The Chronicles of the Cheysuli:

 

An Overview

 

THE PROPHECY OF THE FIRSTBORN:

 

"One day a man of all blood shall unite. In peace.

four warring realms and two magical races.

 

Originally a race of shapechangers known as the

Cheysuli, descendants of the Firstborn, Homana's

original race, held the Lion Throne, but increasing

unrest on the part of the Homanans, who lacked

magical powers and therefore feared the Cheysuli,

threatened to tear the realm apart. The Cheysuli

royal dynast voluntarily gave up the Lion Throne

so that Homanans could rule Homana, thereby

avoiding fullblown internecine war.

 

The clans withdrew altogether from Homanan

society save for one remaining and binding tradi-

tion: each Homanan king, called a Mujhar, must

have a Cheysuli liege man as bodyguard, council-

lor, companion, dedicated to serving the throne

and protecting the Mujhar, until such a time as

the prophecy is fulfilled and the Firstborn rule

again.

 

This tradition was adhered to without incident

for nearly four centuries, until Lindir, the only

daughter of Shaine the Mujhar, jilted her prospec-

tive bridegroom to elope with Hale, her father's

Cheysuli liege man. Because the jilted bridegroom

was the heir of a neighboring king, Bellam of So-

linde, and because the marriage was meant to seal

an alliance after years of bloody war, the elope-

 

ix

 

Jennifer Roberson

 

ment resulted in tragic consequences. Shaine con-

cocted a web of lies to salve his obsessive pride,

and in so doing laid the groundwork for the anni-

hilation of a race.

 

Declared sorcerers and demons dedicated to the

downfall of the Homanan throne, the Cheysuli

were summarily outlawed and sentenced to imme-

diate execution if found within Homanan borders.

 

Shapechangers begins the "Chronicles of the

Cheysuli," telling the tale of Alix, daughter of

Lindir, once Princess of Homana, and Hale, once

Cheysuli liege man to Shaine. Alix is an unknown

catalyst bearing the Old Blood of the Firstborn,

which gives her the ability to link with all lir and

assume any animal shape at will. But Alix is

raised by a Homanan and has no knowledge of her

abilities, until she is kidnapped by Finn, a Chey-

suli warrior who is Hale's son by his Cheysuli

wife, and therefore Alix's half-brother. Kidnapped

with her is Carillon, Prince of Homana. Alix learns

the true power in her gifts, the nature of the

prophecy which rules all Cheysuli, and eventually

marries a warrior, Duncan, to whom she bears a

son, Donal, and, much later, a daughter, Bronwyn.

But Homana's internal strife weakens her de-

fenses. Bellam of Solinde, with his sorcerous aide,

Tynstar the Ihlini, conquers Homana and assumes

the Lion Throne.

 

In The Song of Homana, Carillon returns from

a five-year exile, faced with the difficult task of

gathering an army capable of overcoming Bellam.

He is accompanied by Finn, who has assumed the

traditional role of liege man. Aided by Cheysuli

magic and his own brand of personal power, Caril-

lon is able to win back his realm and restore the

Cheysuli to their homeland by ending the purge

begun by his uncle, Shaine. Alix's grandfather. He

marries Bellam's daughter to seal peace between

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

xf

 

the lands, but Electra has already cast her lot with

Tynstar the Ihlini, and works against her Homa-

nan husband. Carillon's failure to father a son

forces him to betroth his only daughter, Aislinn,

to Donal, Alix's son, whom he names Prince of

Homana. This public approbation of a Cheysuli

warrior is the first step in restoring the Lion

Throne to the sovereignty of the Cheysuli, required

by the prophecy, and sows the seeds of civil

unrest.

 

Legacy of the Sword focuses on Donal's slow as-

sumption of power within Homana, and his per-

sonal assumption of his role in the prophecy.

Because by clan custom a warrior is free to take

both wife and mistress, Donal has started a Chey-

suli family even though he will one day have to

marry Carillon's daughter to cement his right to

the Lion Throne. By his Cheysuli mistress he has

two children, lan and Isolde; by Aislinn, Carillon's

daughter, he eventually sires a son who will be-

come his heir. But the marriage is rocky immedi-

ately; in addition to the problems caused by a

second family, Donal's Homanan wife is also

under the magical influence of her mother, Electra,

who is mistress to Tynstar. Problems are com-

pounded by the son of Tynstar and Electra, Strahan,

who has his father's powers in full measure. On

Carillon's death Donal inherits the Lion, naming

his legitimate son, Niall, to succeed him. But to

further the prophecy he marries his sister, Bron-

wyn, to Alaric of Atvia, lord of an island kingdom.

Bronwyn is later killed by Alaric accidentally

while in /ir-shape, but lives long enough to give

birth to a daughter, Gisella, who is mad.

 

In Track of the White Wolf, Donal's son Niall is

a young man caught between two worlds. To the

Homanans, fearful of Cheysuli power and inten-

tions, he is worthy only of distrust, the focus of

 

Jennifer Roberson

 

xU

 

their discontent. To the Cheysuli he is an "un-

blessed" man, because even though far past the

age for it, Niall has not linked with his animal.

He is therfore a lirless man, a warrior with no

power, and such a man has no place within the

clans. His Cheysuli half-brother is his liege man,

fully "blessed," and lan's abilities serve to add to

Niall's feelings of inferiority.

 

Niall is meant to marry his half-Atvian cousin,

Gisella, but falls in love with the princess of a

neighboring kingdom, Deirdre of Erinn. Lirless,

and with Gisella under the influence of Tynstar's

Ihlini daughter, Lillith, Niall falls prey to sorcery.

Eventually he links with his lir and assumes the

full range of Cheysuli powers, but he pays for it

with an eye. His marriage to Gisella is disastrous,

but two sets of twins are bom—Brennan and Hart,

Corin and Keely—which gives Niall the opportu-

nity to extend his range of influence via betrothal

alliances. He banishes Gisella to At via after he

foils an Ihlini plot involving her, and then settles

into life with his mistress, Deirdre of Erinn, who

has already borne Maeve, his illegitimate

daughter.

 

A Pride of Princes tells the story of each of Niall's

three sons. Brennan, the eldest, will inherit Ho-

mana and has been betrothed to Aileen, Deirdre's

niece, to add a heretofore unknown bloodline to

the prophecy. Brennan's twin. Hart, is Prince of

Solinde, a compulsive gambler whose addiction

results in a tragic accident involving all three of

Niall's sons. Hart is banished to Solinde for a year,

and the rebellious youngest son, Corin, to Atvia.

Brennan is tricked into siring a child on an Ihlini-

Cheysuli woman; Hart loses a hand and nearly his

life in a Solindish plot; in Erinn, Corin falls in

love with Brennan's bride, Aileen, before going to

Atvia. One by one each is captured by Strahan,

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS              xiii

 

Tynstar's son, who intends to turn Niall's sons

into puppet-kings so he can rule through them. All

three manage to escape, but not until after each

has been made to recognize particular strengths

and weaknesses.

 

For Keely, sister of Niall's sons, things are dif-

ferent. In Daughter of the Lion, Keely herself is

caught up in the machinations of politics, evil sor-

cery, and her own volatile emotions. Trained from

childhood in masculine pursuits such as weap-

onry, Keely prefers the freedom of choice and life-

style, and as both are threatened by the imminent

arrival of her betrothed, Sean of Erinn, she fights

to maintain her sense of self in a world ruled by

men. She is therefore ripe for rebellion when a

strong-minded, powerful Erinnish brigand—and

possible murderer—enters her life.

 

But Keely's battles are increased tenfold when

Strahan chooses her as his next target. Betrayed,

trapped, and imprisoned on the Crystal Isle, Keely

is forced through sorcery into a liaison with the

Ihlini that results in pregnancy. But before the

child can be born, Keely escapes with the aid of

the Ihlini bard, Taliesin. On her way home she

meets the man believed to be her betrothed, and

realizes not only must she somehow rid herself of

the unwanted child, but must also decide which

man she will have—thief or prince—in order to be

a true Cheysuli in service to the prophecy.

 

Flight of the Raven is the story of Aidan, only

son of Brennan and Aileen. Hounded in childhood

by nightmares, Aidan grows to adulthood con-

vinced he is not meant to hold the Lion Throne

after all, but is intended to follow a different path,

This path becomes more evident as he sets out to

visit his kin in Solinde and Erinn in order to find

a bride; very quickly it becomes apparent that

Aidan has been singled out by the Cheysuli gods

 

Jennifer Roberson

 

xtv

 

to complete a quest for golden links personifying

specific Mujhars. In pursuing his quest, Aidan be-

comes the target of Lochiel the Ihlini, Strahan's

 

son.

 

Bound by their mutual Erinnish gift of kivama,

a strong empathy, Aidan and Shona of Erinn

marry. The child of this union wilt bring the Chey-

suli one step closer to completion of the prophecy,

and is therefore a grave threat to Lochiel. The Ih-

lini attacks Clankeep, kills Shona, and cuts the

child from her belly. Aidan, seriously wounded,

falls victim to epilepsy; in his "fits" he prophesies

of the coming of Cynric, the Firstborn. To get back

his stolen child, Aidan conquers his weakness to

confront Lochiel in Valgaard itself, where he wins

back his son. But Aidan realizes he is not meant

for thrones and titles; he renounces his rank, gives

his son, Kellin, into the keeping of Aileen and

Brennan, and takes up residence as a shar tahl on

the Crystal Isle, where he begins to prepare the

way for the coming of the Firstborn.

 

Prologue

 

In thread, on cloth, against a rose-red stone wall

gilt-washed by early light: Lions. Mujhars. Chey-

suli, and Homanan; and the makings of the world

in which the boy and his grand-uncle lived.

 

"Magic," the boy declared solemnly, more in-

tent upon his declaration than most eight-year-

olds; but then most eight-year-old boys do not dis-

cover magic within the walls of their homes.

 

The old man agreed easily without the hesita-

tion of those who doubted, or wished to doubt, put

off by magic's power; magic was no more alien to

him than to the boy, in whose blood it lived as it

lived in his own, and in others Cheysuli-bom.

 

"Woman's magic," he said, "conjured from head

and hands." His own long-fingered left hand, once

darkly supple and eloquent, now stiffened bone be-

neath wrinkled, yellowing flesh, traced out the intri-

cate stitchwork patterns of the massive embroidered

arras hung behind the Lion Throne. "Do you see,

Kellin? This is Shame, whom the Homanans

would call your five times great-grandfather.

Cheysuli would call him hosa'ana."

 

It was mid-morning in Shaine's own Great Hall.

Moted light sliced through stained glass case-

ments to paint the hall all colors, illuminating the

vast expanse of ancient architecture that had

housed a hundred kings long before Kellin—or

lan—was born.

 

/5

 

16              Jennifer Roberson

 

The boy, undaunted by the immensity of history

or the richness of the hammer-beamed hall and

its multitude of trappings, nodded crisply, a little

impatient, black brows drawn together in a frown

old for his years; as if Kellin, Prince of Homana,

knew very well who Shaine was, but did not count

him important.

 

lan smiled. And well he might not; his history is

more recent, and his youth concerned with now, not

yesterday's old Mujhars.

 

"Who is this?" A finger, too slender for the char-

acteristic incomplete stubbiness of youth—Chey-

suli hands, despite the other houses thickening his

blood—transfixed a stitchwork lion made static by

the precise skill of a woman's hands. "Is this my

 

father?"

 

"No." The old man's lean, creased-leather face

gave away nothing of his thoughts, nothing of his

feelings, as he answered the poorly concealed hope

in the boy's tone. "No, Kellin. This tapestry was

completed before your father was born. It stops

here—you see?—" he touched thread, "—with

your grandsire."

 

A dirt-rimmed fingernail bitten off crookedly in-

serted itself imperatively between dusty threads,

once-brilliant colors muted by time and long-set

sunlight. "But he should be here. My father.

Somewhere."

 

The expression was abruptly fierce, no longer

hopeful, no longer clay as yet unworked, but the

taut arrogance of a young warrior as he looked up

at the old man, who knew more than the boy what

it was to be a warrior; he had even been in true

war, and was not merely a construct of aging

 

tales.

 

lan smiled, new wrinkles replacing old between

the thick curtains of snowy hair. "And so he would

be, had it taken longer for Deirdre and her women

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

17

 

to complete the Tapestry of Lions. Perhaps some-

day another woman will begin a new tapestry and

put you and your father and your heir in it."

 

"Mujhars," Kellin said consideringly. "That's

what all of them were." He glanced back at the

huge tapestry filling the wall behind the dais, fix-

ing a dispassionate gaze upon it. The murmured

names were a litany as he moved his finger from

one lion to another: "Shaine, Carillon, Donal,

Niall, Brennan . .." Abruptly the boy broke off and

took his finger from the stitching. "But my father

isn't Mujhar and never will be." He stared hard

at the old man as if he longed to challenge but

did not know how. "Never will be."

 

It did not discomfit lan, who had heard it

phrased one way or another for several years. The

intent was identical despite differences in phrase-

ology: Kellin desperately wanted his father, Aidan,

whom he had never met. "No," lan agreed. "You

are next, after Brennan .. . they have told you

why."

 

The boy nodded. "Because he left." He meant to

sound matter-of-fact, but did not; the unexpected

shine of tears in clear green eyes dissipated former

fierceness, "He ran awayl"

 

lan tensed. It would come, one day; now I must

drive it back, "No." He reached and caught one

slight shoulder, squeezing slightly as he felt the

suppressed, minute trembling. "Kellin—who said

such a monstrous thing? It is not true, as you well

know . . . your father ran from nothing, but to his

tahlmorra—"

 

"They said—" Kellin's lips were white as he

compressed them. "They said he left because he

hated me."

 

"Who said this?"

 

Kellin bit into his bottom lip. "They said I

wasn't the son he wanted."

 

18

 

Jennifer Roberson

 

"Kellin—"

It was very nearly a wail though he worked to

 

choke it off. "What did I do to make him hate me

 

so?"

"Your jehan does not hate you."

 

"Then why isn't he here! Why can't he come?

Why can't I go there?" Green eyes burned fiercely.

"Have I done something wrong?"

 

"No. No, Kellin—you have done nothing wrong."

 

The small face was pale. "Sometimes I think I

must be a bad son."

 

"In no way, Kellin—"

 

"Then, why?" he asked desperately. "Why can't

 

he come?"

Why indeed? lan asked himself. He did not in

 

the least blame the boy for voicing what all of

them wondered, but Aidan was intransigent. The

boy was not to come until he was summoned. Nor

would Aidan visit unless the gods indicated it was

the proper time. But will it ever be the proper time?

 

He looked at the boy, who tried so hard to give

away none of his anguish, to hide the blazing pain.

Homana-Mujhar begins to put Jesses on the fledgling.

 

Strength waned. lan desired to sit down upon

the dais so as to be on the boy's level and discuss

things more equally, but he was old, stiff, and

weary; rising again would prove difficult. There

was so much he wanted to say that little of it

suggested a way to be said. Instead, he settled for

a simple wisdom. "I think perhaps you have spent

too much time of late with the castle boys. You

should ask to go to Clankeep. The boys there know

 

better."

It was not enough. It was no answer at all. lan

 

regretted it immediately when he saw Kellin's

 

expression.

 

"Grandsire says I may not go. I am to stay here,

 

A TAPESTRY OF LlOfVS

 

19

 

he says—but he won't tell me why. But I heard—

I heard one of the servants say—" He broke it off.

 

"What?" lan asked gently. "What have the ser-

vants said?"

 

"That—that even in Clankeep, the Mujhar fears

for my safety. That because Locniel went there once,

he might again—and if he knew / was there .. ."

Kellin shrugged small shoulders. "I'm to be kept

here."

 

It is no wonder, then, he listens to castle boys. lan

sighed and attempted a smile. "There will always

be boys who seek to hurt with words. You are a

prince—they are not. It is resentment, Kellin. You

must not put faith in what they say about your

Jehan. They none of them know what he is."

 

Kellin's tone was flat, utterly lifeless; his at-

tempt to hide the hurt merely increased its poi-

gnancy. "They say he was a coward. And sick- And

given to fits."

 

All this, and more . .. he has years yet before they

stop, if any of them ever will stop; it may become a

weapon meant to prick and goad first prince, then

Mujhar. lan felt a tightness in his chest. The win-

ter had been cold, the coldest he recalled in sev-

eral seasons, and hard on him. He had caught a

cough, and it had not completely faded even with

the onset of full-blown spring.

 

He drew in a carefully measured breath, seeking

to lay waste to words meant to taunt the smallest

of boys who would one day be the largest, in rank

if not in height. "He is a shar tahl, Kellin, not a

madman. Those who say so are ignorant, with no

respect for Cheysuli customs." Inwardly he chided

himself for speaking so baldly of Homanans to a

young, impressionable boy, but lan saw no reason

to lie. Ignorance was ignorance regardless of its

racial origins; he knew his share of stubborn Chey-

 

20              Jennifer Roberson

 

suli, too. "We have explained many times why he

went to the Crystal Isle."

 

"Can't he come to visit? That's all I want. Just

a visit." The chin that promised adult intransi-

gence was no less tolerant now. "Or can't I go

there? Wouldn't I be safe there, with him?"

 

lan coughed, pressing determinedly against the

sunken breastbone hidden beneath Cheysuli jerkin

as if to squeeze his lungs into compliance. "A shar

tahl is not like everyone else, Kellin. He serves the

gods ... he cannot be expected to conduct himself

according to the whims and desires of others." It

was the simple truth. lan knew, but doubted it

offered enough weight to crush a boy's pain. "He

answers to neither Mujhar nor clan-leader, but to

the gods themselves. If you are to see your jehan,

 

he will send for you."

 

"It isn't fair," Kellin blurted in newborn bitter-

ness. "Everyone else has a father!"

 

"Everyone else does not have a father." lan

knew of several boys in Homana-Mujhar and Clan-

keep who lacked one or both parents. "Jehans and

jehanas die, leaving children behind."

 

"My mother died." His face spasmed briefly.

 

"They said I killed her."

"No—" No, Kellin had not killed Shona; Lochiel

 

had. But the boy no longer listened.

 

"She's dead—but my father is alive' Can't he

 

come?"

 

The cough broke free of lan's wishes, wracking

 

lungs and throat. He wanted very much to answer

the boy, his long-dead brother's great-grandson,

but he lacked the breath for it. "—Kellin—"

 

At last the boy was alarmed. "Su'fali?" lan was

many generations beyond uncle, but it was the

Cheysuli term used in place of a more complex

one involving multiple generations. "Are you sick

 

still?"

 

A TAPESTRY OF LlOIVS               21

 

"Winter lingers." He grinned briefly. "The bite

of the Lion .. ."

 

"The Lion is biting you?" Kellin's eyes were

enormous; clearly he believed there was truth in

the imagery.

 

"No." lan bent, trying to keep the pain from the

boy. It felt as if a burning brand had been thrust

deep into his chest. "Here—help me to sit . . ."

 

"Not there, not on the Lion—" Kellin grasped a

trembling arm. "I won't let him bite you, su'fali."

 

The breath of laughter wisped into wheezing.

"Kellin—"

 

But the boy chattered on of a Cheysuli warrior's

protection, far superior to that offered by others

unblessed by lir or shapechanging arts and the

earth magic, and guided lan down toward the

step. The throne's cushion would soften the harsh-

ness of old wood, but clearly the brief mention of

the Lion had burned itself into Kellin's brain; the

boy would not allow him to sit in the throne now,

even now, and lan had no strength to dissuade

him of his false conviction.

 

"Here, su'fali." The small, piquant face was a

warrior's again, fierce and determined. The boy

cast a sharp glance over his shoulder, as if to ward

away the beast.

 

"Kellin—" But it hurt very badly to talk through

the pain in his chest. His left arm felt tired and

weak. Breathing was difficult, Lir ... It was imper-

ative, instinctive; through the fir-link lan sum-

moned Tasha from his chambers, where she lazed

in a shaft of spring sunlight across the middlemost

part of his bed. Forgive my waking you—

 

But the mountain cat was quite awake and mov-

ing, answering what she sensed more clearly than

what she heard.

 

And more— With the boy's help lan lowered

himself to the top step of the dais, then bit back a

 

^              Jennifer Roberson

 

grimace. Breathlessly, he said, "Kellin—fetch your

 

grandsire."

The boy was all Cheysuli save for lighter-hued

 

flesh and Erinnish eyes, wide-sprung eyes: dead

Deirdre's eyes, who had begun the tapestry for her

husband, Niall, lan's half-brother, decades before

 

—green as Aileen's eyes— ... the Queen of Ho-

mana, grandmother to the boy; sinter to Sean of

Erinn, married to Keely, mother of Kellin's dead

mother. So many bloodlines now .. . have we

pleased the gods and the prophecy?

 

The flesh of Kellin's Cheysuli face was pinched

Homanan-pale beneath thick black hair. "Su'fali—"

 

lan twitched a trembling finger in the direction

of the massive silver doors gleaming dully at the

far end of the Great Hall. "Do me this service,

 

Kellin—"

 

And as the boy hastened away, crying out loudly

of deadly lions, the dying Cheysuli warrior bid his

 

mountain cat to run.

 

One

 

'' Summerfair,'' Kellin whispered in his bed-

chamber, testing the sound of the word and all its

implications. Then, in exultation, " Summefiair\"

 

He threw back the lid of a clothing trunk and

fetched out an array of velvets and brocades, toss-

ing all aside in favor of quieter leathers. He de-

sired to present himself properly but without

Homanan pretension, which he disliked, putting

into its place the dignity of a Cheysuli.

 

Summerfair. He was to go, this year. Last year

it had been forbidden, punishment as much for his

stubborn insistence that he had been right as for

the transgression itself, which he still believed nec-

essary. They had misunderstood, his grandsire and

granddame, and all the castle servants; they had

all misunderstood, each and every one, regardless

of rank, birth, or race.

 

lan would have understood, but Kellin's harani

was two years' dead. And it was because of lan's

death—and the means by which that death was

delivered—that Kellin sought to destroy what he

viewed as further threat to those he loved.

 

None of them understood. But his mind jumped

ahead rapidly, discarding the painful memories of

that unfortunate time as he dragged forth from

the trunk a proper set of Cheysuli leathers: soft-

tanned, russet jerkin with matching leggings; a

 

25

 

Jennifer Roberson

 

26

 

belt fastened with onyx and worked gold; soft,

droopy boots with soles made for leaf-carpeted

forest, not the hard bricks of the city.

 

"—still fit—?" Kellin dragged on one boot and

discovered that no, it did not fit, which meant the

other didn't either; which meant he had grown

again and was likely in need of attention from Ai-

leen's sempstresses with regard to Homanan cloth-

ing ... He grimaced- He intensely disliked such

attention. Perhaps he could put on the Cheysuli

leathers and wear new Homanan boots; or was

that sacrilege?

 

He stripped free of Homanan tunic and breeches

and replaced them with preferred Cheysuli garb,

discovering the leggings had shrunk; no, his legs

had lengthened, which Kellin found pleasing. For

a time he had been small, but it seemed he was

at last making up for it. Perhaps now no one would

believe him a mere eight-year-old, but would under-

stand the increased maturity ten years brought.

 

Kellin sorted out the fit of his clothing and

clasped the belt around slender hips, then turned

to survey himself critically in the polished bronze

plate hung upon the wall. Newly-washed hair was

drying into accustomed curls—Kellin, frowning,

instantly tried to mash them away—but his chin

was smooth and childish, unmarred by the disfig-

uring hair Homanans called a beard- Such a thing

marked a man less than Cheysuli, Kellin felt, for

Cheysuli could not ordinarily grow beards—al-

though some mixed-blood Cheysuli not only could

but did; it was said Corin, in distant Atvia, wore

a beard, as did Kellin's own Errinish grandfather,

Sean—but he would never do so. Kellin would

never subscribe to a fashion that hid a man's heri-

tage behind the hair on his face.

 

Kellin examined his hairless chin, then ran a

finger up one soft-fleshed cheek, across to his nose,

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

27

 

and explored the curve of immature browbone

above his eyes. Everyone said he was a true Chey-

suli, save for his eyes—and skin tinted halfway

between bronze and fair; though in summer he

tanned dark enough to pass as a trueblood—but

he could not replace his eyes, and his prayers in

childhood that the gods do so had eventually been

usurped by a growing determination to overlook

the improper color of his eyes and concentrate on

other matters, such as warrior skills, which he

practiced diligently so as not to dishonor his heri-

tage. And anyway, he was not solely Cheysuli; had

they not, all of them, told him repeatedly he was

a mixture of nearly every bloodline there was—or

of every one that counted—and that he alone could

advance the prophecy of the Firstborn one step

closer to completion?

 

They had. Kellin understood. He was Cheysuli,

but also Homanan, Solindish, Atvian, and Erin-

nish. He was needed, he was important, he was

necessary.

 

But sometimes he wondered if he himself, Kel-

lin, were not so necessary as his blood. If he cut

himself, and spilled it, would that satisfy them—

and then make him unimportant?

 

Kellin grimaced at his reflection. "Sometimes

they treat me like Gareth's prize stallion ... I

think he forgets what it is to be a horse, the way

they all treat him.. . ." But Kellin let it go. The

image in the polished plate stared back, green eyes

transmuted by bronze to dark hazel. The familiar-

ity of his features was momentarily blurred by

imagination, and he became another boy, a strange

boy, a boy with different powers promised one

day-

 

"Ihlini," Kellin whispered. "What are you really

like? Do you look like demons?"

 

"I think that unlikely," said a voice from the

 

Jennifer Roberson

 

28

 

doorway: Rogan, his tutor. "I think they probably

resemble you and me, rather than horrid specters

of the netherworld. You've heard stories of Stra-

han and Lochiel. They look like everyone else."

 

Kellin could see Rogan's distorted reflection in

the bronze. "Could you be Ihlini?"

 

"Certainly," Rogan replied. "I am an evil sor-

cerer sent here from Lochiel himself, to take you

prisoner and carry you away to Valgaard, where

you will doubtlessly be tortured and slain, then

given over to Asar-Suti, the Seker—"

 

Kellin took it up with appropriate melodrama:

 

"—the god of the netherworld, who made and

dwells in darkness, and—"

 

"—who clothes himself in the noxious fumes of

his slain victims," Rogan finished.

 

Kellin grinned his delight; it was an old game,

"Grandsire would protect me."

 

"Aye, he would. That is what a Mujhar is for.

He would never allow anyone, sorcerer or not, to

steal his favorite grandson."

 

"I am his only grandson."

 

"And therefore all the more valuable." Rogan's

reflection sighed. "I know it has been very difficult

for you, being mewed up in Homana-Mujhar for

so many years, but it was necessary. You know

why."

 

Kellin knew why, but he did not entirely under-

stand. Punishment had kept him from attending

Summerfair for two years, but there was much

more to it than that. He had never known any free-

dom to visit Mujhara as others did, or even Clan-

keep without constant protection.

 

Kellin turned from the polished plate and looked

at Rogan. The Homanan was very tall and thin

and was inclined to stoop when he was tired, as

he stooped just now. His graying brown hair was

damp from recent washing, and he had put on

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

29

 

what Keltin called his "medium" clothes: not as

plain as his usual somber apparel, but not so fine

as those he wore when summoned to sup in the

Great Hall with the family, as occasionally hap-

pened. Plain black breeches and gray wool tunic

over linen shirt, belted and clasped with bronze,

replaced his customary attire.

 

"Why?" Kellin blurted. "Why do they let me go

now? I heard some of the servants talking. They

said grandsire and granddame were too frightened

to let me go out."

 

The lines in Rogan's face etched themselves a

little more deeply. "Even they understand they

cannot keep you in jesses forever. You must be

permitted to weather outside like a hawk on the

blocks, or be unfit for the task. And so they have

decided you may go this year, as you have im-

proved your manners—and because it is time. I

am put in charge . . . but there will be guards

also."

 

Kellin nodded; there were always guards. "Be-

cause I'm Aidan's only son", and the only heir," He

did not understand all of it. "Because—because if

Lochiel killed me, there would be no more threat."

He lifted his chin. "That's what they say in the

baileys and kitchens."

 

Rogan's eyes flinched. "You listen entirely too

much to gossip—but I suppose it is to be expected.

Aye, you are a threat to the Ihlini. And that is why

you are so closely guarded. With so many Cheysuli

here Lochiel's sorcery cannot reach you, and so

you are closely kept—but there are other ways,

ways involving nothing so much as a greedy cook

desiring Ihlini gold—" But Rogan waved it away

with a sharply dismissive gesture. "Enough of a

sad topic. There will be guards, as always, but

your grandsire has decided to allow you this small

freedom."

 

Jennifer Robersoa

 

30

 

Summerfair was more than a freedom. It was

renewal. Kellin forgot all about rumor and gossip.

Grinning, he pointed at the purse depending from

the belt. His grandfather had given Rogan coin for

Summerfair. "Can we go? Now?"

 

"We can go. Now."

 

"Then put on your Summerfair face," Kellin or-

dered sternly. Rogan was a plain, soft-spoken man

in his mid-forties only rarely given to laughter,

but Kellin had always known a quiet, steady

warmth from the Homanan. He enjoyed teasing

Rogan out of his melancholy moods, and today

was not a day for sad faces. "You will scare away

the ladies with that sad scowl."

 

"What does my face have to do with the ladies?"

Rogan asked suspiciously.

 

"It's Summerfair," Kellin declared. "Everyone

will be happier than usual because of Summerfair.

Even you will attract the ladies ... if you put

away that scowl."

 

"I am not scowling, and what do you know

about ladies?"

 

"Enough," Kellin said airily, and strode out of

the room.

 

Rogan followed- "How much is enough, my

young lord?"

 

"You know." Kellin stopped in the corridor. "I

heard Melora. She was talking to Belinda, who

said it had been too long since you'd had a good

woman in your bed." Rogan's face reddened im-

mediately. It was the first time any of Kellin's sal-

lies had provoked such a personal reaction, and

the boy was fascinated. "Has it been?"

