Free Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 by Track of the White Wolf (v1.0)

reminded him as
the servant shut the door behind us. Though considerably smaller than the Great
Hall with its Lion Throne, the chamber was impressive enough ia its own
intimate way. Here the rose-red walls had been whitewashed. Stained glass
tableaus of Homanan history filled the deep, narrow casements and lent the
white walls a subtle wash of countless colors. The stone floors were bare of
rugs, but here the natural rose-colored surface was allowed to go unpainted.
Sunlight and stained glass filled the chamber with a pastel nacreous glow.
                "Proxy," my father agreed.
"And as binding as a proper Homanan wedding." The Mujhar rose from
the cushioned chair on the low dais at the far end of the chamber.
                Lorn sat slumped against one wooden
leg as if his sole responsibility in life was to hold up the chair. On the back
perched the golden falcon, Taj, and beside the chair stood another for the
Queen of Homana; at present, however, it was empty.
                I glanced around quickly, searching
for Atvians, but saw none. Only my mother, by one of the narrow casements,
staring out into the inner bailey.
                She turned abruptly. Yellow skirts
swirled around her feet. I saw the sheen of silk; heard the sibilance of fold
caressing fold. "Binding!" she said bitterly. "What binds us now
is idiocy. Niall would do better with another."
                "Aislinn, we have been through
this," my father said in weary exasperation. "As for doing better,
how better? Gisella is his cousin, and harana to you by your marriage to me.
Throw a stone at Gisella. Aislinn, and you splatter its mud upon yourself."
                Gold glittered at my lady mother's
neck. Her hands were clenched in the folds of her silken skirts. There was gold
on her hands as well, threading from the heavy girdle through rigid fingers to
clash against the fabric.
                Her rich red hair was bound up
against her head, and resting against her brow was a circlet of twisted gold
wire.
                "It is not Gisella," she
said tightly. "It is her father. Him. The Lord of Atvia himself. Do you
forget it was Alaric's brother who slew my father?"
                "I do not forget," he told
her plainly. "You do not let me forget."
                She wanted to go to him. I could see
it in her face; in the great gray eyes that harpers sang of, making her beauty
into legend. But she did not go to him. She stood instead by the casement and
faced him, proud as the Mujhar himself, and equally inflexible.
                I glanced briefly at Ian, still
standing next to me. His face bore the polite mask it always wore before the
Queen of Homana and Solinde. But I wondered what he thought. I wondered what my
mother's terrible pride in heritage did to the man who was not her son.
                I sighed. My headache threatened to
return. "Does it go on, then, this ceremony? Or do I go back to my chambers
and take off my finery?"
                My mother still looked at my father,
even as he looked at her. I wondered if they had heard me at all. I wondered if
they even recalled Ian and I were in the chamber. They waged some private
battle, and I could not begin to name the stakes.
                "No." My mother, at last,
still looking at my father, though the answer was for me. "No, you do
not."
                There was neither triumph nor relief
in my father's face.
                Acknowledgment, I thought, of my
mother's surrender.
                And perhaps a trace of compassion,
because he knew why she fought so fiercely.
                "You look well." My father
turned to me. "I approve the selection of Cheysuli leathers."
                I shrugged a little. "It—there
was no choice. But—I could wish my arms were not so naked."
                "And do wish it,"