?"

Hart's hard-won demeanor began to slip. In his eyes
was emptiness. "What I want you cannot give."

Brennan, clearly afraid, took a step toward him.

"No." Strahans tone was a whiplash of sound that
hissed in the glassy cavern. "This is his choice, now."

"No!" Brennan shouted. A tendril of flame flowed out
of the Gate and slapped him to the ground.

A second gout deftly blocked Hart's move to reach his
brother. It beat him back until he cursed aloud.

**Now," Strahan said, "tell me what you want."

Hart hugged his arm, swaying on his feet. "I want my
clan!'* he shouted. "I want the regard and honor of my
race, not the ouster I am due." He thrust his left arm
into the air and displayed the emptiness at the end of bis
leather-cuffed wrist. His arm shook with the tension of
his rigid body. "With one blow of a sword, Dar had me
stripped of my heritage. Maimed warrior, worthless war-
rior ... not fit to be part of the clan. And so I am

377

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

kin-wrecked—" He shut his eyes a moment, then drew in
an unsteady breath and went on. "Where does it leave
me, Ihlini? Why should I serve you?" Hart stood on the
edge of the Gate, oblivious to its flame as the tears ran
down his face. "You cannot give back my hand—no
more than grow back your ear!"

Strahan opened the box.

In noisy silence. Hart stared at the hand in its bed of
silk. There was no blood. The cut had been clean, leav-
ing no gore at all. Oddly dispassionate, coldly assessive,
he studied the severed hand. He marked scars won in
childhood and arms-practice. The enlargement of one
knuckle. The sinews beneath brown flesh. There was no
mistaking the hand. He knew it was his own.

Instinctively he made an impossible fist. As the tremor
spread through his stump, the hand in the box closed its
fingers.

Hart cried out. He wavered on the brink. Flame licked
up and drove him back, staggering, until he fell to his
knees. He cradled his arm and rocked.

To and fro.

To and fro.

Oblivious to his brother.

Strahan's tone was gentle. "You have only to say you
will serve me."

Hart hugged his arm and rocked.

Strahan looked at Brennan. "You have a choice as
well."

Brennan knelt on the glassy floor. All he could do was
stare at Hart, sharing a measure of his anguish.

"I will let you consider it." A flick of his hand built an
encircling fence of flame to keep them near the Gate.
Then Strahan walked away. As he moved, smoke fol-
lowed. The columns sang their atonal song.

Corin leaned back on his elbows, gritting his teeth in
response to the discomfort of ribs and legs. He was
indeed fortunate, as Strahan had pointed out, to have
survived the fall from the cliff. To survive the fever that

37S Jennifer Roberwn

followed. But he had, and now be healed; with heating
came renewed and abiding anger: he was prisoner to
the Ihlini.

And yet he was not in a cell. His room was small, hut
hardly bereft of luxuries. The bed was comfortable. The
hangings were richly patterned, if in runic glyphs he did
not know and feared to leam. The door was clearly
unlocked. If he could walk, he might go free. But his legs
were not quite healed.

He had tried, time and again, to contact Kin through
the link. But Valgaard was the font of Strahan's power;

even Old Blood was neutralized. It would take wits in-
stead of magic to win free of his captor's grip.

The door swung open. Corin tensed as Strahan en-
tered. He saw rich dark clothing, rune-wrought circlet,
the compelling mismatched eyes. And he knew the
time had come at last to meet absolute power in human
form.

The room lay in darkness in deference to his rest. But
now Strahan bent over a gilded candle, blew, set the
wick ablaze. The flame was purest purple.

Another. Another. Until the room ran with lurid godfire,
the excrescence of the god.

Strahan stood over him. "The time is come," he said
gently. "You must make your choice."

Corin slowly leaned back against piled bolsters and
uncrooked his elbows, hearing the pop of weakened joints;

feeling the fatigue of battered flesh. He tried consciously
to ease the tension^from his rigid body, knowing he
would fail.

"I have something for you." Strahan put it into his
hand.

Corin stared at it. A ring. A circlet of heavy gold,
incised with careful runes, and a brilliant blood-red ruby
held firm by taloned prongs. The ring of the Prince of
Homana.

Chilled, Corin looked at Strahan. "You have my
rujhoUi"

"Brennan. Hart. You" In the eerie light, Strahan's

A PHIDE OF PRMCES               379

face was etched in fretwork shadows. "In addition to
your Ur."

Corin's eyes went back the ring. It was too large for
him, he knew, because he had tried it on once. Brennan
was taller, heavier, more strongly made than Corin; Hart
was very like him. Their fingers were longer, stronger,
browner. More Cheysuli than his.

Corin looked at his own signet. The emerald still glit-
tered against his flesh. The gold shone brightly as
ever, if perverted by the godfire. Strahan had not
touched it.

"Trade," Strahan suggested.

His hand spasmed closed, trapping the ring in his palm.
"This is Brennan's ring."

"Put it on, and it is yours," Strahan smiled. "And all it
represents.'*

Corin swallowed tightly. "Is he dead? Have you killed
him? Is that why you taunt me with it?"

"He is quite unharmed, and I do not taunt. I offer."
Strahan paused. "If you want it, it is yours. You need
only put it on."

"I am Crown Prince ofAtvia."

"You are prisoner to me,"'Strahan moved a trifle
closer. "There is no need for dissembling, Corin. I un-
derstand very well what it is to desire something very
badly. I understand passion and ambition and the need
for a thing fulfilled. Do you think I do this for pleasure?"
His eerie eyes were black in the purple glare. "Brennan
is unfit for his inheritance. Homana lacks a proper prince.
There is a need for you."

"Unfit—" Corin clenched the ring in his hand. "What
have you done to him?"

Strahan's gemstones glittered. "Shown him what he is:

a man unfit to rule."

"Brennan is more fit to rule than any man I have
seen!"

"More fit than you?'* Strahan smiled coolly. "I think
you discount yourself needlessly . . . and I think you
misjudge him." He turned away briefly, paced three

389 Semifer Robersw

steps, turned back. And halted. "If a man is unfit to rule,
should he not be replaced?"

"My rufhoUs—^

But the angry protest was overridden. "If a man
is incapable of holding the Lion, should he be its
master?"

"And if Brennan were unfit. Hart is next in line!'*

"Hart will have Solinde."

Corin spoke distinctly. "My jehan was most particular
in parceling out the realms. Mine is Atvia."

"Yow realm, Corin, has been mine for several months,
because of Lillith's power over its lord. But now Alaric is
dead. His heir has disappeared. Into the confusion, I
have moved to quell the fear." Strahan smiled. "There is
no need for you there."

Corin sighed. "They would still turn to Hart. He is
second-born. / would end up with Solinde."

"Hart will never be accepted in Homana ... at least
by the Cheysuli."

A chill touched Conn's neck. "What have you done to
Hart?" Foreboding knotted his belly. "Why would they
not accept him?"

"Becaused a maimed warrior has no place in the dans."
Strahan shrugged. "Through great misfortune—he lost
an important wager—Hart now lacks a hand. The Cheysuli
will no longer honor him as a warrior. He is, as he
himself says, fan-wrecked."

"Maimed—" Corin mouthed it. The ring bit into the
flesh of his palm. "Oh—ro/'/w . . . no—"

"Aye," Strahan said, "and none of my doing. So—you
see?—Homana is in dire need of a prince. A healthy,
whole prince, willing to hold the Lion—"

Bitterly, Corin finished it,"—in the name of Asar-Suti."

The Ihlini lifted a single eloquent shoulder. "A minor
price to pay. Look what you will get—Homana, the Lion
. . . AUeen."

Conn's head snapped up; he stared at the sorcerer.

Strahan smiled warmly. "Need I remind you? She is to
wed the Prince of Homana."

381

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

Gilded candles guttered. Flame danced and smoked.
Corin clutched the ring. "Show me," he said hollowly.
"Show me my ruJhoUi."
Strahan bowed his assent.

Three

The Gate emitted a deep gurgling belch, like a man
suppressing laughter, as Strahan left the cavern. Godfire
continued to play around the rim. Tendrils of it licked
out of the hole, probed the air, withdrew in a splash of
smoke. Caught in tiers of glassy arches, the echoed hiss
was amplified.

Brennan rose, pressing himself to his feet with one
thrust of a splayed hand. He went immediately to his
brother.

Hart still knelt on the uneven floor, left arm hugged
against his chest. The rocking had ceased, but not the
rigidity of his body or the emptiness of his eyes. His face
showed the strain of his captivity: pronounced hollows
beneath high cheekbones, dark circles beneath blue eyes;

a stark bleakness of expression that had nothing to do
with captivity and everything to do with the choice Strahan
had given him.

Gently, Brennan touched the crown of Hart's bowed
head. t1 Rujho, I am sorry."

The sound of Harts swallow was loud in the circle of
flame. "The worst," he said, "the worst is knowing I can
never fly again."

Brennan drew in a very deep breath, knowing there
was nothing he could say to assuage his brother's anguish.

Hart turned his face up to stare at Brennan. "All of
those other things I think I could leam to live with, given
time—even being kin-wrecked . . . but to know I am
earthbound forever—"

3S2

A PKSDE OF PRINCES

383

"I know." Brennan's fingers touched Hart's head. "I
know."

"You do not know." Awkwardly, Hart got to his feet.
"No warrior whose Ur lacks wings can understand the
freedom there is in the air, the manifest miracle of flight—"
He broke off a moment, realizing he walked too close to
the edge of control. "I do not discount Sleeta or your
own fy-shape, Brennan, but it is not the same as mine."

"No," Brennan said. His eyes were on the leather-
wrapped stump. "Hart, what happened?"

"Foolishness," Hart said bitterly. "Idiocy, and worse.
I put myself in the hands of the enemy for the price of a
stupid game."

"You wagered your hand?"

"No. Worse. I wagered Solinde." Hart drew in a deep
breath, than blew it out. "It is complicated, rujho, and I
am not proud of it. You can see the result plainly."
Frowning, he looked more closely at his brother. "What
has he done to you?"

"To me? To me? Nothing." Brennan turned away,
paced a few steps, swung back. "Nothing that shows,
rujho ... he is too clever for that."

"Sleeta?"

"He has her. Somewhere here. Somewhere hidden."
He shook his head. "Close enough to keep me from the
edge of lirlessness and madness."

"But only just," Hart said flatly. "Do you think I
cannot see it? I can see it in your eyes—"

Brennan waved it off. "Aye, aye," he said shortly,
"but what of Strahan? I know why he wants us—to use
as puppet-kings—but why this protracted mummery? Why
not simply force us to do his will? He can. Easily. This is
Valgaard, the Gate of the netherworld—his power is
manifest. It should be a simple task—"

"Should be," Hart echoed, "but is it? Could there be a
limit to his power? Does he require willing victims?"

Brennan's expression was a scowl of consideration.
"He has other minions, but none of them are Cheysuli
. . . none of them have the Old Blood—"

"But this is Valgaard. Why should it matter here?"

3S4 Jennifer Roberson

"Supposedly, it should not." Brennan shmgged. "Wish-
ful thinking, rujho—but could it be that he needs more
power to make a Cheysuli his? That one who fights his
influence could drain him of his strength?"

"Strahan's strength seems boundless."

Brennan rubbed a hand through dirty hair. "Aye. But
what other explanation? Why does he try to induce us
when force should be enough?"

Hart stared toward the Gate. "Perhaps it is nothing
more than a facet of his perversity. Which would please
him more, rujho—a Cheysuli who was forced, or one
who accepted service willingly?

"Even Gisella was not forced."

Hart shivered once. "No. What need? Lillith twisted
her so badly—"

"—at least, what was left from the unfortunate circum-
stance of her birth." Brennan's expression was unsettled;

only rarely did he give over any time to thinking of his
mother. "But this is different, rujho—"

"Aye," Hart said harshly. "He knows what induce-
ments to use."

Brennan looked at him sharply, suddenly afraid. The
note in Hart's voice, the expression in his eyes . . .
foreboding was iron in Brennan's belly. "Hart, I can
hardly begin to comprehend what you have lost—"

"Aye," Hart said curtly. "Look to yourself, rujho. My
choice is my own to make."

And abruptly, the fence of fire died away.

Smoke boiled up from the Gate and carpeted the floor.
It touched their knees, no higher; spread out to engulf
cavern and corridor, wreathing glassy columns. Through
the smoke came Strahan, holding the rune-worked box.

Hart's breath was harsh in his throat. Brennan looked
away.

"Tahlmorra lujhala mei wiccan, cheysu," Strahan said
as he walked. Echoes thrummed in the Seker's harp.
"Such an all-encompassing statement, this thing of gods
and fate. Have you never thought to question it? To free
yourselves of such blind and binding service?"

A PSSDE OF PRWCES

385

Slowly, Brennan shook his head. "No more than you
have questioned your own service to the Seker."

"Ah, but I have my reasons." Strahan paused between
them, near the lip of the Gate. And then circled it calmly
to stand on the other side. He smiled and made a ges-
ture. "A full complement of Niall's sons."

As he meant them to. Hart and Brennan turned to
look. And stared, rigidly, as Corin was brought into the
cavern. That he could not walk was plain; both legs were
tightly bound in wooden splints and linen wrappings.
Ihlini carried him on a litter. He reclined against piled
bolsters, but gripped the litter with both hands.

"You may blame me as you like," Strahan said, as
Hart and Brennan turned back to him with anger in their
faces, "but it is not my doing." He shrugged. "Broken
legs mend. He will be whole soon."

"Provided he accepts the bargain you offer him," Bren-
nan turned his head and spat. "You are abomination—"

"Am I?" Strahan smiled. He watched as his servitors
brought the litter to a halt near the Gate and set it down.
"I was thinking I might prefer to be known as deliverance."

Hart went to Corin. "Rujho—'

"I am well enough," Corin said. "For all I hate to
admit it, Strahan does not lie. I am nearly healed." His
eyes were on Hart's left wrist. "He told me—he told
me—"

Hart's mouth twisted. "Strahan does not lie." He sighed.
"You know what he wants from us."

Corin averted his gaze. "Aye. He has made it very
plain."

Brennan came to the litter and knelt. "Corin—"

"Enough," Strahan said. "The reunion may come later.
I want you to listen to me."

After a moment, Brennan rose. Hart turned to face
the Ihlini squarely. On his litter, Corin watched.

"I am no more abomination than vow," Strahan told
Brennan. "What I do, I do for my god, my race, myself.
I believe in what I do, because what I do is just."

"The destruction of the Cheysuli? The fall of Homana?"
Brennan shook his head. "I think—*'

386 Jennifer Roberson

"You do not think!" Strahan shocked them all with the
abruptness and intensity of his passion. The sound rever-
berated in the cavern, threading its way among the col-
umns of the Seker's monstrous harp. '*// you thought,
you would realize that what I do is no different from
what you do, if for a different reason." Now his tone was
cold as he looked at each of them individually. "When I
was a boy, and very young, I learned what hatred was,
and I learned that it had no place in what I was meant to
do. And so S do not Hate you." He drew in a breath,
strung so tightly the others thought—prayed—he might
snap. "I learned what it was to prepare myself to serve
my father's god with absolute loyalty, knowing the way
of the Seker was the only way for me. And when Caril-
lon slew Tynstar and Electra, stripping me of my parents,
I learned what it was to know of the desire for revenge—-
and how to detach myself from it so it did not affect my
judgment, my needs, my loyalty to my God and to his
needs."

"No doubt." Brennan said coolly. "We see the design
quite clearly."

"Do you? I think not. I think you see only yourself
caught within a trap, when the trap involves much more
than a single man." Strahan shook his head. "You give
yourself too much value, too much weight in the fabric of
life ... you are but a slub within the cloth, subject to
rejection."