 

The man rubbed wearily at his scalp. "Aye, well,

perhaps. Had I known Belinda and Melora were

so concerned about it, I might have asked them

for advice on how to change matters." He eyed his

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             31

 

charge closely. "How much do you know about

men and women?"

 

"Oh, everything. I know all about them." Kellin

set off down the corridor with Rogan matching his

longer strides to the boy's. "I was hoping I might

find a likely lady during Summerfair."

 

A large hand descended upon Kellin's shoulder

and stopped him in his tracks. "My lord," Rogan

said formally, "would you be so good as to tell

your ignorant tutor precisely what you are talking

about?"

 

"If you mean how much do I know," Kellin

began, "I know. I learned all about it last year.

And now I would like to try it for myself."

 

"At ten?" Rogan murmured, as much for him-

self as for Kellin.

 

"How old were you?"

 

Rogan looked thoughtful. "They say Cheysuli

grow up quickly, and there are stories about your

grandsire and his brothers. ..."

 

Kellin grinned. "This might be the best

Summerfair of all."

 

"Better than last year, certainly." The under-

stated amusement faded from Rogan's tone. "You

do recall why you were refused permission to go."

 

Kellin shrugged it away. "Punishment."

 

"And why were you punished?"

 

Kellin sighed; it was very like Rogan to impose

lessons upon a holiday, and reminders of other

lessons. "Because I set fire to the tapestry."

 

"And the year before that?"

 

"Tried to chop the Lion to bits." Kellin nodded

matter-of-factly. "I had to do it, Rogan. It was the

Lion who killed lan."

 

"Kellin—"

 

"It came alive, and it bit him. My harani said

 

so.

 

Jennifer Roberson

 

32

 

Rogan was patient. "Then why did you try to

burn down the tapestry?"

 

"Because it's made of lions, too. You know

that," Kellin firmed his mouth; none of them

understood, even when he explained. "I have to

kill all the lions before they kill me."

 

Summer was Kellin's favorite season, and the

fair the best part of it. Never searingly hot, Ho-

mana nonetheless warmed considerably during

midsummer, and the freedom everyone felt was

reflected in high spirits, habits, and clothing. Ban-

ished were the leathers and furs and coarse wool-

ens of winter, replaced by linens and cambrics and

silks, unless one was determinedly Cheysuli in

habits at all times, as was Kellin, who wore jerkin

and leggings whenever he could. Everyone put on

Summerfair clothing, brightly dyed and embroi-

dered, and went out into the streets to celebrate

the season.

 

Doors stood open and families gathered before

dwellings, trading news and stories, sharing food

and drink. In Market Square Mujharan merchants

and foreign traders gathered to hawk wares. The

streets were choked with the music of laughter,

jokes, tambors, pipes and lutes, and the chime of

coin exchanged. The air carried the aromas of

spices and sweetmeats, and the tang of roasting

beef, pork, mutton, and various delicacies.

 

"Sausage!" Kellin cried. Then, correcting him-

self—he had taken pains to learn the proper for-

eign word: "Suhoqla! Hurry, Rogan!"

 

Kellin's nose led him directly to the wagons at

the outermost edge of Market Square, conspicu-

ously far from the worst of the tangle in the center

of the square. Already a small crowd gathered, Ho-

manans nudging one another with elbows and

murmuring pointed comments about the foreign-

 

A TAPESTRY OF LtOIVS             33

 

ers and foreign ways. That other traders were as

foreign did not seem to occur to them; these for-

eigners were rarely seen, and therefore all the

more fascinating.

 

Kellin did not care that they were foreign, save

their foreignness promised suhoqla, which he

adored, and other things as intriguing.

 

Rogan's voice was stem. "A more deliberate

pace, if you please—no darting through the crowd.

You make it difficult for the guard to keep up in

such crowded streets—and if we lose them, we

must return to the palace at once. Is that what

you wish to risk?"

 

Kellin glanced around. There they were, the

guard: four men of the Mujharan Guard, hand-

picked to protect the Prince of Homana. They were

unobtrusive in habits and clothing generally, ex-

cept now they wore the crimson tabards of their

station to mark them for what they were: body-

guards to the boy in whom the future of the Chey-

suli—and Homana herself—resided.

 

"But it's suhoqla ... you know how I love it,

Rogan."

 

"Indeed, so you have said many times."

 

"And I haven't had it for almost two years!"

 

"Then by all means have some now. All I ask is

that you recall I am almost four decades older

than you. Old men cannot keep up with small—"

he altered it in midsentence, "—young men."

 

Kellin grinned up at him. "A man as tall as you

need only stretch out prodigious legs, and he is in

Ellas."

 

Rogan smiled faintly. "So I have often been

told," he looked beyond Kellin to the wagon. "Su-

hoqla it is, then- Though how your belly can abide

it . .." He shook his head in despair. "You will

have none left by the time you are my great age."

 

"It isn't my belly I care about, it's my mouth."

 

34 Jennifer Roberson

 

Kellin edged his way more slowly through the

throng with Rogan and the watchdogs following

closely. "By the time it gets to my belly, it's

tamed."

 

"Ah. Well, here you are."

 

Here he was. Kellin stared at the three women

kneeling around the bowl-shaped frying surface.

They had dug a hollow in the sand, placed heated

stones in the bottom, then the clay plank atop the

stones. The curling links of sausage were cooked

slowly in their own grease, absorbing spiced oil-

 

The women were black-haired and black-eyed,

with skins the color of old ivory. Two of them were

little more than crones, but the third was much

younger. Her eyes, tilted in an oval face, were

bright and curious as she flicked a quick assessive

glance across the crowd, but only rarely did she

look anyone in the eye. She and her companions

wore shapeless dark robes and bone jewelry—

necklaces, earrings, and bracelets. The old women

wore cloth head-coverings; the youngest had pulled

her hair up high on the back of her head, tying it

so that it hung down her back in a series of tight

braids. Two yellow feathers fluttered from one

braid as she moved-

 

"A harsh place, the Steppes," Rogan murmured.

"You can see it in their faces."

 

"Not in hers," Kellin declared.

 

"She is young," Rogan said sadly. "In time,

she'll grow to look like the others."

 

Kellin didn't like to think so, but filling his

mouth was more important than concerning him-

self with a woman's vanishing youth. "Buy me

some, Rogan, if you please."

 

Obligingly Rogan fished a coin out of the purse

provided by the Mujhar, and handed it to one of

the old women. The young one speared two links

with a sharpened stick, then held it out to Kellin.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             35

 

"Ah," Rogan said, looking beyond. "It isn't merely

the women, after all, that attract so many . .. Kel-

lin, do you see the warrior?"

 

Tentatively testing the heat of the spiced sau-

sages, Kellin peered beyond the women and saw

the man Rogan indicated. He forgot his suhoqla

almost at once; Steppes warriors only rarely showed

themselves in Mujhara, preferring to watch their

womenfolk from the wagons. This one had altered

custom to present himself in the flesh.

 

The warrior was nearly naked, clad only in a

brief leather loin-kilt, an abundance of knives, and

scars. He was not tall, but compactly muscled.

Black hair was clubbed back and greased, with a

straight fringe cut across his brow. He wore a plug

of ivory on one nostril, and twin scars bisected

each cheek, ridged and black, standing up like

ropes from butter-smooth flesh,

 

K-ellin lost count of the scars on the warrior's

body; by their patterns and numbers, he began to

wonder if perhaps they were to the Steppes war-

riors as much a badge of honor and manhood as

/ir-gold to a Cheysuli.

 

At the warrior's waist were belted three knives

of differing lengths, and he wore another on his

right forearm while yet another was hung about

his throat. It depended from a narrow leather

thong, sheathed, its greenish hilt glinting oddly in

the sunlight of a Homanan summer. The warrior

stood spread-legged, arms folded, seemingly deaf

and blind to those who gaped and commented,

but Kellin knew instinctively the Steppesman was

prepared to defend the women—the young one,

perhaps?—at a moment's notice.

 

Kellin looked up at his tutor. "Homana has

never fought the Steppes, has she?"

 

Rogan sighed. "You recall your history, I see-

No, Kellin, she has not. Homana has nothing to

 

36 Jennifer Roberson

 

do with the Steppes, no treaties, no alliances,

nothing at all. A few warriors and woman come

occasionally to Summerfair, that is all."

 

"But—I remember something—"

 

"That speaks well of your learning," Rogan said

dryly. "What you recall, I believe, is that one of

your ancestors, exiled from Homana, went into the

service of Caledon and fought against Steppes bor-

der raiders."

 

"Carillon." Kellin nodded. "And Finn, his Chey-

suli liege man." He grinned. "I am kin to both."

 

"So you are." Rogan looked again at the scarred

warrior. "A formidable foe, but then Carillon him-

self was a gifted soldier—"

 

"—and Finn was Cheysuli." Kellin's tone was de-

finitive; nothing more need be said.

 

"Aye." Rogan was resigned. "Finn was indeed

Cheysuli."

 

Kellin stared hard at the Steppes warrior. The

forgotten suhoqla dripped spiced grease down the

front of his jerkin. It was in his mind to make

the warrior acknowledge the preeminence of the

Cheysuli, to mark the presence of superiority; he

wanted badly for the fierceness of the scarred man

to pale to insignificance beside the power of his

own race, men—and some women—who could as-

sume the shape of animals at will. It was impor-

tant that the man be made to look at him, to see

him, to know he was Cheysuli, as was Finn, who

had battled Steppes raiders a hundred years before.

 

At last the black, slanting eyes deigned to glance

in his direction. Instinctively, Kellin raised his

chin in challenge. "I am Cheysuli."

 

Rogan grunted. "I doubt he speaks Homanan."

 

"Then how does he know what anyone says?"

 

The young woman moved slightly, eyes down-

cast. "I speak." Her voice was very soft, the Homa-

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS              37

 

nan words heavily accented. "I speak, tell Tuqhoc

what is said, Tuqhoc decides if speaker lives."

 

Kellin stared at her in astonishment. "He

decides!"

 

"If insult is given, speaker must die." The young

woman glanced at the warrior, Tuqhoc, whose

eyes had lost their impassivity, and spoke rapidly

in a strange tongue.

 

Kellin felt a foolhardy courage fill up his chest,

driving him to further challenge. "Is he going to

kill me now?"

 

The young woman's eyes remained downcast. "I

told him you understand the custom."

 

"And if I insulted you?"

 

"Kellin," Rogan warned. "Play at no semantics

with these people; such folly promises danger."

 

The young woman was matter-of-fact. "He would

choose a knife, and you would die."

 

Kellin stared at the array of knives strapped

against scarred flesh. "Which one?"

 

She considered it seriously a moment. "The

king-knife. That one, one around his neck."

 

"That one?" Kellin looked at it. "Why?"

 

Her smile was fleeting, and aimed at the ground.

"A king-knife for a king—or a king's son."

 

It was utterly unexpected. Heat filled Kellin's

face. Everyone else knew; he was no longer re-

quired to explain. He had set aside such explana-

tions years before. But now the young woman had

stirred up the emotions again, and he found the

words difficult. "My father is not a king."

 

"You walk with dogs."

 

"Dogs?" Baffled, Kellin glanced up at Rogan.

"He is my tutor, not a dog. He teaches me things."

 

"I try to," Rogan remarked dryly.

 

She was undeterred by the irony. "Them," Her

glance indicated the alerted Mujharan Guard,

 

38 Jennifer Roberson

 

moving closer now that their charge conversed

with strangers from the Steppes.

 

Kellin saw her gaze, saw her expression, and

imagined what she thought. It diminished him. In

her 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 Kel-

lin and made a declaration in the Steppes tongue.

 

Rogan's hands closed on both shoulders deci-

sively. "We are leaving. I warned you, my lord."

 

"No," Kellin declared. To the young woman;

 

"What did he say?"

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            39

 

"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, effort-

less motion Tuqhoc plucked the knife from the

thong around his neck and threw.

 

For Kellin, the knife was all. He was only pe-

ripherally aware of the women crying out, the gut-

tural 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 nim-

bly 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

 

40 Jennifer Roberson

 

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 Tuqhoc that I am Cheysuli."

 

Two

 

Rogan's hand shut more firmly on Kellin's shoul-

der and guided him away despite his burgeoning

protest. Kellin was aware of the Mujharan Guard

speaking to Tuqhoc and the young woman, of the

tension in Rogan's body, and of the startled mur-

muring of the crowd.

 

"Wait—" He wanted to twist away from Ro-

gan's grasp, to confront Tuqhoc of the Steppes and

see the acknowledgment in his eyes, as it was in

the woman's, that a Cheysuli, regardless of youth

and size, was someone to be respected. But Rogan

permitted no movement save that engineered by

himself. Doesn't he understand? Doesn't he know?

 

Unerringly—-and unsparing of his firmness—the

Homanan guided Kellin away from the wagons to

a quieter pocket in the square some distance

away. His tone was flat, as if he squeezed out all

emotion for fear of showing too much. "Let me

see your hand."

 

Now that the moment had passed and he could

no longer see the Steppes warrior, Kellin's elation

died. He felt listless, robbed of his victory. Sullenly

he extended his hand, allowing Rogan to see the

slice across the fleshy part of three fingers and the

blood running down his palm.

 

Tight-mouthed, Rogan muttered something

about childish fancies; Kellin promptly snatched

back his bleeding hand and pressed it against the

 

41

 

Jeaalfw Robersoa

 

sausage-stained jerkin. The uneaten suhoqla

grasped in his ether hand grew colder by the

moment.

 

Rogan said crisply, "I will find something with

which to bind these cuts."

 

Blood mingled with sausage grease as Kellin

pressed the fingers against his jerkin. It stung

badly enough to make the comers of his mouth

crimp, but he would not speak of it. He would

give away nothing. "Leave it be. It has already

stopped." He fisted his hand so hard the knuckles

 

turned white, then displayed it to Rogan. "You

 

i"

see.-*

 

The tutor shook his head slowly, but he gave the

hand only the merest contemplation; he looked

mostly at Kellin's face, as if judging him.

 

/ won't let him know, Kellin put up his chin. "I

am a warrior. Such things do not trouble warriors."

 

Rogan shook his head again. Something broke

in his eyes: an odd, twisted anguish. His breath

hissed between white teeth. "While you are fixed

wholly on comporting yourself as a warrior, ne-

glecting to recall you are still but a boy—I realize

it will do little if any good to point out that the

knife could have killed you." The teeth clamped

themselves shut. "But I'll wager that was part of

the reason you challenged him. Yet you should

know that such folly could result in serious reper-

cussions."

 

"But I could see—"

 

Rogan cut off the protest. "If not for yourself,

for me and the guard! Do you realize what would

become of us if you came to harm?"

 

Kellin had not considered that. He looked at

Rogan more closely and saw the very real fear in

his tutor's eyes. Shame goaded. "No," he admit-

ted, then anxiousness usurped it, and the need to

explain. "But I needed him to see. To know—"

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS              43

 

"Know what? That you are a boy too accus-

tomed to having his own way?"

 

"That I am Cheysuli." Kellin squeezed his cut

hand more tightly closed. "I want them all to

know. They have to know—they have to under-

stand that I am not he—"

 

"Kellin—"

 

"Don't you see? I have to prove I am a true man,

not a coward—that I will not turn my back on

duty and my people—and—and—" he swallowed

painfully, finishing his explanation quickly, un-

evenly, "—any sons 7 might sire."

 

Rogan's mouth loosened. After a moment it

tightened again, and the muscles of his jaw rolled

briefly. Quietly, he said, "Promise me never to do

such a thoughtless thing again."

 

Feeling small, Kellin nodded, then essayed a

final attempt at explanation. "I watched his eyes.

Tuqhoc's. I knew when he would throw, and how,

and what the knife would do. I had only to put out

my hand, and the knife was there," He shrugged

self-consciously, seeing the-arrested expression in

Rogan's eyes. "I just knew. I saw." Dismayed, he

observed his congealing sausage as Rogan fixed

him with a more penetrating assessment. Kellin

extended the stick with its weight of greasy 5M-

hoqla. "Do you want this?"

 

The Homanan grimaced. "I cannot abide the

foul taste of those things. You wanted it—eat it."

 

But Kellin's appetite was banished by after-

math. "It's cold." He glanced around, spied a

likely looking dog, and approached to offer the

sausage. The mongrel investigated the meat, wrin-

kled its nose and sneezed, then departed speedily.

 

"That says something for your taste," Rogan re-

marked dryly. He drew his own knife, cut a strip

of fabric from the hem of his tunic, motioned a

passing water-seller over and bought a cup. He

 

44 Jennifer Roberson

 

dipped the cloth into the water and began to wipe

the cut clean. "By the gods, the Queen will have

my hide for this .. . you are covered with grease

and blood."

 

Rogan's ministrations hurt. No longer hungry,

Kellin discarded the suhoqla. He bit into his lip as

the watchdogs came up and resumed their places,

though the distance between their charge and

their persons was much smaller now.

 

Humiliation scorched his face; warriors did not,

he believed, submit so easily to public nursing. "I

want to see the market."

 

Rogan looped the fabric around the fingers and

palm to make a bandage, then tied it off. "We are

in the market; look around, and you will see it."

He tightened the knot- "There. It will do until we

return to the palace."

 

Kellin's mind was no longer on the stinging cut

or its makeshift bandage. He frowned as a young

boy passed by, calling out in singsong Homanan.

"A fortune-teller!"

 

"No," Rogan said promptly.

 

"But Rogan—"

 

"Such things are a waste of good coin." Rogan

shrugged. "You are Cheysuli. You already know

your tahlmorra."

 

"But you don't yet know yours," Grinning antic-

ipation, Kellin locked his bandaged hand over Ro-

gan's wrist. "Don't you want to find out if you'll

share your bed with Melora or Belinda?"

 

Rogan coughed a laugh, glancing sidelong at the

guards. "No mere fortune-teller can predict that.

Women do what they choose to do; they do not

depend on fate."

 

Kellin tugged his tutor in the direction the pass-

ing boy had indicated. "Let us go, Rogan. That

boy says the fortune-teller can predict what be-

comes of me."

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS              45

 

"That boy is a shill. He says what he's told to

say, and the fortune-teller says what he's paid to

say."

 

"Ro-gan\"

 

Rogan sighed. "If you desire it so much—"

 

"Aye!" Kellin tugged him on until they stood

before a tent slumped halfheartedly against a

wall. A black cat, small version of the Mujhar's Hr,

Sleeta, lay stretched out on a faded rug before the

entrance, idly licking one paw; beside him curled

a half-grown fawn-hued dog who barely lifted an

eyelid. The tent itself was small, its once-glorious

stripes faded gold against pale brown, so that it

merged into the wall. "My grandsire gave you coin

for such things," Kellin reminded his tutor. "Surely

he could not count it ill-spent if we enjoyed it!"

 

Graying eyebrows arched. "A sound point. That

much you have mastered, if not your history."

Rogan gestured for the guardsmen to precede

them into the tent.

 

"No!" Kellin cried.

 

"They must, Kellin. The Mujhar has given or-

ders. And after what you provoked in the Steppes

warrior, I should take you home immediately."

 

Kellin compromised immediately. "They may

come wait here." His gesture encompassed the rug

and entrance. "But not inside the tent. A fortune

is a private thing."

 

"I cannot allow the Prince of—"

 

"Say nothing of titles!" Ketlin cried. "How will

the fortune-teller give me the truth otherwise? If

he knows what I am, it cheats the game."

 

"At least you admit it is a game, for which I

thank the gods; you are not entirely gullible. But

rules are rules; the Mujhar is my lord, not you."

Rogan ordered one of the guardsmen into the tent.

"He will see that it is safe."

 

Kellin waited impatiently until the guardsman

 

46 Jennifer Roberson

 

came out again. When the man nodded his head,

Rogan had him and his companions assume posts

just outside the tent.

 

"Now?" Kellin asked, and as Rogan nodded he

slipped through the doorflap.

 

Inside the tent, Kellin found the shadows stuffy

and redolent of an acrid, spice-laden smoke that

set his eyes to watering. He wiped at them hastily,

wrinkling his nose at the smell very much as the

street dog did to the suhoqla, and squinted to peer

through the thready haze- A gauzy dark curtain

merged with shadow to hide a portion of the tent;

 

he and Rogan stood in what a castle-raised boy

would call an antechamber, though the walls were

fabric in place of stone.

 

Rogan bent slightly, resting a hand on Kellin's

shoulder as he spoke in a low tone. "You must

recall that he works for coin, Kellin. Put no faith

in his words."

 

Kellin frowned. "Don't spoil it."

 

"I merely forewarn that what he says—"

 

"Don't spoil it!"

 

The gauzy curtain was parted. The fortune-teller

was a nondescript, colorless foreign man of inde-

terminate features, wearing baggy saffron panta-

loons and three silk vests over a plain tunic: one

dyed blue, the next red, the third bright green.

"Forgive an old man his vice: I smoke husath,

which is not suitable for guests unless they also

share the vice." He moved out of the shadowed

curtain, bringing the sweet-sour aroma with him.

"I do not believe either of you would care for it."

 

"What is it?" Kellin was fascinated.

 

Rogan stirred slightly. "Indeed, a vice. It puts

dreams in a man's head."

 

Kellin shrugged. "Dreams are not so bad. I

dream every night."

 

"Husath dreams are different. They can be dan-

 

A TAPESTRY OF Lioivs             47

 

gerous when they make a man forget to eat or

drink." Rogan stared hard at the man- "The boy

wants his fortune told, nothing more. You need

not initiate him into a curiosity that may prove

dangerous."

 

"Of course." The man smiled faintly and ges-

tured to a rug spread across the floor. "Be in com-

fort, and I will share with you your future, and a

little of your past."

 

"He is all of ten; his past is short," Rogan said

dryly. "This shouldn't take long."

 

"It will take as long as it must." The fortune-

teller gestured again. "I promise you no tricks, no

husath, no nonsense, only the truth."

 

Kellin turned and gazed up at Rogan. "You

first."

 

The brows arched again. "We came for you."

 

"You first."

 

Rogan considered it, then surrendered grace-

fully, folding long legs to seat himself upon the

rug just opposite the fortune-teller. "For the boy's

sake, then."

 

"And nothing for yourself?" The fortune-teller's

teeth were stained pale yellow. "Give me your

hands."

 

Kellin dropped to his knees and waited eagerly.

"Go on, Rogan. Give him your hands."

 

With a small, ironic smile, Rogan acquiesced.

The fortune-teller merely looked at the tutor's

hands for a long moment, examining the minute

whorls and scars in his flesh, the length of fingers,

the fit of nails, the color of the skin. Then he linked

his fingers with Rogan's, held them lightly, and

began to murmur steadily as if invoking the gods.

 

"No tricks," Rogan reminded.

 

"Shhh," Kellin said. "Don't spoil the magic."

 

"This isn't magic, Kellin . . . this is merely

entertai nment.''

 

48 Jennifer Roberson

 

But the fortune-teller's tone altered, interrupting

the debate. His voice dropped low into a singsong

cadence that made the hair rise up on the back of

Ketlin's neck: "Alone in the midst of many, even

those whom you love ... apart and separate, con-

sumed by grief. She lives within you when she is

dead, and you live through her, seeing her face when

you sleep and wake, longing for the love she cannot

offer. You live in the pasts of kings and queens and

those who have gone before you, but you thrive upon

your own. Your past is your present and will be your

future, until you summon the strength to give her

life again. Offered and spumed, it is offered again;

 

spurned and offered a third time until, accepting,

you free yourself from the misery of what is lost to

you, and then live in the misery of what you have

done. You will die knowing what you have done, and

why, and the price of your reward. You will use and

be used in turn, discarded at last when your use is

passed."

 

Rogan jerked his hands away with a choked, in-

articulate protest. Kellin, astonished, stared at his

tutor; what he saw made him afraid. The man's

face was ashen, devoid of life, and his eyes swam

with tears.

 

"Rogan?" Apprehension seized his bones and

washed his flesh ice-cold. "Rogan!"

 

But Rogan offered no answer. He sat upon the

rug and stared at nothingness as tears ran down

his face.

 

"A harsh truth," the fortune-teller said quietly,

exhaling husath fumes. "I promise no happiness."

 

"Rogan—" Kellin began, and then the fortune-

teller reached out and caught at his hands, trapped

the fingers in his own, and Kellin's speech was

banished.

 

This time there were no gods to invoke. The

words spilled free of the stranger's mouth as if he

 

A TAPESTRY or LIONS            49

 

could not stop them. "He is the sword," the hissing

voice whispered. "The sword and the bow and the

knife. He is the weapon of every man who uses him

for Hi, and the strength of every man who uses him

for good. Child of darkness, child of light; of like

breeding with like, until the blood is one again. He

is Cymric, he is Cynric: the sword and the bow and

the knife, and all men shall name him evil until Man

is made whole again."

 

The voice stopped, Kellin stared, struggling to

make an answer, any sort of answer, but the sound

began again.

 

"The lion shall lie down with the witch; out of

darkness shall come light; out of death: life; out of

the old: the new. The lion shall lie down with the

witch, and the witch-child born to rule what the lion

must swallow. The lion shall devour the House of

Homana and all of her children, so the newbom

child shall sit upon the throne and know himself

lord of all"

 

A shudder wracked Kellin from head to toe, and

then he cried out and snatched his hands away.

"The Lion!" he cried. "The'Lion will eat me!"

 

He scrambled to his feet even as the guardsmen

shredded canvas with steel to enter the tent. He

saw their faces, saw their intent; he saw Rogan's

tear-streaked face turning to him. Rogan's mouth

moved, but Kellin heard nothing. One of the

guards put his hand upon his prince's rigid shoul-

der, but Kellin did not feel it.

 

The Lion. The LION.

 

He knew in that instant they were unprepared,

just as the Steppes warrior had been unprepared.

None of them understood. No one at all knew him

for what he was. They saw only the boy, the de-

serted son, and judged him worthless.

 

Aren't I worthless?

But the Lion wanted him.

 

50 Jennifer Roberson

 

Kellin caught his breath. Would the Lion want

to eat a worthless boy?

 

Perhaps he was worthless, and that fact alone

was why the Lion might want to eat him.

 

To save Homana from a worthless Mujhar.

 

With an inarticulate cry, Kellin tore free of the

guardsman's hand and ran headlong from the

tent. He ignored the shouts of the Mujharan guard

and the blurted outcry of his tutor. He tore free of

them all, even of the tent, and clawed his way out

of pale shadow into the brilliance of the day.

 

"Lion—" Kellin blurted, then darted into the

crowd even as the man came after him.

 

Run—

 

He ran.

 

Where—?

 

He did not know.

 

Away from the Lion—

 

Away,

 

—won't let the Lion eat me— He tripped and fell,

facedown, banging his chin into a cobble hard

enough to make himself bite his lip. Blood filled

his mouth; Kellin spat, lurched up to hands and

knees, then pressed the back of one hand against

his lower lip to stanch the bleeding. The hand

bled, too; Rogan's bandage had come off. The cut

palm and his cut mouth stung.

 

It smells— It did. He had landed full-force in a

puddle of horse urine. His jerkin was soaked with

it; the knees of his leggings, ground into cobbles

as well, displayed the telltale color and damp tex-

ture of compressed horse droppings.

 

Aghast, Kellin scrambled to his feet. He was filthy.

m addition to urine and droppings weighting his

leathers, there was mud, grease, and blood; and

he had lost his belt entirely somewhere in his mad

 

A TAPESTRY OF LlOIVS

 

51

 

rush to escape the Lion. No one, seeing him now

would predict his heritage or House.

 

"Rogan?" He turned, thinking of his tutor in-

stead of the Lion; recalled the fortune-teller's

words, and how Rogan had reacted- And the

watchdogs; where were they? Had he left everyone

behind? Where am—

 

Someone laughed. "Poor boy," said a woman's

voice, "have you spoiled all your Summerfair

finery?"

 

Startled, he gaped at her. She was blonde and

pretty, in a coarse sort of way, overblown and

overpainted. Blue eyes sparkled with laughter; a

smile displayed crooked teeth.

 

Humiliated, Kellin stared hard at the ground

and tried to uncurl his toes. / don't want to be here.

I want to go HOME.

 

"What a pretty blush; as well as I could do,

once." Skirts rustled faintly. "Come here."

 

Reluctantly Kellin glanced up slantwise, mark-

ing the garish colors of her multiple skirts. One

hand beckoned. He ignored it, thinking to turn his

back on her, to leave the woman behind, but the

laughter now was muted, replaced with a gentler

facade.

 

"Come." she said. "Has happened to others,

too."

 

She wasn't his granddame, who welcomed him

into her arms when he needed a woman's comfort,

but she was a woman, and she spoke kindly

enough now. This time when she beckoned, he an-

swered. She slipped a hand beneath his bloodied

chin, forcing him to look up into her own face. At

closer range her age increased, yet her eyes seemed

kind enough in an assessive sort of way. Her hair

was not really blonde, he discovered by staring at

exposed roots, and the faintest hint of dark fuzz

smudged her upper lip.

 

52 Jennifer Roberson

 

The woman laughed. "Don't blush quite so

much, boy. You'll have me thinking you've never

seen a whore before."

 

He gaped. "You are a light woman?"

 

"A light—" She broke off, brows lifting. "Is that

the genuine accent of aristrocracy?" She leaned

closer, enveloping him in a powerful, musky scent.

"Or are you like me: a very good mimic?"

 

She is NOT like granddame after all. Kellin

tugged at his ruined jerkin, than blotted again at

his split lip. She watched him do it, her smile less

barbed, and at last she took her hand from his

chin, which relieved him immeasurably. "Lady—"

 

"No, not that. Never that." Her hand strayed

into his hair, lingered in languorous familiarity.

