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.Solid, substantial gold."I know you," Aidan challenged."You entice me, you seduce me, promising fidelity—the moment I pick you up, there will be nothing left but dust."Nothing answered him.Sweat prickled flesh.He ached, yet felt no pain, only a brittle intensity.A growing, obsessive hunger.Aidan dared to close his fingers.The chain remained solid.He laughed softly into the darkness."Such a sweet, subtle seduction… if I but pick you up—" He suited action to words.Links rang softly, chiming one against another.Aidan knelt before the Lion.One hand steadied himself.The other held up the chain.It dangled in the dimness, one perfect link clutched in rigid, trembling fingers.Jubilation crept closer, hand in hand with apprehension.Aidan stared, waiting.The hair stood up on his arms, tickled the back of his neck.He drew in a tenuous breath, taking care to make no sound."What now?" he whispered.In answer, the link parted.Half of the chain fell, spilling across crimson velvet.Oh, gods—oh, no—not AGAIN—A blurt of sound escaped him: forlorn, futile protest.Sweat ran down his temples, tracing the line of his jaw."So," he rasped hoarsely, "you tease me a little more—"Intrusion.He heard the scrape of silver on marble; the step of booted feet.Humiliation bathed him.If his father found him like this, or even the Mujhar—Aidan set his teeth and turned, still kneeling, still clutching the remaining links against his bare chest.That much he had gotten, he had won… if he showed his father—if he displayed it to the Mujhar, or to anyone who asked—Halfway breathed, breath stopped.The man was no one he knew.And yet, somehow, he did.He knew that face; had seen that face.The same tawny hair, now silvered.The same blue eyes, but no patch; both eyes were whole.Even the same remarkable physical presence, though this man, Aidan thought, was a trifle taller than the Mujhar.The breadth of shoulder was startling; that, and his expression.No, Aidan mouthed.And then, almost laughing: Aye.First Shaine, now—this.Now HIM—Transfixed, he stared at the man.At the slow transformation in the features.First a quiet acceptance of his presence in a place not quite expected.Then the realization of what that place, and his presence, meant.Lastly the quiet joy, the subtle recognition of a man returned to his home after too many years—and deaths—away.It was not an old face, not as old as the Mujhar's, though the lines were similar.But there was an odd awareness of age, an eerie aura of knowledge far greater than Aidan's own, so well-tutored in heritage.This man was not Cheysuli, but clearly he knew the Great Hall.Clearly he knew the Lion.Unlike Shaine in his velvets, he wore plain soldiers' garb: ringmail over leather.Ringmail stained with blood; leather scuffed from usage.On his hand glinted the ring Aidan's grandsire wore.Ringmail in place of velvets.Aidan stared blankly, recalling Shaine, whose arrogance dominated.This man was as proud, but less of himself than of things that had occurred in a realm once his own.Aidan's lips were dry.A different kind of Mujhar—The length of the hall, he came.Then stopped before the dais, before the throne, before the prince still kneeling in rigid silence, pale Erinnish flesh stretched nearly to cracking over unmistakable Cheysuli bones."So long," the man whispered."I thought never to see it again."Numbly, Aidan murmured, "This is Homana-Mujhar."The other man's jubilant smile was brilliant."I know where I am.I know who you are.Do you know who I am?"Aidan wet dry lips."I can make a guess."The stranger laughed aloud, in eerie exultation."Then let me save you the trouble: my name is Carillon.That throne once belonged to me." He paused delicately."And are you kneeling to me, or to your own tahlmorra?"Aidan did not move."Carillon was Homanan.He knew nothing of Tahlmorras."Tawny eyebrows rose."Nothing? Nothing at all? When it was my doing that the Lion Throne of Homana was given back into Cheysuli hands?" Blue eyes were assessive."Ah, Aidan, have they neglected your history? Or are you merely being perverse?""Homanans have no tahlmorras.""Oh, I think they do.I think they simply lack the imagination to accept them." Carillon's voice was kind, pitched to a tone of quiet compassion."It hurts to kneel on marble.If I were you, I would not."Aidan put out a groping hand and caught at the Lion, dragging himself from the dais.He stared at his kinsman.His great-great-grandsire, with no Cheysuli in him.I am so tired—so confused—He sighed gustily, trying to summon respect for a man dead so many years even though the pragmatic part of him suggested he might be so tired and sore he was merely dreaming the whole thing."I suppose you have come with a message, much like Shaine.I suppose you are here to talk about this chain, much like Shaine." He held it up; it dangled."The rest of it is in the throne… I am only worth half of it." He grimaced, shoving away the acknowledgment of pain."But more than I was before."Carillon said nothing.Aidan looked down at his kinsman, taller than Carillon only because of the dais.He lacked the height of his father or the Mujhar, certainly that of the man—or fetch—he faced now."Shaine mouthed nonsense.Have you come to do the same?"Now Carillon smiled."I did not come: I was brought.By you, whether or not you know it.There is a certain need…" But he did not finish."As for Shaine, he often mouthed nonsense.My uncle—my su'fali, as you might say—was a hard man to know, and a harder man to like.Respect, honor, even admire, aye—""Admire!" Aidan's astonishment echoed."The ku'reshtin began the qu'mahlin! He nearly extinguished my race!"Some of the fire dimmed in old/ageless blue eyes."Aye, he did that.But I was speaking of the man before the madness.The man who was Mujhar, was Homana, before the fool who began a purge." Carillon sighed.Wan light glinted on ringmail."He was a man of great loves and stronger hatreds.I will excuse him for neither; I did not understand him, save to serve him as an heir.And, as you know, even that was never intended; I was not raised to be Mujhar.""No," Aidan agreed, giving up the last vestige of disbelief.It seemed he was meant to have discourse with all manner of men and gods."I was raised to be a soldier, and to inherit my father's title.Never my uncle's—that only became my place when Lindir ran away with Hale, and Shaine got no other heirs." Carillon glanced down at a lifted hand: blood-red ruby glowed."So, I was made heir to Homana… and heir to travesty—" Abruptly he broke it off, smiling ruefully."But you know all of this… I will bore you with old stories." Now the smile was twisted."Finn would say it is my habit, to prate about history.""Finn," Aidan echoed."Could he come here? Could I summon him, if what you say is true?" He paused."Finn—and Hale?"After a momentary stillness, Carillon shook his head."They were never Mujhars.""Mujhars," Aidan murmured.He looked at the chain in his hand.Realization was swift."Mujhars—and links
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