Brennan's brows rose. "If that were true—"

"—I would not want you?" Again, Strahan shook his
head. "You are an ingredient, but hardly the dish itself."

"What is this nonsense?" Hart asked harshly. "What is
this senseless talk of hatred, revenge, cloth—?"

Strahan's odd eyes were incredibly compelling. "I am
no different from any of you. I serve my god as you serve
the pantheon of your own, as dedicated to destroying the
prophecy as you are to fulfilling it. Why? Because fulfill-
ment destroys the Ihlini." He spread one hand; the other
held the rune-scribed box. "You see? A simple answer
for you: I believe in what I do every bit as strongly as
you do in your prophecy. Does it make me a monster?

387

A PRIDE OF PitWCES

Does it make me abomination? Does it make me differ-
ent from you?"

"We do not kill people arbitrarily," Corin said curtly.
"We—"

But Strahan's laughter overrode his retort. "Oh, no?"
the Ihlini asked. "Then what of the thirty-two innocent
souls who burned to death in the Midden? Was that done
with purpose?"

For a long moment all any of them could do was stare,
stricken. And then Hart stirred, knowing himself most
guilty.

"But we do not set about destroying an entire race,"
he answered flatly. "What of the plague, Strahan? Twenty
years ago it nearly killed us all. What of the wars, Strahan?
How many hundreds of years has Homana fought Solinde
merely to stave off the Ihlini? What of all the trap-links
and other sorcerous things designed to bring us down?"

"War requires harsh measures," Strahan said, "and
this is war. A battle for survival that you would fight as
hard, if you were not so blind."

"What are we blind to?" Corin demanded in frustration.

"Yourselves," Strahan told him, looking from Corin to
Hart to Brennan. "Once the Firstborn have come, we
will be redundant. Ihlini and Cheysuli; the need for us is
gone."

Brennan's disgust was plain. "I have heard that be-
fore." He thought of Tieman and other similar senti-
ments. "It is idiocy, Strahan—why would the gods sentence
us to death on the birth of other children?"

"It is the way of things." Strahan said. "When you
breed a stallion and mare to improve exisiting bloodlines,
you desire offspring combining the best of both. And
then you breed get to get to fix the characteristics. It is
the same with dogs, with sheep, with cattle . . . and one
day, when you have the characteristics you want, you
^   realize there is no need for the progenitors; they are
obsolete. The new breed is much better." The light was
odd on his face. "It is the same with people."

Corin laughed once. "You reduce the House of Homana
to a collection of studs and mares."

388 Jennifer Roberson

"Look at your prophecy," Strahan snapped impatiently.
"Are you blind to its commands?" Glibly contemptuous,
he quoted. " 'One day a man of all blood shall unite, in
peace, four warring realms and two magical races.' " He
stared at them angrily. "Marry here, wed there, get the
blood for the prophecy . . . look to no other kingdom
because we need this one, to fulfill the prophecy." He
shook his head in disgust. "A collection of studs and
mares . . . what else do you think you are?"

None of them could answer.

Strahan nodded slightly. "You are all of you one of the
final links in the prophecy. You combine the blood of
three realms: Homana, Solinde, Atvia. You lack only
Erinn, but children born of Brennan and Aileen will
fulfill that portion, as well as children of Keely and Sean.
And that leaves only the blood of the Ihlini." Black
brows touched the circlet in an expression of delicate
amusement. "The hardest feat of all, getting Cheysuli to
lie with Ihlini."

Brennan's flesh went suddenly hot on his bones.

"Of course," Strahan continued, "the precedent has
been set. By lan. The unspeakable was accomplished
once—and then again." He looked at Brennan. "And yet
an impediment exists. The child will not quite be a First-
born, lacking some of the blood ... it will not quite be
the human equivalent to fulfillment of the merging of
power and bloodlines—but it will have a complement of
powers greater than most of ours. And I will put it to
good use in breeding it for my own."

"Then Sidra's child is yours," Corin blurted.

"Of course." Strahan smiled. "The Cheysuli have done
well breeding so close to the prophecy, so I will adopt a
successful strategy and use it for my own. Rhiannon's
child shall marry mine, once the genders are in balance."
His glance at Brennan was amused. "I doubt Brennan
will freely participate again, but Sidra is young and I am
potent. In time, I shall have the pair I require."

"Then let us go," Hart suggested. "Of what use are we
to you?"

"To me. not so much. But to the Seker, aye. He wants

A PRIM w PRIWES             3S9

f

•q,

T

.?.!•

the realms, and 1 will do what I can to win them from
those who would keep them from him."

"Why does he want them?" Hart demanded. "Why au
this greed, this overweening ambition? He has the
netherworld—why must he want the rest?"

Strahan, for the first time, looked truly perplexed.
"Why? Because he does." He shrugged. "It is not my
place to question the ambitions of a god."

Corin nodded. "And when you are become a god?"

Strahan's motion was arrested. He looked at Corin
blankly,

"Aye," Corin said, "I begin to put it together." He
struggled to sit more upright on the Utter. "A faithful
servant, Strahan, working for the god—but when the
task is done? When you have succeeded? Does he give
you what you want?"

"What / want is immaterial—"

"A godhood of your own?"

"Godhoodi" Brennan stared. "Is that what—'*

"/ serve Asar-Sutil" Strahan's shout reverberated in
the cavern. "He is my god, my lord, the Seker, the font
of all my strength—"

"And you want parity." Corin smiled. "I understand
an ambitious man. But I wonder . . . does Asar-Suti?"

Strahan's eyes narrowed slightly, but his smile remained
unblemished. "And does Brennan know how much you
want Aileen?**

Corin's arms collapsed beneath him. He slumped back
into the pillows.

"Aileen?" Brennan said blankly. Then he looked at
Corin. "You want-—"

"He said you were unfit." Corin's tone was curt and
characteristically defensive.

"Unfit! I? And you believed him?"

"Are you not?" Strahan asked.

Brennan nearly gaped. "I have spent nearly twenty-
two years of my Hfe learning how to rule—I doubt I am
unfit!"

"Are you not?" Strahan repeated. "Think back, my
lord of Homana . . . think back to your fear."

399 Jennifer Robersoa

Brennan's color faded.

"Aye," Strahan said. "Your fear of small, dark places—
the terror of close confinement... the diminishment of
the man who becomes nothing more than a beast." He
smiled. "Do you think I have not seen it? Rhiannon told
me of it, and I have watched you in your cell."

"Enough!" Hart shouted, seeing Brennan's eyes.

Strahan looked only at Brennan. "I ask you to serve
me willingly, as I have done before. Accept, and I will
free you forever of this fear."

Brennan swallowed tightly. "No."

"Then live in it again . . . show Conn how fit you are
to rule." Strahan raised his hand and Brennan's world
was changed.

He was small, so small, so tiny in the abyss of the
world. He knelt on the ground and hugged himself, wrap-
ping himself in his arms, trying to withstand the pain and
fear of knowing himself alone.

The vastness amazed him. It made him insignificant,
reduced him to obsolescence. Alone in the world he
knelt on a vast stone plain, watching the world around
him, and saw it begin to move.

—how it moved—

Like a sphincter squeezing closed, it began to move
upon him. Fold upon fold, swallowed by itself. The world
grew smaller and smaller and smaller, until he could put
out his hands and touch it, and then it grew smaller still.

All around him the world trembled. And then it touched
him, even as he withdrew. It drew closer, closer, until he
could not breathe without feeling its caress; without smell-
ing the stink of its fetid breath and the slime of its
glass-black skin. Awash in the power of helplessness, he
felt the world draw closer.

—so smalt—

—he could not straighten legs—could not sit up—could
not stretch out his arms—
All around him the world squeezed.

—so dark—

He was entombed within the world, and it was deaf to
his cries.

APvww PRINCES

m

Brennan fell backward, rolling from one hip onto his
spine. Cramped thighs spasmed and trembled. Jerking
twisted tendons. His skull banged against the floor, re-
leased from the rigidity of his neck. He lay on the stone
and shook, wet from the sweat of his fear.

Dimly he heard movement. But no one came to aid
him.

"What kind of king," Strahan said, "fears confinement
more than death? Fears it so much that it robs him of
control?" He pointed slowly to Brennan's trembling body
on the floor, "Do you, Corin, truly believe him fit to
rule? Ht to hold the Lion? To sire children on AUeen?1*

"Stop!" Corin shouted.

Strahan ripped open the box, "Accept service with me,
and I will make your brother whole!*'

Sickened, Corin stared. "Oh—gods—stop—**

"You see what Brennan is—I can free him of thatF

"No more!" Corin cried.

"Take the Lion for me. Hold Homana for me. Take
the woman for yourself.^

Corin clapped both his hands to his head. "Make him
stop—"

Hart tried. Even as Strahan shouted something more,
he lurched forward and threw himself across the expanse
of the Gate.

Flame licked up. It bathed Hart briefly as he leaped.
He cried out, came down, landed hard on the other side,
too near, too near the Gate—

Brennan, still weakened from his ordeal, struggled to
hands and knees. "Hart—no/"

Strahan stood his ground. "Corin—"

"No—" Hart scraped his knees and boots against the
rim of the Gate, grimacing in pain.

"/ will give your brothers their lir~"

"Corin—no—" Hart gasped.

Brennan rose unsteadily. "Hart—get back—Hart—"

Abruptly, Strahan knelt on one knee before Hart. His
hands held out the box. "Do you want it? Do you want
it? You have only to say the word—"

"No—" Brennan shouted.

392               Jennifer Roberwn

Strahan's smile was unearthly, "To be a whole Cheysuli,

honored by all the clan—"

"Leave him alonel" Corin cried,

"—to be able to fly again—"

Brennan stumbled forward. "Hart—get back—"

Flame exploded from the Gate and blinded all save

Strahan.
"—to know the freedom of the skies—"

Hart wavered on his knees. "Ku'reshtin—"
"Take me/" Conn shouted, "/will accept the service—"
"Corin—Corin, no—" Brennan tried to round the Gate.
Flame licked out, slapped him down, smashed him against

the floor.

"Take me/" Corin cried.

Hart threw himself at the Ihlini. Strahan fell heavily,
landing on hip and elbow. A shower of sparks exploded

from the Gate.
"He is forsworn!" Strahan shouted. "You heard what

he said—"
Hart dragged himself forward, bodily preventing the

sorcerer from rising. Steadfastly he ignored the rope of
Ihlini godfire that caught an ankle and tugged, trying to

jerk him into the Gate.

"He is forsworn!" Strahan shouted.

Hart's hand was on the box. Runes blazed up and
writhed, then circled the rectangular box in a blur of
uncanny script. Faster, faster, until the blur ran off the
wood and leaped onto Hart's remaining hand. He cried

out in pain, but did not release the box.

Brennan, badly disoriented, tried to stand up and failed.
Nearly senseless, he crawled slowly toward his brother.

Hart jerked the box from Strahan's grasp. Twisting, he
turned back toward the Gate. "—my choice—" he gasped,

and hurled it into the flames.

The loss was new again. He felt the sword blade come
down, divide flesh, muscles, vessels, shear easily through
bone. He saw the blood. Saw the severed hand. Saw Dar
laughing at him.

Pain.

Hart screamed.

393

A PRIDE OF PRMCES

One Ihlini servitor caught Brennan. A second dragged
Hart off Strahan and pushed him back around the Gate.
Strahan sat at the rim and laughed, one foot wreathed in
icy Ihlini godfire. And then it crept up slowly, so slowly,
to touch his knee, his thigh, his hip; caressed his genitals.
And exploded in ecstacy as it swallowed the rest of him,
The fire died quickly before their astonished eyes. In
its place was a delicate webwork of lavender lace, a
lattice of living light that cloaked exposed flesh. Hands.
Throat. Face. It even pooled in his mouth; licked out of
nostrils as he breathed. Through it all, Strahan laughed.
He rose. He went directly to Corin; inclined his glow-
ing head. And then knelt to catch the wrist that still bore

the silver shackle.
"No more need for this." It caught fire, flowed off

Corin's hand, pooled in Strahan's webworked palm. And
then shaped itself into a silver goblet. "There." Strahan
rose, turned, knelt again at the rim of the Gate. Dipped
the cup. Came up with dripping godfire. His smile was
for Corin alone. "1 give you the baptismal cup . . . and

good welcome to the world."
Corin's face was awash in the glow of he cup. His eyes

were blue, all blue, with only a speck of pupil,

"Corin1." Brennan shouted.

Corin's gaze was transfixed by Strahan's altered ap-
pearance. The Ihlini offered the cup. Fingernails glowed.

"Drink of Asar-Suti."
Hart struggled impotently against the man who held

him, "Corin, no—I threw it away—/ threw it away—no

need for this sacrifice—"
"Drink," Strahan said, and helped Corin hold the cup.

"Ku'reshtinF Brennan shouted. "Did you do this for

Aileen?"
"No." Corin said, "I do this for myself."

And drank of Asar-Suti.

Four

In Strahan's luxurious tower chamber, they faced the
sorcerer. They did not sit, though he did, preferring
instead to stand. Hart cradled his arm; Brennan waited
rigidly.

The Ihlini stretched out elegantly booted legs. The
unearthly living lace had died from his flesh, but there
remained an aura of power. Subtle, but intoxicating;

both Cheysuli felt it. Neither succumbed to it.

In his chair, Strahan smiled. "The game is somewhat
altered."

"Is that what this is?" Brennan asked harshly. "An
afternoon's entertainment?"

"It is entertaining." Strahan, chin in hand, slouched
casually against the chair arm and braced his elbow on it.
"Entertaining as well as enlightening ... but no, not a
game. For none of us, now; certainly not for Conn."

Hart took a single step forward. "What have you done
to him?"

"I?" One winged black brow rose. "/ have done noth-
ing at all."

"That bile you made him drink—"
"The blood of Asar-Suti," Strahan corrected calmly.
"And I made him drink nothing; did you see him turn
away? Did you see him choke? Did you see him spit it
out?" The Ihlini shook his head with its fall of raven
hair. "No. He did none of those things. He drank it
willingly, and was filled with the spirit of the Seker. You
saw his eyes."

394                              .11

A PRIDE M PRINCES                395

Brennan's temper flared. "He had no choice—"

"He had every choice." Strahan leaned forward in the
chair. "He accepted my offer of his own free will. He
drank of his own free will. I used nothing at all on him
save persuasion, and that, my Cheysuli kinsman, is power
no different from your own." He sat back again. The
elaborate courtesy and negligent humor were gone, re-
placed by a sharp intensity. "Now. I have Corin; that is
finished. What do I do with you?"

"Finished," Hart echoed- "Finished? If you think we
will let it rest—"

Strahan's eyes blazed. "/ think you will do exactly as I
tell you.'1

It stopped both of them cold.

The Ihlini uncoiled and pressed himself out of the
chair. He stepped very close to Hart, though he did not
touch him, and held him in place with an unwavering
stare. "It is your misfortune," he said clearly, "that you
chose to destroy your own flesh. Now you are truly cut
off from your people, and through your own doing. Blame
yourself for that; I will have none of it!"

Hart wanted to fall back, but forced himself to stand
still. This close to the Ihlini he could feel Strahan's power
as if it leaked out of the pores of his skin.

"Your determination is commendable." Strahan con-
tinued, "and its seeming boundlessness is a trait I do
admire. I want steadfast, loyal men, willing to sacrifice
that which they prize most. But I think you misjudge my
willingness to mold such men into the shapes that serve
me best."

"Willingness." Brennan was elaborately distinct. "A
familiar refrain, Ihlini . . . but why is it so important? If
you have so much power, why not force Hart and me to
do your bidding? Why not mold us into the shapes that
serve you best?" He spread his hands. "Here we stand,
sorcerer—why not shape the clay?"

Something flickered in Strahan's mismatched eyes.
Briefly, so briefly, but Hart had seen it, and so had
Brennan.