Her touch did not now in the least remind him of

his grandmother's. "Why is it," the woman began,

"that boys and men have thicker hair and longer

lashes? The gods have truly blessed you, my green-

eyed little man." The other hand touched his leg-

gings. "And how little are we in things that really

matter?"

 

Kellin nearly squirmed. "I—I must go."

 

"Not so soon, I pray you." She mocked the elab-

orate speech of highborn Homanans. "We hardly

know one another."

 

That much Kellin knew; he'd heard the horse-

boys speaking of whores. "I have no money."

Rogan had plenty, but he doubted the Mujhar

would approve of it being spent on women-

 

The whore laughed. "Well, then, what have you?

Youth. Spirit. Pretty eyes, and a prettier face—

you'll have women killing over you, when you're

grown." Her eyes lost their laughter. "Men would

kill for you now." The smile fell off her face. "And

innocence, which is something everyone in the

Midden has lost. If I could get some back, steal it

back, somehow—"

 

A TAPESTRY OF Uoivs             53

 

Kellin took a single step backward. Her hand

latched itself into his filthy jerkin; she did not

seem to notice her hand now was also soiled. "I

must go," he tried again.

 

"No," she said intently. "No. Stay a while,

Share with me youth and innocence—"

 

Kellin wrenched away from her. As he ran, he

heard her curse.

 

This time when he fell, Kellin managed to avoid

urine and droppings, landing instead against hard

stone cobbles after his collision with a woman car-

rying a basket. He feared at first she might also

be a whore, but she had none of the ways or coarse

speech. She was angry, aye, because he had upset

her basket; and then she was screaming something

about a thief—

 

"No!" Kellin cried, thinking he could explain

and set everything to rights—the Prince of Ho-

mana, a thief?—but the woman kept on shrieking,

ignoring his denials, and he saw the men, big men

all, hastening toward him,

 

He ran again, and was caught. The man grabbed

him by one arm and hoisted him into the air so

that one boot toe barely scraped the cobblestones.

"Give over, boy. No more kicking and biting."

 

Kellin, who had not thought to bite, squirmed

in the tight grasp. He intensely disliked being

hung by one wrist like a side of venison. "I am

not a boy, I'm a prince—"

 

"And I'm the Mujhar of Homana." The man

waited until Kellin's struggles subsided. "Done,

are we?"

 

"Let me go!"

 

"Not until I have the ropes on you."

 

Kellin stiffened. "Ropes!"

 

"I and others like me are sworn to keep the rab-

ble off the streets during Summerfair," the big

 

54 Jennifer Roberson

 

man explained. "That includes catching all the lit-

tle thieves who prey on innocent people."

 

"I'm not a thief, you ku'reshtin—"

 

The big hand closed more tightly. "Round speech

for a boy, by your tone."

 

"I am the Prince of Homana!"

 

The man sighed. He was very targe, and red-

haired; he was also patently unimpressed by Kel-

lin's protests. "Save your breath, boy. It only

means a night under a decent roof, instead of some

alley or doorway. And you'll be fed, so don't be

complaining so much when you're better off now

than you were."

 

"But I'm—" Kellin broke off in astonishment as

the men looped a rope around one wrist, then the

other- Prince or no, he was snugged tight as a

gamebird. "Wait!"

 

The man nodded patiently. "Come along, then,

and I'll see to it you have a decent meal and a

place to sleep. I'll free you first thing in the morn-

ing if anyone comes to fetch you."

 

The furious challenge was immediate. "If I had

a lir—"

 

"What? Cheysuli, too?" The giant laughed, though

not unkindly. "Well, I'm thinking not. I've never

yet seen one with green eyes, nor leathers quite so

filthy."

 

Three

 

Kellin did not know Mujhara well. In fact, he

knew very little about the city he would one day

rule, other than the historical implications Rogan

had discussed so often; and even then he was igno-

rant of details because he had not listened well.

He wanted to do something much more exciting

than spend his days speaking of the past. The fu-

ture attracted him more, even though Rogan ex-

plained again and again that the past affected that

future; that a man learning from the past often

avoided future difficulties.

 

Because he was so closely accompanied each

time he left Homana-Mujhar, Kellin had come to

rely on others to direct him. Left to his own de-

vices, he would have been lost in a moment as he

was lost now. The big red-haired man led him like

a leashed dog through the winding closes, alleys,

and streets, turning this way and that, until Kellin

could not so much as tell which direction was

which.

 

He felt the heat of shame as he was led unrelent-

ingly. Don't look at me— But they did, all the peo-

ple, the Summerfair crowds thronging the closes,

alleys, and streets. Kellin thought at first if he

called out to them and told them who he was, if

he asked for their support, they would give it

gladly. But the first time he tried, a man laughed

at him and called him a fool for thinking they

 

55

 

S6 Jennifer Koherson

 

would believe such a lie; would the Prince of Ho-

mana wear horse piss on his clothing?

 

Don't look at me. But they looked. Inwardly, Kel-

lin died a small, quiet death, the death of dignity.

/ just want to go home.

 

"Here," his captor said. "You'll spend the night

inside." The giant opened the door, took Kellin

inside, then handed over the "leash" to another

man, this one brown-haired and brown-eyed, show-

ing missing teeth. "Tried to steal a goodwife's bas-

ket of ribbons,"

 

"No!" Kellin cried. "I did not. I fell against her,

no more, and knocked it out of her hands. What

would I want with ribbons?"

 

The gap-toothed man grinned. "To sell them,

most like. At a profit, since you paid nothing for

them in the first place."

 

Kellin was outraged. "I did not steal her ribbons!"

 

"Had no chance to," the redhead laughed. "She

saw to that, with her shrieking."

 

Kellin drew himself up, depending on offended

dignity and superior comportment to put an end

to the intolerable situation. Plainly he declared, "I

am the Prince of Homana."

 

He expected apologies, respect, and got neither.

The two men exchanged amused glances. The gap-

toothed Homanan nodded. "As good a liar as a

thief, isn't he? Only that's not so good, is it, since

you're here?"

 

Courage wavered; Kellin shored it up with a

desperate condescension. "I am here with my

tutor and four guardsman, four of the Mufharan

Guard." He hoped it would make a suitable im-

pression, invoking his grandfather's personal com-

pany. "Go and ask them; they will tell you."

 

"Wild goose chase," said the redhead. "Waste of

time."

 

Desperation nearly engulfed injured pride. "Go

 

A TAPESTRY OF Lims            S7

 

and ask," Kellin directed. "Go to Homana-Mujhar.

My grandsire will tell you the truth."

 

"Your grandsire. The Mujhar?" Gap-tooth

laughed, slanting a bright glance at the giant.

 

Kellin bared his teeth, desiring very badly to

prove the truth of his claims. But his leathers were

smeared with filth, his bottom lip swollen, and his

face, no doubt, as dirty. "My boots," he said

sharply, sticking out one foot. "Would a thief have

boots like these?"

 

The redhead grinned. "If he stole them."

 

"But they fit. Stolen boots would not fit."

 

Gap-tooth sighed. "Enough of your jabber, brat.

You'll not be harmed, just kept until someone

comes to fetch you."

 

"But no one knows where I am! How can they

come?"

 

"If you're the Prince of Homana, they'll know."

The giant's eyes were bright. "D'ye think I'm a

fool? You've my eyes, boy, plain Homanan green,

not the yellow of a Cheysuli. Next time you want

to claim yourself royalty, you'd best think better

of it."

 

Kellin gaped. "My granddame is Ermnish, with

hair red as yours—redder! I have her eyes—"

 

"Your granddame—and your mother to boot—

was likely a street whore, brat ... no more chatter

from you. Into the room. We're not here to harm

you,'just keep you." The red-haired giant pushed

Kellin through another door as Gap-tooth un-

locked it. He was dumped unceremoniously onto

a thin pallet in a small, stuffy room, then the door

was locked.

 

For a moment Kellin lay sprawled in shock,

speechless in disbelief. Then he realized they'd

stripped the rope from his wrists. He scrambled

up and hammered at the door.

 

"They won't open it. They won't."

 

58 Jennifer Roberson

 

Kellin jerked around, seeing the boy in the cor-

ner for the first time. The light was poor, admitted

only through a few holes high up in the walls. The

boy slumped against the wall with the insouciance

of a longtime scofflaw. His face was thin, grimy,

and bruised. Lank blond hair hung into his eyes,

but his grin was undiminished by Kellin's blatant

surprise.

 

"Urchin," the boy said cheerfully, answering the

unasked question.

 

Kellin was distracted by newborn pain in his

cut hand, which now lacked Rogan's bandage. He

frowned to see the slices were packed with dirt

and other filth; wiping it against his jerkin merely

caused the slices to sting worse. Scowling, he

asked, "What kind of a name is that?"

 

"Isn't a name. Haven't got one- That's what they

call me, when they call me." The boy shoved a

wrist through his hair. His eyes were assessive far

beyond his years, "Good leathers, beneath the dirt

.. . good boots, too- No thief, are ye?"

 

Kellin spat on the cuts and wiped them again

against his jerkin. "Tell them that."

 

Urchin grinned. "Won't listen- All they want is

the copper."

 

"Copper?"

 

"Copper a head for all the thieves they catch."

 

Kellin frowned, giving up on his sore hand.

"Who pays it?"

 

Urchin shrugged. "People. They're fed up wi"

getting their belt-purses stolen and pockets picked."

He waggled fingers. "Some o' them took up a col-

lection, like . ,. for each thief caught during Sum-

merfair, they pay a copper a head- Keeps the

streets clean of us, y'see, and they can walk out

without fearing for pockets and purses." Urchin

grinned. "But if you're good enough, nobody catches

you."

 

A TAPESTRY OF Lio\s            59

 

"You got caught."

 

"Couldn't run fast enough with this." Urchin ex-

tended a swollen, discolored foot and pufty ankle.

"Dog set on me." He was patently unconcerned by

the condition of foot and ankle. "If you're not a

thief, why're you here?"

 

Kellin grimaced. "I was running. They thought

it was because I was stealing."

 

"Never run in Mujhara," the boy advised sol-

emnly, then reconsidered. "Unless you be a fine

Homanan lord, and then no one will bother you

no matter what you do,"

 

Kellin glanced around. On closer inspection, the

room was no better than his first impression, a

small imprisonment, empty save for them. "Not

so many copper pieces today."

 

Urchin shrugged. "The other room is full. They'll

put the new catches in here. You're the first, after

me."

 

Kellin peeled a crust of blood from his chin.

"How do we get out?"

 

"Wait till someone pays your copper. Otherwise

we stay here till Summerfair is over, because then

it won't matter."

 

"That's three days from now!"

 

Urchin shrugged, surveying his injured foot. "Be

hard to steal with this."

 

Kellin stared at the swollen limb, marking the

angry discoloration and the streaks beginning to

make their way up Urchin's leg. It was a far worse

injury than the few slices in his hand. "You need

that healed."

 

Urchin's mouth hooked down. "Leeches cost

 

coin.

 

Morbidly fascinated by the infected limb, Kellin

knelt down to look more closely. "A Cheysuli could

heal this, and he would cost nothing."

 

Urchin snorted.

 

60 Jennifer Roberson

 

"He could," Kellm insisted. "/ could, had I a

Ur."

 

Urchin's eyes widened. "You say you're Cheysuli?"

 

"I am. But I can't heal yet." Kellin shrugged a

little. "Until I have a Hr, I'm just like you." The

wound stank of early putrefaction. "My grandsire

will heal you. He has a lir; he can." And he will

heal my wounds, too.

 

Urchin grunted. "Will he come here to pay your

copper?"

 

Kellin considered it. "No," he said finally, feel-

ing small inside. "I think Rogan will do that, and

I doubt he will like it."

 

"Few men like parting with coin."

 

"Oh, it is not the coin. He will not like why he

has to do it, and it will give him fuel to use against

me for months." Kellin cast a glance around the

gloomy room. "He would say I deserved this, to

teach me a lesson. But it was the Lion—" He

looked quickly at Urchin, breaking off.

 

The Homanan boy frowned. "What lion?"

 

"Nothing." Kellin left Urchin's side and re-

treated to a pallet near the door. He pressed shoul-

der blades into the wall. "He will come for me."

 

"That tutor?" Urchin's mouth twisted. "I had a

tutor, once. He taught me how to steal."

 

Kellin shrugged. "Then stop."

 

"Stop." Urchin stared. "D'ye think it's so easy?

D'ye think I asked the gods for this life?"

 

"No one would ask it. But why do you stay in

it?"

 

"No choice." Urchin picked at his threadbare

tunic. His thin face was pinched as if his leg

pained him. "No mother, no father, no kin." His

expression hardened. "I'm a thief, and a good one."

He looked at his swollen ankle- "Sometimes."

 

Kellin nodded. "Then I will have Rogan pay

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             61

 

your copper, too, and you will come back with

me."

 

Urchin's dirt-mottled face mocked. "With you."

 

"To Homana-Mujhar."

 

"Liar."

 

Kellin laughed. "As good a liar as a thief."

 

Urchin turned his shoulder: eloquent dismissal.

 

With his pallet nearest the door, Kellin awoke

each time a new arrival was pushed into the room

throughout the night. At first he had been in-

trigued by the number and their disparate "crimes,"

but soon enough boredom set in, and later weari-

ness; he fell asleep not long after a plain supper

of bread and thin gravy was served, and slept with

many interruptions until dawn.

 

The commotion was distant at first, interesting

only the few recently imprisoned souls who hoped

for early release. That hope had faded in Kellin,

who found himself reiterating to a dubious Urchin

that indeed he was who he said he was, and was

restored only when he heard-the voice through the

door: the red-haired man, clearly frightened as

well as astonished.

 

Kellin grinned at the young thief through pale

dawn. "Rogan. I told you, Urchin."

 

The door was opened and a man came in. It

wasn't Rogan at all, but the Mujhar himself, fol-

lowed by the giant.

 

Kellin scrambled hastily to his feet. "Grandsire!

You?"

 

The giant was very pale. "My lord, how could

we know? Had we known—"

 

Stung by the outrage, Kellin turned on the man.

"You knew," he declared. "I told you. You just

didn't believe me." He looked at his grandfather.

"None of them believed me."

 

"Nor would I," Brennan said calmly. He arched

 

62 Jennifer Robersoa

 

a single eloquent brow. "Have you taken to swim-

ming in the midden?" Yellow eyes brightened

faintly, dispelling the barb- "Or was it an entirely

different kind of Midden?"

 

Kellin recalled then the whore's words, her

mention of the Midden. It basted his face with

heat. Such shame before his grandsire! "My lord

Mujhar . . ." He let it trail off. Part of him was

overwhelmed to be safe at last, while the other

part was mortified that his grandsire should see

him so. "No," he said softly, squirming inside

filthy leathers. "I fell ... I did not mean to get so

dirty."

 

"Nor so smelly." Brennan's gaze was steady.

"Explain yourself, if you please."

 

Kellin looked at the giant. "Didn't he tell you?"

 

"He told me. So did the other man. Now it is

for you."

 

Kellin was hideously aware of everyone else in

the room, but especially of his grandfather, his

tall, strong, Cheysuli grandfather, whose dignity,

purpose, and sense of self was so powerful as to

flatten everyone else, certainly a ten-year-old grand-

son. The Mujhar himself, not Rogan, standing in

the doorway with the sunrise on his back, ^r-gold

gleaming brightly, silver in his hair, stern face

even sterner. The wealth on his arms alone would

keep Urchin and others like him alive for years.

 

In a small voice, Kellin suggested, "It would be

better done in private."

 

"No doubt. I want it done here."

 

Kellin swallowed heavily. He told his grandsire

the whole of it, even to the woman.

 

Brennan did not smile, but his mouth relaxed.

Tension Kellin had been unaware of until that mo-

ment left the Mujhar's body. "And what have you

learned from this?"

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

63

 

Kellin looked straight back. "Not to run in

Mujhara."

 

After a moment of startled silence, the Mujhar

laughed aloud, folding bare bronzed arms across

his chest with no pretensions at maintaining a

stem facade, even before the others. Kellin gaped

in surprise; what was so amusing, that his grand-

sire would sacrifice his dignity before the others

without hesitation?

 

"I had expected something else entirely." Bren-

nan said at last, "but I cannot fault your state-

ment- There is truth in it." Amusement faded.

"But there is also Rogan."

 

Kellin's belly clenched. He nodded and stored

at his boot toes. "Rogan," he echoed. "I meant not

to make him worry."

 

"Tell him that."

 

"I will."

 

"Now."

 

Kellin looked up from the ground and saw

Rogan in the doorway just behind his grandsire.

The man's face was haggard and gray, his eyes

reddened from sleeplessness. Kellin thought then

of the aforementioned repercussions, Rogan's own

question regarding what would become of him

and the Mujharan Guard if harm came to Kellin.

 

"I am unharmed," Kellin said quickly, grasping

the repercussions as he never had before. "I am

whole, save for my lip, and that I got myself when

I fell down."

 

"And your cut hand; Rogan told me." Brennan

extended his own. "Let me see."

 

Kellin held out his hand and allowed his grand-

sire to examine the cuts. "Filthy," the Mujhar

commented. "It will want a good cleaning when

we return, but will heal of its own." His yellow

eyes burned fiercely. "You must know not to test

 

64 Jennifer Robersoa

 

others, Kellin. No matter the provocation. If you

had not been so quick—"

 

"But I knew I was," Kellin insisted; couldn't any

of them see? "I watched him. I watched the knife.

I knew what it would do,"

 

Brennan's mouth crimped. "We will speak of

this another time. For now, I charge you to recall

that for such a serious transgression as this one,

you endanger others as well as yourself."

 

Kellin looked again at Rogan. He tugged ineffec-

tually at his ruined jerkin. "I am sorry."

 

The tutor nodded mutely, seemingly diminished

by the tension of the night. Or was it the Lion,

biting now at Rogan?

 

"Well." The Mujhar cast a glance around the

room. "It is to be expected that you smell like the

Midden, or a midden—though I suppose it is less

your own contribution than that of everyone else."

 

Kellin nodded, scratching at the fleas that had

vacated his pallet to take up residence in his

clothing.

 

Brennan considered him. "I begin to think you

are more like my rujholli than I had believed

possible."

 

It astonished Kellin, who had never thought of

such a thing. "I am?"

 

"Aye. Hart and Corin would have gotten them-

selves thrown into a room just like this, or worse,

for about the same reason—or perhaps for a crime

even worse than thievery—and then waited for me

to fetch them out." He looked his grandson up and

down. "Are you not young to begin?"

 

Ashamed again, Kellin stared hard at the ground.

Softly, he said, "I did not expect you to come."

 

"Hart and Corin did. And they were right; I al-

ways came." Brennan sighed. "You did expect

someone."

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIOIVS             65

 

t

^

 

"What else?" It startled Kellin. "You would not

leave me here!"

 

Brennan eyed him consideringly. "I did leave

you here. I knew where you were last night."

 

"Last night\" It was preposterous. "You left me

here all night?"

 

Brennan exchanged a glance with Rogan. "In

hopes you might profit from it, albeit there were

guardsmen—and a Cheysuli—just across the street."

His eyes narrowed. "You said you have learned

not to run in Mujhara . .. well, I suppose that is

something." His tone was ironic. "Surely more

than Hart or Corin learned."

 

"Grandsire—"

 

"But whether you learned anything is beside the

point. Your granddame made it clear to me that

if I did not fetch you out at once come dawn, she

would have my head." He smiled slightly. "As you

see, it is still attached."

 

Kellin nodded, not doubting that it was; nor his

granddame's fiery Erinnish temper.

 

"So Rogan and I are here to fetch you, very

much as you expected, and will now take you back

to Homana-Mujhar, where I shall myself person-

ally supervise the bath just to make certain the

body in it 15 that of my grandson, and not some

filthy street urchin masquerading as the Prince of

Homana."

 

"Urchin!" Kellin cried, turning. "We have to

take him with us!"

 

"Who?"

 

"Urchin. Him." Kellin pointed to the astonished

boy. "I told him you would pay his copper and

bring him with us—well, I said Rogan would—"

Kellin cast a glance at his tutor, "—so you could

heal him."

 

"Volunteering my services, are you, you little

wretch?" But Brennan crossed the room and knelt

 

66 Jennifer Roberson

 

down by the boy thief. "How are you hurt? Ah, so

I see. Here—"

 

"No!" Urchin jerked away the infected foot.

 

"There is no need to fear me," Brennan said qui-

etly. "I will look, no more; if you are in need of

healing, it shall be done in Homana-Mujhar."

 

"I can't go there\"

 

"Why not?" Brennan examined the infected

bite. "Walls and a roof, no more .. . you are as

welcome as Kellin."

 

"I am?"

 

"For now. Come. Trust me."

 

Kellin looked at his grandfather through Ur-

chin's eyes: tall, dark warrior with silvered hair;

 

yellow eyes clear and unwavering as a wolf's, with

the same promised fierceness; Ur-goid banding

bared arms; the soft, black-dyed leathers clothing

a powerful body. He was old in years to Kellin,

but age sat lightly on Cheysuli; Brennan was still

fit and graceful, with a cat's eloquent ease of

movement.

 

"He won't hurt you," Kellin explained matter-

of-factly. "He is my grandsire."

 

Brennan smiled. "The highest of compliments,

and surety of my goodwill."

 

Urchin's eyes were wide. "But—I'm a thief."

 

"Former thief, I should hope. Come with me to

Homana-Mujhar, and you need never steal again."

The Mujhar grinned. "Where you may also shed

forty layers of dirt, ten years' worth of fleas, and

fill that hollow belly."

 

"No!" Urchin cried as Brennan made to pick

him up. "You'll catch my fleas!"

 

"Then I shall bathe also."

 

"I am too heavy!"

 

"You are not heavy at all." Brennan turned

toward the door, toward the red-haired giant. "I

will have the fines paid for everyone in this room,

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS              67

 

and the other; you will see to it they are released

at once. But I sympathize with those who fear for

their purses; if any of these are caught again, keep

them here till Summerfair is ended: in the name

of the Mujhar." He smiled briefly at Kellin, slip-

ping into the Old Tongue. "Tu'halla dei." He cast a

glance at gape-mouthed faces, then settled Urchin

more firmly against his chest. "The Guard has

horses waiting. You'll ride behind me."

 

"My lord," Rogan said quietly, following his

lord from the room as Kellin slipped out. "There

is the matter of the fortune-teller."

 

"Ah." Brennan's face assumed a grim mask. He

glanced down at Kellin as he carried Urchin into

the street. "What did he say to you, Kellin?"

 

Kellin shrugged. "I couldn't understand it all.

They were just—words."

 

"Tell me the words anyway."

 

Kellin squirmed self-consciously; he did not

want to admit to his fear of the Lion. "Cynric."

 

Brennan's mask slipped, baring naked shock be-

neath. "Cynric? He said that?"

 

"A name." Kellin frowned. "And a sword, and a

bow, and a—knife?"

 

"Gods," Brennan whispered. "Not my grandson,

too." •

 

It terrified Kellin to see his grandfather so

stricken. "Not me?" he asked. "Why do you say

that? Grandsire—what does it mean'?"

 

"It means—" Brennan's mouth tightened into a

thin, flat line. "It means we will go visit your

fortune-teller—who speaks to you of Cynric—be-

fore we go home."

 

"Why? What did he mean?" Desperation crept

in; did it have to do with the Lion? "What does

'Cynric' mean?"

 

" 'Cynric'?" The Mujhar sighed as he handed Ur-

chin to a guardsman and ordered him put up on

 

68 Jennifer Roberson

 

his own mount. "It is a name, Kellin ... an old,

familiar name I have not heard in ten years. Since

your jehan first brought you to us—"

 

"Before he left." Kellin blurted it out all at once;

 

bitterness encased it. "Before he left\"

 

"Aye." Brennan rubbed absently at the flesh of

a face suddenly grown old. "Before he left." He

looked at Rogan. "Can you direct us?"

 

Rogan glanced very briefly at Kellin before look-

ing back to the Mujhar: a subtle question to which

the boy was not blind, though adults believed he

was. "My lord, perhaps later would be better."

 

"No." Brennan threaded reins through his hand,

turning toward his mount. "No, I think now. He

has spoken the name to Kellin without knowing

who he was—or so you would have me believe...."

He patted Urchin's stiff thigh, then climbed up

easily. "And even if he did know who Kellin was,

he also knew the name. I want to ask him how he

came by it, and why he speaks of it now to a ten-

year-old boy."

 

"Aye." Rogan moved like an old man toward his

own mount. "Of course, my lord, I can direct you

to him at once. Although I must warn you—" the

tutor mounted with effort, as if his bones hurt,

"—he smokes husath. It is possible . .." He made

a gesture with one hand that suggested such a

man was unpredictable, and his employment.

 

Brennan's face was grim. "Aidan never did. But

he knew the name, also."

 

"Grandsire?" Kellin stood in the street, staring

up. It seemed to him Urchin had usurped his

place. "Is there a horse for me?"

 

"Rogan's," his grandfather told him, "so you

may say more privately how sorry you are for the

worry you caused."

 

Ashamed, Kellin nodded. "Aye, grandsire. I will."

 

A TAPESTRY w LIONS            69

 

Summerfair revelers still gathered in the streets,

making it difficult for a mounted party to pass

through; Brennan gave orders that his presence

not be cried, since he wanted to come upon the

fortune-teller unaware, and so the Mujharan Guard

merely suggested people move, rather than forcing

it. The journey took longer than Kellin recalled to

reach the faded, striped tent, but then he could

not remember for how long he had run.

 

"Here," Rogan murmured.

 

The cat and the dog were gone- Flies sheathed

the doorflap. "My lord." One of the guardsmen

swung down and then another. Kellin watched as

two of the crimson-tabarded men entered the tent

while the other two stood very close to the Mujhar

and his heir,

 

One of the men was back almost immediately,

face set grimly. "My lord."

 

Brennan hooked his leg frontwise over the pom-

mel to avoid Urchin and slid off, throwing glitter-

ing, gold-banded reins to Rogan. "Stay here with

Kellin."

 

"Grandsire!"

 

The Mujhar spared barely a glance. "Stay here,

Kellin-"

 

It burst from Kellin's throat: "Don't let the Lion

eat you!"

 

Brennan, at the doorflap, turned sharply. "What

do you mean?"

 

Oh, gods, now it was too late; he had let it slip;

 

he had said it; and his grandsire would laugh; all

of them would laugh—

 

"Kellin."

 

Kellin pressed himself against Rogan's back.

"Nothing," he whispered.

 

Rogan stirred. "A childhood tale, my lord. Noth-

ing more."

 

70 Jennifer Robersoa

 

Brennan nodded after a moment's hesitation,

then went into the tent.

 

Don't let the Lion eat him—

 

"Kellin." Rogan's voice, very soft. "What is this

lion?"

 

"Just—the Lion. You know. I told you."

 

"There is no lion in there."

 

"You don't know that. The fortune-teller said—"

 

"—too much," Rogan declared. "Entirely too

much."

 

"Aye, but ... Rogan, there really is a lion. The

Lion—he wants to eat Homana."

 

"A dog bit my ankle," Urchin offered. "But

that's not the same as a lion biting it."

 

Kellin stared at him. "The Lion bit my harani.

And he died."

 

Rogan began quietly, "Kellin, I think—"

 

But he never finished because the Mujhar came

out again, yellow eyes oddly feral as he stared at

his grandson. "Kellin, you must tell me what the

fortune-teller said. Everything."

 

"About Cynric?"

 

"Everything." The Mujhar's mouth was crimped

tight at the comers. "About the lions, too."

 

It alarmed Kellin. "Why? Was it the Lion? Did

it eat the fortune-teller?"

 

"Kellin—wait—''

 

But Kellin slid off over the horse's rump and

darted between his grandfather and the doorflap.

He stumbled over a rucked-up rug just inside,

caught his precarious balance, then stopped short.

 

Sprawled on his back amid blood-soaked cush-

ions and carpets lay the fortune-teller. A gaping,

ragged hole usurped the place his throat had been.

 

Four

 

Torches illuminated the corridor. Kellin crept

through it silently, taking care to make no sound;

 

he wanted no one to discover him in the middle

of the night, lest they send him off to bed before

his task could be accomplished.

 

Ahead— He drew in a deep breath to fill his

hollow chest, then turned the comer. Massive sil-

ver doors threw back redoubled torchlight, so

bright he nearly squinted. They must have polished

them today. But that was not important. Impor-

tance lay beyond, within the Great Hall itself.

 

Ten more steps, and he was there. Kellin filled

his chest with air again, .then leaned with all his

weight against the nearest door. Hinges oiled, too.

It cracked open mutely, then gave as he leaned

harder, until he could slide through the space into

the dimness of the Great Hall.

 

He paused there, just inside, and stared hard

into darkness. Moonlight slanted through stained

glass casements, providing dim but multicolored

illumination. Kellin used it in place of torchlight,

fixing his gaze upon the beast.

 

There— And it was, as always: crouched upon

the dais as if in attack, rampant wood upon gold-

veined marble, teeth bared in ferocity, gilt gleam-

ing in mouth and eyes.

 

There— And him here, pressed against the silver

doors, shoulder blades scraping-

 

71

 

72 liinifil Hoberaoa

 

Twice he had come, since lan had died. First, to

chop the Lion into bits; again to bum the tapestry

hanging just behind, lest the Lion summon confed-

erates in his bid to devour the Mujhar, the queen,

and perhaps Kellin himself.

 

The fortune-teller said so— Kellin shivered. He

came now with no ax, no torch to set name to

tapestry, but alone and unweaponed, intending no

harm at all this time but warning in harm's place,

to make the Lion know.

 

He sucked in a noisy breath, then set out on the

long journey. Step by step by step, pacing out the

firepit, until he reached the dais. Until he faced

the beast.

 

Kellin balanced lightly, distributing weight as

he had been taught: upon the balls of his feet,

knees slightly bent, arms loose at his sides, so he

could flee if required, or fight-

 

"You," he exhaled. "Lion."

