Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 05 by A Pride of Princes (v1.0) Page A

between realms. I will also protest your
inability to recall that diplomacy is necessary in nearly every situation,
certainly this one. And I will most decidedly protest your inability to
remember that Cheysuli warriors do not brawl in taverns." He paused,
marking their shocked faces.
                "Princes do not brawl in
taverns. My sons do not brawl in taverns." Again he paused, and heard the
echo of his voice ringing in the chamber. "Do I make myself clear?"
                Corin stared at him defiantly.
"We have done it before."
                Hart moved closer to Brennan, taking
a definitive step away from his younger brother.
                Slowly Niall moved from the
casement. He walked to his youngest son and paused before the stool. And abruptly,
before Corin could speak or make any sort of protest, Niall reached down and
grasped the injured wrist, snapping Corin to his feet.
                “Jehan—" But Corin, though
clearly in pain, broke off his protest when he saw the expression on his
father's face.
                "You have spent twenty years in
Homana-Mujhar, sharing in the bounty of your birth," Niall said in a tone
that, for all its gentleness, implied more displeasure than shouting might
have. "Your jehana was Princess of Atvia in her own right, bred of
Cheysuli warriors and Homanan kings. I care little enough what you may think of
me, or what I do—but you will respect the blood that flows in your veins."
Niall drew in a breath that did nothing to dispel the rising anger in his tone.
"That blood you have spilled all too often in petty tavern brawls. It must
stop, Corin. It must. Rid yourself of this resentment and hostility and conduct
yourself as a prince and Cheysuli warrior should." He paused, looking for
something in Corin's blue eyes. "It is not worthy of you," he said,
more quietly.
                Corin set his teeth. "And I am
not worthy of you."
                Niall released the injured wrist
instantly. His jaw slackened momentarily and something odd glinted in his good
eye; something that spoke of shock, of memories and unexpected pain, in
addition to the sudden flaring of an intense, abiding regret-Deirdre wanted to
go to him at once, but refrained. It would undermine his authority completely
if she showed his sons how much Corin's words had hurt him; now, at this
moment, Niall needed all the strength and resolution he could find, if he were
to command their respect and obedience.
                The Mujhar turned away a moment,
then swung back to face them all. He looked at Hart and Brennan, ignoring Corin
as if he had nothing more to say to him. Or as if he could not bear to look at
him and see the son who so closely resembled the young Niall in coloring as
well as insecurity.
                "What I have said to Corin
applies equally to you," he told his twin-born sons. "I have raised
none of you to behave as common soldiers on leave, fighting over petty slights
and imagined insults, nor as crofters spending their few coins on liquor and
wine-girls . . . nor on foolish wagers." His eye flicked to Hart, then
returned to Brennan. "I expected such behavior out of you least of
all."
                Brennan stood very straight, but his
shoulders lost their set.
                Quickly Hart spoke up. "Blame
him no more than me, jehan."
                "No," Niall agreed.
"But less than you, aye. It was your idea to go there, was it not?"
                Hart opened his mouth, then shut it.
After a moment, he nodded. "We meant only to drink a little, jehan. Not to
fight. You know I would rather throw the dice and rune-sticks than fight."
                "Reynald deserved it,
jehan," Corin said flatly. "And if the rest of the Caledonese royal
house is like him, you do not wish to make an alliance with them anyway."
                "Do I not?" Niall looked
calmly at