Hart's eyes narrowed. "You have us," he said intently.

396 Jennifer Roberson

"What can we do to gainsay you? Make us the minions
you want."

Strahan flicked a finger and the door slammed open.
"You are dismissed."

Hart held his ground. Brennan moved to stand beside
him.

Strahan's fair skin burned darker in slanted cheek-
bones, "You are dismissed."

"All those threats," Hart said quietly. "All those prom-
ises . . . empty, all of them?"

"Is it that we must be willing?" Brennan asked. "Why
else do you waste so much time on trying to break us
physically, hoping to persuade us? Is it that an unwilling
minion lacks something you need in us? Something pecu-
liar to us?"

"So peculiar that without it, your efforts would be in
vain?" Hart smiled. "I think we have beaten you, Strahan.
I think we have won at last."

Strahan said nothing at all.

Brennan began to smile. "And what are we? Princes.
More than Cheysuli, but princes, meant to inherit realms.
Homana. Solinde." He nodded. "You cannot rule on
your own, so you hope to rule through us. But there is
no puppet-king if the king is too much a puppet—"

"You need us sane," Hart said intently. "You need us
complete in wits. And if you force us to your service, we
will lack the thing you require—"

"—and the people will throw us down." Slowly, Bren-
nan spread his hands. "Kill our bodies, kill our wits . . .
and you are left with nothing."

"So," Hart said, "where is the leverage now? If you
kill Sleeta, Brennan will go mad. No minion in Homana;

the people will not have it. Rael you do not have, so
what is there for me?" He lifted his left arm. "I threw it
away, Strahan—you cannot use my hand."

"Leverage?" Strahan nodded, turned away, swung back.
"Aye, there is a need. And I do have it."

"What is there left?" Brennan asked.

"Corin," Strahan said, and their triumph poured away.

»                 *                 -i-

A PRIDE OF PRWCES

397

The youngest of Niall's sons stared at the man who
faced him. For a long moment he did not know him,
barely knowing himself, and then a name came into his
head. Strahan. Strahan, called the Ihhni.

Strahan's outline was blurred. His face was a blaze of
white, marred only by the holes for eyes, nose, mouth.
And then the blaze became more distinct, and the holes
dissolved themselves into things identifiable, and Corin
knew whom he faced.

He shuddered once, like a man awakening from a
deep, dreamless sleep. He was, he realized, ensconced
within a massive chair, supported by tall back, tall sides,
cushioned seat. It cradled his lax body like a woman a
sleeping child.

Sleeping. Aye, he had been- Or something close to it.

Strahan stood before him, holding a cup in his hands.
A black glass goblet, unlike the silver one that had held
the blood of the god. This one smelled of wine.

"Drink." Strahan held it out. "It will help restore
you."

Slowly Corin took it. The world was dulled to him,
wrapped in swaddling clothes. He felt heavy, ponderous,
movements slowed accordingly. His ringers closed on the
cup, felt the warmth of the glass, carried it to his mouth.
He drank deeply, sighed, felt his head thump against the
chair.

Strahan took the cup away. "It takes time," he said,
"to accustom yourself to it. You will know discomfort,
but it will pass. I promise."

Corin looked at the sorcerer. He saw the fine planes of
jaw, cheekbones, brow; the oblique angles of mismatched
eyes. Such fine, delicate features, yet there was no mis-
taking his sex.

Strahan smiled and sat down in a chair opposite. "I
thought it might be Hart," he said calmly. "I underesti-
mated him, believing his need for his race would out-
weigh his dedication. But you will do well enough."

Corin swallowed heavily. His voice seemed very dis-
tant, as if another man spoke. "Hart is often misjudged.

398 Jennifer Roberson

People see only his feckiessness, his desire for amuse-
ment. They look no farther than that."

Strahan considered it. "What will sway him, then? 1
cannot replace his hand."

"The loss of his place in the clan." Corin frowned a
little. "You have cut away his anchor ... he will founder
on the rocks one day, no matter what he says. Offer him
succor. In time he will repay it."

The Ihlini stroked one eyebrow. "And Brennan?"

"Him you may never win." Corin shifted in the chair.
His bones tingled. He itched. "I know of no way to
convince him. Brennan's particular strength lies in his
unequaled loyalty to kin, clan and prophecy." He
shrugged. "It will make him a predictable Mujhar, but
also a very good one."

"Then perhaps he should not be Mujhar." Strahan
nodded thoughtfully. "I made you promises, and I intend
to keep them. Brennan will undoubtedly become ex-
pendable . . . Homana will need a new king. You I can
put in his place.""

Corin nibbed at his tingling scalp. "Aileen . . ." He
shivered. "What of Aileen?"

Strahan waved a hand. "With Homana and Solinde
under my control, it no longer matters whom she mar-
ries. The prophecy will not be completed no matter what
child is bora." He shrugged. "I no longer need her.
Alaric failed to spirit her to Atvia, and there was no time
for a second try. Now there is no need- You may have
her, Corin. It was a part of our bargain."

Corin bunked repeatedly. The chamber was bright, too
bright; he squinted against the light.

"It will be difficult," Strahan said softly. "I will not
discount the steadfast determination of your race . . . the
arrogance of your convictions. But I need your brothers,
Corin. May I count on you?"

Corin frowned. "There may be a way," he said. "Will
you trust me to do it?"

Strahan showed even teeth in a silent laugh. "Trust?
There is no need for trust. If I tell you to do a thing, you
will do it without question. That is the way of the service."

399

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

Something flickered deep inside Corin. Mute denial.
But it was snuffed out so quickly by apathy he hardly

recognized it.

"There may be a way," he said again. "What they
want most is freedom. Their need of it may overshadow
their caution and distrust."

"Aye." Strahan nodded. "We shall devise a scenario,
and then give them what they want."

Corin shut his eyes. The world was too bright to bear,
his flesh too heavy to carry. "I can deliver them."

"Good," Strahan said. He poured himself more wine.

The cell was new to Brennan, though not so to Hart;

larger, brighter, more comfortable than the tiny one Bren-
nan had known for months. Two fat candles burned in
corners opposite one another- A narrow cot lined one
wall, which was, like the others, cool but dry, lacking
fetid slime. The occupant, unlike his brother, had also
been provided with a bucket in which to relieve himself.

Hart sat down on the cot and hunched against the wall,
cradling his left arm. He stared into invisible distances.

Brennan saw the withdrawal at once. "Hart—"

"Gone," he said. "Gone." He looked at the emptiness
where once his hand had been. "And I did it to myself."

Slowly Brennan sat down on the edge of the cot. He
felt a vague sense of relief that he still had both hands,
and guilt because he did. "If you had accepted Strahan's

bargain—"

"I knowf" Hart cried. "7 know, Brennan—I do not

require reminding!"
Inwardly Brennan recoiled, though his body did not

move.

"I know," Hart repeated. "I know what I did was
right. I know it was for the best—to remove the possibil-
ity I might succumb to the temptation—but knowing it
makes it no better. Corin did succumb . . . what I did

was for naught."

Brennan drew in a steadying breath. "Not for naught,"
he said quietly. "That bargain was offered me as well,
before you were brought into the cavern. And once I saw

Jennifer Roberson

your face, how the knowledge ravaged your spirit, I
knew there was a very good chance Strahan had judged
me too wen."

"He promised you my hand?"

"To make you whole again, just as he promised you."
Brennan scratched viciously as a louse ran against his
scalp -

"What else?"

Brennan sighed. "The lives of all my kin." He looked
at Hart. "And release from the fear."

Hart massaged his forearm above the cuff. He frowned
a little, clearly reluctant to speak. "You never told me,"
he said finally, obviously hurt. "You never told me about
your fear. You told me everything—"

"Everything but that." Brennan stared at the floor. "I
was ashamed."

"To tell me?"

"To tell anyone." He flickered a glance at Hart. "You
most of all; you are afraid of nothing."

Hart's face tightened; his mouth hooked down briefly
in mute argument. "So you locked it away inside of you,
until Strahan discovered the secret." He sighed heavily.
"Oh, rujho, I am sorry ... I might have helped you with
it."

"For me to do." Brennan shrugged. "But now—" He
stopped. "Oh, gods. Hart—what are we to do? How do
we deal with Corm?"

"As we have dealt with Strahan."

"He is our rujholUl"

"And he has turned his back on his race to serve
Asar-Suti."

"Has he?" Brennan asked. "Has he?"

"You saw his eyes. You saw how his legs were healed.'*
Hart leaned his head against the wall. "You saw how he
rose and walked; how he knelt down at the rim of the
Gate."

"To make his obeisance to the Seker." Twitching in
distaste, Brennan shut his eyes. "What will Strahan do
with him?"

A PHIDE OF PRIIVCES

491

"Use him," Hart said flatly. "What else is leverage
for?"

Brennan turned his head and looked at his brother.
Before, overwhelmed by what the loss of Hart's hand
represented, he had looked at nothing else, seeing noth-
ing else. But now he looked, now he saw, and was
shocked by the tension in the body so like his own;

equally stunned by the pronounced lack of conditioning.
Hart had lost weight, muscle tone, the hard fitness char-
acteristic of a Cheysuli.

Worse, and indicative of something far graver than
physical discomforts, Brennan saw Hart had also lost the
high-spirited good humor that marked him different from
any of Niall's other children.

It frightened him for some obscure reason. He did not
expect Hart to be amused by the circumstances, nor
particularly cheerful, but Brennan was accustomed to his
brother's uncanny ability to find the good in the bad. He
realized, in that moment, that for all he had longed for
Hart to shed some immaturity, he treasured his brother's
relentless search for diverting entertainment. And now
that propensity was lacking.

Brennan forced a smile. "If we had us a fortune-game—"

Something flared in Hart's eyes. First shock, then rec-
ollection, then a deep and abiding anger that stunned
Brennan with its virulence.

"No game!" Hart said viciously.

"Hart—"

"No game—" And he was up, thrusting himself one-
armed from the cot, to pace the cell like an animal.

Brennan stared in shock. "Hart—what happened in
Solinde?"

"This*" Hart thrust out his left arm. "This—and my
stupidity ... my incredible gullibility."

"Hart—everyone is gullible at one time or another."

"Not like this." Hart stopped pacing and fell back
against the wall, pressing shoulders into stone. "Oh,
Brennan, I was such a fool. They laid a trap most care-
fully, baiting it so well, and I gobbled it whole, not even

492 Jennifer Roberson

bothering to sniff." He sighed. "But I thought she was a
pawn as much as I."

"Ah." Brennan sighed. "She."

"Never have I been such a blind, witless fool."

"You are not the first."

"But I should have known ... I should have seen it."
Hart closed his eyes. "All a wager, the ultimate wager,
and I primed to be the loser, regardless if I won."

It was too obscure for Brennan, who was more con-
cerned with Hart's well-being than his reference. "Aye,
well, take consolation in the fact you did not give Strahan
the child he wanted." He pushed himself back until he
leaned against the wall. "The girl from The Rampant
Lion—do you recall?"

Hart frowned. "The Lion? No. What girl? And what
child?"

"The girl I rescued from Reynald of Caledon, Einar's
illustrious cousin."

"Oh, aye, I recall." Hart frowned. "What has she to
do with this?"

"She set a trap for me, A most intricate trap indeed."
He hooked one ami across his face. "I made her my
meijha. Hart. I sired a child on her."

"It does happen. But why—"

"She is Ihlini. Daughter to Lillith and lan." He re-
moved the arm. "The child who will lie with Strahan's
child to give him the power he needs."

Stunned, Hart stared. "Oh, Brennan—"

"But I did not lose a hand." Brennan rose and went to
Hart, hooking an arm around his neck to pull him close.
"Gods, rujho—I am so very sorry—"

The door swung open. Corin came into the cell.

He was whole, lacking splints or bandages. He had
shaved, bathed, was clean again, smelling of scented oil
instead of the stink of Valgaard's bowels. His hair was
washed, cut, shining, indisputably free of lice. His cloth-
ing was immaculate, and of a decided Ihlini cut.

At his side was Kiri. Behind him two Ihlini.

"I wanted my lir," he said, "and Strahan gave her to
me,"

A PRIDE OF PRtfVCBS

493

Brennan unwound his arm from Hart.

Corin lifted his right hand and displayed the ruby signet
ring that once had hugged Brennan's forefinger. "I wanted
Homana," he said, "and Strahan promised me it." His
eyes were odd, more iris than pupil, with an eerie,
unfocused cast. "I wanted your title, I wanted your throne,
I said I wanted your woman. And Strahan will give her
to me."

"This is for Aileen?"

"Aileen and all the rest."

Brennan's belly rolled. "By all the gods of Homana—"

But Corin shook his head. "By the god of the nether-
world."

"No—" Hart cried, but missed as Brennan leaped.

Corin was slammed back against the wall. Brennan's
lingers dug deeply into the flesh of his throat. "I swear, I
will save the Seker the trouble of freeing your soul of its
shell."

"Brennan, no." Hart grasped at Brennan's arm and
caught only cloth. "Brennan—"

The two Ihlini plucked Brennan from Corin and threw
him across the cell. He tripped, fell, stayed down, legs
asprawl as he hitched himself'up on both elbows and
stared unblinkingly at Corin, who gestured the two away.
They went as far as the corridor.

"Your treatment is up to you." Corin told his broth-
ers. "Certainly this sort of accommodation is not required."

"Provided we do what Strahan wants," Hart said souriy.

"There is that." Corin looked at the cot, the slops pail,
the two dim candles. Then he looked at Brennan. "You
have never been a fool. Not in all the years I have known
you. Why be one now?"

Brennan turned his head and spat deliberately.

"Corin—" Hart moved forward, saw the Ihlini tense,
stopped and held his ground. "Corin, you know what he
has done to you—what he made you do—"

"I did it of my own choosing." His eyes should have
been dilated black in the shadows, but his pupils were
nonexistent. "There are things in this world I have al-
ways wanted, and this is how I get them,"

404 Jennifer Roberson

"By stealing them." Brennan's tone was deadly as he
slowly sat up. "My title, my throne, my bride—"

"Aye!" Conn hissed. "Why should you want her? You
never even bothered to write."

Brennan stood and tried to pull his crusted jerkin into
something resembling a proper fit. "Obviously you did
more than that while in Erinn,"

A thin white line banded Conn's mouth. "I did not
come to speak of Aileen. I came to speak to you, to
suggest the course you should take."

"To tell us, no doubt, that we should do as Strahan
suggests," Hart said in dry disgust.

"It is best," Corin told him quietly. "You have the
right of it, both of you." He flicked a glance at the silent
Ihlini. "He does require men willing to become minions.
Without that willingness, the Seker exerts force ... the
results are—unattractive." His strange eyes focused a
moment, than resumed their eerie cast."Strahan prefers
to rule through men with minds, as you have said. But he
is willing to do it another way." He brushed back a lock
of hair. frowned, then continued. "If it becomes neces-
sary, he will force you to accede, and use what is left of
you."

"He can hardly rule through idiots," Brennan said.
"The people will never accept us."

"For a while they would. You would not go mad right
away." Corin shrugged. "It would take time, during which
Strahan could firm his grasp on the thrones of Solinde
and Homana. Eventually, of course, no wits would be
left in your heads, and you would be locked away. But
by then, the damage would be done." He looked from
one to the other. "Why persist in refusal? It does no
good, none at all ... he will break you, and eventually
you will die. Lirless, friendless, alone." He stopped short,
frowned again, then sighed. "Consider this: accept him
and rule with dignity, with integrity, or deny him and
lose anything even slightly resembling freedom of mind
and soul."

Brennan drew in a deep, deep breath. "There was a
time, Corin, and not so many years ago, that you swore

A PRIDE OF PHINCES               495

an oath before kin and clan. Your Ceremony of Honors,
where you named as shu'maii our jehan. Where you put
on the fir-gold and accepted the responsibilities of a
warrior, and all the loyalties it entails." His voice was
very steady. "Do you stand here before me now and say
you willingly break that oath?"