 

The throne offered no answer. Kellin swallowed

heavily, staring fixedly at the shadow-shrouded

beast.

 

"Do you hear?" he asked. He disliked the quaver

in his tone and altered it, improving volume also.

"It is I: Kellin, who will be Mujhar one day. Kellin

of Homana." He leaned forward slightly, to make

certain the Lion heard. "I am not alone anymore."

 

Still there was no answer.

 

Kellin wet his lips, then expelled the final warn-

ing: "I have a friend."

 

"Kellin?"

 

He twitched; was it the Lion? No— He spun.

"Urchin!"

 

The Homanan boy squeezed his way through the

doors just as Kellin had done. "Why are you—"

He broke it off, staring beyond Kellin. "Is that the

Lion Throne?"

 

A TAPESTKY OF LHWS

 

73

 

Kellin was very aware of the weight crouched

behind him. "Aye."

 

Urchin's steps were steady as he approached,

showing no signs of limp. The Mujhar's healing a

week before had proved efficient as always; once

over the shock of being touched by legendary

Cheysuli magic. Urchin had recovered his custom-

ary spirit. "What are you doing here? Talking to

it?"

 

Before Urchin, Kellin did not feel defensive.

"Warning it."

 

"About what?" Urchin arrived before the dais,

brushing aside still-lank but now-clean hair. "Does

it answer?"

 

"It eats people." Kellin slanted Urchin a glance.

"It killed my su'fali."

 

"Your what?"

 

"Su'fali. Uncle—well, great-uncle. It bit him,

and he died." The pain squeezed a little, aching

inside his chest. "Two springs ago."

 

"Oh." Urchin stared at the throne: wary fascina-

tion. "You mean—it comes-alive?"

 

It was hard to explain. Others had told him not

to speak such nonsense, and he had locked it all

within. Now Urchin wanted the truth. It was eas-

ier to say nothing. "It wants my grandsire next."

 

"It does?" After a startled reassessment, Urchin

frowned. "How do you know?"

 

"I just know. In here." Kellin touched his chest.

"And the fortune-teller said so. It ate him, too."

 

"Rogan said—"

 

"Rogan said what the Mujhar told him to say."

Kellin scowled. "They don't want to believe me.

They didn't believe me when I told them about

lan, and they don't believe me now." He looked

hard at Urchin. "Do you believe me?"

 

Urchin blinked. "I don't know. It's wood—"

 

"It's the Lion, and it wants to eat Homana."

 

74 Jennifer Koberson

 

Kellin lifted his chin. "I told it I had a friend, now;

 

that I wasn't alone anymore."

 

Urchin blinked. "You mean—me?"

 

"Aren't you my friend?"

 

"Well—aye. Aye, I am, but . . . you're the Prince

of Homana."

 

"Princes need friends, too." Kellin tried to keep

the plea out of his voice.

 

"But I'm only a spit-boy."

 

"Grandsire will give you better when you've

learned things," Kellin explained. "He told me it's

best if you start there, then move up, because a

castle is strange to you."

 

"It is," Urchin agreed. He eyed the Lion again,

then glanced back to Kellin. "Rogan doesn't teach

the other spit-boys."

 

"No. I asked grandsire because I said we were

friends."

 

Urchin nodded, looking around the massive

Great Hall. "This will be yours, one day?"

 

"When grandsire dies."

 

"He's strong; he'll live a long time." Urchin

slanted a sidelong glance at Kellin. "Why isn't

your father here? Shouldn't he be next?"

 

Kellin's belly hurt, as it often did when someone

mentioned his father. "He gave it up. He re-

nounced his title." His spine was rigid. Words

spilled out, and virulence; he had learned to say

it first, before anyone else could, "He is mad. He

lives on an island and talks about the gods."

 

Urchin blinked. "The priests do that all the

time, and they're not mad."

 

"My father sees things. Visions. He has fits."

Kellin shrugged, trying not to show how much it

hurt. Urchin was his friend, but there were things

Kellin could not share. "Grandsire says he is a

shar tahl—that is Old Tongue for 'priest-

historian'—but I say he is something else. Some-

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             75

 

thing more: part priest, part warrior, part fortune-

teller—and all fool."

 

"He gave away everything?"

 

Kellin nodded mutely.

 

"He could have been Mujhar . . ." Urchin looked

at the Lion again. "He could have been Mujhar.'1

 

"A fool," Kellin declared. "And one day I will

tell him. I will go to the Crystal Isle, and find him,

and tell him."

 

Urchin grinned at him. "Can I go with you?"

 

Kellin smiled back. "You will be my captain of

the guard. Commander of the Mujharan Guard,

and I will take you everywhere."

 

Urchin nodded. "Good." He stared up at the

Lion, studied it, then drew himself up before it.

He slanted a grin at Kellin, then turned back to

the throne. "I am Urchin, Lion! In the name of

Kellin, I command the Mujharan Guard! And I say

to you. Lion, you shall set no teeth to his flesh,

nor spill royal blood!"

 

It echoed in the hall. Gilt eyes glinted faintly.

 

Kellin stared at the Lion. "You see? I am not

alone anymore."

 

The Queen of Homana, in her solar, approved of

them both. Kellin could tell. He had pleased her

by working harder at his studies, and by being

altogether less obdurate about learning his duties

as Prince of Homana. When she was pleased, her

green eyes kindled; just now, he felt the warmth

redoubled as she smiled at him and Urchin.

"Rogan says both of you are doing very well."

 

Kellin and Urchin exchanged glances. Urchin

was stiff, as he always was before the queen or the

Mujhar, but his smile was relaxed and genuine.

Cleaned up, he was altogether presentable, even

for a spit-boy. The weeks had improved him in

many ways.

 

76 Jennifer Roberson

 

"In fact," the queen went on, "he told me yester-

day he was quite impressed with both of you. Ur-

chin is yet behind you, Kellin, but 'tis to be

expected. He's had no proper lessons before now."

Her expression softened as she glanced at the

taller boy. "You are to be commended for your

diligence."

 

Urchin's face reddened. "Kellin helps me."

 

"But he leams on his own," Kellin put in

quickly. "I only point out a few things here and

there. He does most of it himself."

 

"I know." Aileen of Homana had lost none of

her vividness with the passage of time, though her

color had dimmed a trifle from the brilliant red

of youth to a rusted silver. But she was still Erin-

nish. born of an island kingdom, and she still

boasted the tenacity and fiery outspokenness that

had nearly caused a political incident between her

realm and Homana when she had professed to

love Niall's third-born son in place of the prince

she was meant to wed; Conn himself had pre-

vented it by taking up his tahlmorra in Atvia, and

Aileen had married Brennan after all. "He's as

quick at his learning as he is his duties at the spit;

 

'twill not be long before he outgrows the kitchens

and enters into more personal service."

 

"With me?" Kellin blurted.

 

Aileen laughed. "In time, Kellin—first he must

leam the household. Then we'll be seeing if he's

ready to become the Prince of Homana's personal

squire."

 

"But he has to be," Kellin insisted- "I want to

make him commander of the Mujharan Guard."

 

"Oh?" Rusty brows lifted. "I think Harlech

might be wishing to keep his post."

 

"Oh, not yet." Kellin waved a hand. "When he

is older- When I am Mujhar."

 

Aileen's mouth crimped only slightly. "Indeed."

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            77

 

She looked at Urchin. "Do you feel yourself fit for

such duty?"

 

"Not yet," Urchin replied promptly. "But—I

will be." He cast a sidelong glance at Kellin. "I

mean to guard him against the Lion."

 

Aileen's smiled faded. Her glance went beyond

the boys to the man in the doorway.

 

"The Lion," echoed the Mujhar; both boys swung

at once. "The Lion is no threat, as I have said

many times. It is a throne, no more. Symbolic of

Homana, the Cheysuli, and our tahlmorra, which is

of no little import—" he smiled faintly, "—but as-

suredly it offers nothing more than the dusty odor

of history and the burdensome weight of

tradition."

 

Kellin knew better than to protest; let them be-

lieve as they would. He knew better.

 

Now, so did Urchin.

 

"I, too, am pleased/' the Mujhar declared. "Rogan

has brought good tidings of your progress." He

glanced briefly at his wife, passing a silent mes-

sage, then touched each boy-on the shoulder. "Now,

surely you can find better ways to spend your time

than with women and women's things," he

grinned at the queen to show he meant no gibe,

"so I suggest you be about it. Rogan has the day

to himself and has gone into the city; I suggest

you see if Harlech has something to teach you of

a commander's duties."

 

Urchin bowed quick acquiesence, then followed

Kellin from the chamber.

 

"Wait." Kellin stepped rapidly aside to the wall

beside the still-open door, catching Urchin's arm

to halt him. "Listen," he whispered.

 

Urchin's expression was dubious; blue eyes flicked

in alarm toward the door. "But—"

 

Kellin mashed a silencing hand into his friend's

mouth. He barely moved his lips. "There is some-

 

78 Jennifer Roberson

 

thing he wants to tell her . . . something I am not

to hear—" Kellin bit off his sentence as his grand-

mother began speaking-

 

" Tis Aidan, isn't it?" she asked tensely in the

room beyond- "You've heard."

 

"A message." The Mujhar's tone was curiously

flat, squashed all out of shape. Without seeing his

grandsire, Kellin heard the layered emotions: res-

ignation, impatience, a raw desperation. "Aidan

says, 'Not yet.' "

 

His granddame was not nearly so self-controlled.

"Didn't ye tell him, then?"

 

"I did. In the strongest terms possible. 'Send for

your son,' I said, 'Kellin needs his father.' "

 

"And?"

 

"And he says, 'Not yet." "

 

Urchin's breath hissed. Kellin waved him into

silence.

 

"Gods," Aileen breathed. "Has he gone mad, as

they say?"

 

"I—want to think not. I want to disbelieve the

rumors. I want very much to believe there is a rea-

son for what he does."

 

"To keep himself isolate—"

 

"He is a shar tahl, Aileen. They are unlike other

Cheysuli—"

 

Her tone was rough, as if she suppressed tears.

"There's Erinnish in him, too, my braw boyo—or

are you forgetting that?"

 

"No." The Mujhar sighed. "He shapes others,

Aidan says, to understand the old ways must be

altered by the new."

 

"But to deny his own son a father—"

 

"He will send for Kellin, he says, when the time

is right."

 

For a long moment there was silence. Then the

Queen of Homana muttered an oath more appro-

priate to a soldier. "And when will it be right?

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            79

 

When his son is a grown man, seated upon the

Lion Throne Aidan himself should hold?"

 

The Mujhar answered merely, with great weari-

ness, "I do not know."

 

Tension filled the silence. Then Kellin heard a

long, breathy sigh cut off awkwardly.

 

"Aileen, no—"

 

"Why not?" The voice was thick, but fierce. "He

is my son, Brennan—I'm permitted, I'm thinking,

to cry if I wish to cry."

 

"Aileen—"

 

"I miss him," she said. "Gods, but I miss him!

So many years—"

 

"Shansu, meijhana—"

 

"There is no peace!" she cried. "I bore him in

my body. You're not knowing what it is."

 

"I am bonded in my own way—"

 

"With a cat1." she said. " 'Tisn't the same, Bren-

nan. And even if it were, you have Sleeta here. 1

have nothing. Nothing but memories of the child

I bore, and the boy I raised. .. ." Her voice thick-

ened again. " 'Tisn't fair to any of us. Not to you,

to me; and certainly not to Kellin." Her voice

paused. "Is there no way to make him come? To

compel him?"

 

"No," Brennan said. "He is more than our son,

more than a jehan. He is also a shar tahl. I will

not compel a man blessed by gods to serve a mor-

tal desire. Not for me, nor for you—"

 

"For his son?"

 

"No. I will not interfere."

 

Taut silence, as Kellin spun tightly away. Ur-

chin hesitated only a moment, then hastened to

catch up. "Kellin—"

 

"You heard." It took effort not to shout. "You

heard what he said. About my father—" It filled

his throat, swelling tightly, until he wanted to

choke, or scream, or cry. "He doesn't want me."

 

Jennifer Roberson

 

ae

 

"That's not what the Mujhar said. He said your

father would send when the time was right."

 

Kellin strode on stiffly. "The time will never be

right!"

 

"But you don't know th—"

 

"I do." Venomously. "He renounced the throne,

and renounced me. He renounced everything"

 

"But he's a priest. Don't priests do those things?"

 

"Not shar tahls. Not most of them. They have

sons, and they love them." Kellin's tone thinned,

then wavered. He clamped down on self-possession

with every bit of strength he had. "Someday I will

see him, whether he wants me or no, and I will

tell him to his face that he is not a man."

 

"Kellin—"

 

"I will." Kellin stopped and stared fiercely at

Urchin. "And you will come with me."

 

He dreamed of gods, and fathers, and islands;

 

of demanding, impatient gods; of Lions who ate

humans. He awoke with a cry as the door swung

open, and moved to catch up the knife he kept on

a bench beside his bed, with which he might slay

lions.

 

"Kellin?" It was Rogan, bringing with him a

cupped candle. "Are you awake?"

 

Kellin always woke easily, prepared for lions.

"Aye." He scooched up in bed. "What is it?" His

heart seized. Not the Lion—"

 

There was tension in Rogan's tone as he came

into the chamber, swinging shut the door behind

him. He did not chide his charge for speaking of

the Lion. "Kellin ..." He came forward to the bed,

bringing the light with him. It scribed deep lines

in a haggard face. "There is something we must

discuss."

 

"In the middle of the night?"

 

"I can think of no better time." A slight dryness

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

81

 

altered the tension. Rogan put the candle cup on

the bench beside the knife, then sat down on the

edge of the huge tester bed. "My lord, I know you

are troubled. I have known for some time. Urchin

came to me earlier, but do not blame him; he

cares for you, and wants you content."

 

"Urchin?" Kellin was confused.

 

"He told me what you both overheard today,

when you eavesdropped on the Mujhar."

 

"Oh." Only the faintest flicker of remorse pinched,

then was consumed by remembered bitterness.

"Did he tell you—"

 

Rogan overrode. "Aye. And after much thought,

I have decided to do what no one else will do."

The tutor's eyes were blackened by shadows,

caved in unreadable darkness. "I offer you the op-

portunity to go to your father."

 

"To—" Kellin sat bolt upright. "You?"

 

Rogan nodded. His mouth was tight. "I make

no attempt to explain or excuse him, my lord .. .

I merely offer to escort you to the Crystal Isle,

where you may ask him yourself why he has done

as he has."

 

"My father," Kellin whispered. "Jehan—" He

stared hard into darkness. "When?"

 

"In the morning."

 

"How?"

 

"We will say we are going to Clankeep. You

wish to take Urchin there, do you not?"

 

"Aye, but—"

 

"I shall tell the Mujhar you wish to introduce

Urchin to Clankeep and the Cheysuli. He will not

refuse you that. Only we shall go to Hondarth

instead."

 

"But—the Mujharan Guard. They'll know."

 

"I have prevailed upon the Mujhar to allow us

to go without guards. You are Cheysuli, after all—

and I know how much close confinement chafes

 

82 Jennifer Robersoa

 

the Mujhar. He understands the need to allow you

more freedom . .. and there has been no trouble

for quite some time. If Clankeep were not so close,

it would be different."

 

"But won't he know? Won't he find out? It is

two weeks' ride to Hondarth."

 

"It is not unusual for a Cheysuli boy, regardless

of rank, to desire to spend some time among his

people."

 

Kellin understood at once. "But we will go to

the Crystal Isle while he believes we are at

Clankeep!"

 

The tutor's silence was eloquent.

 

Kellin drew in a breath. "You will have to send

word."

 

"From Hondarth. By then it will be too late for

the Mujhar to stop us."

 

Kellin looked into the beloved face. "Why?"

 

Rogan's smile was ghastly. "Because it is time."

 

Five

 

They left early, very early, with only a loaf of

bread and a flagon of cider serving as breakfast.

Kellin, Urchin, and Rogan made a very small

party as they exited Homana-Mujhar before the

Mujhar and the queen were even awake.

 

"Where is Clankeep?" Urchin asked.

 

Kellin flicked a glance at Rogan, then grinned

at his Homanan friend. "We aren't going to Clan-

keep. We are going to the Crystal Isle. To my

jehan."

 

Urchin absorbed the new information. "How far

is the Crystal Isle?"

 

"Two weeks of nding," Kellin answered

promptly. Then, evoking his Erinnish granddame,

"And but a bit of a sail across the bay to the is-

land." Inwardly, he said, And to my Jehan.

 

"Two weeks?" Urchin scratched at his nose. "I

didn't Imow Homana was so big."

 

"Aye." Kellin grinned. "One day all of it will be

mine, and you will help me rule it."

 

Urchin was dubious. "I'm only a spit-boy."

 

"For now." Kellin looked at his tutor. "Once,

Rogan was only a man who gambled too much."

 

Rogan's face grayed. Even his lips went pale.

"Who told you that?"

 

Kellin stiffened, alarmed. "Was I not to know?"

 

The tutor was plainly discomfited. "You know

what you know, my lord, but it is not a past of

 

S3

 

84 Jennifer Roberson

 

which to be proud. I thought it well behind me-

When I married—" He broke it off, abruptly, nos-

trils pinched and white.

 

Alerted, Kellin answered the scent. "You are

married?"

 

"I was." Rogan's face was stiff, and his spine,       c,

"She is dead. Long dead." He guided his mount       ^

with abrupt motions, which caused the gelding to       A

protest the bit. "Before I married Tassia, I gam-       a

bled away all my coin. She broke me of the habit,       |,

and made me use my wits for something other       t

than wagering."                                     ^

 

"And so you came to Homana-Mujhar." Kellin       (

nodded approvingly. "I recall the day."                H

 

"So do I, my lord." Rogan's smile was twisted.

"She was one month dead. You were all of eight,

and grieving for your great-uncle."

 

"The Lion bit him," Kellin muttered. "He bit

him, and lan -died,"

 

"How far do we go today?" Urchin asked, oblivi-

ous to dead kinsmen and dead wives,

 

"There is a roadhouse some way out of Mujhara,

on the Hondarth road," Rogan answered. "We will

stay the night there."

 

The common room was dim, lighted only by a

handful of greasy tallow candles set in clay cups.

The room stank of spilled wine, skunky ale, burned

meat, and unwashed humanity. It crossed Kellin's

mind briefly, who was accustomed to better, that

the roadhouse was unworthy of them, but he

closed his mouth on a question. They were bound

for the Crystal Isle in absolute secrecy, and for a

boy to complain of his surroundings would draw

the wrong sort of attention. Instead, he breathed

through his mouth until the stench was bearable

and kept a sharp eye on the purse hanging at Ro-

 

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS              85

 

gan's belt. He had learned that much from Urchin

who had grown up in the streets-

 

"Look." Kellin leaned close to Urchin and nudged

him with an elbow as they slipped into the room

behind Rogan- "See the one-eyed man?"

 

Urchin nodded. "I see him."

 

"You've been places I have not—what is he

doing?"

 

Urchin grinned. "Dicing. See the cubes? He'll

toss them out of the leather cup onto the table.

The highest number wins."

 

Rogan halted at a table near the center of the

room and glanced at his two young charges. His

face was arranged in a curiously blank expression.

"We will sit here."

 

Kellin nodded, paying little attention; he watched

the one-eyed man as he shook the leather cup and

rolled the dice out onto the table. The man

shouted, laughed, then scooped up the few coins

glinting dully in wan light.

 

"Look at the loser/' Urchin whispered as he

slipped onto a stool- "D'ye see the look? He's

angry."

 

Kellin slid a glance at the other man. The loser

made no physical motion that gave away his

anger, but Kellin marked the tautness of his

mouth, the bunched muscles along his jaw. Delib-

erately the loser tossed two more coins onto the

table, matched by the one-eyed man. Each man

tossed dice again.

 

A knife appeared, glinting dully in bad light.

The one-eyed man, wary of the weapon displayed

specifically for his benefit, did not immediately

reach to gather up his winnings.

 

Urchin leaned close. "He thinks the one-eyed

man is cheating."

 

It fascinated Kellin, who had never been so close

 

86 Jennifer Roberson

 

to violence other than the Lion. "Will he kill

him?"

 

Urchin shrugged. "I've seen men killed for less

reason than a dice game."

 

Rogan's lips compressed. "I should not have

brought you in here. We should go upstairs to our

room and have a meal sent up."

 

"No!" Kellin said quickly. Then, as Rogan's

brows arched, "I mean—should not the future

Mujhar see all kinds of those he will rule?"

 

The taut mouth loosened a little. "Perhaps. And

an astute one will recognize that to some Homa-

nans, the man on the Lion Throne means less than

nothing."

 

It was incomprehensible to Kellin who had been

reared in a household steeped in honor and re-

spect. "But how can they—"

 

A shadow fell across their table, distracting Kel-

lin at once. A slender, well-formed hand—unlike

the broad-palmed, spatulate hands of the one-eyed

man and his angry companion—placed a wooden

casket on the table. A subtle, muted rattle from

the contents was loud in the sudden silence.

 

Kellin glanced up at once. The man smiled

slightly, glancing at the two boys before turning

his attention to Rogan. He was young, neatly

dressed in good gray tunic and trews, and his blue

eyes lacked the dull hostility Kellin had marked

in the dicers. Shining russet hair fell in waves to

his shoulders. "Will you play, sir?"

 

Rogan wet his lips. He moved his hands from

the table top to his lap. "I—do not play."

 

"Ah, but it will take no time at all ... and you

may leave this table with good gold in your

purse." An easy, mellifluous tone; a calm and be-

guiling smile.

 

Kellin glanced sharply at Rogan. He would not—

would he? After all his dead wife had done?

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

87

 

But he could see the expression in the tutor's

eyes: Rogan desired very badly to play. The older

man's mouth parted slightly, then compressed

again. Rogan's gaze met the stranger's. "Very

well."

 

"But—" Kellin began.

 

The stranger overrode the protest easily, sliding

onto a stool before Kellin could finish. "I am Cor-

wyth, from Ellas. It is my good fortune that we

are chance-met." He cast a brief glance around the

room. "The others do not interest me, but^ou are

obviously a man of good breeding." He spared a

smile for Kellin and Urchin as he addressed

Rogan. "Your sons?"

 

"Aye," Rogan said briefly; he did not so much

as glance at Corwyth, but stared transfixed at the

casket.

 

It fascinated Kellin also. A passing glance marked

nothing more than plain dark wood polished

smooth by time and handling, but a second glance—

and a more intense examination—revealed the

wood not smooth at all, b'ut carved with a shallow

frieze of intricate runes. Inside—? Kellin leaned

forward to peer into the mouth of the casket and

saw only blackness. "Where are the dice?"

 

Corwyth laughed softly. "Be certain they are

there." He sat at Rogan's right hand. with Urchin

on his right; Kellin's stool was directly across the

table. "Have you played before?"

 

The Ellasian addressed him, not Rogan; he

seemed to know all about Rogan. Kellin shook his

head quickly, slanting a glance at his tutor, "My—

father—does not allow it."

 

"Ah, well . , . when you are older, then." Cor-

wyth ignored Urchin utterly as he turned his at-

tention to Rogan. "Will you throw first, or shall

I?"

 

98

 

Rogan's taut throat moved in a heavy swallow.

"I must know the stakes first."

 

Corwyth's smile came easily, lighting his mobile

face. "Those you know already."

 

A sheen of dampness filmed Rogan's brow. "Will

I lose, then? Or do you play the game as if there

might be a chance for me?"

 

The odd bitterness in the older man's tone

snared Kellin's attention instantly. But Rogan

said nothing more to explain himself, and Cor-

wyth answered before Kellin could think of a

proper question.

 

The Ellasian indicated the rune-carved casket

with a flick of a fingernail. "A man makes his own

fortune, regardless of the game."

 

Rogan scrubbed his face with a sleeve-sheathed

forearm, then swore raggedly and caught up the

casket. He upended it with a practiced twitch of

his wrist. Six ivory cubes fell out, and six slender

black sticks.

 

All of them were blank.

 

Urchin blurted surprise. Rogan stiffened on his

bench, transfixed by the sticks and cubes. Breath

rasped in his throat.

 

"Did you lose?" Kellin asked, alarmed by Ro-

gan's glazed eyes.

 

Corwyth's tone was odd. "How would you like

them to read?" he asked Rogan. "Tell me. and I

shall do it."

 

Rogan's fingers gripped the edge of the table.

"And if—if I requested the winning gambit?"

 

"Why, then I should lose." Corwyth grinned and

glanced at Kellin and Urchin. "But, after all, it is

my game, and I think I should still find a way to

win." His gaze returned to Rogan's face. "Do you

not agree?"

 

"Kellin—" Rogan's tone was abruptly harsh.

 

A TAfwntv OF Lims

 

89

 

:      ',

»•

 

"Kellin, you and Urchin are to go upstairs at

 

once."

 

"No," Corwyth said softly. A slender finger

touched each of the blank ivory cubes and set

them all to glowing with a livid purple flame.

 

"Magic—" Urchin whispered: dreadful fasci-

nation-

 

Kellin did not look at the cubes or the black

sticks. He stared instead at Corwyth's face, into

his eyes, and saw no soul.

 

He put out his small hand instantly and swept

the cubes from the table, unheeding of the flame,

then scattered all the sticks. "No," Kellin de-

clared. "No."

 

Corwyth's smile was undiminished; if anything,

it increased to one of immense satisfaction. "Per-

ceptive, my lord. My master has indeed done well

to send me for you now, while you are yet Hrless

and therefore without power. But I think for all

your perception you fail to recognize the extent of

his power, or mine—" his tone altered from con-

versational, "—and that the game we initiated has

already been played through." Smoothly he caught

Rogan's arm in one hand. and the wristbones

snapped,

 

Rogan cried out. Sweat ran from his face. His

shattered wrist remained trapped in Corwyth's

hand, who appeared to exert no pressure whatso-

ever with anything but his will.

 

Kellin leapt to his feet, thinking only that some-

how he must get Rogan free; he must stop Rogan's

pain. But the instinct was abruptly blunted, the

attempt aborted, as Corwyth shook his head. He

will injure Rogan worse. Kellin knew it at once.

Slowly he resumed his seat, aware of a minute

trembling seizing all his bones. "Who?" he asked.

"Who is your master?"

 

"Lochiel, of course." Corwyth smiled. His cor-

 

90 Jennifer Roberaoa

 

dial attitude was undiminished by the threat he

exuded without effort, which made the moment

worse. "Do you know of another man who would

presume to steal a prince?"

 

"Steal—" Kellin stiffened. Me? He wants—me?

 

Urchin stirred on his stool. His thin face was

white. "Are you—Ihlini?"

 

The dead cubes and sticks scattered on the floor

came abruptly to life again, flying from the dirt-

pack to land again upon the table and commence

a spinning dervish-dance across the scarred sur-

face. Purple godfire streamed from the cubes; the

black sticks glistened blood-red.

 

Urchin sucked in an audible breath. Kellin, infu-

riated by Corwyth's audacity, smashed a small fist

against the table top. "No!"

 

The cubes and sticks fell at once into disarray,

rattling into silence as the dance abruptly collapsed.

 

"Too late," Corwyth chided. "Much too late, my

lord." He looked at Rogan and smiled.

 

The awful tension in the Homanan's body was

plain to see. "No," he whispered hoarsely. "Oh,

gods, I cannot—I cannot—"

 

"Too late," Corwyth repeated.

 

Rogan looked at Kellin. "Run!" he cried. "Run!"

 

Six

 

Kellin lunged to his feet, grasping for and catching

a fistful of Urchin's tunic. He saw the blue blaze

in Corwyth's eyes, sensed the pain radiating from

Rogan's shattered wrist. / must do something.

 

"Urchin—" He tugged on the boy's tunic, who

needed no urging, then together they scrabbled

their way across the room, jerked open the door,

and fell out into the darkness.

 

"Did you see—" Urchin choked.

 

"We have to run. Rogan said run." Kellin yanked

at Urchin's tunic.

 

Urchin was clearly terrified. "H-horses—"

 

"They will lie in wait for us there—we must run,

Urchin!"

 

They ran away from the roadhouse, away from

the road itself, making for the trees. They shared

no more physical contact; Urchin had at last mas-

tered himself. The Homanan boy, accustomed to

fleeing, darted through the wood without hesita-

tion. City-reared Kellin now was less certain of his

course and followed Urchin's lead.

 

A branch slapped Kellin across the eyes, blur-

ring his vision. He tasted the sourness of resin in

his mouth, spat once, then forgot about it in his

flight. He could see little of the ground underfoot,

trusting instinctively to the balance and reflexes

of youth as well as the training begun in Homana-

Mujhar.

 

91

 

92 Jennifer Kobesyon

 

"Urchin—?"

 

"Here—" Ahead still, and still running, crashing

through deadfall and undergrowth.

 

Kellin winced as another branch clawed at his

tunic, digging into the flesh of bare arms. And then

he saw the glint of silver in the trees and slipped

down into the creek before he could halt his flight.

Kellin fell forward, flailing impotently as cold

water closed over his head.

 

He kicked, found purchase, if treacherous, not

far under his feet, and thrust himself upward to

the surface. Kellin choked and spat, coughing,

shivering from fright and cold.

 

"Kellin—" It was Urchin, bankside, reaching

down. Kellin caught the hand, clung, and scrab-

bled out onto the creek bank. Urchin's face was

seamed with branch-born welts. "We can't run all

night!"

 

Kellin tried to catch his breath. "We—have to

get as far—far from them as we can—"

 

"There was only that one. Corwyth."

 

"More." Kellin sucked air, filling his chest.

"Kick over one rock and find a single Ihlini ...

kick over another and find a nest." He scraped a

forearm across his face, shoving soaked hair from

his eyes. "That's what everyone says."

 

Dry, Urchin nonetheless shivered. "But if they're

sorcerers—"

 

"We have to try—" Kellin began.

