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

my
father said. "I know, Niall. Better than you think."
                The pain renewed itself. I had
chosen, but the choice did not feel right. It made my belly chum and stab at me
with a familiar burning pain. But I had not earned the leathers.
                "You are Homanan also," my
mother began, as always; it was her litany. "Put not so much weight in
ornamentation and think of the blood in your veins."
                "Carillon's blood?"
Through the pain I could not smile.
                "Aye, lady, always. As you
would have me recall it."
                Color stood high in her flawless face.
The gray eyes flicked to Ian. "Was it your suggestion?"
                "No, lady," he said
gently. "I merely offered him the choice."
                Briefly, she shut her eyes as if to
shut out his words.
                But almost immediately they opened
again and she looked at him unflinchingly. Her tone lacked the bitterness of
moments before. “No, no, you would not thrust one or the other upon him. I know
you better than you think, Ian. It is myself—'
                But she did not finish, because the
liveried servant who had shown us into the chamber was opening the door yet
again. And this time there came Atvians into the room.
                A man and a woman. The man was tall.
elegant, garbed in understated blue velvets and an attitude too well-trained to
betray anything other than respect and graciousness, and yet I sensed a power
in him, leashed, as if he were a hawk waiting for the jesses to be cut. His
hair was very dark, nearly black, and his eyes were an odd pale brown. The only
ornamentation was a silver ring on his left hand and matching earrings in his
lobes.
                His outstretched left hand offered
escort to the woman.
                Though her right hand met his palm,
they hardly touched one another. An odd dance by two magnificent animals.
                A bizarre sort of courtship rite, I
thought, when the woman was meant for me.
                Looking at her, I reminded myself at
once the ceremony was proxy only. What I knew of the custom was no less than
anyone else: I would wed the woman in Gisella's place to make certain the
alliance between Homana and Atvia was sealed by the blood of our respective
Houses, but I would not bed the woman. That was left for Gisella.
                And yet I found I regretted it.
                She put me in mind of a harp string,
capable of a poignant, subtle power. Plucked this way, plucked that, she would
still emit a tone that would bind each man to its strength, resonating in his
soul. I thought almost at once of my mother's mother, Electra of Solinde, whom
legend said could ensorcell men with a single glance from lambent eyes. And yet
what I knew of that woman did not apply to this one. The white-blond hair was
black.
                The ice-gray eyes were also. The
velvet gown was brilliant crimson.
                Smiling faintly, she allowed the man
to lead her forward. The hem of her skirts brushed the stone of the floor; I
heard its subtle song. A woman's song, that sound, and incredibly powerful. But
it was not at her skirts I looked.
                Her head was bowed in a perfect
humility, but there was pride in her posture as well, and a comprehension of
her strength. Beautiful, aye, and claiming that power as a matter of course,
but there was more to her than simple beauty. There was confidence as well. An
acknowledgment of her place in the world of kings and princes.
                My mother moved smoothly to my
father's side. They stood together on the dais before the padded chairs, united
in titles and goals, and waited to receive the Atvian envoy and Gisella's proxy
bride.
                Silver glittered. The woman wore it
at hip and brow. A chain of interlocking