Corin did not blink. "I have sworn another."

Hart sat down awkwardly on the cot, as if his ham-
strings had been cut. "No—no—no—"

"Oh, aye, he has," Brennan said coldly, "and I re-
nounce him as my rujholli."

Nothing moved in Conn's eyes. "You may renounce
yourself tor all I care. Brennan ... it has been a long,
long time that I have. watched you play your part as
Prince of Homana, coveting it myself. And now, in the
end, it is mine—"

"How?" Brennan shouted. "If I do accept this service,
Homana will still be mine!"

Corin smiled. "No," he said, "no. In the end, it will be
mine. Your fitness to rule will be questioned. After all, is
your jehana not known as mad Gisella?"

"She also bore you."

"But I am not afraid of small, dark places. There is no
doubting my sanity." He turned toward the Ihlini waiting
in the corridor. "Do not wait. They will agree to nothing
in front of you. Go to Strahan. I will bring them immedi-
ately I have an answer."

The Ihlini turned and melted away into the shadows.

Brennan slowly shook his head. "If you think I will
agree to anything you suggest, or step one foot outside
this cell with you—'

"I think you will." Corin briefly massaged his throat.
"You give yourself away. You are so willing to believe
the worst of me. If I were Hart, you would not be so
quick." He sighed, bent to touch Kiri, then straightened
again. He smiled a little, though it had an ironic hook.
"Aye, you did believe it ... well, so did Strahan. At
least I know last night was worttrit."

Hart sat slowly upright on the cot. All Brennan could
do was stare.

496 Jennifer Roberson

Conn sighed. "I spent all of last night with fingers
down my throat, trying to rid myself of that foul, mal-
odorous bile Strahan calls the blood of the god. But if
you tarry any longer, I will have to drink it again . . . two
cups remain before I am truly his." He gestured toward
the door. "I would suggest we go."

Speechlessly, they went.

';•»
•MJ

-k

Five

Corin led them down a twisting corridor illuminated by
torches set in infrequent iron brackets. The flame was
pure and yellow, not lurid Ihlini purple, but Hart, accus-
tomed to little light, and Brennan, accustomed to none,
found discomfort in the illumination. They squinted, avoid-
ing the pools of light; Corin's nearly pupilless eyes re-
mained wide and strangely unfocused.

Brennan's walk slowed- At last Corin turned. "If we
tarry—"

"What if we do?" Curtly, Brennan overrode him. "I
go nowhere without Sleeta,"

Corin smiled a little, glancing down at Kiri. "1 know. I
do not expect you to. Sleeta is in the cavern."

"The cavern?" Hart stopped short. "You are taking us
there?"

"Would you suggest we depart through the front en-
trance?" Corin's tone was dryly disgusted. "Valgaard is a
maze of tunnels and corridors, as well as secret exits. But
I only know of one; I am newly come to the god, and
Strahan does not tell me everything as yet." He looked
at them more closely and saw doubt in grimy faces. "Oh,
aye, I know—now you are uncertain. Well, the choice is
yours. Come with me, or stay." Corin turned and went
on as Kiri trotted beside him.

Hart swore. Brennan sighed and shook his head. And
then he shrugged and pushed off the wall, muttering
resigned imprecations.

407

408 Jennifer Roberson

"Kin is with him," Hart pointed out. "If he meant to
trick us, would she accompany him?"

"The ^r-link is obliterated here," Brennan said over
his shoulder. "She knows as much of his intentions as we
do."

"But would he lead her astray?"

"He is not-the Corin we knew. Who can say what he
will do?"

They turned a corner and came up on him as he waited
in the shadows. Z^'r-gold gleamed in tawny hair; armbands
were hidden beneath sleeves of a dark gray doublet.

"What I will do," Corin said distinctly, "is take you
out of here."

"Then do it," Brennan told him.

He led them into yet another corridor. It was short,
too short, showing a dead end. But Corin halted, touched
a stone, and a piece of the wall slid aside. Cool air
rushed out of the tunnel. The nearest torch was snuffed
out.

Brennan's breath rasped in his throat as darkness set-
tled around them. Behind him. Hart stepped closer and
touched his shoulder briefly in a gesture of support.

"Almost there," Corin told them, and went into the
shadowed tunnel.

"The gods forgive me if I do our rujholli an injustice—"
But Brennan did not finish. He merely followed Corin.

The tunnel soon gave way into an alcove cut into pol-
ished basalt. And the alcove gave into the stairway lead-
ing down to the massive cavern. Godfire dripped from
seams of rock, splattering on the stairs. Corin went on
without pausing, steadily descending.

In the distance, harp strings thrummed. Something
gibbered in the wall.

He took them out of the passageway into the archivolted
cavern and led them to the Gate. He paused at the
glowing rim and pointed into the glare.

"Down there?" Hart demanded,

"I am with you," Corin said. He gazed at them both
with an eerie, unfocused stare. "/ can show you the
way."

409

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

As one, his brothers backed away from the lip of the
Gate-
Conn stepped closer. "It is your only chance."

"Ours—all of us?" Brennan's eyes narrowed. "Or only
Hart and me?"

Corin frowned. "1 am coming with you. Do you think I
would dare remain?"

Hart chewed on a lip as he stared at the opening.
"Through the Gate itself?" His tone was dubious.

Brennan's was distrustful. "Into the lap of the god."

Corin bent down. One hand reached into the gate and
scooped up livid godfire. "Cold," he said, "cold. You
will shiver, but never burn."

"No," Brennan said. "1 will forgo that exit."

"Then why not try this one?"

As one, they spun in place. Strahan stepped out of
basalt.

Godfire edged his robe of deepest black. The silver on
his brow glowed lilac-white in the glare of the Gate.
Behind him was only shadow; no exit could be seen.

He gestured, indicating stone. "In there, Sleeta awaits.
Why not go and see her?"

"Trap," said Brennan succinctly, unimpressed by
Strahan's avowal.

"Is it?" Strahan moved closer to them, between the
Gate and the glass of the cavern wall. Corin, at the rim,
dropped down to his knees instantly in perfect homage.
He bowed his head.

"Ku'reshtin," Brennan said bitterly, as Hart closed his
eyes,

The Ihlini nodded slowly and put an approving hand
on the tawny hair. "Well done, Corin. You have done as
you said you would."

Corin turned his face up to Strahan. "And you have
done as I hoped—" He lunged upward, off his knees,
locking both arms around Strahan and pinning the sor-
cerer's arms. Even as Strahan twisted, Corin thrust out a
foot to trip Strahan and tumble him into the Gate.

Flame gushed up. Strahan screamed something, and
then the voice was silenced.

410

"A/ow/" Conn ran for the glassy wall.

"But nothing is there!" Brennan cried.

Corin and Kin disappeared.

"/ am not waiting." Hart ran for the darkness as well.

Brennan took a step after him, then stopped. He re-
called too clearly the power that had reduced him to
obsolescence- He recalled too clearly the fear that had
engulfed him.

He shivered. Sweat broke out on his flesh.

And then the Gate disgorged the Ihlini, blazing like a
pyre, and Brennan did not look back.

There was a seam, he saw at once. A fault in the
stone, or else something cut by god or man. The naked
eye could not see it, but the hand felt its gap. He slipped
through and departed the cavern even as Strahan shouted.

He ran. The passageway engulfed him, scraping against
bare arms. He heard the chime of Ur-go\d on basalt. It
was a narrow, low conduit, alive with the stink of the
netherworld. Godfire glimmered in crevices. For once,
he was thankful; he would be blind without it.

He ran on, ignoring the knot in his belly. Small, dark
place . , . and the only available exit.

"Hurry!" Hart called. The echo carried back, rever-
berating, and then Brennan saw them all. Hart. Kin.
Corin. And Sleeta just beyond, eyes aglow in purple
godfire.

"Lir—" He tripped and nearly fell.

"No time," Corin said breathlessly. "The bailey is just
beyond."

Brennan caught his balance. "Strahan is alive."

Corin's face was stark. Fear turned blue eyes black.
"Then he can still gainsay me." He turned abruptly and
thrust the hidden door open.

Cheysuli and lir spilled out of basalt into the bailey,
footsteps echoing on cobbles. All around them was dark-
ness and the breath of Asar-Suti. Stars were but a dim
glow through the veil of malodorous smoke.

"I have forgotten what daylight is like." Hart remarked,
half laughing. "Will we ever see the sun?"

"Not if we tarry here." At a run, Corin headed toward

A PRIDE OF PftMCES

411

the gates with Kiri streaking behind. Hart caught Bren-
nan's arm. With Sleeta, they followed their brother.

Stone shifted beneath their feet. It burst from under
boots and threw them to the ground. Once, twice, thrice;

each time they lost more distance. Some stone melted,
clinging to their boots- Other cobbles exploded around
them and rained down as smoking missiles.

Hart fell. Pain set his stump ablaze. The missing hand
spasmed and tried to clutch at stone.

"Up—up—" Brennan dragged him from the ground.

Corin was at the gates. Frenziedly he threw the bar out
of its brackets.

"No guards," Hart gasped. "Why does he post no
guards?"

"Does an Ihlini require any?" Brennan dodged as a
cobble exploded beneath his right boot, sending frag-
ments of smoking stone slicing through the air. Splinters
cut one cheek.

"Now—now—" Corin's shout was mostly swallowed
by the shrieks and whistles of flying cobbles.

Massive gates tore loose of hinges and slowly began to
topple. Corin scooped Kiri up and ran through as they
crashed down. The sound of thunder filled the bailey; if
Strahan did not already know precisely where they were,
the noise would surely tell him.

Brennan gaped in astonishment as he and Hart ran on,
pounding over the fallen wood. "By the gods—Strahan is
using Valgaard itself to stop us!"

"Trying—" Hart rasped. "Oh—gods—I had forgotten
thisF

They were through. The walls of Valgaard fell behind
them; the field of fire lay before, stretching into the
night. Fold upon fold of stone, all piled on one another;

ripple here, curl there; a treacherous carpet of ensorcelled
stone. The god had a sense of humor.

They ran. Staggered. Tripped. Got up and ran again,
cursing the pockets of shadow that reached out to catch
their boots. Cauldrons gurgled, fumaroles splattered,
smoke issued forth from vents. It coated flesh, clogged
throats, filled eyes with irritation. Coughing, wheezing,

412 Jennifer Roberwu

gagging, they stumbled through crumbling crusts and
tripped over the spine of the earth itself, wrenched free
of flesh and muscle. The viscera was foul.

Shadows loomed. Darkness incarnate, stretching across
the ground. And then the rules were changed.

Unexpectedly, there was movement in addition to their
own. They snatched hurried glances out of the comers of
reddening eyes, and then the eyes abruptly widened. The
field was a grotesque boardgame made by the god him-
self, and the pieces were alive.

"The stone—moving—" Brennan croaked.

Shadows altered. Darkness shifted. The pattern of fear
mutated. Strahan's stone menagerie came to life in the
sulfurous murk.

Hart recalled his father telling stories of how he had
voluntarily come into Valgaard, alone, leaving behind
even his Ur, to make a bargain with Strahan- He recalled
very clearly Niall's descriptions of the canyon of the god,
cut so sharply from black basalt. As a child he had
smelled the sulfur and squinted against the fumes, imag-
ining Strahan's lair- Now he was in it himself, experienc-
ing the same doubts and fears that Niall himself had
known.

"Watch out for the stones," Corin rasped. "Remem-
ber how jehan told us they can move—?"

Brennan fell over a coiled protruberance. He landed
hard, jarring his senses; a vent cracked open beneath
him. Cursing, he tried to rise before the Seker's spittle
burst forth.

Hart snatched one arm, Corin the other as steam gushed
out of the vent. Together they dragged him free, scraping
boot toes against rock, and forced him back into a stum-
bling run. Dodging paws and teeth and slashing tails, all
formed of sinuous stone, they fled toward the defile that
would give them exit from Strahan's domain.

"Not so far—" Hart panted. "Almost there—" Stone
parted beneath his boots even as he spoke. He leaped,
stumbled, staggered on, ignoring the angry gurgle.

Through the shadows Sleeta flowed like watered silk
on velvet. Brennan longed to go into the link, to reestab-

A PRIDE w PRWCES

413

lish the communication he wanted so desperately, but
such an attempt was futile so close to the Gate. Here the
Ihlini was paramount, so long as he worshiped the god.

Corin swore as a wave of steam coated face and hands.
He slowed, halted, rubbed hastily at stinging eyes. Tears
rendered him incapable of seeing, and he dared not run
blind.

Kiri yapped, then nipped at his ankles. And then he
sensed the presence—'

"Corin—runF Brennan cried.

He cleared his vision in time to see a monstrous gryphon
bearing down on him, stone beak agape. Beneath the
hiss of steam was the grate of stone on stone, and the
yapping of his Ur.

Corin twisted away, feeling the touch of ensorcelled
stone as a wing cruelly caressed his scalp. He saw his
brothers waiting, both poised to flee again. But their
unwillingness to leave him renewed his fading strength.

"—coming—" he gasped, and ran.

And then, abruptly, could not.

He fell hard. Tried to rise. And then knew what Strahan
had done.

"My legs!" he cried. "My legs—'

Jelly, Strahan had threatened. As Corin lay sprawled
on hot stone, trying in vain to rise, he knew the healing
had been recalled. There was no tremendous uprush of
pain, no snapping of brittle bones, merely a return to
what they had been before he had committed himself to
the god. Nearly healed, but not completely; it left his
bones fragile and his muscles weakened by confinement
in splints and linens.

Kiri licked at his face. A cool nose nudged his neck
and urged him desperately to rise. And then Hart and
Brennan were lifting him, dragging him, as the world
caught fire around them.

"—not so far—" Hart gasped, wrenching one-handed
Corin's left arm across his shoulders.

"We will steal you from him yet." Brennan told Corin
firmly.

414 Jennifer Robersw

And even though they dragged his feet, Corin shut his
mouth on complaints.

Slowed by their burden. Hart and Brennan had more
difficulty avoiding the Seker's grotesque mimicry of fir.
None was especially mobile, being rock instead of flesh,
but the advantage lay in being impervious to fumes and
heat and flame. As Hart and Brennan slowed to negoti-
ate the safest way with Corin, the monstrous creatures
advanced.

Corin shivered. "Cold," he said. "—co/d—"

Brennan's laugh was hoarse. "If only winter were this
'cold—"

"Almost, rujho—" Brennan gasped, "—nearly through
the defile—"

"Look!" Hart exclaimed. "Look above the opening!"

Brennan looked, saw the pristine line of white wings
against the darkness, and laughed hoarsely. "Did you
think Rael would leave?"

"—so long—" Hart croaked.

"Put me down—" Corin said. "Down—down—down—"

"Almost there—" Brennan's throat burned. "Nearly
through—"

"Down!" Corin cried.

They carried him through the narrow defile choked
with steam and into a different world. This one too had
suffered the presence of Ihlini, but here the damage was
less extensive. Instead of stone there was soil, if thin and
discolored in places. The trees were wracked by wind
and whim, roots bared to the elements, but they were
wood instead of stone, foliage in place of steam.

In Strahan's lair, it had been summer. Here it was
winter, and frost lay upon the ground,

"That tree," Brennan rasped, and as they reached it
carefully put Corin on the ground.

Almost immediately he tried to crawl away from them,
heading unerringly for the defile.

"Corin—wait—' Hart caught an arm and was shocked
at the rigidity of sinew beneath the flesh. "Corin—"

"—go back—" Corin gasped, "—go back—the Seker—"

A PRIDE OF PRIWES

41S

More roughly than they intended, his brothers dragged
him back and forced him into place.