 

The forest around them exploded into a spectral

purple glow. Out of the blinding light came two

dark shadows, silhouetted against livid godfire.

 

Kellin grabbed at Urchin and swung him back

the way they had come. "Run!"

 

But Corwyth himself stood on the other side of

the creek. With him was Rogan.

 

Urchin blurted his shock even as Kellin stopped

short. Breathing hard, Kellin nonetheless heard

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

93

 

the soft susurration of men moving behind them.

The hairs on the back of his neck stirred. "I taste

it," he murmured blankly. "I can taste the magic."

 

Corwyth smiled. Rogan did not. The godfire

painted them all an eerie lavender, but Kellin

could see the pallor of his tutor's face. Rogan's

eyes glistened with tears.

 

Pain—? Kellin wondered.

 

"My lord," Rogan said. "Oh, my lord . . . forgive

me—"

 

Comprehension  brought  sickness.  Sickness

formed a stone in Kellin's belly. "Not you!" No, of

course not; Rogan would deny it. Rogan would

explain.

 

"My lord .. . there was nothing left for me. I

had no choice."

 

Corwyth lifted a minatory hand. "There was

choice," he reproved. "There is always choice. I

may be, to you, an enemy, but I suggest you tell

the truth to this boy, who is not: it was neither I

nor my master who forced you to this."

 

Kellin's conviction was undiminished. Rogan

will deny it—he will tell me the truth. After all, how

many times had Kellin been told of the perfidi-

ousness of Ihlini? This is some kind of trick. "He

hurt you," Kellin declared. "He broke your wrist;

 

what else can you say?"

 

"There was no threat," Corwyth countered qui-

etly. "The wrist was merely to prove the need for

care. I have no need of threats with Rogan. All I

was required to do was promise him his dearest

desire."

 

"Ihlini lie," Kellin declared, even as Urchin

stirred in surprise beside him. "Ihlini lie all the

time. You are the enemy."

 

"To assure our survival, aye." Corwyth's young

face looked older, less serene. "To Ihlini, you are

the enemy."

 

94 Jennifer Roberson

 

It was an entirely new thought. Kelhn rejected

it. He looked instead at Rogan. "He's lying."

 

"No." Rogan's mouth warped briefly. "There

was no threat, as he says. Only a promise."

 

It was utter betrayal. "What promise?" Kellin

cried. "What could he promise you that the Mujhar

could not offer?"

 

Rogan shut his eyes. His face was shiny with

sweat.

 

"Tell him," Corwyth said-

 

"You would have me strip away all his

innocence?"

 

The Ihlini shrugged, "He will lose it soon enough

in Valgaard."

 

Urchin's face was a sickly white in fireglow. He

breathed audibly. "Valgaard?"

 

"Rogan?" Kellin swallowed back the fear that

formed a hard knot in his throat. "Rogan—this

isn't true?"

 

The tutor broke. He spoke rapidly, disjointedly.

"It was him ... a year ago, he came—came and

 

asked that I betray you to the Ihlini."

 

mi i"

Me'

 

"Lochiel." Rogan shuddered. "Lochiel wants

you." His entire body convulsed. "He could not

reach you. He could get you no other way- Cor-

wyth promised me you would be unharmed."

 

Kellin could not breathe- "You agreed?"

 

"My lord—if he had intended harm—"

 

"You agreed\"

 

"Kellin—"

 

It was the worst of all. "He is Ihlini\"

 

"Kellin—"

 

"How could you do this?" It was a refrain in

Kellin's mind, in Kellin *s mouth. "How could you

do this?"

 

Rogan's face was wet with tears. "It was not—

not of my devising . . . that I promise you. But he

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

95

 

promised. Promised me ... and I was weak, so

weak...."

 

Kellin shouted it. "What did he promise you?"

 

Rogan fell to his knees. "Forgive me—forgive—"

 

The stone in Kellin's belly grew. He felt it come

to life. It pushed his heart aside, then squeezed up

into his throat. His body was filled with it.

 

And the stone had a name: rage.

 

Kellin heard his voice—mine?—come from a

vast distance. It was an ordinary voice, shaped by

normal inflections, with no hint at all of shock, or

terror, or rage. "What did he promise you?"

 

"My wife!" Rogan cried.

 

It was incomprehensible. "You said she was

dead." And then Kellin understood.

 

"My wife," the tutor whispered, hands slack

upon his knees. "You are too young to understand

... but I loved her so much I thought I would die

of it, and then she died—she died - .. because of

the child I gave her—" He broke off. His gaze was

fixed on Kellin. He gathered himself visibly, at-

tempting to master his, anguish. "I refused,"

Rogan said quietly. "Of course I refused. Nothing

could make me betray you. I would have accepted

death before that."

 

"Why didn't you?" Kellin shouted.

 

"But then this man, this Ihlini, promised me my

wife."

 

Kellin shivered. He looked at Corwyth. "You can

raise the dead?"

 

The Ihlini smiled- "I am capable of many things."

He extended his right hand, palm up, as if to mock

the Cheysuli gesture of tahlmorra; then a flaring

column of white light filled his hand.

 

"Magic," Urchin murmured,

 

"Tricks," Kellin declared; he could not admit

the Ihlini might offer a true threat, or fear would

overwhelm him-

 

96 Jennifer Robersoa

 

"Is it?" The light in Corwyth's hand coalesced,

then began to move, to dance, and the column

resolved itself into a human shape-

 

A tiny, naked woman.

 

"Gods," Rogan blurted. Then, brokenly, "Tassia."

 

Kellin stared at the burning woman. She was a

perfect embodiment of the Ihlini's power.

 

Corwyth smiled. The woman danced within his

palm, twisting and writhing. She burned bright

white and searing, spinning and spinning, so that

flaming hair spun out from her body and shed

brilliant sparks. Tiny breasts and slim hips were

exposed, and the promise of her body.

 

Kellin, whose body was as yet too young to re-

spond, looked at Rogan. The Homanan still knelt

on the ground, eyes fixed in avid hunger on the

tiny dancing woman.

 

"Do you want her?" Corwyth asked. "I did

promise her to you. And I keep my promises."

 

"She isn't real!" Kellin cried.

 

"Not precisely," Corwyth agreed, "She is a sum-

moning from my power; a conjured promise, noth-

ing more. But I can make her real—real enough

for Rogan." He smiled. "Look upon her, Kellin.

Look at her perfection! It is such a simple thing

to make Tassia from this."

 

The tiny, burning features were eloquent in

their pleading. She was fully aware, Kellin saw;

 

Tassia knew.

 

Rogan cried out. "I bargained my soul for this.

Give me my payment for it!"

 

The light from the burning woman blanched

Corwyth's face. "Your soul was mine the moment

I asked for it. The promise of this woman was

merely a kindness." He looked at Kellin though

his words were meant for Rogan. "Speak it,

prince's man. Aloud, where Kellin can hear- Re-

nounce your service to the House of Homana.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

97

 

Deny your prince as he stands here before you.

Do only these two things, and you will have your

payment."

 

Rogan shuddered-

 

"Speak it," Corwyth said.

 

"Leave him alone!" Kellin cried.

 

"Kellin—" Rogan's expression was wracked.

"Forgive—"

 

"Don't say it!" Kellin shouted. "Do not give in

to him!"

 

"Speak," Corwyth said.

 

Tears ran down Rogan's face. "I renounce the

House of Homana."

 

"Rogan!"

 

"I renounce my prince."

 

"No!"

 

"1 submit to you, Ihlini . .. and now ask pay-

ment for my service!"

 

Corwyth smiled gently. He lifted his other hand

as if in benevolent blessing. Rogan's head bowed

as the hand came down, and then he was bathed

in the same lurid light that shaped the tiny

woman.

 

"Wait!" Kellin cried. "Rogan—no—"

 

Rogan's eyes stretched wide. "This is not what

you promised—" But his body was engulfed.

 

Kellin fell back, coughing, even as Urchin did.

The clearing was tilled with smoke. Corwyth pursed

his lips and blew a gentle exhalation, and the smoke

dispersed completely.

 

"What did you do?" Kellin asked. "What did

you do to Rogan?"

 

"I gave him what he desired, though of a decid-

edly different nature. He believed I intended to

remake his dead wife. But even / cannot do that,

so this will have to suffice." Corwyth's right hand

supported the dancing woman, now rigidly still.

 

98 Jennifer Roberson

 

In his other hand, outstretched, burned a second

tiny figure.

 

Urchin cried out. Kellin stared, transfixed, as he

saw the formless features resolve themselves into

those he knew so well. "Rogan."

 

Corwyth brought his hands together. The man

and woman met, embraced, then merged into a

single livid flame. "I do assure you, this was what

he wanted."

 

Kellin was horrified. "Not like that\"

 

"Perhaps not." Corwyth grinned. "A conceit, I

confess; he did not have the wit to specify how he

wanted payment made."

 

Kellin shuddered. And then the stone in chest

and throat broke free at last. He vomited violently.

 

"No!" Urchin cried, then screamed Rogan's

name.

 

Corwyth knelt down beside the creek.

 

"Wait!" Kellin shouted.

 

Corwyth dipped his hands into the water. "But

let it never be said I am a man who knows no

mercy. Death, you might argue, is better than

this."

 

"Rogan!"

 

But the names were extinguished as water

snuffed them out.

 

Seven

 

Kellin found himself on hands and knees in clammy

vegetation, hunched before the creek in bizarre

obeisance to the sorcerer who knelt on the bank.

His belly cramped painfully. His mouth formed a

single word, though the lips were warped out of

shape. Rogan.

 

And then the horrible thought: Not Rogan any

more.

 

A hand was on his arm, fingers digging into

flesh. "Kellin—Kellin—" Urchin, of course; Kellin

twisted his head upward and saw the pale glint of

Urchin's eyes, the sweaty sheen of shock-blanched

face. Ashamed of his weakness, Kellin swabbed a

trembling hand across his dry mouth and climbed

to his feet. Show the Ihlini no fear.

 

But he thought it was too late; surely Corwyth

had seen. Surely Corwyth knew.

 

The russet-haired Ihlini rose, shaking droplets

from elegant hands with negligent flicks of his

fingers. "Shall you come without protest, my

lord?"

 

Kellin whirled and stiff-armed Urchin, shoving

him back a full step before the Homanan boy

could speak. "Run!"

 

He darted to the left even as Urchin spun, run-

ning away from Corwyth, away from the creek.

away from the horror of what he had witnessed,

the terrible quenching of a man—

 

99

 

100 Jennifer Robersoa

 

He tore headlong through limbs and leaves,

shredding underbrush and vines. In huge leaps

Kellin spent himself, panting through a dry throat

as he ran. He fastened on one thought—Urchin—

but the Homanan boy was making his own way,

making his own future, crashing through brush

only paces away. Kellin longed to call out but

dared not risk it. Besides, Urchin was better suited

to flight than he, growing up a boy of the streets;

 

best Kellin tend himself.

 

Corwyth's voice cut through the trees like a clar-

ion. "I require only you, Kellin. Not him. Come

back, and I will spare him."

 

"Don't listen!" Urchin hissed as he broke through

tangled foliage near Kellin. "What can he—"

 

The Homanan boy stopped short, fully visible in

a patch of moonlight. His chest rose and fell un-

evenly as his breath rattled in his throat.

 

Kellin staggered to a stiff-limbed halt, arms out-

flung. His breathing was as loud. "Urchin?"

 

The boy's blue eyes were fixed and dilated.

 

"Urchin—run—"

 

Urchin's eyes bulged in their sockets.

 

Even as Kellin reached for him, the boy's limbs

jerked. Urchin's mouth dropped open, blurting in-

articulate protest. Then something pushed out

against the fabric of his tunic, as if it quested for

exit from the confines of his chest.

 

"Ur—" Kellin saw the blood break from Ur-

chin's breastbone. "No!" But Urchin was down, all

asprawl, face buried in leaf mold and turf. Kellin

grabbed handfuls of tunic and dragged him over

onto his back. "Urchin—"

 

Kellin recoiled. A bloodied silver wafer extruded

from Urchin's breastbone, shining wetly in the

moonlight.

 

He mouthed it: Sorcerer's Tooth. Kellin had

heard of them. The Ihlini weapons were often poi-

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

101

 

soned, though this one had done its work simply

by slicing cleanly through the boy's chest from

spine to breastbone.

 

Corwyth's voice sounded very close, too close,

though Kellin could not see him. "A waste of life,"

the Ihlini said. "You threw it away, Kellin."

 

"No!"

 

"You had only to come to me."

 

"No!"

 

"And so now you are alone in the dark with an

Ihlini." Corwyth's laughter was quiet. "Surely a

nightmare all Cheysuli dread."

 

Urchin was dead. Muttering a prayer to the

gods—and an apology to Urchin for the pain he

could not feel—Kellin stripped hastily out of his

jerkin, tucked it over the exposed spikes, then

yanked the wafer from Urchin's chest.

 

He twisted his head. Where is—?

 

Just behind. "Kellin. Surrender. I promise you

no harm."

 

Kellin lurched upward and spun. "I promise you

harm!"

 

He heard Corwyth cry out as the glinting weapon,

loosed, spun toward the Ihlini. Kellin did not tarry

to see if the Tooth had bitten deeply enough to

kill. He fled into darkness again.

 

Kellin ran until he could run no more, then

dropped into a steady jogging trot. Though his

breath fogged the air, the first terror had faded,

replaced by a simple conviction that if he did not

halt, not even to catch that breath, he could re-

main ahead of Corwyth -

 

He assumed the Ihlini lived. To believe other-

wise was to court the kind of carelessness that

might prove fatal. If he had learned one thing

from his beloved lan, it was never to assume one

was safe when one could not know.

 

102 Jennifer Robersoa

 

Deadfall snapped beneath booted feet, then died

out gradually as Kellin learned to seek out the

thicker shadows of softer, muffled ground. In six

strides he learned stealth, reverting to simple in-

stincts and the training of his race,

 

If I had a hr— But he did not, and wishing for

one would gain him nothing save a tense uncer-

tainty of his ability to survive.

 

At last even his trot collapsed into disarray. Kel-

lin staggered, favoring his right side. Exhaustion

robbed him of strength, of endurance; apprehen-

sion robbed him of grace. He stumbled once,

twice, again. The final tumble sent him headfirst

into a tangle of tall bracken, which spilled him

into shadow. Kellin lay there, winded, sucking

cold air scented heavily with mud, and resin, and

fear.

 

Go on, his conscience told him. But the body did

not respond. Remember what happened to Rogan.

Remember what happened to Urchin.

 

Kellin squeezed shut his eyes. He had, until the

moment of Urchin's death, believed himself invio-

lable. lan had died, aye, because the Lion had bit-

ten him, and the fortune-teller had died by the

same violent means, but never had Kellin believed

death could happen to him.

 

Rogan and Urchin, dead.

 

/ could die, too.

 

Could the Ihlini's sorcery lead Corwyth directly

to Kellin?

 

Run—

 

He stumbled to his feet yet again, hunching for-

ward as a cramp bit into his side. He banished the

pain, banished the memories of the deaths he had

witnessed, and went on again.

 

—am a Cheysuli warrior ... the forest is my

home—and every creature in it—

 

He meant to go home, of course. All the way to

 

A TAPESTSV OF LIONS

 

103

 

Mujhara herself, and into Homana-Mujhar. There

he would tell them all. There he would explain.

There he would describe in bloody detail what

Corwyth had accomplished.

 

The sound was a heavy cough. Not human.

Clearly animal. A heavy, deep-throated cough.

 

Kellin froze. He sucked in a breath and held it,

listening for the sound.

 

A cough. And then a growl.

 

—am Cheysuli—

 

So he was. But he was also a boy.

 

The growl rose in pitch, then altered into a roar.

 

He knew the sounds of the forest. This was not

one of them. This was a sound Kellin recognized

because it filled his dreams-

He did not cry out, but only because he could

not. Lion?

 

"No," Kellin blurted. He denied it vigorously,

as he had denied nothing before in his life. Urchin

had come, and the Lion had been driven away.

The daytime was safe. And only rarely did the

Lion trouble his dreams now, since Urchin had

come.

 

But Urchin was dead. And night replaced the

day.

 

"No!" Kellin cried- There can be no Lion. Every-

one says.

 

But it was dark, so dark. It was too easy to be-

lieve in such things as Lions when there was no

light.

 

He fastened himself onto a single thought. "I am

not a child anymore. I defeated the Steppesman

and knocked down his knife. Lions do not exist."

 

But the Lion roared again. Kellin's defiance was

swamped.

 

He ran without thought for silence or subter-

fuge. Outflung hands crushed aside foliage, but

some of it sprang back and cut into the flesh of his

 

194 Jessdfer Robwaoa

 

naked torso, jerkinless in flight. It snagged hair, at

eyes, at mouth; it dug deeply into his neck even

as he ducked.

 

Lion!

 

He saw nothing but shadow and moonlight. If I

stop—

 

From behind came the roar of a hungry, hunting

lion, crashing through broken brush on the trail

of Cheysuli prey.

 

Huge and tawny and golden, like the throne in

Homana-Mujhar.

 

How can they say there isn't a Lion?

 

Blood ran into Kellin's mouth, then spilled over

open lips; he had somehow bitten his tongue. He

spat, swiped aside a snagging limb, then caught

his breath painfully on a choked blurt of shock as

the footing beneath crumbled.

 

Wait— He teetered. Then fell. The ground gave

way and tumbled him into a narrow ravine.

 

Down and down and down, crashing through

bracken and creepers, banging arms and legs into

saplings, smacking skull against rocks and roots.

And then at last the bottom, all of a sudden, too

sudden, and he sprawled awkwardly onto his

back, fetching up against a stump. Kellin heard

whooping and gulping, and realized the noise was

his own.

 

Lion?

 

He lurched upward, then scrambled to his feet.

He ached from head to foot, as if all his bones

were bruised.

 

Lion?

 

And the lion, abruptly, was there.

 

Kellin ran. He heard the panting grunts, smelled

the meat-laden breath. And then the jaws snapped

closed around his left ankle.

 

'Wo/"

 

The pain shot from ankle to skull. Jaws dug

 

A TAFESTKY OF Ltws           109

 

through leather boot into flesh, threatening the

bone.

 

Kellin clawed at the iron teeth of the iron, bodi-

less beast that had caught boy instead of bear.

Fingers scrabbled at the trap, trying to locate and

trigger the mechanism that would spring the jaws

open.

 

No lion— It was relief, but also terror; the beast

could not be far behind.

 

Keltin had heard of bear traps. The Cheysuli dis-

dained such tools, preferring to fight a beast on

its own level rather than resorting to mechanical

means. But some of the Homanans used the heavy

iron traps to catch bear and other prey.

 

Now it's caught ME— Pain radiated from the

ankle until it encompassed Kellin's entire body.

He twitched and writhed against it, biting into

his bloodied lip, then scrabbled for the chain that

bound trap to tree. It was securely locked. De-

signed to withstand the running charge of a full-

grown bear, it would surely defeat a boy.

 

Frenziedly, Kellin yanked until his palms shred-

ded and bled. "Let go—let go—LET GO—"

 

The deep-chested cough sounded again. Through

deadfall the lion came, slinking out of shadow,

tearing its way through vines and bracken.

 

Kellin leapt to his feet and ran, and was jerked

down almost at once. Iron teeth bit through boot

and compressed fragile flesh, scraping now on

bone.

 

—no—no—

 

—no—no—NO— "

 

The lion, still coughing, broke out of shadow

into moonlight. Kellin jerked at the chain again,

but palms slipped in sticky blood. The weight of

the trap was nothing as he tried to stand again,

to meet his death like a man.

 

But then the lion roared. The boy who meant to

 

106

 

die a man was reduced, by sheer terror, into noth-

ing but a child screaming frenziedly for his father.

But his father would not come, because he never

had.

 

Eight

 

Horseback. And yet he did not ride as a man but

as a child, a small child, rump settled across the

withers, legs dangling slackly upon one shoulder

while the rest of him was cradled securely against

a man's chest.

 

Kellin roused into terror. "Lion—" He was per-

fectly stiff, trying to flail his way to escape. Terror

overwhelmed him. "Lion— UON—"

 

Arms tightened, stilling him. "There is no lion

here."

 

"But—" He shut his mouth on the protest, the

adamant denial of what the voice told him. Then

another panic engulfed. "Ihlini—"

 

The man laughed softly, as if meaning no insult.

"Not I, my lad. I've not the breeding for it."

 

Kellin subsided, though his strained breathing

was audible. His eyes stretched painfully wide,

but saw nothing in the darkness save the under-

side of a man's jaw and the oblique silhouette of

a head. "Who—?" It faded at once. Pain reasserted

itself. "My leg."

 

"I'm sorry for it, lad .. . but you'll have to wait

for the healing."

 

It took effort to speak, to forced a single word

through the rictus of his mouth. "—whole—?"

 

"Broken, I fear. But we'll be mending it for

you."

 

Kellin ground his teeth. "—hurts—" And then

107

 

108 Jennifer Robersoa

 

wished he had said nothing, nothing at all; a Chey-

suli did not speak of pain.

 

"Aye, one would think so." The grip shifted a

little, sliding down Kellin's spine to accommodate

the weight that was no longer quite so slack.

" 'Twas a trap for a bear, not a boy. You're fortu-

nate it left the foot attached."

 

Kellin stiffened again, craning, as he tried to see

for himself.

 

The other laughed softly. "Aye, lad, 'tis there. I

promise you that. Now, settle yourself; you've a

fever coming on. You'll do better to rest."

 

"Who—?" he began again.

 

The rider chuckled as Kellin tried to sit up. He

turned his face downward. "There, now—better?

I'm one of you after all."

 

"One of—me?" And then Kellin understood. Re-

lief washed through him, then ebbed as quickly as

it stole his strength away.

 

Indeed, one of him. The stranger was his grand-

sire, if stripped of forty years. His accent was Ai"

leen's own. There was only one Cheysuli warrior

in all the world who sounded like the Mujhar's

Erinnish queen.

 

"Blais," Kellin murmured. Weakness and fever

crept closer to awareness, nibbling at its edges.

 

The warrior grinned, displaying fine white teeth

in a dark Cheysuli face. "Be still, little cousin.

We've yet a ways to ride. You'll do better to pass

it in sleep."

 

In sleep, or something like. Kellin slumped

against his kinsman as consciousness departed.

 

He roused as Blais handed him down from the

horse into someone else's care. Pain renewed itself,

so strongly that Kellin whimpered before he could

suppress it. And then he was more ashamed than

 

109

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

ever because Blais himself was Cheysuli and knew

a warrior did not voice his discomfort.

 

Sweating, Kellin bit again into a split lip and

tasted fresh blood. It was all he could do not to

moan aloud.

 

"My pavilion," Blais said briefly. "Send some-

one to Homana-Mujhar with word, and call others

here for the healing."

 

The other warrior carried Kellin inside as Blais

dismounted and carefully settled him onto a pallet

of thick furs. Kellin opened his eyes and saw the

shadowed interior of a CheysuH pavilion. Then the

stranger was gone, and Blais knelt down on one

knee beside him. A callused palm touched Kellin's

forehead.

 

"Shansu," Blais murmured. "I know it hurts, lit-

tle cousin, no need to fight it so, I'll think none

the less of you."

 

But Kellin would not give in, though he sweated

and squirmed with pain. "Can't you heal me?"

 

Blais smiled. His face was kind in a stem sort

of way- He was very like fhem all, though Erinn

and Homana ran in his veins as well as Cheysuli

blood. Physically the dilution did not show; Blais'

features and coloring were purely Cheysuli, even

if the accent was not. "Not without help, my lad.

I was ill myself last year with the summer fever—

well enough now, you'll see, but weak in the earth

magic yet. I'd rather not risk the future of Homana

to a halfling's meager gifts."

 

Halfling. Kellin shifted. What am I, then? "You

have a lir. Tanni. I remember from when you vis-

ited Homana-Mujhar two years ago."

 

"Aye, but she came to me late. Don't be forget-

ting, lad—I was Erinn-raised. The magic there is

different. I'm different because of it."

 

Fever-clad weakness proved pervasive. Kellin

squinted at his cousin through a wave of fading

 

ISO Jennifer Roberson

 

vision. "I'm different, too, like you . .. will I get

my lir late?"

 

" Tis between you and the gods." Blais' callused

palm was gentle as he smoothed back dampened

hair. "Hush. now, lad. Don't waste yourself on

talking."

 

Kellin squirmed. "The Lion—"

 

" 'Twas a bear-trap, lad."

 

Kellin shut his eyes because it made him dizzy

to keep them open. "An Ihlini Lion . .." he as-

serted weakly, "and it was after me."

 

"Lad."

 

"—was—" Kellin insisted. "The Ihlini killed Ur-

chin. And Rogan."

 

"Kellin."

 

"They were my friends, and he killed them."

 

"Kellin!" Blais caught Kellin's head between

two strong hands, cupping the dome of skull eas-

ily- "No more of this. The healing comes first, then

we'll be talking of deaths. D'ye hear?"

 

"But—"

 

"Be still, my little prince. Homana has need of

you whole."

 

"But—"

 

And then the others were there, crowding into

the pavilion, and the wave of exhaustion that en-

gulfed Kellin was as much induced by the earth

magic as by his fever.

 

Voices intruded. The murmurs were quiet, but

they nonetheless broke apart Kellin's tattered

dreams and roused him to wakefulness.

 

"—harsh for any man to lose his closest com-

panions," Blais was saying from outside as he

pulled aside the door-flap. "For a lad, that much

the harder."

 

Light penetrated the interior, turning the inside

of Kellin's eyelids red. The answering voice was

 

A TAPESTRY OF LtOfVS

 

III

 

well-known and beloved. "Kellin has always seemed

older than his years," Brennan said as he entered

the pavilion. "Sometimes I forget he is naught but

a boy, and I try to make him into a man."

 

" 'Tis the risk any man takes with an heir, espe-

cially a prince." Blais let the door-flap drop, dim-

ming daylight again into a wan, saffron tint.

 

Brennan's voice was hollow. "He is more than

that to me. I lost Aidan—" He checked- "So, now

there is Kellin. In Aidan's place. In all things, in

Aidan's place. He was made to be Prince of Ho-

mana before he was even a boy, still but an infant

wetting his napkins."

 

Kellin cracked his lids slightly, only enough so

he could see the two men through a fuzzy fringe

of lashes. He did not want them to know he was

awake. He had learned very young that adults

overheard divulged more information than when

asked straight out.

 

Blais' laugh was soft as he settled himself near

the pallet. "You had no choice but to invest him

when you did. Aidan had renounced the title al-

ready, and / had come from Erinn. D'ye think I

am deaP I heard all the whispers, sufali ... had

you delayed Kellin's investiture, my presence here

in Homana might have given new heart to the

a'saii. Your claim on the Lion would have been

threatened again."

 

"I might have packed you off to Erinn," Bren-

nan suggested mildly.

 

"Might have tried, my lord Mujhar." Blais' tone

was amused as he gestured for his guest to seat

himself. "When has a warrior been made to do

anything he preferred not to do?"

 

Brennan sighed as he knelt down beside his

grandson. "Even Kellin. Even a ten-year-old boy."

 

The humor was banished. "He spoke of a lion,

and an Ihlini."

 

112 Jennifer Robersoa

 

The line ofBrennan's mouth tautened. "The lion

is something Kellin made up years ago. It is an

excuse for things he cannot explain. He is fanciful;

 

he conjures a beast from the lions in banners and

signets, and the throne itself. And because he has

been unfortunate to witness Ihini handiwork, he

interprets all the violence as the doings of this

lion."

 

"What handiwork?"

 

"The death of a fortune-teller. He was a for-

eigner and unknown to us, but his death stank of

sorcery."

 

"Lochiel," Blais said grimly.

 

"He knows very well Kellin offers the greatest

threat to the Ihlini."

 

"Like his father before him."

 

"But Aidan no longer matters. He sired the next

link, and that link now is the one Lochiel must

shatter." Brennan's fingertips gently touched Kel-

lin's brow. "It all comes to Kellin- Centuries of

planning all comes down to him."

 

Blais' tone was dry, for all it was serious. "Then

we had best see he survives."

 

"I have done everything I could. The boy has

been kept so closely it is no wonder he makes up

stories about lions. Had my jehan kept me so tied

to Homana-Mujhar, I would have gone mad. As it

is, I am not in the least surprised he found a way

to escape his imprisonment. But Urchin and Rogan

are also missing; I can only surmise they, too,

were lured away. No Ihlini could get in, and Kel-

lin is too well-guarded within the palace itself. He

would go nowhere without the Homanan boy, and

Rogan would never permit Kellin to leave if he

heard any whisper of it. So I believe we must look

at a clever trap set with the kind of bait that

would lure all of them out."

 

Blais' tone was grim. "An imaginary lion?"

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

113

 

Kellin could no longer hold himself back; his

eyes popped open. "There was a LionI"

 

"Cheysuli ears," Brennan said, brows arching,

"hear more than they should."

 

"There was," Kellin insisted. "It chased me into

the bear-trap . .. after Urchin and Rogan died."

 

Brennan shut his eyes. "More deaths."

 

Blais shifted. He sat cross-legged, one thigh

weighted down by the head of a ruddy wolf. His

expression was oddly blank as he stroked the wide

skull and scratched the base of the ears.

 

Brennan's momentary lapse was banished. He

was calm, unperturbed. "Tell us what happened,

Kellin. We must know everything."

 

Kellin delayed, testing his ankle. "It doesn't

hurt any more."

 

"Earth magic," Blais said. "You've a scar, but

the bones are whole."

 

"A scar?" Kellin peeled back the deerskin cover-

let and saw the bared ankle. Indeed, there was a

jagged ring of purplish "tooth" marks ringing his

ankle. He wiggled his foot again. There was no

pain.

 

" 'Twill fade," Blais told him. "I've more scars

than I can count, but hardly any of them show."

