Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 07 by Flight of the Raven (v1.0) Page B

Clankeep. "—tired,"
he said aloud. "Will you never let me rest?"
                 In
dim light, gold gleamed.
                 Go , he told himself. Just go, go to bed—turn your back on this
idiocy. Think of something else. Dream of something else. Imagine yourself with
a woman —
                 But
the chain transfixed his eyes, washing him free of all thought except the need
to touch it. To hold it in his hands.
                 I think I begin to hate you —
                 But
nothing could make him ignore it.
                 Wearily
Aidan mounted the dais steps. He halted briefly before the Lion, rubbing
absently at gritty eyes, then slowly knelt. The motion was awkward and painful;
his ribs still ached. He placed both hands upon the curving, carved armrests
and gripped the Lion's paws. The throne was dead to him. A thing of wood; no
more. He sensed none of its power or the ambience of its age.
                 Burning
eyes locked on the chain coiled against dark velvet. "So," he said
unevenly, "I shall put out my hand to touch it, and the gold will crumble
to dust."
                 Aidan
put out his hand. Fingertips touched gold. He waited for it to crumble, but the
chain remained whole.
                 "Something,"
he breathed, "is different."
                 Nothing
answered him. Silence was very loud.
                 He
waited. He knew what had to happen. It happened without fail. It had always happened.
                 He
clung one-handed to the Lion. "This time, something is different ."
                 The
hissed declaration filled the hall. He heard himself breathing; the uneven
rasping of air sucked through a throat nearly closed off by emotions. He could
not name them all, only two: a slowly rising despair and a burgeoning
exhilaration.
                 They
were, he thought, contradictory emotions, even as he felt them. How could a man
experience exhilaration and despair, both at the same time? From the same
cause?
                 He
allowed his fingers to move. Now the palm touched the chain.
                 Cool,
rune-scribed metal. No different from that on his arms. 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,