"Look at his eyes," Brennan said.

Hart shook his head as he saw the shrunken pupils.
"The poison is not wholly banished,"

Corin tried to draw up his legs, but weakness and
stiffness forbade it. "Gods—" he said, "—oh—gods—"

"At least he calls on ours," Brennan said dryly. "Hold
him down. Hart."

"The farther from the Gate, the safer he will be."

"No doubt. But we need to wrap his legs—"

"We need to heal him," Hart said sharply. "But this
close to Valgaard, I doubt we can summon the magic."

Corin shuddered beneath their hands. "—burning—"
he muttered. "—burning—"

Above them, Rael shrieked in agitation.

"Whole legs or broken, we go," Brennan said firmly;

together they hoisted Corin up again. -

Distance closed the defile. With each step they left
behind the field of smoke and stone, the brooding, glassy
fortress and the Gate of the netherworld. Stars shone
more brightly. The moon was freed from smoke and
steam and painted a pathway for them.

"—down—" Corin begged.

"Not yet," Brennan told him through gritted teeth.
"Not until we put more distance between you and
Valgaard."

"The Seker—the Seker—" Corin shuddered in their
grasp.

"Beat him off," Hart ordered succinctly. "Somewhere
in that Homanan-fleshed body is the Old Blood, Corin
... as much as in Brennan or me. Call on it. Use it—'
He tripped, cursed, bit his lip against the pain in the
stump of his arm.

And then, abruptly, the fir-links came blazing back
into life, and all of them cried out.

"Down—" Brennan gasped, and they put Corin down
as gently as they could. At once, Kiri pressed her muzzle
into his throat. As Brennan opened his arms to Sleeta,
he saw comprehension creep back into Corin's eyes.

416 Jennifer Roberson

Even as his twin knelt to grasp Sleeta against his chest,
Hart rose. He moved away from his brothers, clearing
the tangle of arms and legs and lir, and thrust both arms
into the air. From out of the darkness came the white
hawk he called Rael,

Lir—lir—oh, gods. Rael—Hait discovered an uncom-
mon incoherence, even within the link. Rael—Rael—
Rael—

Shansu, the hawk soothed. Shansu, my lir . . . my
proud, brave warrior-
Do you see? Do you see? Hart appealed. The Ihiini has
ruined me—

Rael soared closer yet. / see strength and pride and an
unrelenting determination to withstand the arts ofAsar-Suti.

Ruined, lir—

Shansu, the hawk soothed. Oh, lir, it has been so
long—And he settled briefly, with infinite gentleness, on
the handless, outthrust arm. He touched his hooked beak
to Hart's shoulder, eyes alight, then lifted from flesh to
seek the air again, saying nothing about Hart's tears.

On the ground, Brennan's arms were filled with cat.
Bare flesh felt the dry texture of her pelt, fingers touched
protuding ribs beneath taut flesh, eyes sought the truth in
her own.

Sleeta, he began, intending to question her, and then
put away words to lose himself in the renewal of the link.
There was no need to ask her anything, all was present
for him to discern through the thing that bound them. He
knew fear and pain, anguish and anger, the pride that
made her so strong.

All is well, she said. All is well, lir.

She was heavy, so heavy, though lacking her normal
weight. Gently, she set her teeth against cheek and jaw
and nibbled, more catlike than was common. One huge
paw patted a thigh, the other kneaded a hip.

"Leifhana tu'sai" Brennan whispered. And could not
say if he intended the thanks for Sleeta or the gods.

On the ground, Corin writhed. His bones were alive
with fire.

Lir, Kiri said, try harder to overcome it.

A PRIDE OF PRWCES

417

He thrashed, and his legs spasmed. The Seker—he
said. The Gate-
Think of me instead.

—burning— In the link, he felt her strength. Gods,
Kiri—it burns—He hitched himself up on one arm, mean-
ing to reach for her. Without warning, he vomited.

Abruptly, Brennan and Hart discontinued greetings to
lir and turned to their brother again.

"We are too close," Hart said anxiously.

"Then send Rael to seek out safety, some place we can
settle him until this crisis passes." Brennan's tone was
sharp. "There is no opportunity for us to heal him until
we have found proper refuge."

Instantly Hart went into the link. We need a place of
safety, he said. Some place Strahan has no power to find
us.

Done. Rael said, and soared eastward toward the Molon
Pass.

"Shansu," Brennan told Corin. "I promise, rujho,
Strahan will not win."

Hart felt Corin's brow. "Nor his malodorous god."

Conn's breathing was labored. "I thought if I made
myself vomit the blood ... I could win . . . could over-
come the power—" He grimaced from unseen pain, bar-
ing teeth shut tightly. "Strahan wanted you so badly . . .
I thought if I acted like he had won, if I tricked him, I
could find a means to escape—" His head thrashed against
the earth until Brennan trapped it and held it still. "I
knew if I drank again, I would be truly lost—" Teeth bit
into bottom lip. "I needed to know a way out ... I let
him think he had won, so he would show me—show me a
hidden exit—" He spasmed. "Oh, gods, it hurts!"

"Hold your silence," Brennan told him gently, "There
will be time for this later."

Corin's eyes were transfixed on Brennan's face. "But—
you have to know ... I do love Aileen!" His mouth
warped into a rigid rictus of pain. "I do want her, Bren-
nan . . . Strahan found my weakness."

"And uncovered your strength." Brennan's face was
stark, though his tone reflected none of it. "There are

41S Jennifer Robersoa

things all of us want. Conn, even against our wills. Much
of Strahan's power is that which we give him ... he lets
us make our own guilt, instead of forcing it on us."

"And I did want the Lion. .. long as I can remember—"

"Corin." Brennan bent close. "I swear, it does not
matter. Do you think I could hate you for it after what
you have done for us?"

tt! could." Corin tried to smile. "In your place, I
could. But now—now, I think ... I think there will be
no place for me—"

Hart caught his rigid hand. "Do not give in now.'"

"So tired," Corin murmured.

Lir, Sleeta said sharply. The man.

Brennan looked up quickly. And then gaped in aston-
ishment. 'VeAon—?"

Hart twisted to look. Like Brennan's, his face reflected
shock. And then he expelled a breath, laughing a little.
"Not jehan, Brennan . . . Cannon's bastard son. The
deaf-mute."

"Carollan," Brennan breathed. "By the gods, I had
forgotten he lived in Solinde."

Carollan approached at a jog. He was, like their fa-
ther, a big man, tall and strongly built, though now age
stole flexibility and fluidity of movement. His hair was
gray, bound back into a clubbed braid. Unlike Niall, he
still had two eyes of unwavering blue. Both were fixed on
Corin.

He knelt as Hart and Brennan moved aside. His hands
were infinitely gentle as he examined eyes, mouth, ears,
wiping away the trickles of discolored blood.

"Jehan—?" Conn's head rolled weakly from side to
side, until Carollan stilled it. "Jehan . . . has Strahan
given you back your eye?"

The large hands were soothing. Carefully Carollan
scooped Corin up, settled him against a broad chest and
started back the way he had come.

Hart and Brennan did not hesitate, but fell in to flank
him on either side. With them went the lir.

Six

He was white-haired, but oddly youthful. There was no
age in his face, none at all, though the expression in
sky-blue eyes told of things seen in ages past as well as
anticipating all the days of the future. He tended Corin
with endless patience and gentleness, though he required
Carollan's aid because of his ruined hands. Quietly cour-
teous, he turned aside anxious queries from Brennan and
Hart and gave all his attention to the youngest of NialTs
sons. And at last. Hart and Brennan subsided into a
forced, rigid patience.

Taliesin. They knew him well enough, though neither
had met the man. More than man, at that: Ihhni, once
servant of the Seker, harper to Tynstar himself, Strahan's
father, and later to the son. Taliesin of the Ihhni, who
lived apart from everyone save Carillon's bastard son.

Hart looked at the harper's hands. Such wracked, twisted
things, incapable of functioning normally. There were
some small things Taliesin could do, but more intricate
chores called for straight, flexible fingers and hands with
unknotted bones. Once he had made music for Solindish
kings and queens and sorcerers; now he saved a Homanan
king's Cheysuli son from death.

He looked at the stump of his wrist. How he hated the
absence of his hand, the lack of fingers, thumb, palm;

knowing the lack sentenced him to a life apart from his
people. Slowly he sat back in the chair and scratched
absently at his scalp, taking solace in Rael's presence
upon the chair back, and yet knowing the A'r-link was

419

420 Jennifer Roberson

forever tarnished by his inability to fly. The lack of a
hand, translated out of human mass into raptor's, meant      j|"
the lack of too much wing; short hops, perhaps, would be
possible, but to resemble chicken instead of hawk—

Hart shut his eyes- He was so weary, so diminished by
reaction ... he needed rest badly, and solid food, and
an escape from worry and fear.

A hand touched his arm. His eyes snapped open and
he looked up at Brennan, who tried to smile encourage-
ment and failed. By Brennan*s face he knew his own; too
pale, too gaunt, too dirty- And the eyes, though yellow
instead of blue, were full of memories and more than a
trace of confusion.

Strahan has touched us all— Hart sat more upright,
then leaned forward as Brennan moved back to the pallet
on which Corin lay. Taliesin had made it clear he re-
quired none of their help—Caro was enough, he said—
but still they could not keep themselves from returning
time and again to the pallet. To stare down helplessly at
the one who had done most to thwart the Seker and the
Ihlini, and all the while they had believed him traitor to
their race,

Taliesin sighed, brushed back a strand of fine white
hair, and turned to look at them both. Caro still knelt at
Corin's side, unable to hear what was said; unable to
speak of it if he could. "He will recover," the harper told
them. "He started it himself, by forcing himself to vomit
. . - the draught I have administered will ease the burn-
ing in his blood until it passes normally. It is a side-effect
of drinking the Seker's blood; I experienced it myself.
He is lucky he drank only one goblet, or we would be
hard-pressed to win him away from Strahan." He sighed.
"As for the legs, well, time will heal them of its own
accord, but time is not a luxury any of you may lay claim
to." He rose and slipped ruined hands inside the wide
sleeves of his blue robe. "If I thought you would go
without him, I would send you on to Homana-Mujhar."

"Why?" Brennan asked sharply. "Is something wrong
in Mujhara?"

The harper sought and found a seat on a stool, settling

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

421

himself with a calmness that belied the intent of his
words. "Nothing that your return cannot help put to
rights, although it will not settle things entirely. Your
cousin has done too much harm in your absence. There is
unrest in the clans."

"Cousin?" Hart frowned. "Teirnan? Why? What has
Teir done?"

With feeling, Brennan swore. "He meant it, then, the
fool."

"Meant what?" Hart scowled at his brother. "Enlighten
me, rujho."

Brennan made an impatient gesture- "He swore to
renounce the prophecy because he refuses to acknowl-
edge that some day Cheysuli and Ihlini must coexist,
cohabit, in order to merge the bloodlines."

"Aye, well, I am not so fond of that idea, either.
But—to renounce the prophecy?" Hart shook his head.
"Teir is too quick to act sometimes, but to turn his back
on what gives our lives meaning? I think not."

"I think aye," Taliesin said gently. "He has done it,
Hart. I hear little enough here in Solinde, and rumor is
often blown out of proportion, but some truth leaks
through. And you must recall that in Solinde, the people
are willing enough to hear words of Homanan trouble."

"Which are?" Brennan prodded.

"That Teirnan has withdrawn from his clan," Taliesin
answered. "He has struck his pavilion and formally peti-
tioned the shar tahl to remove his rune-sign from the
birthlines." So calmly he spoke of things Cheysuli. "He
has gathered other malcontents and together they have
gone from clan to clan, all across Homana, to win war-
riors to the cause of the a'saii."

"Idiocyt" Hart's startled disbelief was manifest. "What
does he think to do?"

"What he hopes to do is fracture the Cheysuli into
separate factions, those dedicated to the prophecy and
those who are newly turned against it." Taliesin shrugged.
"Niall has done as I expected, once I had told him the
truth of things. No longer could he—and lan—believe
implicitly in Ihlini evil, when only a portion of us worship

422 Jennifer Roberson

Asar-Suti. They have acknowledged that we are not so
bad after all, most of us, and that perhaps it would aot
be impossible to believe a Cheysuli could lie down with
an Ihlini and bear children with all the required blood."
In his eyes was serenity, though his words were heresy.
"Some of you already have begotten children on Ihlini."

"But not Firstborn." Brennan's tone was taut. "And
not willingly."

"You lay with Rhiannon willingly enough," Taliesin
retorted gently, "though, admittedly, you were unaware
of her heritage."

"And so are we to believe the Firstborn will result
from trickery?" Brennan shook his head. "I am not Teir,
harper, but I find it impossible to believe the day will
come when Cheysuli and Ihlini can live in peace."

"Or lie down with one another?" Smiling, Taliesin
shrugged. "The gods are not fools, Brennan . . . they
arrange things deftly and with surpassing subterfuge, when
it is required. I give you a prophecy of my own." His
eyes were very distant. "There will come a day when a
prince of the House of Homana takes to wife an Ihlini
woman, born of Asar-Suti—"

"No." In unison.

"—and from that willing union will come the child
known as the Firstborn, the boy who will one day rule."

"And this is what Teiman fights," Hart said grimly. "I
begin to understand."

"And will you join with him?" the harper asked. "Or
take up your part in the prophecy?"

Hart shook his head. "I have no part. I am the middle
son, unpromised to House or princess." Briefly, he glanced
at Brennan. "Once I was Prince of Solinde. Once I was a
warrior." He displayed the stump of his wrist. "Now I
am a man without a clan."

"And Solinde a realm without a king." Taliesin's smile
was inexpressibly gentle. "Whatever you may think of
me because I am Ihlini, I hope you will also realize that I
am a man who loves his country. The House of Solinde is
in descent. It is time for a new House, built on strong,
proud rootstock. Yours would do, I think."

A Psiw OF PRMCES

423

t
I'

"I am Cheysuli—" But Hart stopped short.

"You are many things," Taliesin told him gently, "and
all of them of incalculable value."

Brennan saw mute, bitter protest rising in Hart's eyes
and moved to make the explanation himself, knowing it
was too painful for his brother. "Taliesin—I think you
misunderstand. We were taught, in childhood, aM Cheysuli
traditions. All the customs, rituals, beliefs." He scrubbed
wearily at his forehead. "One custom, cruel as it may
sound, is that a warrior stripped by physical dismember-
ment or permanent handicap of his ability to perform a
warrior's duties voluntarily leaves his clan. He is—"

"—kin-wrecked." Hart's clipped interruption stopped
Brennan dead. "It is not so heavy a sentence as the
death-ritual, perhaps, requiring no forfeiture of life—"
his tone was bitterly ironic, "—but what he does forfeit is
his clan. His kin, unless they choose to accompany him."
Hart shrugged one shoulder in eloquent acknowledgment
of his plight. "I can hardly expect the Mujnar and every-
one else of the House of Homana to follow me into
self-exile."

Taliesin's blue eyes were oddly complacent. "A harsh
custom, indeed."

"Born of necessity," Again, Hart shrugged, as if trying
to dismiss the ramifications of the custom that made him
clanless. "The law of survival."

Thoughtfully, the Ihlini harper nodded. "I understand:

the weak can pull down the strong."

Brennan's tone was subdued. "In the days of our an-
cestors, when the world was very young, the weak were
left to die so the strong could continue." He did not look
at his twin, whom he judged strong enough despite the
loss of a hand; knowing the old custom, in its day, made
sense even in its cruel practicality. "A man dying of
disease in a time of famine eats food better given to
another, and perhaps causes two deaths in place of one."