 

Kellin did not care about the scar; if anything,

it proved there was a Lion. He looked now at his

grandsire, putting aside the Lion to speak of an-

other grief. "It was Rogan," he said unsteadily.

"Rogan betrayed me to the Ihlini."

 

The Mujhar did not so much as twitch an eyelid.

The mildness of his tone was deceptive, but Kellin

knew it well: Brennan wanted very badly to know

the precise truth, without embellishments or sup-

positions. "You are certain it was he?"

 

"Aye." Kellin suppressed with effort the emo-

tions to which he longed to surrender. He would

be all Cheysuli in this. "He said he would take me

 

114 Jennifer Hoberson

 

to my jehan. That you knew we were to go, just

the three of us, but that we meant to go to Clan-

keep. He said he would send true word to you

where we were, but only after we were on our way

to Hondarth."

 

Brennan's face grayed. "Such a simple plan, and

certain to work. I was a fool. Lochiel has ways of

suborning even those I most value."

 

"Not money," Kellin said. "So he could have his

wife back. Only—" He checked himself, recalling

all too clearly the tiny dancing woman and Ro-

gan's horrible ending. "Corwyth killed him first.

With sorcery. And then Urchin." Pain formed a

knot in chest and throat. "Urchin's dead, too."

 

After a moment the Mujhar touched Kellin's

head briefly. Gently, he said, "You must tell me

everything you remember about how this was

done, and the Ihlini himself. Everything, Kellin, so

we may prepare for another attack."

 

"Another—?" Kellin stared hard at the Mujhar,

turning over the words. Realization made him

breathless. "They want to catch me. Corwyth said

so. He said he was taking me to Lochiel, in

Valgaard."

 

Brennan's expression was grim, but he did not

avoid candor. "You are important to the Ihlini,

Kellin, because of who you are, and the blood in

your veins. You know about that."

 

He did. Very well. Too well; it was all anyone

spoke of. "They won't stop, then." It seemed

obvious.

 

"No."

 

Kellin nodded, understanding more with each

moment. "That's why you set the dogs to guarding

me."

 

"Dogs? Ah." Brennan smiled faintly. "We dared

not allow you to go anywhere alone. Not in Muj-

hara, not even to Clankeep." His jaw tightened.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

ItS

 

,

i

 

!

 

"Do you recall how you sickened after your Nam-

ing Day feast?"

 

Kellin nodded, recalling with vivid clarity how

ill he had been after eating his meal. He had not

wanted fish for a sixth-month, after.

 

"Lochiel had no recourse to sorcery in order to

harm you, not so long as you remained in

Homana-Mujhar, or at Clankeep, but coin buys

people. He bribed a cook to poison the meal. We

were forced to take serious steps to safeguard Ho-

mana's prince, and his freedom suffered for it."

Brennan's words were stated with careful preci-

sion. "Rogan understood- Rogan knew why. He

comprehended fully how you were to be

protected."

 

That is why they were all so upset when 1 ran

away from the fortune-teller. Guilt flickered. "It was

after I heard you speaking with granddame. About

how my jehan would not have me see him." Kellin

swallowed heavily. "Rogan came and said he

would take me to my jehan."

 

Brennan's expression was bleak as he exchanged

a glance with Blais. "I have learned from this, too,

though I believed myself wise in such matters."

He sighed heavily. "Nearly every man has his

price. Most will deny it, claiming themselves in-

corruptible, but there is always something that

will lure them into betrayal- If they disbelieve it,

it is because they have not been offered that which

they most desire."

 

Rogan was offered his wife. Kellin wanted to pro-

test it. It hurt him deeply that Rogan had betrayed

him, but he understood his grandfather's words.

Hadn't he been bought by the promise of his

father?

 

"I would never submit to an Ihlini," he mut-

tered. "Never."

 

"And that is why you are here." Brennan smiled

 

116 Jennifer Roberaoa

 

faintly, tension easing from his features. "Tell us

everything."

 

Kellin did. By the time he was done he felt tears

in his eyes, and hated himself for them.

 

Blais shook his head. "There is no shame in hon-

est grief."

 

Brennan's tone was gentle. "Rogan was every-

thing to you for two years, and Urchin was your

best friend. We think no less of you because you

loved them."

 

Kellin let that go, thinking now of something

else. "You said something about me. To Blais, ear-

lier. That I offer the greatest threat to the Ihlini."

He looked first at Blais, then at the Mujhar. "What

harm can / do them?"

 

"You can bring down their House," Brennan

said quietly, "merely by siring a son."

 

It was incomprehensible. "Me?"

 

The Mujhar laughed. "You are young yet to

think of such things as sons, Kellin, but the day

will come when you are a man. Lochiel knows

this. With each passing year you become more

dangerous."

 

"Because of my blood." Kellin looked at the scar

ringing his ankle, recalling the warm wetness run-

ning down between his toes. "That blood."

 

Brennan took Kellin's wrist into his hand and

raised it, spreading the fingers with the pressure

of his thumb. "All the blood in here," he said. "In

this hand, in this arm, in this body. And the seed

in your loins, provided it quickens within the body

of a particular woman. Lochiel cannot risk allowing

you to sire that son."

 

"The prophecy," Kellin murmured, staring at

his hand. He tried to look beneath the flesh to

bone and muscle, and the blood that was so

special.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LWHS           117

 

"The Firstborn reborn," Blais said- "The bane

of the Ihlini. The end of Asar-Suti."

 

Kellin looked at his grandfather. "They died be-

cause of me. Rogan. Urchin. The fortune-teller.

Didn't they?"

 

Brennan closed the small hand inside his own

adult one. "It is the heaviest burden a man can

know. Men who are kings—and boys who are

princes—carry more of them than most."

 

His chest was full of pain. "Will more die,

grandsire? Just because of me?"

 

Brennan did not lie. He did not look away. "Al-

most certainly."

 

Nine

 

Kellin felt important and adult: Brennan had said

he might have a small cup of honey brew, the

powerful Cheysuli liquor. He knew it was his

grandfather's way of making him feel safe and

loved after his encounter with tragedy, so he

sipped slowly, savoring the liquor and the intent,

not wanting the moment to end because he felt for

the first time as if they believed him grown, or

nearly so. Nearly was better than not; he grinned

into the clay cup.

 

The Mujhar was not present. When Brennan re-

turned to the pavilion, he, Kellin, and Blais would

depart for Homana-Mujhar, but for the moment

Kellin was required to stay with his cousin. Bren-

nan met with the clan-leader to discuss the kinds

of things kings and clan-leaders discuss; Kellin

had heard some of it before and found it tedious-

He was much more interested in his kinsman, who

was fascinating as a complex mixture of familiar

and exotic.

 

An Erinnish Cheysuli with Homanan in his

blood, Blais did not took anything but Cheysuli,

yet his accent and attitude were different. The lat-

ter was most striking to Kellin. Blais seemed less

concerned with excessive personal dignity than

with being content within his spirit; if that spirit

were more buoyant than most, he gave it free rein

regardless.

 

118

 

A TAPESTRY OF LlOIVS              119

 

At this moment Blais was working on a bow,

replacing the worn leather handgrip with new. His

head was bent over his work and a lock of thick

black hair obscured part of his face. Lt'r-gold

gleamed. Next to him sprawled sleeping Tanni,

toes twitching in wolf dreams.

 

"It could be you," Kellin blurted. "Couldn't it?"

 

Blais did not look up from his handiwork.

"What could, lad?"

 

"You," Kellin repeated. "The man in the proph-

ecy. The man whose blood can do the things every-

one wants it to do."

 

Now Blais raised his head. "My blood?"

 

"Aye. You are Cheysuli, Erinnish, and Homa-

nan. You are halfway there."

 

"Ah, but you are all the way there, my lad. I've

no Solindish or Atvian blood bubbling in my

veins." Blais' face creased in a smile. "You've no

fear of me usurping your place."

 

"But you're older. You are a warrior." Kellin

looked at Tanni. "You have a Ur."

 

"And so will you, in but a handful of years."

Strong fingers moved skillfully as Blais rewrapped

the leather.

 

"But I heard you," Kellin said quietly, grappling

with new ideas. "You talked to grandsire about

the a'saii."

 

The hands stilled abruptly. This time Blais' gaze

was sharp. "I said something of it, aye. You see,

lad—I have i.iore cause to concern myself with

a'saii than any warrior alive."

 

"They were traitors," Kellin declared. "Rogan

told me—" He cut it off abruptly. "Grandsire said

they wanted to overthrow the proper succession

and replace it with another."

 

"So they did." Blais' tone was noncommittal.

"They were Cheysuli who feared the completion

of the prophecy would end their way of life."

 

120

 

"Will it?"

 

Blais shrugged. "Things will change, aye .. . but

perhaps not so much as the a'saii fear."

 

"Do you?" Kellin needed to know. "Do you fear

it, Blais?"

 

An odd expression crossed Blais' smooth, dark

face. For only a moment, black brows pulled to-

gether. Then he smiled crookedly. "I fear losing

what I have only just found," he admitted evenly.

"I was born here, Kellin. Keep-bom, but reared in

Erinn a very long way away. Customs are different

in Erinn. I was a part of them, but also longed for

others. My jehana taught me what she could of the

language and customs of Cheysuli, but she was

half Erinnish herself, and now wed to an Erinnish-

man. It was Keely who taught me more, who

showed me what earth magic was, and what it

could bring me." His smile was warmly reminis-

cent. "She suggested I come here, to find out who

I was."

 

Kellin was fascinated. "Did you?"

 

"Oh, aye. Enough to know I belong here." Blais

grinned, caressing Tanni's head. "I may not sound

all Cheysuli, but in spirit I am."

 

"Why," Kellin began, "do you have more cause

to concern yourself with a'saii than any warrior

alive?"

 

Blais' brows arched. "You've a good ear to recall

that so perfectly."

 

Kellin shrugged, dismissing it. "The a'saii are

disbanded. Grandsire said so."

 

"Formally, aye. But convictions are hard to kill.

There are those who still keep themselves apart

from other clans."

 

"But you stay here."

 

"Clankeep is my home. I serve the prophecy as

much as any warrior. As much as you will, once

you are grown."

 

A TAPESTRY or LIONS           121

 

Kellin nodded absently. "But why do you have

cause?"

 

Blais sighed, hands tightening on the bow. "Be-

cause it was my grandsire who began the a'saii,

Kellin. Ceinn wanted to replace Niall's son—your

grandsire, Brennan—with his own son, Teiman.

There was justification, Ceinn claimed, because

Teiman was the son of the Mujhar's sister."

 

"Isolde," Kellin put in; he recalled the names

from lessons.

 

"Aye. Isolde. Niall's rujhoUa."

 

"And lan's."

 

Blais grinned. "And lan's."

 

"But why you'?"

 

Blais' grin faded. "Teiman was my father. When

I came here from Erinn, those who were a'saii

thought I should be named Prince of Homana

when your father renounced his title."

 

Kellin was astonished. "In my place?"

 

Blais nodded.

 

"In my place." It was incomprehensible to Kel-

lin, who could not imagine anyone else in his own

place. He had been Prince of Homana all his life.

"But—I was named."

 

"Aye. As the Mujhar desired."

 

Something occurred. "What about you?" Kellin

asked. "Did you want the title?"

 

Blais laughed aloud. "I was reared by a man

who is the Lord of Erinn's bastard brother. I spent

many years at Kilore—I know enough of royalty

and the responsibilities of rank to want no part of

it." He leaned forward slightly, placing the tip of

his forefinger on Kellin's t.'-ow. "You, my young

lad, will be the one to hold the Lion."

 

"Oh, no," Kellin blurted. "I have to kill it, first."

 

Blais stilled. "Kill it?"

 

Kellin was matter-of-fact. "Before it kills all of

MS."

 

122 Jennifer Robersoa

 

When Kellin—with grandfather, cousin, and nu-

merous liveried and armored guardsmen—entered

the inner bailey of Homana-Mujhar, he discovered

it clogged to bursting with strange horses and ser-

vants. Horse-boys ran this way and that, grasping

at baggage-train horses even as they gathered in

the mounts of dismounting riders; servants shouted

at one another regarding the unloading; while the

bailey garrison, clad in Mujharan scarlet, did its

best to sort things out.

 

The Mujhar himself, trapped in the center of the

bailey as his horse restively rang shod hoofs off

cobbles, finally ran out of patience. "By the blood

of the Lion—" Brennan began, and then broke off

abruptly as a tall man came out of the palace

doorway to stand at the top of the steps.

 

"Have I made a mess of all your Mujharish maj-

esty?" the man called over the din. "Well, doubt-

less you are in dire need of humbling anyway."

 

"Hart!" Brennan cried. "By the gods—Hart\"

 

Kellin watched in surprise as his grandsire hast-

ily threw himself down from his mount and joined

the throng, pushing through toward the steps.

Brennan mounted them three at a time, then en-

folded the other man in a huge, hard hug.

 

"Su'fali," Kellin murmured, then grinned at

Blais. "Su'fali to both of us. Hart, come from

Solinde!"

 

"So I see," Blais squinted over the crowd. "They

are two blooms from the same bush."

 

"But Hart has blue eyes. And only one hand; an

enemy had the other one cut off." Kellin followed

Brennan's lead, climbing down with less skill than

his longer-legged grandfather, and then he, too,

was swallowed up by the crowd. Kellin could see

nothing, neither grandfather, great-uncle, nor steps.

 

He considered ducking under the bellies of all

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           123

 

the horses, but reconsidered when he thought

about the kicks he risked. Like Brennan before

him, if with less success, Kellin shoved his way

through the milling throng of baggage train and

household attendants. Solindish, all of them; he

recognized the accent.

 

His path was more difficult, but at last Kellin

reached the steps and climbed to the top- His

grandsire and great-uncle had left off hugging, but

the warm glints in their eyes—one pair blue, the

other yellow—were identical.

 

So is everything else, except for Hart's missing

hand. Kellin looked at the leather-cuffed stump,

wondering what it was like to be restricted to a

single hand. And Hart had lost more than a hand;

 

the old Cheysuli custom of kin-wrecking still held.

He was, because of his maiming, no longer consid-

ered in the clans to be a warrior despite his blood

and his Ur, the great hawk known as Rael.

 

Kellin glanced up. Spiraling in a lazy circle over

the palace rooftops was the massive raptor, black

edging on each feather delineating wings against

the blue of the sky. / may have a hawk when I am

a warrior—

 

"Kellin!" Brennan's hand closed over a shoul-

der. "Kellin, here is your kinsman. You have never

seen him, I know, but to know who Hart is a man

need only look at me."

 

"But you are different," Kellin said after a brief

inspection. "You seem older, grandsire."

 

It brought a shout of delighted laughter from

Hart, who struck his twin-born rujholli a sharp

blow with his only hand. "There. You see? I have

said it myself—"

 

"Nonsense." Brennan arched a single brow.

"You surely count more gray in your hair than I."

 

"No," Kellin said doubtfully, which moved Hart

to laughter again.

 

124 Jennifer Roberson

 

"Well, we are very like," the Mujhar's twin said.

"If there are differences, it is because the Lion is

a far more difficult taskmaster than my own

Solinde."

 

"Has Solinde thrown you out?" Kellin asked. "Is

that why you have come?"

 

Hart grinned. "And lose the best lord she ever

had? No, I am not banished, nor am I toppled as

Bellam was toppled by Carillon. The Solindish

love me, now—or, if not love, they tolerate me

well enough." He tapped the cuffed stump on top

of Kellin's head. "Erinnish eyes, Kellin. Where is

the Cheysuli in you?"

 

"You have Homanan eyes," Kellin retorted,

"And now your hair is gray; mine is all over

black."

 

"Sharp eyes, and a sharper wit," Brennan said

dryly. "The Erinnish side, I think."

 

Hart nodded, smiling, as he assessed his young

kinsman, "You are small for twelve, but your

growth may come late. Corin's did."

 

"I am ten," Kellin corrected. "Tall enough for

ten; grandsire says so."

 

"Ten." Hart shot a glance at Brennan. "I mis-

counted, then."

 

"Aging, are you?" Brennan's eyes were alight.

"Forgetting things already?"

 

Hart demurred at once. "I merely lost track, no

more. But I did think him older."

 

"Does it matter?" Brennan asked, laughing- "I

am hardly infirm, rujho, The Lion will yet be mine

a while. Kellin should be well-grown before he

inherits."

 

"I was not thinking of thrones, rujho, but of

weddings."

 

"Weddings! Kellin's? By the gods, Hart—"

 

"Wait you." Hart put up his hand to silence

his brother. "Before you begin shouting at me,

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

125

 

as you have always done—" he grinned, eyes

alight, "—it is for you to say, of course. And now

that I see he is so young, perhaps it is too soon."

 

"Too soon for what?" Kellin asked. "A wedding?

Whose? Mine?"

 

Hart laughed- "So full of questions, harani."

 

"Mine?" Kellin repeated.

 

Hart sighed, scratching idly at his beardless

chin. "I have a daughter—"

 

Brennan interrupted in mock asperity. "You

have four of them. Which one do you mean?"

 

Hart's shrug was lopsided. "Dulcie is thirteen,

which is closer to Kellin than the twins. And—"

He shrugged again, letting go what he had begun.

"There is reason for this, rujho ... we will speak

of it later."

 

"Too young," Brennan said.

 

Hart's eyes were speculative. "Too young to

marry, perhaps, but not for a betrothal."

 

"This can wait," Brennan said- "Let us be ruj-

holli again before we must be rulers."

 

Hart sighed heavily. "That may be difficult. I

have all of them with me."

 

"Who?"

 

"They wanted to come," Hart continued. "All

but Biythe. She carries her first child after all this

time, so we thought it best she remain behind. It

will be my first grandchild, after all."

 

Diverted, Brennan stared at him. "Is she wed?

When? I thought Biythe intended never to marry."

 

"She did not, after Tevis—" Hart paused to cor-

rect himself, gritting the name through his teeth.

"—after Lochiel." He forced himself to relax, blue

eyes bright in remembered anger. "But she met a

Solindishman of respectable family with whom

she fell in love after much too long alone; she is

past thirty." Hart grinned. "And she would be

quite put out if she heard me say that. But she

 

126 Jennifer Roberson

 

and her lordling married eight months ago, and

now there will be a child."

 

"But the rest .. ." Brennan glanced around.

"They are here?"

 

"All of them."

 

"lisa?"

 

"All of them. They insisted. My girls are—" he

paused delicately, "—somewhat firm in their con-

victions."

 

Brennan eyed him. "You never were one for self-

discipline, Hart. Why should I expect you to be

capable of ruling your daughters when you never

could rule yourself?"

 

"I understand discipline quite well, leijhana.

tu'sai," Hart retorted. "But there are times when

my girls make such things difficult."

 

Brennan studied Hart a moment. "You have not

changed at all, have you?"

 

Hart grinned unrepentantly. "No,"

 

"Good." Brennan clapped him on the back.

"Now, come inside."

 

It was abrupt, if unintended, but dismissal

nonetheless; they turned as one and strode into

the palace without a word or a glance to the boy

they knew as the Prince of Homana.

 

"Wait!" But they were gone, and a hand was on

K-ellin's shoulder, pulling him back.

 

"Begrudge them nothing, lad." It was Blais,

smiling faintly as he moved to stand beside Kellin.

 

"But what about me?" Kellin was aggrieved.

"Grandsire dismissed the Lion, and now they dis-

miss me"

 

"They were twin-born, my lad, linked by far

more than a simple brother-bond. And they've not

seen one another, I am told, for nearly twenty

years."

 

"Twenty years!" Kellin gaped. "I could have

been bom twice over!"

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            127

 

Blais nodded. "When you are a king, 'tis not so

easy to find the time—or the freedom—to go

where you will. Hart and Brennan are halves of a

whole, parted by title and realm for much too long

a time." He briefly touched Kellin's shoulder. "Let

them be whole again, lad. They'll be having time

for you later."

 

Kellin scowled. "And weddings, too?"

 

"Weddings! What has this to do with wed-

dings?" But as Blais stared after his vanished un-

cles, his expression changed. "Aye, it could be

that. 'Tis a topic of much import in royal Houses."

He grinned. "Thank the gods / am not in line for

a throne, or surely they'd be disposing of me, too!"

 

"And me?" Kellin demanded. "Am I to be mar-

ried off with no say in the matter?"

 

Blais did not appear unduly concerned. " 'Tis

likely," he confirmed. "You're to be Mujhar of Ho-

mana. one day. I'll not doubt there've been letters

about your future bride since you were formally

invested."

 

"Ckeysula," Kellin said darkly, proving to his

cousin he knew the Old Tongue, too, "and I'll

choose my own."

 

"Will you. now?" Blais ran a hand through thick

black hair, mouth quirking in wry amusement.

" 'Tis what Keely claimed of herself, when she

chafed at her betrothal—but in the end she wed

the man they promised her to."

 

"Scan." Kellin nodded. "I know all about that."

He was not interested in his great-aunt, whom he

had never met. He cast a speculative glance up at

his kinsman. "Then you are not promised?"

 

Blais laughed. "Nor likely to be. I'm content to

share my time with this woman, or that one, with-

out benefit of betrothals."

 

Keilin understood. "Meijhas," he said. "How

many, Blais?"

 

128 Jennifer Robersoa

 

"Many." Blais grinned. "Would I be admitting

how many? A warrior does not dishonor his meij-

has by discussing them casually."

 

"Many," Kellin murmured. He grinned back at

his cousin. "Then I'll have many, too."

 

Blais sighed and clapped his hand upon a slen-

der shoulder. "No doubt you will. No prince I ever

knew lacked for company. Now—shall we go in?

I'm for meeting these Solindish kin of ours."

 

Ten

 

In short order Blais and Kellin met all of the

Solindish kin en masse in Aileen's sunny solar.

The chamber seemed small of a sudden. Kellin

duly took note of all his assorted kinfolk: lisa, the

Lady of Solinde, with her profusion of white-

blonde hair and gloriously expressive gray eyes;

 

the middle daughters Cluna and Jennet, twins like

Hart and Brennan, who reflected their mother's

coloring and the beginnings of her beauty aug-

mented by Cheysuli heritage; and Dulcie, the

youngest—the girl whom Hart had said might be-

come Kellin's cheysula.

 

To the latter daughter Kellin paid the most at-

tention. His knowledge of weddings and marriages

was slight, but he took it more personally now

that his name had been linked with hers.

 

He was, however, briefly distracted. Blais, whom

he had decided was everything a warrior should

be—and his rescuer, to boot—was all of a sudden

different. It was a subtle difference Kellin could

not name; he knew only that Blais' attention to

his young cousin was oddly diverted, as if some-

thing else far more fascinating had caught his at-

tention- Kellin understood none of it—Cluna and

Jennet seemed silly girls to him, and not worth

more time than was necessary to be polite—but

Blais seemed most disposed to speak with both of

them for a very long time.

 

129

 

130 Jennifer Robersoa

 

Soon enough Blais offered to escort both Cluna

and Jennet on a tour of Homana-Mujhar; and the

adults suggested that what they had to say to one

another was better said without Dulcie's and Kel-

lin's presence. Kellin was instructed to do as Blais

did: show his cousin every corner of the palace.

 

Outside in the corridor, Kellin glared muti-

nously at the closed door. No one has time for me.

The Lion nearly ate me, but no one thinks about

THAT—

 

Beside him, Dulcie laughed. "They set their

traps for him."

 

Kellin scowled. "What do you mean?" He thought

uncomfortably of the bear-trap, conjured by her

words.

 

"Traps," she said succinctly- "They are frivolous

women, both of them, only concerned with what

is required to catch a handsome man." She gri-

maced wryly. "I saw it; didn't you?"

 

Kellin had not. "Of course I did," he said forth-

rightly, denying his ignorance.

 

Dulcie eyed him. "He is a handsome man, as

Cheysuli go; I see now we are all alike, save for

some differences in color." She grinned. "Your

eyes are green; mine at least are yellow, like a

proper Cheysuli's should be."

 

And proper she was, black-haired and yellow-

eyed with skin the same coppery hue as Blais' and

every other Cheysuli Kellin had seen. Dulcie was

young—twelve?—but clearly was Cheysuli in all

respects.

 

Kellin felt a twinge of self-consciousness; just

now, faced with Dulcie—and having met Blais—he

wanted very much to be as Cheysuli as possible. "I

will be Mujhar." He thought it a good offense.

 

Dulcie nodded. "One of the reasons they want

us to marry." She twined a strand of black hair

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

131

 

into fingers and began twisting it. "Do vou want

to?"

 

Kellin stared at her. How could she be so

matter-of-fact about it? Importantly, he said,

"That is something I will have to consider."

 

Dulcie burst out laughing. "You consider? They

will no more abide by what you wish—or me—

than a stud horse minds his rider when a mare in

season is near."

 

Kellin had not thought of it that way. "But if I

am to be Mujhar, they must listen to me."

 

Dulcie shook her head. Her brows were straight,

serious bars across a sculpted brow. She wore

black hair in dozens of braids tied into a single

plait and beaded at the bottom. "They will listen

to no one, only to the prophecy." Dulcie grimaced.

"I have had it stuffed into my ears often enough.

It is all about blood, Kellin, and the need to mix

it correctly. Don't you see?"

 

Kellin did not, though once again he claimed he

did. "I am the one who is to sire the Firstborn,"

he declared. "Everyone says so."

 

Dulcie grinned. "Not without a woman!"

 

Color stained Kellin's face. "Is that supposed to

be you?"

 

She shrugged, twisting hair again. "What else

do you suppose they talk about behind that door

but inches in front of your face? They will have us

betrothed by supper."

 

Kellin glared at her- "Why to you? Why not to

Cluna, or Jennet?"

 

"They are too old for you," Dulcie said matter -

of-factly, "and likely by now they have both set

their caps for Blais. I think neither of them wants

a boy for a husband."

 

It stung. "I am nearly eleven."

 

"And I nearly thirteen." Clearly, Dulcie was un-

dismayed by his youth. "It has to do with the

 

132 Jennifer Roberson

 

blood, as I said. There is only one bloodline left to

get, Kellin—the one bloodline no Cheysuli desires

to acknowledge. But how else do they expect to

get the Firstborn? It wants Ihlini blood."

 

He was startled, recalling Corwyth, and Lo-

chiel's designs. "Ihlini!"

 

"Think about it," Dulcie said impatiently. "They

need it from somewhere, from someone who fa-

vors the prophecy."

 

"But not an Ihlini—"

 

"Kellin." Her tone was exasperated. "That is

why my father is proposing you and I wed. To get

the Ihlini blood."

 

"But—" It was preposterous. "You do not have—"

 

"Aye," Dulcie answered, "I do. We all of us do:

 

Biythe, Cluna, Jennet, and me. Because of our

mother."

 

"But she is Solindish."

 

Dulcie's tone was freighted with condescension.

"Solinde was the birthplace of Ihlini, Kellin. Re-

member the stories of how they broke away from

the Firstborn and left Homana?"

 

He did. He had not thought of those stories in

years. "Then—" Kellin frowned. He did not like

the implication. "Then the Ihlini are not so differ-

ent from the a'saii."

 

Dulcie smiled. "Now you begin to understand."

 

He eyed her assessively. "Can you conjure

godfire?"

 

"Of course not. The Ihlini blood in us goes back

more than two hundred years. No arts remain in

our House." Dulcie shrugged. "Electra learned a

few tricks, but nothing more. Tynstar did not

share the Seker's blood with her."

 

He frowned. "Then why should it matter now?"

 

"Because no Cheysuli warrior would ever lie

down with an Ihlini woman," Dulcie replied. "At

least—not a willing one. So they will marry us off

 

A TAPESTRY OF LsoffS            133

 

and hope for the best ... if for no other reason

than to keep the Ihlini from making their own

through you."

 

"Through me?"

 

Dulcie sighed. "Are you stupid? If the Ihlini

caught you and made you lie with an Ihlini

woman, there could be a child. It would be the

child." She laughed at his expression. "The Ihlini

would use you, Kellin, like a prize Cheysuli stud."

 

Within hours he was full to bursting on kin-

folk—and most of them female, at that, full of gos-

sip and laughter—and so to escape, Kellin went to

his own chamber and climbed up into his huge

bed. He made mountains and hillocks of his cover-

let, then planned his own campaigns as Carillon

and Donal must have planned them years before,

when Homana was at war,

 

"With Solinde," he muttered. He was not at the

moment disposed to like Solinde, since she had

managed to produce a twelve-year-old girl who

believed he was stupid.

 

The knock at the door was soft, but persistent.

Kellin, startled from his game, called out crossly

for the person to enter.

 

Aileen came in, not a servant at all. Her hair,

rust threaded with silver, was bound in braids

around her head with pins that glittered in sun-

light. Her green gown was simple but elegant. She

wore around her throat a fortune in gold: the

mountain cat torque that marked her Brennan's

cheysula.

 

Is that what Dulcie expects from me? Kellin

jerked flat his coverlet and slid out of the bed to

stand politely. "Aye, granddame?"

 

"Sit." Aileen waved him back onto the bed, then

sat down on the edge herself. "Kellin—"

 

Whenever he spoke with Aileen he unconsciously

 

134 Jeaaffer Rohersoa

 

echoed the lilt of her accent. He blurted it out all

at once before she could finish. " "Tis done, isn't

it? You've betrothed us."

 

Aileen arched reddish brows. "The idea doesn't

please you, then?"

 

"No." He fidgeted, self-conscious; he liked his

granddame very much and did not want to upset

her, but he felt he had to tell the truth. "I want

to choose for myself."

 

The faintest of creases deepened at the corner of

Aileen's eyes. "Aye, of course you do. So did I. So

did Brennan. But—"

 

"But I can't, can I?" he challenged forthrightly.

" Tis like Dulcie said: you'll do whatever you

want."

 

The Queen of Homana sighed. " 'Tis true those of

royalty have little freedom in matters of marriage."

