Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 Read Online Free PDF Page B

eyes, he
was a boy guarded by dogs; in his, the son of a man who had renounced his rank
and legacy, as well as the seed of his loins. In that moment Kellin lost his
identity, stripped of it by foreigners, and it infuriated him.
                He stared a challenge at the
warrior. "Show me."
                Rogan's hand came down on Kellin's
shoulder.
                Fingers gripped firmly, pressing him
to turn. "This is quite enough."
                Kellin was wholly focused on the
warrior as he twisted free of the tutor's grip. "Show me."
                Rogan's voice was clipped.
"Kellin, I said it was enough."
                The watchdogs were there, right
there, so close they blocked the sun. But Kellin ignored them. He stared at the
young woman. "Tell him to show me. Now!"
                The ivory-dark faced paled.
"Tuqhoc never shows—Tuqhoc does."
                Kellin did not so much as blink even
as the watchdogs crowded him. He pulled free of a hand: Rogan's. "Tell him
what I said."
                Tuqhoc, clearly disturbed by the
change in tone and stance—and the free use of his own name—barked out a clipped
question. The young woman answered reluctantly. Tuqhoc repeated himself, as if
disbelieving, then laughed. For the first time emotion glinted in his eyes.
Tuqhoc smiled at Kellin and made a declaration in the Steppes tongue.
                Rogan's hands closed on both
shoulders decisively. "We are leaving. I warned you, my lord."
                "No," Kellin declared. To
the young woman;
                "What did he say?"
                "Tuqhoc says, if he shows, you
die."
                "Only a fool taunts a Steppes
warrior—I thought you knew better." Rogan's hands forced Kellin to turn.
"Away. Now."
                Kellin tore free. "Show
me!" Even as Rogan blurted an order, the watchdogs closed on the warrior,
drawing swords. Kellin ducked around one man, then slid through two others. The
dark Steppes eyes were fixed on the approaching men in fierce challenge. Kellin
desperately wanted to regain that attention for himself. "Show me!"
he shouted.
                Tuqhoc slipped the guard easily, so
easily—even as the challenge was accepted. In one quick, effortless motion
Tuqhoc plucked the knife from the thong around his neck and threw.
                For Kellin, the knife was all. He
was only peripherally aware of the women crying out, the guttural invective of
the warrior as the watchdogs pressed steel against his flesh.
                Rogan reached for him—
                Too late. The knife was in the air.
And even as Rogan twisted, intending to protect his charge by using his own body
as shield, Kellin stepped nimbly aside. For ME—
                He saw the blade, watched it, judged
its arc, its angle, anticipated its path. Then he reached out and slapped the
blade to the ground.
                "By the gods—" Rogan
caught his shoulders and jerked him aside. "Have you any idea—?"
                Kellin did. He could not help it. He
stared at the warrior, at the Steppes women, at the knife in the street. He
knew precisely what he had done, and why.
                He wanted to shout his exultation,
but knew better. He looked at the watchdogs and saw the fixed, almost feral set
of jaws; the grimness in their faces; the acknowledgment in their eyes as they
caged the Steppesman with steel.
                It was not his place to gloat;
Cheysuli warriors did not lower themselves to such unnecessary displays.
                Kellin bent and picked up the knife.
He noted the odd greenish color and oily texture of the blade. He looked at
Rogan, then at the young woman whose eyes were astonished.
                As much as for his tutor's benefit
as for hers, Kellin said: "Tell