Taliesin did not smile, but his tone was strangely san-
guine. "1 will not argue that, perhaps once, the times
warranted such harsh customs. Certainly we Ihlini have
made difficult adjustments in order to survive. But the

424 Jennifer Roberson

time you speak of has passed. Hart is more than merely a
warrior, but also a Prince of Solinde." He shrugged,
forestalling incipient protests. "Besides, I think you should
recall—loyal fatalists that you are—there may be a rea-
son for this."

Hart's face was stark.

"Tahlmorra," Brennan said hollowly. "A word more
eloquent than 'reason.* "

"Then, my lord, you might argue that the need for
such rigid adherence to an outdated custom has declined,"
the harper suggested. "You might go before Clan Coun-
cil, as the Cheysuli Prince of Homana, and tell them the
need is no longer valid. Now is the time for a new
custom, where a man maimed can be valued for things
other than physical abilities."

Hart looked at Brennan sharply, abruptly cognizant of
what such change could mean to him as well as to others.
Brennan was clearly stunned by the magnitude of the
idea, but Hart knew it would not gainsay him. Yet he
also knew better than to hope too hard for something
that might not occur. Clan Council and the shar tahls,
whose job it was to insure the continuance of tradition,
were incredibly protective of Cheysuli customs; it was
what made the race so difficult to destroy, from inside as
well as without.

"The need is no longer valid," Brennan said thought-
fully. "Hart is as good a warrior as any Cheysuli I know,
and there is no reason to believe the lack of a hand will
gainsay him from his responsibilities." He nodded. "If I
were to go before Clan Council—"

Hart shrugged. "Peacetime, rujho. If war were to
return—"

"There will be no war again, ever. With Corin in Atvia
and Keely wed to Sean of Erinn, who is left to fight us?
Solinde?" Brennan spread his hands. "Would you levy
war against your rujholliT'

Hart sighed and sat back in his chair, gazing up at Rael
perched on the back. "No more than against my fir."

"And so the prophecy nears completion." Taliesin smiled
and rose. "You are so close, you cannot see it. But you

A PRIDE OF PRINCES                425

have, just now, completed a major requirement for ful-
fillment: four warring realms united in peace."

"Which leaves the two magical races." Brennan said
grimly. *'I think even the gods underestimated the strength
of hatred between Cheysuli and Ihlini."

"I think the gods knew very well how strong that
hatred would be," the harper countered. "A parent is
not blind to resentments among his children." He looked
from one to the other, starting with Brennan and ending
with Corin. "There comes a time, however, when the
children must outgrow them. And so it will be with
Cheysuli and Ihlini." The harper moved toward the door.
"It is for you to call on the earth magic to complete the
healing of Conn's legs. You cannot wait for them to heal
normally. And so I will go from here for awhile, so my
presence does not hinder the magic."

The door was shut. "Gods," Hart said, "I am so weary,
I doubt I can summon anything."

"For Corin, we will have to," Brennan knelt briefly
and locked his hands into the pelt behind Sleeta's ears,
drawing strength from the contact. Lir, oh, lir, we are all
so weary, so cursed weak, and yet we must all be strong.

She shifted forward and pressed her head against his
jaw. You will be as strong as is required.

Hart moved to the pallet and touched Carollan's shoul-
der briefly. "Leijhana tu'sai," he said, knowing Caro
could not hear; knowing also it did not matter, nor
tarnish the gratitude. "Leijhana tu'sai, kinsman, but this
is for us to do."

Carollan moved aside with alacrity, though there was
nothing of subservience in it. He merely gave them the
room they required, retiring to Taliesin's stool, and
watched out of their father's eyes.

Brennan joined Hart at Corin's side. Kiri lay curled at
his hip, pointed nose tucked beneath his slack hand. Her
bright eyes watched the movements they made in prepar-
ing to summon the magic. Sleeta sat beside Brennan,
pressing one haunch against his doubled leg. Rael did not
depart the chairback, but his link with Hart was not
weakened by such a brief distance.

426 Jennifer Robersm

"I have never done this," Hart said nervously.

"Nor have I." Brennan pushed a lock of fallen hair out
of his face. "Come with me, rujho. Now—"

He slipped into the void quickly, too quickly; he knew
fear and an overwhelming sense of helplessness. What if
ha ignorance cost Corin his life?

Lir. Lir. Sleeta was in the link with him, lending him a
measure of strength and courage, though her own was
stretched dangerously thin.

Hart! he cried in the void. / need you,, rujho—

And Hart, abruptly, was there, tumbling through the
emptiness like a cork caught in a miltrace. Brennan sensed
his fear was equal to his own. And inwardly he laughed;

two frightened warriors meant to heal their uncondous
brother, summoning a power neither had fully tapped..

We need a shar tahl, he told Sleeta.

You need to heal your rujhoUi. Delicate dictatorship.

Brennan sighed. Linked, he and Hart dissolved the
contact with their bodies and sank beneath the level they
knew as the world.

Down.

Down, until they touched layers of sentience they had
not known existed. Such boundless power as they had
never imagined.

Come with us, Brennan said.

We need you. Hart explained.

Sluggishly, Power stirred.

There is a man who requires your aid. Brennan told It.
A warrior, CheysuU, born of the Old Blood, descendant
of the Firstborn, ancestor of those to come again.

In need, Hart echoed. Touched by Asar-Suti, who would
destroy the gods as we know them so he may hold
dominion.

Power raised Its head.

Come with us, Brennan invited. Show the Seker that his
power is nothing compared to yours.

He needs you, Hart explained.

Power rose up and set them ablaze with a single touch.
And then, too quickly. It hurled them upward, through
all the layers and strata and broke them free of the

•^

*'

A PRIDE OF PRWCES

427

world, where they saw a man on his bed of pain, and
took it from him easily. Bones knit themselves into whole-
ness. Stiffened sinews grew flexible. Vessels pulsed with
blood set free of the Seker's fire.

And then, as quickly, the Power was gone, and they
were men again; exhausted, dirty, sick of the stink of
themselves. And knowing they must go on.

Conscious, Corin gazed up at them both. "Leijhana
tu'sai," he said drowsily. Even as Brennan protested, he
worked the ruby signet from his ringer and pressed it into
his oldest brother's palm. "Yours," he said as firmly as
he could, and fell asleep with a hand locked in KirFs ruff.

Hart lay back on the wooden floor, not caring that his
sprawl was more than a trifle undecorous, nor that the
floor was hard. He shut his eyes, sighed deeply, gave
himself over to the luxury of complete relief for the first
time in months.

"In the morning, we go," Brennan said hoarsely. "We
cannot waste a moment."

"In the morning," Hart agreed wearily, and fell asleep
himself.

Brennan laughed raggedly, stroking Sleeta's pelt. If
our jehan could see us now— -

He would cry, Sleeta answered. But they would be
tears of joy.

Taliesin did not have the means to offer Brennan and
Hart the sort of baths they needed, having no half-cask
or carefully crafted oak tub, so they did the best they
could. Water was heated in a cauldron over the fire and
they scrubbed themselves down with harsh soap and
harsher cloth, scraping away layers of filth. Taliesin gave
them an herbal soap for their hair, to rid themselves of
lice, but they forbore cutting it. It could wait; there were
things more important than the length of their hair.

Teiman. Brennan told his brothers what he could of
their cousin's treachery, and his treasonous intent. Then,
turn by turn, each confessed how he had been taken by
Strahan, betrayed by love, lust, greed, ambition. They
raised old resentments, hidden emotions, true feelings,

428 SemUfer Robersoa

and dealt with them as best they could. By the time
morning dawned and it was time to leave, each had come
to terms with himself in relation to his brothers; each
believed he was a better man for it.

And each knew more than ever how binding was a
tahlmorra.

Taliesin examined the stump of Hart's wrist, pronounced
it healed, did not avoid the acknowledgment of persistent
pain.

"And it will persist," he said gently. "The loss of a
limb is something the mind does not fully understand. It
will take some time before you stop reaching for things
with your nonexistent hand, expecting to close your fin-
gers upon it. It will take time for the sensations of a hand
to abate. One moment you will swear it is still attached
... the next you will know better." His own twisted left
hand was gentle on the wrist. "I am sorry. Hart, but
there is nothing to be done. Even the gods cannot give
back that which was so decidedly destroyed."

"Asar-Suti would have," Hart said grimly. "Or so
Strahan promised. It was his price."

"But not yours.*' Taliesin's blue eyes were kind in his
ageless, unseamed face. "Do not curse yourself for being
an honorable man. You did what was required.*'

"Required." Hart sighed and replaced the snug leather
cuff that wanted the stump against injury. "Aye, required—
and my own decision."

"And I tell you again to recall that—should Brennan
fail to sway the Cheysuli in altering tradition—customs
are different in Sotinde. We do not throw men away."
Taliesin turned away to look at Brennan and Corin.
"You cannot afford to waste more daylight. Caro has
food and water for you outside. Best go now."

Brennan's face was cleaner than it had been in weeks,
but tension had etched permanent lines into the flesh. He
frowned. "You are certain Strahan will not punish you
for this?"

The harper nodded. "He has no idea where I am, and
I use simple magic to keep it so. Strahan is too arrogant
to recall the ward-spells I have used; he thinks in terms

A PRIDE OF PRIWES

429

of conquest, not simple protection." He smiled. "He will
not search far. He will be more concerned with placating
the Seker, who grows impatient with men who fail him.
He will spend his time in Valgaard, not seeking you,"
The eyes sharpened. "But I warn you, be wary of him
still—he will seek another way. One day, he will try
again to thwart you."

"Best go," Corin said.

Thanks were not enough, but it was all they had. And
they offered it in abundance as Taliesin stood in the door
and watched them go out into the frosted world. Three
battered but gods-touched men, and their lir; cat, fox,
hawk: the children of the gods.

Seven

In Deirdre's solar, Niall bent over her shoulder and
placed a finger on the lion patterned in the tapestry.

"Who is this?"

"Shaine," she told him, batting his finger away. "This
one is Shaine, that one Carillon, that one—"

"Where am /?"

"Here." She pointed out the proper lion. "But 'twill
be some time before I get to you. All those other lions,
and the histories of each—" Deirdre grinned. " 'Twill be

years."

Niall sighed and straightened. "Aye," he agreed grimly.
"And years before I know what has befallen my sons."

She looked up quickly, saw his face, set aside her
massive tapestry. "Niall—"

"Months!" he exclaimed. "And how many of those
were wasted? How many of those months did I believe
Hart and Corin merely in their respective realms, learn-
ing how to rule, while I believed Teiman and the a'saii
responsible for Brennan's disappearance?" He cursed and
strode angrily to the nearest casement, glaring out on the
inner bailey. There was a commotion within the walls,
but he was too distracted to wonder at its cause. "By the
gods, I should have known. Strahan yet again, and eter-
nal Ihlini meddling."

She stood behind him, wanting to touch him and not
giving in to it; he was too angry and full of self-
recrimination to accept any kindnesses. "And how were
you to know?" she asked tartly. "You told me yourself

439

A PRIDE OF PMWES

431

the Ihlini have been quiet for years . . . why would you
be having a reason to think of Strahan now?"

"Precisely because it has been years." Niall leaned his
brow against the stone, "Gods, Deirdre ... my sons—"

"I know." Now she touched him. "I know, Niall. But
you said yourself 'tis unlikely he'd want to kill them.
Strahan's way is to use men instead."

"He wanted them twenty-two years ago ... he nearly
got them then. And now that he has—" Niall turned.
"Oh, gods, I am so frightened. What sort of men will he
make them?"

She sighed, knowing she could give him no answer.
"When do you send the army to Valgaard?"

"In the morning." His hands rested on her shoulders.
"lan and I go with them."

Tight-faced, she nodded. "The gods grant—"

But whatever she desired the gods to grant was never
stated, A servant, circumventing courtesy entirely, threw
open the solar door. "My lord! My lord!"

"What is it?" Niall asked irritably.

Brennan stepped around the wide-eyed servant. "What
he means to say, jehan, is that all of your sons are back."
Kindly, Brennan moved the servant aside and held the
door open himself as Hart and Corin and assorted Ur
made their way into the tower solar. The chamber was
suddenly filled.

"All—" Niall said hoarsely.

"One, two, three." Hart grinned, "Unless Deirdre has
contrived to add another in our absence."

"No," she said blankly. And then laughed aloud in

Joy-
Mute, Niall stared at his sons. One, two, three, as
Hart had said. But they were not the sons he had sired
and known for years. Something had changed each one,
and profoundly. There was a tangible difference.

Brennan: much too gaunt and oddly haunted in yellow
eyes, though his smile was genuine. His jerkin was soiled
and crusted with countless unnamed things, and Niall
had no desire to ask how it had become so; he had a
good idea. His only desire was to see that Brennan was

432 Jennifer Roberson

whole, and that was blatantly obvious. His hair was mostly
clean, if too long, and he held himself with customary
pride, but there was something about the way he moved
that spoke of things unsaid even among his brothers.

Corin: bearded as an Erinnish brigand, looking less
Cheysuli than ever, though there was, Niall noted, a
subtle self-confidence Corin had always lacked, or was
banished by bad temper. And though there was a tension
in the way he moved, as if he waited for something, Niall
saw no anger, no hostility, no reluctance to accept his
place in the House of Homana. Clearly he had suffered;

equally clearly, he had come to terms with himself.

And Hart, showing teeth in a familiar grin; showing
something else in posture. All of them were clad in worn
and dirty clothing, though clearly they had bathed a day
or two before arrival, if only arms and faces; but there
was more than a weary relief and elation in Hart's pos-
ture and attitude. He stood rigidly next to the door, left
hand thrust behind his back as if he meant to hide some-
thing in it. Even as he stepped free of the door, letting it
swing closed, he kept the forearm behind him.

But Niati would worry about them later. Now was the
time for celebration and explanation. He expelled an
eloquent breath of relief. "Oh, gods—all of my sons—
leijhana tu'sai—"

"We have expressed similar sentiments repeatedly the
last two weeks." Corin went to the nearest chair and
collapsed into it, putting his feet up on a footstool. "I am
footsore, hungry and weary, but I feel happy for it."

Brennan went straight to Niall and put out an arm to
clasp his father's. But Niall ignored the arm altogether,
instead jerking Brennan into a rough embrace. "You do
not know how many times I petitioned the gods for the
safe return of my sons."

Corin laughed. "Well, they must have grown weary of
hearing it. All of us begged them, too."

Niall's good eye was wet as he released his oldest son.
The patch hid the other from sight. There was more
silver in his tawny hair and deeper lines in the contours
of his face, but the smile banished the age worry had

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

433

added. "You are well? All of you?" He wanted to hug
Corin and Hart as he had hugged Brennan, but Corin
was settled and obviously oblivious to the gesture; Hart's
posture warded him against familiarity, even from his
father-

"Well enough," Brennan said. "But first, let us swear
to you that we are not Strahan's minions sent to do you
harm. Because of Corin, we are nothing but ourselves, if
a trifle worn." He glanced briefly at Hart, turned back
and sought a chair.

Belatedly, Niall pushed one over. Deirdre beckoned
Hart to take her own, but he shook his head and re-
mained at his post beside the door. Or intended to. The
door was abruptly shoved open; Hart, thrusting out arms
to keep himself from being crushed between wall and
wood, saw his father's face go white.

But lan was in the room. "By the gods, it is true! All
of you are back!"

Silence met his outburst. He stopped short, staring at
his brother, then slowly turned to look at the Mujhar's
middle son, his own personal favorite.

Hart's face was stark. "I meant to tell you later."

Niall summoned his voice. "Sfrahan did that to you?"

"No, jehan. My stupidity did this to me." Bitterness
crept in. "A heavy price, but I pay it."

From the corridor came an urgent voice. "Corin?
Corinr

Corin sighed. And then Keely prodded her uncle aside
to force her way into the solar past the bodies near the
door.

"Corin—" But she broke it off, turning to look at
Hart.