 

" 'Tisn't fair," Kellin asserted. "You tell me I

will have power when I am grown, but then I am

told whom I must marry. That is no power."

 

"No," she agreed quietly. "I had none, nor

Conn, whom I wanted to marry in place of

Brennan."

 

"In place of—grandsire?" It was a completely

new thought. "You wanted to marry my su'fali?"

 

"Aye."

 

He blinked. "But you were already betrothed to

grandsire."

 

"Aye, so I was. It did not lessen the wanting,

Kellin; it was Corin I loved." Her green eyes were

kind. "I know this may shock you, but I thought

it fair to tell you. You are young, but not so young

the truth should be kept from you, even those

truths of men and woman."

 

"But you married grandsire."

 

"Aye. It was agreed upon before I was born: Ni-

all's oldest son would marry Liam's daughter."

She shrugged, mouth twisted awry. "And so I was

 

A TAPESTHV W SJOIW

 

139

 

born betrothed; it was only later, when Corin

came to Erinn, that I realized how binding—and

how wrong—the agreement was. I fell in love with

Corin and he with me, but he was the stronger

person. He said the betrothal must stand, and

sailed away to Atvia."

 

"He married Glyn." He had never seen her—he

had seen only Hart of his scattered kin—but he

knew of the mute woman Corin had wed.

 

"Years later, aye. But then / was wed, and a

mother, and my future was utterly settled."

 

Kellin digested all of it. "You are telling me that

I should marry Dulcie."

 

Aileen smiled. "No."

 

It stilled him a moment. "No?"

 

"I told them to give you time, both of you time;

 

to let you grow to adulthood. You've been kept

close most of your life, Kellin, and 'we owe you

some measure of freedom." An odd expression

crossed her face. "The kind of freedom I had once.

before coming to Homana."

 

Relief overflowed. "Leijhana tu'sai, granddame!"

 

Aileen laughed. "One day marriage will not be

such a chore, my lad. That I promise."

 

"Was it a chore for you?"

 

The question stopped her. Aileen's eyes filled

with memories he could not know, and were not

shared with him. "For a very long time, it was,"

she answered finally. "But not any longer."

 

"Why?"

 

"Because when I allowed myself to stop re-

senting my marriage; when I stopped resenting

the Cheysuli tahlmorra that dictated I sleep with

Brennan instead of with Corin, I fell in love with

your grandsire." Her smile was poignant. "And so

now I have a new regret: that I wasted so much

time in not loving him."

 

Kellin could only stare at his grandmother.

 

136 Jmoffer JtoAe—on

 

There were no words for what he felt; he knew

only that he was young, too young after all, to

begin to understand the complexities of adulthood.

 

Something new came into his head. "Did my

jehana love my fehan?"

 

Aileen's mouth softened. "Very much, Kellin.

'Twas a match few people experience."

 

He nodded dutifully, uncomprehending. "But

she died when I was born." He looked searchingly

at Aileen. "Is that why he hates me? Is that why

he gave me up and went away—because I killed

his cheystda?"

 

Aileen's face drained. "Oh, Kellin, no! Oh, gods,

is that what you've been thinking all these years?"

She murmured something more in Erinnish, then

caught him into her arms and pulled him close.

"I'll swear on anything you like that your birth

did not kill her, nor did it drive your father away.

He gave you up because it was his tahlmorra to do

so."

 

"But you believe he was wrong."

 

She withdrew a little to look into his face.

"Have you a touch of the kivama, lad? Have you

been hiding the truth from us?"

 

"No," he blurted, intrigued. "What is it?"

 

"D'ye know what people feel?" She touched her

breast. "D'ye know what is in their hearts?"

 

Perplexed, he frowned. "No. I just saw it in your

face."

 

Aileen relaxed, laughing a little. "Aye, well—'tis

a gift and a curse, my lad. Aidan had it in full

measure, and Shona—'twould come as no surprise

if it manifested in you."

 

Kellin was bewildered. " 'Twas in your face,

granddame—and your voice." And what I heard

you say to grandsire once before. But that he would

not admit.

 

Aileen hugged him again briefly, then surrend-

 

A TWESTHY W LIONS            137

 

ered him to the bed as she rose and shook out her

skirts. "I think he was wrong," she said firmly. "I

always have. But I'm a woman, Kellin—and though

I'll not swear a man loves his child less, he's not

borne that babe in his body. Aidan did as he be-

lieved he had to, to please the gods and his tahl-

morra. And one day, / promise, you will ask him

to his face how he could do such a thing."

 

He heard the underlying hostility in her tone.

"But not yet."

 

Aileen's lips compressed. "Not yet."

 

After a moment Kellin nodded. It was a familiar

refrain. "Well," he said easily, "once I have killed

the Lion, he will have to let me see him."

 

"Oh, Kellin—"

 

"I will," he declared. "I will kill it. And then I

shall go to the Crystal Isle and show jehan the

head."

 

Aileen's mouth, he saw, was filled with all man-

ner of protest. But she made none of them. With

tears in her eyes, the Erinnish Queen of Homana

left her grandson quite alone.

 

Eleven

 

Blais' door was ajar. Candlelight crept from the

room into the corridor, slotted between door and

jamb; Kellin peeked in carefully, not wanting to

discover that Blais was not alone at all, but ac-

companied by Cluna, or Jennet, or Cluna and Jen-

net. They had taken up entirely too much of Blais'

time, Kellin felt. It was his turn for his cousin's

attention.

 

He paused there in the slot. He saw no female

cousins. Only Blais himself, sprawled across the

great tester bed with his lir, lovely Tanni, who lay

upon her back with legs spread and underparts

exposed in elaborate pleasure as Blais stroked

belly fur. In that moment she was dog, not wolf;

 

Kellin felt a pang of hope that perhaps he, too,

would gain a wolf.

 

Then again, there was lovely black Sleeta, his

grandsire's mountain cat, and Hart's magnificent

Rael. There were so many wonderful fir in the

world; surely the gods would see to it he gained

the perfect one-

 

Blais" arm moved in slow repetition as he

stroked Tanni. He lay on his belly, torso propped

up on one elbow. Thick black hair fell forward

over his shoulders. He wore no jerkin, only leg-

gings; gold shone dully in candlelight against the

bronzing of his flesh.

 

138

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

139

 

Someday I will have such gold. Kellin wet his

lips. "Blais?"

 

Blais glanced up. Tanni flopped over on her side

and bent her head around to inspect Kellin.

"Aye?" Blais beckoned, smiling. "Come in, come

in—we have no secrets, Tanni and I—and if I

wanted privacy I would have shut the door."

 

Kellin slipped through the slot between door

and jamb. Linked behind his back, both hands

clutched an object. "I have a question."

 

His cousin's black brows arched. "Aye?"

 

He sucked in a deep breath. "Are you going back

to Solinde with them?"

 

"Solinde!" Blais sat upright, shaking hair away

from his face. "Why would I go to Solinde?"

 

"Because of—them." Abashed, Kellin stared at

the floor.

 

"Who?" Blais began, and then he cut off the

question. "Why do you ask, Kellin?"

 

Miserably, Kellin looked up to meet Blais' steady

gaze. "I saw you," he whispered. "Earlier today,

on the sentry-walk."

 

"Ah." Blais nodded.

 

"You were kissing Jennet."

 

"Cluna."

 

It stopped Kellin's attempt at explanation.

"Cluna? But. I thought—"

 

Blais laughed. "You were thinking 'twas Jennet

I wanted? Well, aye, and so it was—yesterday.

Today 'twas Cluna." He shifted into a cross-legged

position, one hand tugging gently at Tanni's ear.

"You see, Cluna wanted to sample what her ruj-

holla had tasted the day before. They compete in

everything." He shrugged, grinning. "I accommo-

dated them both."

 

Kellin was bewildered. "Then which one will

you marry?"

 

"Marry!" Then Blais laughed. "Gods, Kellin—

 

140 Jennifer Roberson

 

neither. Were you thinking I would? No. I'll not go

to Solinde, and I'm doubting either of them could

bear to live at Clankeep. There is too much of So-

linde in them." He smiled more warmly at his

cousin. "Were you thinking I meant to desert

you?"

 

Without warning tears welled up. Kellin was as-

tonished and ashamed, but there was a thing he

had to say. "I have no one left," he explained un-

steadily. "Only you. Urchin and Rogan—" He bit

into his lip. "There is grandsire and granddame,

but it isn't the same. 'Tisn't like true friends; they

have to like me. But you , . . well—" he swallowed

heavily, spilling it all at once. "I will be Mujhar

one day, I would have need of a liege man."

 

Blais' face was still- Only his eyes were alive in

the dark mask: fierce and bright and yellow.

 

Kellin felt all of his muscles knot up. He'll refuse

me—he will say no. He wanted it so badly, and yet

he knew it was unlikely. They were years and

worlds apart, and very different in nature.

 

Blais' tone was muted. "I had not expected

this."

 

Panic nearly overwhelmed. "Have I offended

you?"

 

"Offended! That the Prince of Homana desires

me to be his liege man?" Blais shook his head.

"No, there is no offense in this—only honor. And

I never believed myself worthy of such honor."

 

"But you are!" Kellin cried. "You saved me

from the bear-trap, and the Lion. Your worth is

proved. And—and there is no one else I would

have."

 

Blais stared hard at Tanni, as if he feared to

give away too much if he looked at Kellin. "There

has been no liege man in Homana-Mujhar since

lan died."

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

141

 

"He would approve," Kellin said. "He would say

you are worthy."

 

Blais smiled faintly. "Then how could I refuse?"

Levity faded again. He was suddenly very solemn.

"I will serve you gladly, my lord."

 

Kellin sighed. From behind his back he took the

knife and showed it to Blais. It was gold and steel,

with a rampant lion twisted about the hilt. Its

eye was a single ruby. Softly, he said, "There is a

ceremony."

 

Blais rose from the bed, knelt upon the floor,

and drew his own Cheysuli long-knife. Without

hesitation he placed the blade against the inside

of his left wrist and cut into the flesh. "I swear,"

he said quietly, "by this blood; by my name and

honor and lir, that I will serve as liege man to

Kellin of Homana as long as he will have me."

Blood ran from the knife cut and dripped crimson

on the stone floor. "Will you have me, my lord?"

 

Wonder welled in Kellin's breast. "I will." And

then, quoting the words he had learned long ago:

 

"Y'ja'hai. Tu'jhalla dei. Tahlmorra lujhala mei wic-

can, cheysu."

 

"Ja'hai-na," Blais responded. Then he offered

his bloodied knife to his lord and took the other

in return.

 

Kellin looked down upon the Cheysuli weapon

with its wolf-head hilt. He felt the tears well up,

but he did not care. / am not alone any more.

 

He awoke sweating near dawn, disoriented and

fearful. He felt oppressed, squashed flat by dread. —

Lion—

 

Kellin wanted to whimper. How could it come

to pass? Blais was in the palace. Blais was his

liege man. The Lion could not withstand a sworn

Cheysuli liege man.

 

The flesh rose on his bones. "Lion," he mur-

 

142 Jennifer Roberson

 

mured. And then, searching for strength, "Tahl-

morra lujhala mei wiccan, cheysu."

 

But the sense of dread increased.

 

Kellin wanted Blais. Together they might van-

quish the beast forever. But to summon Blais

meant he had to get out of bed.

 

Kellin shuddered, biting into his bottom lip. He

smelled the tang of fear on his flesh and hated

himself for it. His scarred ankle ached, though he

knew it completely healed.

 

"Cheysuli," he choked, squeezing his eyes tightly

shut. "A warrior, someday." Warriors were brave.

Warriors did what required doing.

 

From beneath his pillow he took the Cheysuli

long-knife bestowed by his liege man. Stiffly,

slowly, Kellin slid down from his bed. He wore

only a sleeping tunic that reached to mid-thigh;

 

bare toes dug into the stone floor as if he might

take root. You have a liege man. He will fend off

the. Lion. He clutched the knife in both hands, then

crept out of his room into the corridor beyond-

False dawn, he thought; even the servants still

slept. An ideal time for a lion to stalk the halls.

 

Kellin chewed his lips painfully, then unclenched

his teeth. With the knife as his ward, he moved

slowly and deliberately toward the door that was

Blais', so far down the corridor as to be a league

away.

 

Kellin pushed open the door. Candlelight from

the corridor cressets spilled inside, illuminating

the chamber. Kellin saw tousled black hair, the

gleam of a Kr-band, and the glint of Tanni's eyes

from the foot of the bed where she lay.

 

"Blais," he said. "Blais—the Lion is come."

 

Blais sat up at once, one hand reaching for the

royal knife at his bedside. His eyes, pupils ex-

panded in darkness, showed a ring of purest yel-

low around the edges. "Kellin?"

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

143

 

"The Lion." Kellin repeated. "Will you come?

We have to kill it."

 

Blais ran a hand through his hair. He yawned.

"The lion?" And then he came fully awake. "Kel-

lin—" But he cut it off. His expression was

masked. "Where is it?"

 

Kellin gestured with his knife. "Out there. Walk-

ing the corridors."

 

Blais grunted and slid out of bed. He was nude

save for /t'r-gold, but paused long enough to slip

on leggings. Barefoot, he patted Tanni and mur-

mured a word in the Old Tongue, Then he smiled

at Kellin. "A wolf is no match for a lion."

 

Kellin felt markedly better as Blais followed

him out into the corridor. "A sword might be bet-

ter," he said, "but I am not old enough yet. Grand-

sire said."

 

"Have you not begun swordplay?"

 

"Aye, a little—but the arms-master says it will

be a long time before I have any skill. I am too

small."

 

Blais nodded. "A Homanan skill. I am no good

at it, myself, though the gods know Sean tried to

teach me often enough." He shrugged. "I have no

aptitude."

 

They went on. Torchlight glinted off the earring

in Blais' hair. He looked fully awake and alert,

Kellin thought in satisfaction. This time the Lion

will lose.

 

When they neared the Great Hall, Kellin pressed

himself against the wall. A shudder claimed his

body from head to toe, stilling only as Blais closed

a hand over one shoulder.

 

"I am your liege man," Blais told him. "I am

with you, my lord."

 

Kellin grinned his relief. " 'Tis inside," he said.

"I can feel it." To Blais, it was not difficult to

 

144 Jennifer Roberson

 

explain; a liege man would know, would under-

stand. "He has come to swallow Homana."

 

The tone was excessively neutral. "How do you

know this?"

 

"The fortune-teller said so."

 

Blais seemed briefly dubious, but let it go. He

smiled. "Then we shall have to see to it the lion

swallows nothing but my knife blade."

 

Joy and wonder bubbled up in Kellin. This is

what it is to have a liege man!

 

Blais pushed open one of the heavy silver doors,

sliding effortlessly inside. Kellin slipped through

behind him. "Here?" Blais whispered.

 

"Somewhere .. ." Kellin moved forward slowly,

wishing he might have the courage to use the knife

he clutched.

 

Blais stepped out into the center of the long hall

and strode the length of the firepit. Coals glowed

from its depths beneath an ashen cloak.

 

The alcove curtain near the massive throne bil-

lowed in the darkness. A single coal fell out of the

pit and crumbled into ash. "There!" Kellin gasped.

 

Blais reacted instantly, running silently toward

the alcove. He caught the curtain and tore it aside,

knife glinting.

 

"Is it there?" Kellin cried. "Blais?"

 

Blais went rigid, then reeled back from the al-

cove. Kellin heard the slap of bare torso against

the wall. The knife fell from a slack hand- "Tanni!"

Blais cried. "Tanni—"

 

Kellin ran. By the time he reached Blais, his

kinsman was slumped against wall and floor, body

trembling convulsively. Yellow eyes were wide

and crazed, turned inside out. Sweat filmed his

face.

 

"Blais!"

 

Blais shuddered. Then he reached out and caught

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

145

 

Kellin's thin arms, closing his taloned fingers into

flesh. "Tanni—Tanni—Hr—"

 

"Blais!"

 

"—gods—oh, gods .. . no—" Blais' face was the

color of the ash in the firepit. "Tanni—" He let go

of Kellin all at once and lurched to his feet.

 

"Blais—"

 

But Blais did not respond. He stumbled toward

the end of the hall, seeking doors; his grace was

utterly banished, leaving him reeling like a drunken

man, or a sick one. He smashed into one of the

doors and shoved it open.

 

Kellin gathered up the fallen knife and ran after

his liege man. Fear of the Lion was quite van-

quished; what he feared now was that something

terrible had befallen Blais. Don't let him go, too!

 

Blais ran even as Kellin caught up, but his body

betrayed him. Only his outstretched hands, re-

bounding off walls, kept him upright. Ropes of

muscles stood up in relief against naked flesh.

 

"Blais!"

 

And then they were in BJais' chamber, and there

was blood everywhere, on the floor and across the

bed; a lurid arc against the curtains. Blais tore

them aside, then fell down onto the bed. "Tanni—"

 

People crowded in the door. Kellin heard the

questions, the startled exclamations, but he an-

swered none of them- He could only stare at the

warrior who had been his cousin, his liege man,

his friend; who now was a lirless Cheysuli.

 

"Blais—" This time it was a wail because he

knew.

 

Brennan was behind him. "Kellin . ., Kellin,

come away."

 

"No."

 

Hart was with him, face shiny it was stretched

so tautly across the bones of his cheeks. "Come

away, Kellin. There is nothing you can do."

 

146 Jennifer Robersoa

 

"No!" Kellin threw down the knives, then ripped

himself out of Brennan's reaching hands. "Blais—

Blais—you cannot. No! I need you. I need you! You

are my liege man!" He fastened both hands

around one of Blais' rigid arms and tugged, trying

to pull his kinsman away from the gutted wolf.

"BlaisI"

 

Blais turned a ravaged face on them all, "Take

him away .. . take him from here."

 

"No!" Kellin gulped back the fear. "Tu'Jalla

dei—"

 

Brennan caught Kellin's arms. "Come away."

 

"He can't go!" Kellin screamed. "I refuse him

leave. I am the Prince of Homana and I refuse him

leave to go!"

 

They were all of them in the chamber: Aileen,

lisa, his Solindish cousins. Dulcie's yellow eyes

were wide.

 

"Tu'Jalla dei!" Kellin shrieked. "He has to stay

if I say so. He swore. Tell him, grandsire! Tu'Jalla

dei."

 

Brennan's face was stark. "Such things are for

gods to do, not men, not even princes and kings.

This is the price, Kellin. Blais accepted it when he

accepted his lir. So did I. So did we all. And so

will you."

 

"I will not! I will not!"

 

Aileen's voice shook, "Kellin—"

 

"No! No! No!" He writhed in Brennan's grip.

"He swore by blood and honor and his lir—~" Kel-

lin broke it off on a strangled gasp. Indeed, by

his lir. and now that lir was dead. "Blais," Kellin

choked. "Don't leave me."

 

Blais stared blindly. Blood smeared his chest. "I

never knew," he said dazedly. "I never knew what

pain there was in it."

 

Brennan looked old beyond his years. "No war-

rior can. Not before it happens."

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

147

 

Blais held up his bloodied hands. "I am—

empty—" He shoved a forearm across his brow and

left a bloodslick behind, shining in his hair.

 

"Tu'Jalla dei," Kellin said brokenly.

 

But Blais seemed not to hear. He stripped off

his ^'r-bands and the earring and put them on the

blood-soaked bed. Then he gathered up Tanni's

body into the cradle of naked arms and turned

toward the door.

 

As one, they all moved aside. Blais went out of

the chamber as wolf blood splashed on stone.

 

"Blais!" Kellin screamed.

 

Brennan lifted him from the ground, containing

him easily. "Let him go. He is a walking dead

man; let him go with dignity."

 

"But I need him."

 

"He needs his ending more." Brennan held him

close. "I wish I could spare you this. But you, too,

are Cheysuli, and the price shall be yours as well."

 

Kellin stopped struggling. He hung slackly in

his grandfather's arms until Brennan set him

down. "No," he said then, looking up into the face

that looked so old in its grief. "No, there will be

no price. I will have no lir."

 

Hart's voice was kind. "You cannot gainsay

what the gods bestow."

 

"/ will." Kellin's voice took on a hard bitterness.

"I refuse to have one,"

 

"Kellin." Now Aileen, moving forward.

 

He cut her off at once with an outflung hand, "I

refuse it. Do you hear?" He looked at his kinfolk

one by one. "They all leave. All of them. First my

jehan. Then Rogan. Then Urchin . .. and now

Blais." His voice sounded alien even to Kellin.

"They all go from me."

 

Brennan touched his shoulder. "This grief will

pass, one day."

 

Kellin knocked the hand away. "No! From now

 

Jennifer Roberson

 

148

 

on I walk alone. With no friends, no liege man, no

Hr." He looked at Brennan fiercely. "And I will not

care."

 

Aileen was horrified. "KeHin!"

 

He felt a roaring in his head; felt it rush up

from his belly and engulf his chest, threatening his

throat. If he opened his mouth, he would vomit.

 

He knew its name: rage. And a hatred so viru-

lent he thought he might choke on it.

 

"No more," he said quietly, making it an oath.

"The gods cannot take from me what I do not

have."

 

Interval

 

Naked, the woman lay next to him in the dark-

ness. She had not slept when he was done, for he

had, as always, disturbed her with his intensity,

and she could not tumble out of passion into sleep

the way he could -

 

She lay very quiet next to him, not allowing her

flesh to touch his. If she disturbed him, he would

waken in ill humor, and she had learned to avoid

his black moods by submitting everything to him:

 

will, body, spirit. She had learned the trick long

ago, when she had first become a whore.

 

She let his warmth warm her, driving away the

chill of the winter night.-Her dwelling was tiny,

not so much more than a hovel, and she could not

afford the endless supply of peat and wood that

others bought or bargained for to get them through

the Homanan winter. She hoarded what she had,

although when he came she piled it all on the

hearth. Even if it meant going without for days

after.

 

He shifted, and she held her breath. One broad

hand moved across her belly, then cradled her left

breast- The fingers were slack and passionless. He

had spent that passion earlier; though he was eas-

ily roused, she did not do it now.

 

She sighed shallowly, not daring to move his

hand. He had bought her body, let him fondle it

 

149

 

ISO Jennifer Robersoa

 

as he chose. It made no difference to her. At least

he was a prince.

 

She had other lovers, of course, but none so fine

as he- They were hard men, tough men, with little

refinement and less imagination. He, at least, was

clean, with a good man smell, lacking the stench

of others who had no time for baths, nor the

money to buy wood to heat water- It was no trou-

ble to him to bathe whenever he wished; she was

grateful for it. She was grateful for him.

 

That he had chosen her was a miracle in itself.

She was young still, only seventeen, and her body

had not yet coarsened with use, so she presented

a better appearance than some of the other women.

And she had high, firm breasts above a slim waist,

with good hips below. She would lose it all, of

course, with the first full-term pregnancy, but so

far she had been able to rid herself of the seeds

before any took root.

 

But what of h is seed?

 

She laughed noiselessly, startled by the thought.

Would she bear a prince's bastard? And if she did,

would he provide for her? Perhaps she could leave

this life behind and find a good, solid man who

would forget about her past. Or would he take the

child, claiming it his?

 

It was possible- It had happened in the past, she

had heard; the bastards had been sent to Clan-

keep, to the shapechangers, to grow up with bar-

ren women. He would not risk leaving a halfling

with a Homanan woman, lest someone attempt to

use it for personal gain.

 

He called her meijha and meijhana, words she

did not know. She had asked him if he had a wife,

and he had laughed, correcting her: "Cheysula,"

he had said, and then 'Wo, / have no cheysula.

They expect me to wed my SoUndish cousin, but f

will not do it."

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           151

 

She turned her head slightly to look at his face.

In sleep he was so different, so young, so free of

the tight-wound tension. It was a good face in

sleep, more handsome than any she had welcomed

in her bed, and she longed to touch it. But to do

so would waken him, and he would change, and

she would see the customary hardness of his

mouth and eyes, and the anger in his soul.

 

She sighed. She did not love him. She was not

permitted to love him; he had told her that plainly

their first bedding three months before. But she

did care. For all his black moods he was kind

enough to her, even if it was an unschooled, rough

kindness, as if he had forgotten how.

 

He had spoken harshly to her more often than

she would choose, but he had only struck her once;

 

and then he had turned away abruptly with a

strange, sickened look in his eyes, and he had

given her gold in place of silver. It had been worth

the bruise, for she bought herself a new gown she

wore the next time he came, and he had smiled at

her for it.

 

Her smile came unbidden; a woman's, slow and

smug. In my bed lies the Prince of Homana.

 

He moved. He stretched, flexing effortlessly, and

then he sat up. She saw the play of muscles be-

neath the flesh of his smooth back, the hint of sup-

ple spine, the tangle of black hair across the nape

of his neck. She lay very still, wondering if she

had spoken her thoughts aloud.

 

For a moment his profile was very clear in the

dim light, outlined by the coals in the tiny hearth

across the room. She saw the elegant brow and

straight nose. He was yet groggy with sleep and

soft from it; when the sleep fled, his bones would

look older and harder, with black brows that drew

down all too often and spoiled the youth of his

face.

 

1S2

 

He slanted her a glance. "Did you dream of

 

i"

me?

 

She smiled. "How could I not?"

 

It was his customary question and her custom-

ary answer, but this time neither appeared to

please him. He scowled and got out of the narrow

bed, then reached to pull on black breeches and

boots. She admired as always the suppleness of

his muscles, the lithe movements of his body. It

was the Cheysuli in him, she knew, though he did

not seem other than Homanan. She had seen a

warrior up close once and still shivered when she

recalled the strangeness of his eyes. Beast-eyes,

some folk called them, and she agreed with them.

 

His were not bestial. They could be discon-

certingly direct and nearly always challenging,

but they were green, and a man's eyes. For that

she was grateful.

 

He lifted the jug from the crooked table and

poured wine, not bothering to don the shirt and

fair-lined doublet on the floor beside the bed. She

hunched herself up on one elbow. "Are you going?"

 

"I have had from you what I came for." He did

not turn to look at her. "Unless you have discov-

ered yet another position."

 

She, who believed she could no longer blush,

burned with embarrassment. "No, my lord." She

had displeased him; he would go, and this time

he might not come back.

 

He swallowed down the wine and set the mug

down with a thump. "This vintage is foul. Have

you no better?"

 

"No, my lord."

 

Her flat tone roused something in him. He

turned, and the thin gold torque around his throat

glinted. "You reprove me?"

 

"No!" She sat up hastily, jerking the bedclothes

 

A TAfCSTSY OF LHMS

 

SS3

 

over her breasts in an instinctive bid for a mod-

esty she had surrendered years before. "Never!"

 

He scowled at her blackly. His mouth had taken

on its familiar hard line. And then he smiled all

unexpectedly, and she marveled again at the

beauty of a man who could be cruel and kind at

once. "I have frightened you again." He poured

more wine and drank it, seemingly unaffected by

its foul taste. "Do you fear I will turn into beast-

shape here before you?" He laughed as she caught

her breath, showing white teeth in a mocking grin.

"Have no fear, meijhana ... there is no /ir-shape

for this Cheysuli. I have renounced it. What you

see before you is what I am." He still smiled, but

she saw the anger in his eyes. "My arms are bare,

and my ear. There is no shapechanger in this

room."

 

She held her silence. He had shown her such

moods before.

 

He swore beneath his breath in a language she

did not know. He would not come to her bed again

this night, to set her flesh afire with a longing she

had believed well passed for her until he had come

with no word of explanation for a prince's pres-

ence in a Midden whore's hovel.

 

A sudden thought intruded. He might not come

back ever.

 

The fear made her voice a question she had

sworn never to ask. "Will you leave me?"

 

His eyes narrowed. "Do you care?"

 

"Oh aye, my lord—very much!" She believed it

would please him; it was nonetheless the truth.

 

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Do I please you?

Do you care for me?"

 

She breathed it softly. "More than any, my

lord."

 

"Because I am a prince?"

 

She smiled, believing she had found the proper

 

IS4             Jennifer Roberson

 

answer. "Oh no, my lord. Because you are you. I

care for you."

 

He turned from her. Stunned, she watched as he

put on his shirt and doublet, then swept up and

pinned on the heavy green cloak. It was lined with

rich dark fur, and worth more than the house she

lived in. She saw the gold cloak-brooch glitter in

firelight, ruby gemstone burning. The brooch was

worth more than the entire block.

 

And then he strode across the room to her and

caught her throat in his hands, bending over her.

"No," he said. "You do not care for me. Say you

do not."

 

She grasped at his hands. She wanted very

badly to say the proper words. "But I do! Your

coin is welcome—I am a whore, for all that, and

claim myself no better—but it is you I care for!"

 

He swore raggedly and released her so abruptly

she fell back against the wall. He unpinned the

brooch and dropped it into her lap. "You will not

see me again."

 

"My lord!" A hand beseeched. "Why? What have

I done?"

 

"You said you cared." His eyes were black in

poor light. "And that I will not have."

 

"Kellin!" She dared to use his name, but he

turned away in a swirl of green wool and was

gone. The door swung shut behind him-

 

The brooch that would buy her freedom was

cold comfort in the night as she cried herself to

sleep.

 

One

 

Kellin stepped out of the slope-roofed hovel into

the slushy alley and stopped. He stared blankly

at the darkened dwelling opposite and expelled a

smoking breath. He inhaled deeply, almost con-

vulsively, and the cold air filled his lungs with the

anticipated burning. The alley stank of peat, filth,

ordure. Even winter could not overcome the stench

of depression and poverty.

 

He heard movement inside the hovel, through

the cracks of ill-made walls: a woman crying.

 

Too harsh with her. Kellin gritted his teeth. Self-

contempt boiled up to replace the thought. What

does she expect? I •warned her. I told her not to care.

There is nothing in me for anyone to care about,

least of all a father ... f will not risk losing another

who claims to care for me.

