Read Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 for Free Online Page B

been carefully tutored.
                 Niall's
gaze was kind. "You are wasting too much time trying to imagine what I
will think. Simply say it. Tell it;
you may find me less ignorant than you believe."
                 Aidan
clenched his teeth; how could anyone, kin or not, fully understand?
                 But
in the end, it was very easy. "I have to have it," he said plainly.
"If I do not, the world ends."
                 Niall's
expression was startled. "The world— ends ?"
                 Aidan
gestured acknowledgment; it sounded as odd to him. "The entire
world," he agreed dryly. "At least—for me." And then he gestured
again. "I know, I know —now I am
being selfish, to think of the entire world, and its fate, being determined by
what I do… but that is what I dream. Over and over again."
                 He
waited. Before him the old man sat hunched on the dais, silvered brows knit
with thought. Niall frowned pensively, but his expression gave nothing away.
                 The
thought was fleeting and unwelcome. There
is madness in my kinfolk —
                 But
Aidan knew better than to say it. Niall would only deny it; or, rather, deny
its cause as anything other than accident. He had said, time and time again,
the madness of Aidan's Atvian granddame, Gisella, was induced by an early,
traumatic birth—but Aidan sometimes wondered. He was capable of intense
thoughts and impulses, sometimes as disturbing as his dreams, though he always
suppressed them. He had heard the same said of Gisella. And he knew from
repeated stories his su'fala , Keely,
had never been fully convinced the madness was not hereditary.
                 "Well,"
Niall said finally, "everyone dreams. My dreams are odd enough—"
                 For
the first time in his life, Aidan cut him off. "I have to have it , grandsire. Do you understand? It is a need as
strong as the need of a man for a woman… as the need of warrior for lir . There is no difference, grandsire…
it makes me come here. Every time I
dream it."
                 Niall
stared at him, clearly startled by the passion. "If it disturbs you this
much—"
                 Aidan
laughed aloud. "Disturbs me? Aye, that is one way of saying it…" He
banished the desperation with effort, striving for equanamity. "Grandsire,
perhaps it is better put like so: what if, as you reached to take her into your
arms, Deirdre was turned to dust? To nothingness in your hands, even as you touched her, wanting her so badly you think you
might burst with it."
                 Niall's
expression was arrested. Aidan knew, as he always knew, the emotions his
grandsire felt. Shock. Disbelief. The merest trace of anger, that Aidan could
compare a chain to the Mujhar's beloved meijha …
and then the comprehension of what the failure meant.
                 After
a moment, Niall got up with a muffled grunt of effort and mounted the dais
steps. He paused before the Lion, placed a hand upon it, then turned awkwardly
and sat down. It was not, Aidan knew, an attempt to use his rank, but the
desire of an old man wishing for softness under his buttocks while he contemplated
his grandson.
                 The
Mujhar rubbed at deep scar-creases mostly hidden beneath the patch, as if the
empty socket ached. "What happens, then, when you come looking for this
chain?"
                 Aidan
shrugged, trying to diminish the desperation he always felt. "I put out my
hand to take it, and the chain is changed to dust."
                 "Dust,"
Niall echoed thoughtfully.
                 Aidan
extended his right hand. It shook; he tried to suppress it. "I have to
have it, grandsire… I have to have the
chain —and yet when I touch it, only dust is left." He shut his hand
tightly. "But even the dust goes before I can really touch it."