"Why not announce it?" he said unsteadily. "Why not
say it and be done with it: The Mujhar's son is kin-
wrecked."

Abruptly, Brennan wrenched his eyes away to stare at
the floor; he could not bear to see the pain in Hart's
eyes.

"Come here," Niall said.

After a moment. Hart answered his father's bidding.

434 Jennifer Roberson

He was conscious of all the eyes, but looked only at the
single blue one of his father. "Jehan—"

"If you think I will love you the less because you lack a
hand, you have no wits at all," Nialt said clearly. "If you
think I cannot comprehend the pain—physical as well as
emotional—that such a loss engenders, look again at my
face."

Hart felt dizzy. He drew in a deep breath, wet his lips,
did not avoid the topic. "No, jehan. But you are Mujhar;

they dared not send you out of the clan."

"That had nothing to do with it," Niall said gently.
"An eye lost, as Taliesin pointed out to me, is not a
mark of physical weakness nor deformity of the spirit. I
am no less a man because I have only one. And while it
is true that the toss of an eye does not affect a warrior as
much as the loss of a hand, I do understand what you
feel."

Hart looked at the floor, thinking mutinous thoughts.

"I do" his father repeated.

After a moment. Hart nodded.

"Sit down," Niall told him. "Keely, will you send for
wine? I think all of us could use it."

"Usca" Corin said, and grinned at her exaggerated
curtsy just before she went out the door,

"So." Niall sat down in the last of Deirdre's chairs
even as she settled herself on the stool nearest his feet.
"I am ashamed," he said flatly. "Ashamed I did not
realize sooner the scope of Strahan's intentions. But when
Brennan and Rhiannon disappeared so soon on the heels
of Teiman's defection, I feared a'saii interference, not
Ihlini. Not after so much time," Bleakly, he shook his
head. "I spent weeks trying to trap Teirnan, and all I did
was waste time and effort. Yet until a crofter's half-wit
son at last had courage enough to come forward and tell
me he had seen Rhiannon spirit Brennan away, I did not
comprehend what was afoot."

"Nor did I," lan said grimly. "Blind fools, all of us—
and it gave Strahan the time he needed."

Niall glanced briefly at lan, who had sired Rhiannon,
than looked away from the bleak guilt in his brother's

A PttlW OF PRIHCES

435

eyes. He sighed, rubbing at old scars. "I knew then he
would want you all, each of my sons, and that further
delay might result in your deaths, or worse. And so I
readied an army to march on Valgaard itself." NialFs
smile was twisted. "We were to leave in the morning . . .
| but I think I may cancel the duty."

"Unless you wish to engage Strahan once and for all."
Brennan shook his head. "A formidable foe, jehan. He
needs killing, but I think it will take more than an army.
Even of Cheysuli."

"Or less," lan remarked. "Perhaps a single man, in
place of that army."

"No," Niall said promptly. "For now I want none of
my family anywhere near Valgaard or the Ihlini. We are
together again for the first time in nearly a year, and I
would prefer to enjoy it."

"Nearly a year?" Corin grinned. "Our banishment is
incomplete, then ... do you intend to send Hart and me
away again?" He slanted a glance at his middle brother,
who merely shrugged one shoulder and smiled vaguely.

Keely returned. "The wine is coming," she said, mov-
ing to stand behind Corin's chair. "•And, my lord Mujhar,
if you intend to send Corin—or Hart—anywhere, you
will have to contend with me."

NialFs smile was crooked. "Aye, aye, so I see. And
no, I do not intend to send them anywhere, unless they
want to go." He lifted a tawny brow in Keely's direction.
"Did you tell Aileen Brennan is home at last?"

In his chair, Corin froze. He felt Keely's hands on his
shoulders, pressing gently, as if to offer support. "She
knows," Keely said briefly. "Everyone in the palace
knows."

laa nodded. "I sent Tasha to Clankeep with the news,
so you may expect Maeve home by evening."

"Maeve is at Clankeep?" Brennan asked in surprise.

Niall frowned a little. "She wished to see the shar tahl.
She swore the vows of a meijha, Brennan, in good faith,
even if in poor judgment. Now that Teir has renounced
his clan, she wishes to formally renounce the vows."

"Teir is a fool," Hart declared.

436 Jennifer Rober&on

"Teir is more than that," Keely said grimly. "He is
kin-wrecked—proscribed by the shar tahl, by the clan-
leader ... he is forbidden Clankeep, Mujhara—not that
he would wish to come here anyway—and all the other
clans." She grimaced. "Though he goes where he will, in
truth, gathering other warriors."

"How many?" Brennan asked bleakly.

"Unknown." lan moved aside as a servant came in
with wine and goblets. He took them from him, dis-
missed the man, set everything on a table and began to
pour, handing out the cups. "There are rumors one day
he has seven men, the next day seventy."

"He is shrewd," Niall said. "Much smarter than I
believed. But Ceinn has suckled him on tales of the old
days, when the race was exquisitely pure . . . Teirnan is
now dedicated to the restoration of the old ways without
benefit of the prophecy."

Brennan shook his head as he leaned forward to take
the cup from lan. "How can a warrior who has been
raised to respect the prophecy turn his back on it? I
admit that I am less than enamored of the need to
cohabit with Ihlini, but to deny myself the afterworld?
No." Brennan shook his head. "Teirnan must be mad."

"Not mad." lan carried the requested usca to Corin.
"Determined. We have been blessed, as a race, with a
consuming dedication—to the exclusion of all else—to
fulfillment of the prophecy. We have been accused, on
more than one occasion, of being blind and deaf to the
truth, locking ourselves away in insular arrogance, be-
lieving we know the only way." He looked at his brother.
"Some might name us cursed."

Niall nodded thoughtfully. "Once, we believed no Ihlini
could intend anything but harm to us. We learned differ-
ently from an old woman, an old Ihlini woman, who lived
in Homana out of choice. And from an ageless harper,
who showed me that an Ihlini formerly sworn to the Seker
could renounce that allegiance in the name of peace and
coexistence, and actually work/or the prophecy."

"And still does so." Hart reached for wine with his left

A PRIDE OF PttWCES

437

hand, stopped rigidly, put out his right- "It was Taliesin
who gave us refuge from Strahan."

"And Taliesan, with Carollan, who gave us back our
youngest ru/holli." Brennan smiled at Corin. "If you do
not tell him all that you accomplished, even in front of
Strahan, I will"

Corin shrugged. "Another time."

Niall smiled. "That, too, has changed." His eyes glinted.
"No more resentment of your oldest rujholli."

Corin stared. "You knew?'*

Silvering brows rose. "How could I not? Do you think
I am blind? I knew very well how much you wanted what
Brennan had. As for now?" Niall smiled. "I think you
have learned there are more important things to concern
yourself with than what your rujhoUi has."

"Such as survival," Hart said dryly. "The gods know
we could have died a dozen times."

"I did." Brennan's tone was hollow as, for the mo-
ment, he was back in the tiny cell. He shivered, rose
abruptly, put his unfinished wine down. "Jehan, there is
more to tell you. But I think it will wait for another
time." He straightened his jerkin. "There is something 1
must do ... someone I must come to terms with."

Corin, thinking of Aileen, thrust himself to his feet.
And checked as Brennan turned to look at him. Uncom-
fortable, he shrugged. "I—I intend to have a bath. I am
filthy."

"'So are we all." Hart rose as well, sucking down the
last of the wine in his cup. "I think I will catch up on lost
sleep."

In silence, Niall's sons filed slowly out of the solar,
automatically sending Ur ahead to bedchambers. Intent
upon their thoughts, they paid no attention to one an-
other. Not even Corm to Brennan, as much as he wanted
to.. Like Hart, he turned away, and Brennan went on
alone.

It was midmoming. Sunlight spilled through stained-
glass casements and painted the Great Hall a mass of
liquid colors. But Brennan ignored the light, ignored the

438 Jennifer Roberson

Lion, moving instead to the end of the firepit. He cleared
wood and ashes, gripped the iron handle, peeled back
the lid.

He stared down into the hole, watching the stairs fall
away into darkness. One hundred and two of them. Far
fewer than in Valgaard on the way to the Gate of the
god.

Time enough for such foolish fear as I have known . . .
never again will I give over such a weapon to the enemy.

But sunlight, however bright, did not touch the dark-
ness. And so Brennan turned away, intending to light a
torch, and saw her standing inside the hammered doors.

Red-haired. Green-eyed. Supple as a willow. She car-
ried her head high on a slender neck; brilliant hair fell to
curl around her hips.

"They were saying you were back." He heard Erinn in
her voice, far more lilting than Deirdre's accent-

This woman, this girl, whom I am to wed, nearly cost
all of us our sanity, because of Corin.

But he could not tell her that. Not yet. Perhaps not
ever; too much, at this moment, lay between them. Be-
cause of Corin. "Back," he said. "Aye." Not knowing
what else to say.

"And safe."

"Aye," he agreed, "and safe." Then, giving in to it,
"So is my youngest rufholli."

She did not flinch, though clearly she had heard him.
Nor did she answer, though she calmly walked the length
of the hall from doors to firepit. And then she stood
before him, considerably shorter than he, and he found,
oddly, he wanted to apologize to her. Corin had said
little enough of Aileen on the journey home from Sotinde,
shying away from the topic as if fearing Brennan might
be further insulted by his words.

But Brennan was not insulted. At this moment, facing
the stranger he would marry, he did not know what he
was.

He drew in a breath. "You are in love with Corin."

"Aye," was all she said.

"And he in love with you."

A PHIDE OF PRHVCES

439

Her lips tightened minutely. "Once," she said quietly.
"I'm not knowing how long it lasted."

Resentment rose, then faded. Brennan smiled wryly.
"It lasted," he told her sardonically. "I can assure you of
that."

She said nothing. She was no beauty, he saw, and
certainly not the kind of woman Corin generally sought
for companionship. What she was, he realized, looking at
her without benefit of prejudice, was proud as a Cheysuli,
with a spirit thai blazed as brightly. And he knew, seeing
that pride, that spirit, Aileen of Erinn was as trapped by
circumstances as the Prince of Homana himself.

How do I deal with this?

But there was no answer, not in her face. Nor, he
knew, in his own.

Brennan sighed. "Corin is different," he said. "I saw it
at once, when I coud see again, but I did not recognize
it. The circumstances did not, quite, lend themselves to
contemplation." She gazed at him steadily, hands folded
primly in the folds of her gown. And yet, somehow, he
knew better. This was not Aileen he faced, but another
woman entirely. A woman who knew how she felt no
more than he himself did. "Different," he repeated. "Not
all of it, I think, is from imprisonment. I think most of it
is from you. And so, in the end, instead of blame, I must
offer gratitude; it was what saved our lives."

She did not avoid his eyes. "It was not intended, none
of it. I was meaning it no more than Corin. It—" she
checked, sighed, went on quietly, "—just happened.^

Brennan thought of Rhiannon. None of that had 'just
happened,' being carefully designed, but he understood
what Aileen meant. And knew he could lay no blame. "I
admire your honesty," he said abruptly. "I have had
little of that, of late, from women." He paused. "You do
know the story."

"Aye. Keely told me."

Trust Keely— But now was not the time- Now was the
time for honesty. "Aileen—I cannot promise it will be
easy. Arranged marriages are difficult enough, particu-
larly cradle-betrothals, but now, with this—"

440 Jennifer Roberson

Her cool voice interrupted. "I'm knowing it as well as
you, Brennan. D'ye think I've not spent my nights think-
ing about it, wondering what I would do when you and
Corin came home?" A trace of inner fire lighted Erinnish
eyes—green as emeralds, he thought—and he saw a hint
of Aileen's passion. " 'Twill be as hard as we make it, I
think."

Brennan did not couch his words in diplomacy. "And
if Corin stays here? What then? Am I expected to share?"

The fire caught and burned, blazing in her eyes. " 'Tis
between Corin and me, I'm thinking."

He laughed once, incredulously, on a gust of air. "Is
it? Am I discounted so easily?"

Her skin was very fair, and he saw the bloom of color
in her cheeks. Bright scarlet, competing with the bril-
liance of her hair. "He left me," she said. "He left me,
my lord husband-to-be, because he would not steal his
brother's betrothed. An honorable man, your brother;

d'ye think he'd discard that honor here?"

It was a new light she cast on Corin. A few weeks
before Brennan might have protested she did him too
much credit; now, he did not think so. He had seen
Corin's unexpected sense of honor on dramatic display in
Valgaard.

"No," he said quietly. "No, I was wrong to imply it."

Some of her vitality drained away. "Were you? No.
I'm thinking not. You believed what any man might,
faced with such a coil." Aileen shook her head, wide
mouth twisted. " 'Tis sorry I am, Brennan. We none of
us asked for it, but it has all been spilled into our laps by
your gods ... by your capricious Cheysuli destiny" She
sighed. "Keely told me you are a good man, if a trifle
unimaginative."

He considered it thoughtfully a moment. Discarded
the idea; he was whatever he was. "And did she tell you
of my fear? The flaw in the Prince of Homana?"

Aileen stared back at him. And then she smiled a
little. "If you're meaning he could put a cask of hot
water and scent to good use, then aye, I see—smell—&

A PRIDE OF PRMCES                441

flaw. But otherwise—no. Keely said nothing of a flaw.
Nothing of a/ear."

"Then I should tell you of it." He went to the wall,
took a torch from the bracket, lighted it from a candle
and returned to the firepit. "Come down with me," he
said. "Come down with me, meijhana, and tell me how it
was a bad-tempered, impetuous CheysuU princeling won
the heart of Aileen of Erinn." He smiled. "And I will tell
you how it is Corin's oldest ru}holli means to face his fear
and destroy it."

Green eyes widened in surprise. "Are you really want-
ing to know?"

"No," he said truthfully, "but it will give me some-
thing to listen to instead of chattering teeth."

She frowned. "My teeth are not much for chattering."

"Mine are." He took the first step into the stairway.
Turned to look back at the woman his brother loved,
knowing, one day, he might learn to feel the same. "Will
you come, Aileen?"

After a moment, she did.

Corin sprawled on his back in the center of his bed. It
felt odd to be in it after so many months, smelling famil-
iar smells, feeling familiar warmth and the softness of the
mattress. He had known so little warmth and softness in
Strahan's glassy fortress.

He sought Kiri with one hand, found her, lost himself
in silent communion. It remained unbroken until his
sister came into the chamber.

"Corin?"

He turned his head.

"You mean to go back to Atvia."

It was a statement, not inquiry- He thought about it a
moment, then nodded. "I think so."

Keely moved closer to the bed, "And if I asked you to
stay?"

The wall of his belly clenched. "Do you know what
you ask?"

"I know." She stood rigidly beside the bed. "Aileen
has confided in me." She shrugged a little, clearly tense.

442 Jennifer Robersw

"We became close. Conn, being somewhat alike . . . she
told me what had happened, and how." Abruptly she sat
down. "Gods, rujho, I know how you must feel! But if
you go to Atvia you will leave me all alone."

"I went to Atvia before."

"That was for a year. You would come home, I knew
it—but now, now—' She sighed, shaking her head; the
tawny braid shook itself. "You will go, and never come
home again."

He stroked Kiri with resolution, locked away in silence.

Keely's tone altered. "You are afraid. I see it."

"Aye." He did not shirk the admission.

"You, Corin?"

"I have cause." He threaded ringers in Kin's pelt.
"Alaric is dead. Atvia lies open to whatever influence
Lillith wields, and Strahan. And jehana also is there—
witless, twisted jehana." He rolled his head against the
bedclothes. "Someone must go, Keely . . . and Atvia is
mine."

"Leave it to someone else."

"No."

"Conn—"

"I will not run from responsibility, nor bewail it. I
have something of my own at last, something no one else
may hold; Atvia is mine. It is for me to put the realm
into order again, my task, to put light in place of dark-
ness. It is for me to do; not Brennan, not Hart, not you."
He shook his head again. "One day, Keely, you will
leam that saying no is not always the answer. Nor is
turning your back."

"Then you will go."

Corin sighed. "Aye."

Keely's tone was bitter. "Because the prophecy re-
quires it."

"As much as it requires service of you. And you wiU
serve it, Keely; no matter how difficult, how demanding,
how much sacrifice is asked. You are not like Teirnan."
Corin sat up and turned, swinging his legs over the edge
of the bed. He still wore his boots; he did not care that

A PRIDE OF PRWCKS

443

he had soiled his bedclothes. "Be what you must, Keely,
but let me do what / must."

She leaned against him slightly. "Then do it, I will not
gainsay you; 1 am not such a fool as to say no to you
now, after such a pretty speech. But you are a fool if you
think I will not curse you for such newfound resolution."

"I am not a fool; I know you will." He flipped her
braid behind her back.

Keely drew in a breath. "Will you see her before you
go?"

"I thought to do so now."

She opened her mouth, then shut it, and would not
meet his eyes.

After a moment, he nodded. "She has gone to Brennan."

"They—she said there are things to be settled between
them, things Brennan must know of her, and things she
must learn of him. She said if she left it until after she
had seen you—" She broke off, plainly uncomfortable.
"Oh, Corin—"

"Later, then; we will both of us be better prepared to
say good-bye." Corin nodded; his "newfound resolve"
was firm at last, and something he could live with. "And
now, if you do not mind, I would like to take a bath."
He bent over and tugged off his boots, one by one,
welcoming the activity. And then, distracted, he looked
at his sister in startled comprehension. "Oh, gods, Keely—
one-handed. Hart cannot even do this!"

Keely turned her face against his shoulder in unspoken
grief for lost hands and lost brothers, not knowing, for
her, which was worse, or would be.

Hart pushed open his chamber door, leaned against it
in weary numbness, at last moved aside and shut it. As
always, he looked for Rael. As always, the hawk was on
his perch, wings folded, perfectly groomed, content to
wait in silence.

He sighed. He wandered aimlessly to the bed, sat
down on the edge, stared blankly at the floor. He won-
dered vaguely if he was ill; depression was foreign to
him.

444 Jennifer Robersou

"Gods," he said aloud; it seemed a most eloquent
comment. Wearily he bent forward, reached to grab his
boots, realized abruptly he no longer had the freedom to
undress himself at his leisure.

It stunned him. But then for longer than he could
remember, he had not been required to change clothing
or boots. In Valgaard, there had been no need, and there
had been no time on the journey from Taliesin's cottage
to Mujhara except to dip head in a bucket and scrub face
and hands—/land—clean.

Hart stared at his boot. At his hand. And at the hand
that no longer existed. "Gods—" he said; he choked,
and covered his head with his arms.

"Let me," the woman said, and he jerked arms away
in shock.

lisa. He gaped at her like a fool.

lisa. In his room.

"Let me," she repeated, and knelt to remove his boot.

Awkwardly, Hart scrambled away. He found himself
standing some ten feet from her, still staring, still made
mute by her presence; filled with abject humiliation, that
she had seen his helplessness.

And then anger began to replace it. "Go." he said
curtly.

lisa rose. The incandescence of her beauty had not
faded, and he felt renewed astonishment at the magni-
tude of it. "Hart," she said, "it does not matter to me."

He was shaking. "You knew."

"Dar told me what he had done." She was pale as
death. "He thought I would approve."

"And you did not?"

"I was appalled." Her tone was even. At first he
thought she spoke by rote, not caring what she said;

beneath the tone he sensed a wire stretched to breaking.
"I swear, I did not know what he intended. I did not
know he would go so far."

"But you did not tell the Mujhar." He recalled too
clearly his father's shock.

Even her Ups were pale. "I could not find the words.
Not after I learned how he lost his eye. To tell him his

A PRIDE OF PRINCES                445

son had also been maimed by Ihlini treachery—?" White-
faced, lisa shook her head. "I could not do it. I thought
it better left to you."

He thought again of Dar. "You were in the house."
As he intended, his tone accused.

lisa drew in a breath. Slender fingers shredded the
gray-blue silk of her gown. "Dar came," she said. "We
drank wine. We spoke of you. I told him I wanted no
harm to come to you, nor to him, nor to Solinde. And he
laughed, and said it would not; that the wager was merely
a game." Her tone wavered minutely; she steadied it and
went on. "I looked into his eyes, and knew he lied to me.
But by then it was too late. The wine was drugged.
I—slept." Color touched her cheeks; the glacial eyes
were angry. "In the morning, he came in triumph, saying
the enemy was removed. And he told me what he had
done."

Hart longed to believe her. "Did he tell you all of it?"

"Aye." She did not look away as he displayed the
handless arm before her. "He told me quite clearly, in
his perversity, knowing I would be sickened, and seeking
pleasure from it." lisa drew in a trembling breath. "I
swear, I swear, I had nothing to do with it."

His eyes narrowed. "Why are you here? What did you
tell my jehan so he would let you stay?"

Her eyes were startled. "The truth. That I desire you
to come home."

"Home?"

Fingers twitched in a gesture of arrested acknowledge-
ment. "To Solinde," she amended.

He nodded grimly. "Dar should like that."

"Dar should not," she said quietly, "knowing he will
be executed,"

That startled him out of his bitterness. He stared at her
and saw the grief in her eyes, that she tried to hide and
could not. "I am not dead. It was a hand, not my head."
And he knew, as he said it, the first seeds Taliesin had so
carefully planted were beginning to take root.

"It was treason," she said steadily. "He attacked the
Prince of Solinde and otherwise threatened his person. I

446 Jennifer Roberson

had no other choice but to petition the regent for Dar's
arrest, and 1 did so immediately." She paused awkwardly.
"It is for you to give the order, when the trial is
completed."

"Me?"

"You are the Prince of Solinde."

He did not deny it. "Why a trial, lisa? So that others
might argue in Dar's behalf? I should think the Soiindish
might prefer to be rid of me, regardless of circumstances."

"Some, aye," she agreed, "but not all,"

"What of you?" he asked. "What of the last of BeUam's
line?"

lisa drew in a breath. "I came here to bring you
home—" quickly, she caught herself, "—to Solinde. I.
came to tell you that we are in need of a prince of the
blood." Her smile was slight, but wry. "A prince not
entirely of our blood, perhaps, but there is some. Electra
was your kinswoman as well as mine, though we tend to
overlook it; I am not the sole bearer of the blood of
Bellam's House. It should, in the end, please those who
argue against you." Briefly, lisa looked down at closed
hands, "I came here to tell you I had chosen even before
Dar arrived—it was why I sent the messenger—and that
you were the one 1 chose."

"Did you?" It was rhetorical; he was not certain he
believed her.

"Aye," she told him evenly, and held out her closed
right hand.

After a moment, he accepted what she gave him. Heavy
rings chimed. He looked down at the Third Seal. At the
Second, which Tan-on had held. And the First, that had
been in Niall's keeping.

"The Trey," lisa said.

"I know what it is." He felt empty, "I do not think I
can."

"There is also this." lisa held out her other hand.
When he did not move to accept what she offered, she
turned over her hand and opened it. Against her palm
the sapphire glowed.

"My signet," he blurted, startled.

A PRIDE WPRWCES

447

"I got it from the wine-girl after Dar told me she had
it."

He smiled wryly. "She would not sell to me."
"She did not sell to me." lisa answered his smile. "I
won it from her, Hart."

He stared at her in shock. And then began to laugh.
lisa smiled also, but the amusement faded quickly,
"Will you come. Hart? Solinde has need of you."
"To give the order for a patriot's execution."
Her gaze did not waver. "If you would prefer—if it is a
test—1 will do it myself."

"As you would have put down my broken-legged horse."
Her chin rose minutely. "I do what must be done.
There are requirements of state."

His eyes were oddly intent. "I have been told," he said
slowly, "that in Solinde the customs are different."
"Aye." Her tone was guarded.

"I am told that in Solinde, it does not matter so much
that a man lacks a hand. That a king lacks a hand."

Comprehension lighted her eyes. "My lord, in Solinde
all that matters—in kings—As that they do not lack the
wherewithal to sire children on their wives."
Hart smiled crookedly. "No," he said, "I do not."
She lifted a delicate chin. "Then will you come home
with me?"

He studied her a long moment. And then he turned
and set the Trey of Solinde down onto a table, and
stepped closer to the woman. He took the sapphire sig-
net from her palm and slipped it onto her thumb, know-
ing it too large for any of her fingers.
He did not smile. "Only if you wear this."
"The requirements of state." But there was laughter in
her eyes.

Niall sat slumped in his chair. Nearly all of them were
gone; his sons, his daughter, his brother. Only his meijha
remained.

Deirdre stood behind his chair. She leaned down, caught
his neck in both arms, hugged briefly. "All of them," she
said; nothing more was needed.

44S Jennifer Roberson

"All of them," he echoed. "But gods, how changed
they are."

"Were you expecting something else?" She asked it
gently, knowing it would hurt him. "You, who lost an
eye to the Ihlini?"

He sighed, reached up to catch her arms beneath his
chin, held them. "Each," he said, "so changed. Corin, 1
think for the better, though there is pain in him; I saw it.
And Brennan—something in his eyes, something—" He
shivered. "And Hart—' Abruptly, Niall checked, took
his left hand from Deirdre's arm and stared at it, study-
ing palm, lingers, thumb. "Gone," he said hollowly, then
dropped it to his thigh. "He will not stop, meijhana. I
know him and his kind too well ... the Ihlini will not
stop."

She moved around the chair to stand close beside him,
one hand stroking back silvering hair- "No."

"He will seek them out again, or me, or lan, or some-
one else of the proper blood ... he will seek them out,
and take them, and do his best to twist them to his needs
... to fulfill his god's desires."

"I know."

"Strahan does not give up."

"No." Deirdre knelt beside the chair and locked her
hands around his forearm, feeling the tension in the
sinew beneath the bare flesh. On his arms, fy-gold glowed.
"But neither do the Cheysuli. Neither did your sons."

"No." Niall closed one of her hands in his. "Leijhana
tu'suai for that." He sighed. Looked at the folds of yarn
and tapestry. Studied it absently. And slowly, some of
the tension drained away; amusement crept in to replace
it. "Which lion did you say was me?"

Deirdre laughed, and showed him.

Epilogue

She walked steadily through the corridor of spiraling
columns, passing beneath tier upon tier of glass forming
interlocked arches above her head. So lovely, all of it, in
its glassy magnificence; in its sharp-edged, threatening
beauty. Much like her brother, she thought.

She saw him, then, where he had spent the entirety of
the night, and all of the following day. It was night now
again, although within the heart of Valgaard it was diffi-
cult to tell. When one wanted light, one needed only to
summon the godfire.

Liliith did not. In darkness she walked to the Gate.
There she paused, and waited.

He did not look up- He did not, in any way, acknowl-
edge her presence. He sat cross-legged by the lip of the
Gate, head bowed, staring fixedly into the hole. Black
hair spilled over his shoulders. The glow of godfire touched
the circlet and set it ablaze in the heavy darkness.

"So," she said, "they are gone. You have lost them yet
again."

Strahan did not answer.

"Brooding will not help."

*'! am thinking, hardly brooding . . . there is a decided
difference."

She was relieved. He sounded normal. "Aye," she
agreed, "there is, and I am glad you know it."

Strahan sighed. "What do you want, Liliith?"

"To offer condolences, if you want them; encourage-
ment, if you need it."

449

450 Jennifer Roberson

"No and no." One pale, slender hand brushed nonex-
istent dust from a knee.

Liltith waited. He said nothing more. Perhaps he was
brooding. "Strahan." She knelt down, spreading blood-
red skirts, and looked at his face across the Gate. It was
a mask in the glare, lacking definition. "You did try."

After a moment, he nodded. "And I will try again.
Perhaps this time I will succeed . . . already I have a
plan."

A plan. Lillith smiled. She felt anticipation.

At last he looked at her. "It does not matter: ftme."

She lifted winged brows. His face was so like hers,
except for the mismatched eyes.

Casually, he said: "I have all the days of forever."

I THE HOUSE OF HOMANA

SHAINEm ELLINDA    FtRGUS m GWYNNETH

i——,

2)Lorsilla
HALEm LINDIR

TOURMALINE m FINN
J

ALIX m DUNCAN CARILLON m ELECTRA x (TYNSTAR)

ALARIC m BRONWYN (SORCHA) x DONAL m AISUNN    MEGHAN m EVAN
L

(LIUJTH»x)AN CE1NN m ISOLDE     STRAHAN x (SIDRA)




TEIRNAN

GISELLAm NIALLx (DEfRDRE)
-MAEVE

(BHtANNON) x BRENNAN m AILEEN HART m tLSA CORIN   KEELY

A PRIDE OF PRINCES

4S3

APPENDIX

CHEYSUII/OLD TONGUE GLOSSARY
(with pronunciation guide)

a'saii (uh-SIGH) — Cheysuli zealots dedicated to pure

line of descent.

bu'lasa (boo-LAH-suh) — grandson
bu'sala (boo-SAH-luh) — foster-son
cheysu (chay-SOO) — man/woman; neuter; used within

phrases.

cheysul (chay-SOOL) — husband
cheysula (chay-SOO-luh) — wife
Cheysuli (chay-SOO-lee) — {literal translation): children

of the gods.

Cheysuli i'halla shansu (chay-SOO-lee ih-HALLA shan-
SQO) — {lit.): May there be Cheysuli peace upon

you.
godfire (god-fire) — common manifestation of Ihlim power;

cold, lurid flame; purple tones.
harana (huh-RAH-na) — niece
harani (huh-RAH-nee) — nephew
homana (ho-MAH-na) — literal translation: of all blood.
i'halla (ih-HALL-uh) — upon you: used within phrases.
r;os/iflfl-m(ih-tosha-NEE)— Cheysuli cleansing ceremony;

atonement ritual.
ja'hai ([French;] zshuh-HIGH) — accept

452




ja'hai-na (zshuh-HIGH-nuh) — accepted

jehan (zsheh-HAHN) — father

jehana (zsheh-HAH-na) — mother

ku'reshtin (koo-RESH-tin) — epithet; name-calling

leijhana tu'sai (lay-HAHN-uh too-SIGH) — {lit.): thank

you very much.
Ur (leer) — magical animal(s) linked to individual Cheysuli;

title used indiscriminately between Ur and warriors.
meijha (MEE-hah) — Cheysuli light woman; {lit.):

mistress.

meijhana (mee-HAH-na) — slang: pretty one
Mujhar (moo-HAR) — king
qu'mahlin (koo-MAH-lin) — purge; extermination
Resh'ta-ni (resa-tah-NEE) — {Ut.): As you would have it.
rujho (ROO-ho) — slang: brother (diminutive)
rufholla (roo-HALL-uh) — sister (formal)
rujholli (roo-HALL-ee) — brother (formal)
ru'maii (roo-MY-ee) — {lit.): in the name of
ru'shalta-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'mau (shoo-MY-ee)
su'fala (soo-FALL-uh)
su'fali (soo-FALL-ee) -
sul'harai (sool-hah-RYE)

- sponsor

• aunt
uncle

moment of greatest satis-


faction in. union of man and woman; describes

shapechange.

tahlmorra (tall-MORE-uh) — fate; destiny; kismet.
Tahlmorra tujhala mei wiccan, cheysu (tall-MORE-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'haUa dei (too-HALLA-day-EE) — (to.): Lord to liege

man.

usca (OOlS-kuh) — powerful liquor from the Steppes.
y'ja'hai (EE-zshuh-HIGH) — {lit.): I accept.