 

The sobs were soft but audible because he made

himself hear them. He used them to flagellate; he

deserved the punishment.

 

She was well-paid. That is what she cries for.

 

But he wondered if there were more, if the

woman did care—

 

Kellin gritted his teeth, fighting off the part of

his nature that argued for fairness, for a renuncia-

tion of the oath he had sworn ten years before.

She is a whore, nothing more. They all of them are

whores. Where better to spill the seed for which I am

so valued?

 

157

 

Jennifer Roberson

 

158

 

Kellin swore, hissing invective between set teeth.

His mood was foul. He detested the duality that

ravaged his spirit. He had no use for softness, for

compassion; he wanted nothing at all to do with

the kind of relationship he saw binding his grand-

sire and his granddame. That kind of honor and

respect simply begged for an ending, and therefore

begged for pain.

 

And what was there for him in a relationship

such as that shared by the Mujhar and his queen?

Had they not made it clear, all of them, that it

was not Kellin whom they cared about, but the

seed he would provide?

 

Bitterness engulfed. Let the whores have it. It will

serve them better; expelling it serves ME.

 

But the conscience he had believed eradicated

was not entirely vanquished. Despite his wishes,

he did regret his harshness with the woman; did

regret he could not see her again, for she had been

good to him. There had been a quiet dignity about

her despite her life, and a simple acceptance that

the gods had seen fit to give her this fate.

 

Self-contempt made it easy to transfer resent-

ment to the woman. She would make a good Chey-

suli. Better than I do; I, after all, am at war with

the gods.

 

It was time to leave, lest he give in to the temp-

tation to go back inside the hovel and offer com-

fort. He could not afford that. It was too easy to

succumb, too easy to give in to the weakness that

would lead in time to pain. Far better to keep pain

at bay by permitting it no toehold in the ordering

of his spirit.

 

Kellin glanced over and saw the familiar

guardsmen waiting in the shadows between two

ramshackle dwellings. Four shapes. Four watch-

dogs, set upon his scent by the Mujhar. Even now,

even in adulthood, no matter where Kellin went

 

A TAPESTRY w LIONS

 

IS9

 

or what he chose to do, they accompanied him.

Discreetly, usually, for he was after all the Prince

of Homana, but their loyalty was the Mujhar's.

 

As a boy, he had accepted it as perfectly natural

and never thought to question the policy and pro-

tection. As a man, however, it chafed his spirit

because such supervision, in his eyes, relegated his

own abilities, his own opinions, to insignificance.

Initially his protests were polite, but the Mujhar's

intransigence soon triggered an angrier opposi-

tion. Yet the Mujhar remained obdurate. His heir

could not—would not, by his order—be permitted

to walk unaccompanied in Mujhara. Ever.

 

Kellin had tried losing his dogs, but they tracked

him down. He tried tricking them, but they had

proved too smart. He tried ordering them, but

they were the Mujhar's men. And at last, terribly

angry, he tried to fight them. To a man, despite

his insults, they refused to honor him so.

 

He was accustomed to them now. He had trained

them to stay out of his tavern brawls. It had taken

time; they did not care to see their prince risk

himself, but they had learned it was his only es-

cape, and so they left him to it.

 

Kellin shivered, wrapping the heavy cloak more

tightly around his shoulders. It was cold and very

clear. The cloud cover had blown away, which

meant the nights would be bitter cold until the

next snowstorm came. Already he felt the chill in

his bones; mouthing a curse, he moved on.

 

He did not know his destination. He had thought

to spend the night with the woman, but that was

over now. She had committed the unpardonable;

 

the only punishment he knew was to deny her the

comfort of his body, so that he, too, was denied

the contentment he so desperately desired despite

his vow.

 

He splashed through crusted puddles. It did not

 

160 Jennifer Roberson

 

matter to him how it damaged his boots. He had

many more at home. This sort of revenge offered

little comfort, but it was something. Let the ser-

vants gossip as they would. It gave him some

small pleasure to know he was entirely unpredict-

able in mood as well as actions.

 

Better to keep them off guard. Better to make them

wonder.

 

As he wondered himself; it was a twisted form

of punishment Kellin meted out to bind himself

to his vow. If he relaxed his vigilance, he might

be tempted to renounce his oath. He would not

permit himself that, lest the gods win at last and

turn him into a Cheysuli who thought only of his

tahlmorra, instead of such things as a son badly in

need of a father.

 

Behind him, the watchdogs also splashed. Kellin

wondered what they thought of their honorable

duty: to spend the night out of doors while their

prince poured his royal seed into a whore's body-

They will get no Firstborn of her, or of any other

whore.

 

Ahead in wan moonlight, a placard dangled be-

fore a door. A tavern. Good. I am of a mind to start

a game not entirely like any other.

 

Kellin shouldered open the cracked door and

went in, knowing the dogs would follow along in

a moment. He paused just inside, accustoming his

eyes to greasy candlelight, and found himself in a

dingy common room. The tables were empty save

one, where five men gathered to toss dice and

rune-sticks.

 

For a moment only. Kellin considered joining

them. But instead he went to another table and

hooked over a stool, motioning with a jerk of his

head to the man in the stained cloth apron.

 

The watchdogs came in, marked where he was,

and went to another table. He saw the tavern-

 

A TAPESTRY OF LSO\S

 

161

 

keeper waver, for they wore tunics of the Muj-

haran Guard and doubtless meant more coin than

a lone stranger.

 

Smiling faintly, Kellin drew his knife and stuck

the point into wood, so that the heavy hilt stood

upright. The rampant lion curled around the hilt,

single ruby eye glinting in greasy light.

 

As expected, the tavern-keeper arrived almost at

once. "My lord?"

 

"Usca," Kellin ordered. "A jug of it."

 

The man nodded, but his gaze flicked to the

guardsmen. "And for them?"

 

Kellin favored him with a humorless smile.

"They drink what they like. Ask them."

 

The man was clearly puzzled. "My lord, they

wear the Mujhar's crest. And you have it here, on

your knife. Doesn't that mean—"

 

Kellin overrode him curtly. "It means we have

something in common, but it does not mean we

sleep together." He yanked the broochless cloak

from his shoulders and slapped it across the table.

He waited. The man bowed and hastened away.

 

When the usca was brought, Kellin poured the

crude cup full. He downed it all rapidly, waiting

for the fire. It came, burning his belly and clear

down into his toes. All at once there was life in

his body, filling up flesh and blood, and the pain

that accompanied it.

 

He had fought it so very long. Because of his

oath, because of his need, he had shut himself off

to emotions, severing his spirit from the Kellin he

had been, because he could not bear the pain- He

had seen the bewildered hurt in his grandmother's

eyes and learned to ignore it, as he learned to

withstand even the scorn in his grandfather's

voice; eventually, in fact, he learned to cultivate

that scorn, because it was a goad that drove him

 

Jennifer JRobermn

 

162

 

to maintain his vow even when, in moments of

despair and self-hatred, he desired to unswear it.

 

One day intent became habit, despite the occa-

sional defiance of a conscience battered for ten

years into compliance. He was what he was; what

he had made himself to be. No one could hurt him

now.

 

Kellin drank usca. He wanted to fight very

badly. When the fire filled head and belly, he rose

and prepared to make his way to the table full of

Homanans who laughed and wagered and joked.

 

A man stepped into his path, blocking his way.

"Well met, my lord. Shall we share a cup of

wine?"

 

Kellin's tongue was thick, but the words suc-

cinct enough. "I am drinking usca."

 

"Ah, of course; forgive me." The stranger smiled        \.

faintly. A lifted hand and a slight gesture beck-        {

oned usca from the tavern-keeper,                      j-

 

Kellin stared hard at the stranger, struggling to       ^

make out the face. The room shifted and ran to-

gether so that the colors all seemed one. Too much

usca for conversation,                                   i

 

When the new jug came, the stranger poured       |

two cups full and offered one to Kellin. "Shall we       f

sit, my lord?"                                       ^

 

Kellin did not sit. He set his hand around the        ,f

hilt of his knife, still standing upright in the table,

and snapped it from the wood.

 

The stranger inclined his head. "I am unarmed,

my lord, and offer no threat to you."

 

Kellin stared into the face. It was bland, beguil-

ing; all mask and no substance. Perhaps he will

give me my fight. He wanted the fight badly;

 

needed it desperately, to assuage the guilt he felt

despite his desire not to. Physical pain is easier to

bear than emotional pain.

 

For years he had sought it, finding it in taverns

 

A TAPESTRr OF LIONS           163

 

among men who held back nothing. It was a re-

lease from self-captivity more wholly satisfying

than any other he knew.

 

This man, perhaps? Or another. Kellin gestured

and sat down, laying the knife atop the table as

he took the brimming cup.

 

"A fortune-game?" the other man suggested.

 

It suited. Kellin nodded and the man took from

beneath his cloak a wooden casket, all carved

about its satiny sides with strange runic devices.

 

Kellin frowned. Wait—

 

But the man turned the casket over and spilled

out sticks and cubes. The sticks were blank and

black. The cubes turned lurid purple and began a

dervish-dance.

 

"Aye," the man said softly, "you do remember

me."

 

Kellin was abruptly sober. He marked the famil-

iar blue eyes, the russet hair, the maddeningly se-

rene expression. How could I have forgotten?

 

"Aye," Convyth said. "Would you care to play

out the game?"

 

Kellin looked for his watchdogs and saw them

spilled slackly across their table. Their attitudes

bespoke drunkenness to a man who knew no bet-

ter; Kellin knew better.

 

He looked then at the other men who wagered

near his own table, and saw they seemed not to

know anyone else was in the room.

 

Breath ran shallowly. Kellin tensed on his stool

and quietly took up the knife. "You have come for

me."

 

Convyth watched the bright cubes spin, seem-

ingly undismayed by the presence of a weapon.

"Oh," he said lightly, "presently. I am in no

hurry." He gestured briefly, and the knife fell out

of Kellin's hand. "There is no need for that here."

 

Kellin swore and grabbed at it, only to find the

 

164 Jennifer Roberson

 

metal searingly hot. "Kureshtin—" He dropped

the knife at once, desiring to blow on burned fin-

gers but holding himself in check. He would not

give the Ihlini any measure of satisfaction.

 

Corwyth's eyes narrowed assessively- "No more

the boy," he observed, "but a man well-grown,

and dangerous. Someone who must be dealt with."

 

Kellin did not much care for the implication.

"You tried before to 'deal' with me and failed."

 

"Aye. I misjudged you. A failing I shall not be

moved to repeat."

 

The rune-sticks joined the cubes in an obscene

coupling upon the table. Neither man watched.

They looked at each other instead.

 

A vicious joy welled up in Kellin's soul. Here

was the fight he had wanted. "I will not accom-

pany you."

 

"One day," Corwyth said. "Be certain of it, Kel-

lin." He gestured, and the cubes and rune-sticks

fell into a pattern: one arrow pointed at Kellin,

the other directly north. "You see? Even the game

agrees."

 

As he had done so many years before, Kellin

made a fist and banged it down upon the table.

The arrows broke up and fell in disarray to the

floor. Sticks and cubes scattered.

 

Corwyth showed good teeth. "This is a game,"

he said, "mere prelude to what will follow. If you

think you have the power to prevent it, you are

indeed a fool." Slender fingers were unmoving on

scarred wood. "I do not threaten, Kellin; I come

to warn instead. Lochiel is too powerful. You can-

not hope to refuse him."

 

"I can. I do." Kellin displayed equally good

teeth, but his grin was more feral. "He has tried

before and failed, just as you did. I begin to think

Lochiel is not so powerful as he would have us

believe,"

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            165

 

Corwyth's tone was mild- "He need only put out

his hand, and you will be in it. He need only close

that hand and crush the life from you."

 

Kellin laughed. "Then tell him to do it."

 

Corwyth's gaze was steady. "Before, you were a

boy. They kept you close, and safe. But you are no

longer a boy, and such chains as you have known

will bind more than body, but the spirit as well.

Do you not fight those chains? Do you not come

often into the Midden, fighting a battle within

your soul as well as the war with the constraints

of your station?"

 

Kellin's laughter died. Corwyth knew too much.

He was overly conversant with what was in Kel-

lin's mind. "I do what I desire to do. That has

nothing to do with Lochiel."

 

"Ah, but it has everything to do with Lochiel.

You have a choice, my lord: keep yourself to

Homana-Mujhar and away from sorcery, yet know

there will always be the threat of a traitorous Ho-

manan." His smile was slight as he purposely

evoked the memory of-Rogan. "Or come out as

you will, as you desire to, and know that each step

you take is watched by Lochiel."

 

Kellin controlled the anger. Such a display was

what Corwyth wanted to provoke; he would not

satisfy him. "Then I challenge Lochiel to try me

here and now."

 

Corwyth shook his head. "A game requires time,

my lord, or the satisfaction is tainted . . - much

like a man who spends himself too quickly be-

tween a woman's thighs. There are the rules to be

learned first, before the game commences," The

smile was banished. Corwyth leaned forward.

"This night, you shall go free. This night you may

go home to Homana-Mujhar—or to whatever whore

you are keeping—and may sleep without fear for

your soul. But you are to know this: you are not

 

166 Jennifer Robersw

 

free. Your soul is not unclaimed. Lochiel waits in

Valgaard. When he touches you, when he deigns

to gather you up, be certain you shall know it."

 

The Ihlini sat back, but his gaze did not waver

from Kellin's. He smiled again, if faintly, and took

something else from beneath his cloak. He set it

flat on the table between them.

 

Sorcerer's Tooth.

 

The years fell away. Kellin was a frightened boy

again lost in Homanan forests, with a tutor slain

and a best friend dying, and the Lion on his trail.

 

"Keep it," Corwyth said, "as a token of my

promise."

 

Kellin leapt to his feet, groping for the knife, but

a sheet of purple flame drove him away from the

table. When the smoke of it shredded away, the

Ihlini was gone.

 

Two

 

Coughing, Kellin went at once to his watchdogs

and found them dead. There were no wounds, no

marks, no blood to prove what had befallen them,

the four men were simply dead. They slumped

across the table with blank eyes bulging and their

flesh a pallid white.

 

He looked then for the Homanans, expecting

some manner of comment, and discovered they no

longer existed. The tavemkeeper had vanished as

well. Kellin was quite alone in the common room

save for the bodies Corwyth had left behind.

 

Kellin stood perfectly still- Silence was loud, so

loud it filled his head and slid down to stuff his

belly, until he wanted to choke on it, to spew it

forth and deny everything; to somehow put back

to rights the horror that had occurred.

 

The way I wanted Rogan to be alive again— Kel-

lin shut his teeth. Rogan was a traitor.

 

His grip tightened on the knife. Its heat had dis-

sipated. No longer tainted by Corwyth's wishes, it

was merely a knife again, if a royal one. The lion

hilt mocked him.

 

He looked around again. All was as before: four

dead watchdogs sprawled across the table in a

stinking common room of a Midden tavern Kellin

was no longer certain truly existed.

 

Did Corwyth conjure the Homanans? Is this tav-

 

167

 

168 Jeaaffer Robwaos

 

em no more than illusion? If so, he was trapped in

it.

 

Kellin shivered, then swore at the response he

interpreted as weakness. He went hastily back to

his table, caught up his cloak and threw it around

his shoulders. With the knife still clutched in one

hand, hilt slick with sweat, he went out into the

darkness where the air smelled like air, redolent of

winter, but without the stink ofCorwyth's sorcery.

 

The walk to Homana-Mujhar was the longest of

Kellin's life. His back was spectacularly naked of

watchdogs; he had hated them before but had

never wished them dead.

 

He avoided puddles now. His mouth was filled

with the sour aftertaste of usca. Drunkenness had

passed, as had hostility and the desire to fight.

What he wanted most now was to reach Homana-

Mujhar and deliver unpleasant news to Brennan,

so the burden of the knowledge was no longer his

alone.

 

There were few cobblestones in the Midden.

Boots sank into muck, denying easy egress from

winding, narrow alleys shut in by top-heavy dwell-

ings. Between his shoulder blades Kellin felt a tin-

gling; the hairs on the nape of his neck rose. He

was lirless by choice, which left him vulnerable. A

bonded warrior would know if an Ihlini was near.

He had only his instincts to trust, and they told

him it would be a simple thing for Corwyth to

take him now, with a Tooth flung into his back.

 

But the Tooth was back in the tavern. Nothing

could have induced him to touch it, let alone to

keep it.

 

Kellin shivered despite the fur-lined cloak. His

lips were excessively dry no matter how often he

licked them. Corwyth had promised him his free-

dom tonight; that he might spend the time as he

wished. Lochiel was patient.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LlWS           J69

 

Muck oozed up, capturing a boot. Kellin paused

to free himself, then froze into stillness. A new

noise had begun in place of his audible breathing

and heartbeat.

 

The sound was one he knew: a raspy, throaty

grunting; the chesty cough of a huge lion.

 

Gods— He turned convulsively, shoulders slam-

ming against the wall. He heard the scrape of his

cloak against brick. Moonlight sparked on the

ruby as he lifted the knife.

 

For one insane moment Kellin saw his shadow

on the wall across the narrow alley: the image of

a small boy desperate to flee. And then the illusion

was banished, replaced with the truth, and he saw

himself clearly. No longer the boy. Nightmares

were long behind him.

 

This is how Lochiel intends to take me. This is

some trick—

 

Or perhaps not. After what had happened in the

tavern, Kellin was not so certain.

 

Still, he would not prove such easy prey, to be

terrorized by childhood nightmares.

 

He raised the knife higher. He saw the length of

supple fingers, the sinewy back of his hand, the

muscle sheathing wrist. He was a man now, and

a very different kind of prey.

 

"Come, then," he said. "If that is you, Corwyth,

be certain I am ready. Lochiel will find me no

easier to defeat despite opportunity. I am, after

all, Cheysuli."

 

The Lion paused. Noise ceased.

 

"Come," Kellin goaded. "Did you think to find

me so frightened I soiled my leggings? Did you

believe it would be easy?" He forced a laugh, rely-

ing on bravado that was genuine only in part.

"Why not banish the Lion's aspect and face me as

a man? Or do you fear me after all?"

 

170 feoatfer Robersoa

 

Grunting and panting faded. The night was si-

lent again.

 

Kellin laughed as tension fled, leaving him

atremble despite his bravado. "So, you prefer to

test a boy instead of a man. Well, now you know

the truth of it. To take me now, you will have to

try harder."

 

He waited. He thought perhaps Corwyth would

resort to ordinary means to attack. But the night

was silent, and empty; threat was dispersed.

 

Kellin drew in a deep breath. Surely they told

stories of my fears when f was a child. It would be

a. simple matter to shape a lion out of magic now

merely to remind me of childhood fears.

 

It was a simple explanation, and perhaps a valid

one. But a nagging thought remained.

 

What of Tanni? She was truly gutted.

 

But men had been bought before: a cook, and

Rogan. What if the beast who had slain Blais' lir

was nothing but a man meant to make it look like

a beast?

 

Kellin gripped the knife more tightly. Corwyth

is right. I am no safer now than I was as a child.

But I will not order my life around fear; it would be

a victory for Lochiel. f will be what I am. If the

Ihlini is to take me, he will find it difficult.

 

When Kellin reached Homana-MuJhar, he went

at once to the watch commander and gave him

the news. "Have them brought home," he said.

"But also tell those sent to fetch them to touch

nothing else. There was an Ihlini abroad tonight."

 

The captain, a hardened veteran, did not scoff.

But Kellin saw the lowered lids, the shuttered

thoughts, and knew very well his words were not

wholly accepted. Men might be dead, but no Ihlini

had come into Mujhara for years. More likely it

was his fault, from trouble he had started.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LtOMS            171

 

It infuriated him. Kellin grabbed a handful of

crimson tunic. "Do you doubt me?"

 

The captain did not hesitate. "Who speaks of

doubt, my lord? I will of course do your bidding

when the Mujhar confirms it,"

 

"The Mujhar—" Kellin cut it off, gritting teeth

against the anger he wanted to spew into the

man's face. "Aye, tell the Mujhar; it will save me

the trouble." He let go of the crumpled tunic and

turned on his heel, striding across to a side en-

trance so as not to disturb the palace with his late

return- Let the captain tell his beloved Mujhar. I will

spend my time on other things.

 

He climbed the stairs two at a time, shedding

cloak with a shrug of shoulders. He hooked it over

an arm, heedless of the dragging hem. When he

entered his chamber, he flung the cloak across a

stool and hastily stripped out of soiled clothing.

Naked, he paced to one of the unshuttered case-

ments and scowled blackly into darkness.

 

He felt stifled. He felt young and old, exquisitely

indifferent to life, and yet so filled with it he could

not ignore its clamor. Something surged through

his veins, charging his body with a vigor so in-

tense he thought he was on fire. His hands trem-

bled as if palsied; Kellin suppressed it with a

curse.

 

A surfeit of energy. It set his bones ablaze. He

was burning, burning.

 

"Too bright—" Kellin dug fingers into the sill

until at last the burning faded. Emptiness re-

placed it; he was desolate now, with a spirit

wholly diminished. Weakness replaced the hid-

eous strength that had knotted all his muscles.

 

It is only reaction to what occurred earlier. No

more than that.

 

But Kellin was not certain. Panting, he pressed

his head into the wall, letting the stone pit flesh.

 

172 Jennifer Robersoa

 

Fingertips were sore, scraped raw by his grip upon

the sill. Everything in him shook.

 

"Tired." It was much more than that. Kellin

staggered to his bed and climbed between the cur-

tains, blessing the servant who had left the wann-

ing pan.

 

But he could not stay there. A restlessness con-

sumed his body and mind and made him accede

to its wishes: that he forsake his bed for a physical

release that had nothing to do with sex and every-

thing to do with his spirit.

 

Breeches, no boots. Bare-chested, gripping the

knife, Kellin left his chambers and went into the

shadowed corridors. He felt as if he were a knife,

honed sharp and clean and true, balanced in the

hand as his own knife was balanced, but the hand

which held him was none that he knew.

 

The gods? Kellin wanted to laugh. The old Chey-

suli saying about a man's fate resting in the hands

of the gods was imagery, no more, and yet he felt

as if he fit. As if the hand merely waited.

 

This is madness. He went to the Great Hall. It

had been a long time since he had entered it; it

was his grandsire's place. Until Kellin could make

it his, he was content to wait: a lean and hungry

wolf intently watching its promised meal.

 

Guilt nickered; was suppressed. / was bred for

it. All the blood that flows in me cries out to rule

Homana ... 7 was not made of patient clay, and the

firing is done.

 

He halted before the dais, before the throne, and

looked upon the Lion. An old beast, he thought,

guarding its pride with aging eyes and older heart,

its body tough and stringy, its mouth nearly

empty of teeth.

 

Time runs out for the Lion. Time ran out for

them all.

 

Kellin laughed softly. Slowly he mounted the

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            173

 

steps to the throne and sat himself upon it, mov-

ing back into the shadows until his spine touched

wood. He placed his arms on the armrests, curled

his fingers over the paws and felt the extended

claws.

 

"This is Homana," he said. "This is Homana—

and one day it will be mine."

 

His fear of the throne was gone. As a child it

had frightened him, but he was no longer a child.

 

Kellin stared out into the hall- "The lion must

swallow the lands. The lion must swallow us all."

 

He roused at the scrape of a boot upon stone floor.

"Not a comfortable bed," the Mujhar remarked.

 

Kellin jerked upright, blinking blearily, stiff" and

sore and intensely uncomfortable. He had spent

what little remained of the night in the bosom of

the Lion. The knife was still in his fist. He was

warrior enough for that.

 

Brennan's expression was masked. "Was there

any point to it?"

 

Kellin challenged him immediately. "I do noth-

ing without a point."

 

His grandfather's mouth twisted scornfully.

"What you do is your concern, as you have made

it. I gave up years ago asking myself what could

be in your mind, to explain your behavior." He

gestured sharply. "Get up from there, Kellin. You

do not suit it yet."

 

The insult was deliberate, and he felt it strike

true. He wanted to shout back, but knew it would

gain him nothing but additional scorn. Of late he

and his grandfather had played a game with the

stakes residing in dominance. Brennan was the old

wolf, Ketlin the new; one day the old would die.

 

Kellin tapped the blade against wooden claws.

"Perhaps better suited than you believe."

 

174 Jennifer Kohersoa

 

"Get up from there," Brennan repeated, "or I

shall pull you up myself."

 

Kellin considered it. At a few years beyond sixty

the Mujhar was an aging man, but he was not

infirm. His hair was completely silver with white

frost around his face, but the fierce eyes were

steady, the limbs did not tremble, and the arms

with their weight of ftr-gold did not shrivel and

sag- He is taller and heavier than I, and he might

be able to do it.

 

Kellin rose with practiced elegance. He made an

elaborate bow to his grandfather and turned to

walk away. but Brennan reached out and caught

one arm.

 

"How much longer?" he rasped. "This comedy

we play? Or is it a tragedy?"

 

Kellin knew the answer. "Tragedy, my lord.

What else could these walls house?"

 

Brennan's mouth flattened into a thin, com-

pressed line of displeasure. "What these walls will

house, I cannot say. But what they have housed in

the past I can and do say: greater men than you,

though they were merely servants."

 

Kellin wrenched his arm away. "You offer in-

sult, my lord."

 

"I offer whatever I choose. By the gods, Kellin—

will you never grow up?"

 

Kellin spread his hands in mock display. "Am I

not a man?"

 

"No." Brennan's tone was cold. "You are but a

boy grown larger in size than in sense."

 

"Insult yet again." Kellin was unoffended; it

was all part of the game though the Mujhar did

not view it as such.

 

"What is your excuse?" Brennan demanded.

"That you lost people close to you? Well, do you

think I have not? Do you think none of us has

suffered as you do?"

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            175

 

Stung, Kellin glared. "What I suffer is my own

concern!"

 

"And mine." Brennan faced him down squarely,

"You lack a fehan. You know why. You lost a tutor

to sorcery, a friend to treachery, and a liege man

to Cheysuli custom. You know how. And yet you

choose to wallow in grief and make all of Mujhara

suffer."

 

"Mujhara has nothing to do with this!"

 

"It does." Brennan's tone did not waver. "How

many fights have you sought out—or caused, or

joined—because of childish vindictiveness? How

many men have you fought—and injured—be-

cause they were easy prey for your anger? How

many bastards have you sired, duly packed off to

Clankeep where you need not concern yourself

with them?" More quietly, he said, "And how

many guardsmen have died because of you?"

 

"None because of me!"

 

"Oh? Then what of the four men who died last

night?"

 

"But that was not my fault."

 

"Whose was it, then? I thought you led them

there on one of your Midden tours."

 

Anger boiled up. "Only because you put them

on my trail like hounds upon a fox!" Kellin glared.

"Call them off, grandsire. Then no more will die."

 

Brennan's expression was implacable. "Did you

do it?"

 

"Did /—?" Kellin was aghast. "You believe I

would kill them?"

 

"Aye," Brennan answered evenly. "I believe you

might."

 

"How?" Kellin swallowed the painful lump in

his throat. "I am your own grandson. And you ac-

cuse me of murder?"

 

"You have labored assiduously to make me be-

lieve you are capable of anything."

 

176 Jennifer Robersoa

 

"But . .." Kellin laughed once, expelling air

rather than amusement. "I never thought you

would hate me so."

 

"Do you think a man must hate another to be-

lieve him capable of things another would not

do?" Brennan shook his head. "I do not hate you.

I know you better than you think, and why you

have twisted yourself into this travesty of the Kel-

lin you once were. I cannot understand it, but I

am cognizant of why."

 

"Are you?" The anger was banished now, re-

placed with bitter helplessness. "You are not me."

 

"Thank the gods, no." Brennan lifted his shoul-

ders briefly, as if shedding unwanted weight- "You

are not as hard as you believe. I see it in you,

Kellin. You still care what people think. It all mat-

ters to you, but you will not permit yourself to

admit it. You fight with yourself; do you think I

am blind? I need no kivama to see that two men

live in your soul."

 

"You cannot begin to know—"

 

"I can. I see what drives you, I see what shapes

you. I only wish you would not give into it. It does

you more harm than anyone else."

 

Kellin lashed out. "I do not care what anyone

else thinks, only you—" He checked abruptly; he

had divulged too much.

 

Brennan closed his eyes a moment. "Then why

this charade? If you truly do care what I think—"

 

"I do. I know what I have done; it was done

intentionally. I do not intend to alter it." Kellin's

smile was humorless. "This way, I cannot be

hurt."

 

Lines were graven deeply into Brennan's dark

face. "You hurt yourself, this way."

 

"I can live with myself."

 

"Can you? Can you cohabit with both men? Or

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

177

 

must you destroy one to allow the other more

freedom?"

 

Kellin spat his answer between his teeth. "This

is what I wanted. This is what / decided. This is

what I am."

 

Brennan made a dismissive gesture. "Another

time, then, for this; there is something more

important. Tell me what occurred last night."

 

Kellin sighed and stared down at the knife still

clenched in his hand. "It was Corwyth, the Ihlini

who killed Rogan and Urchin. He came to the tav-

ern and told me Lochiel still wants me, and will

take me whenever he likes. Whenever he wishes, I

was told, the Ihlini will put out his hand and I

will fall into it."

 

Brennan nodded. "An old Ihlini trick. He terror-

izes victims long before he confronts them."

 

"I have vanquished the lion," Kellin said, "but

he will look for something else. Corwyth has con-

vinced me Lochiel will be as patient as necessary."

 

"Kellin—"

 

"They were dead when I reached them." Kellin

looked at the knife, recalling the bulging eyes and

pallid faces. "There was nothing I could do."

 

"Then you must stay here," Brennan said. "Ho-

mana-Mujhar will shield you."

 

Kellin barked a laugh. "I would go mad inside

a ten-day!"

 

"There may be no choice."

 

"Mad, grandsire! I am halfway there already."

He flipped the knife in his hand, then again, until

it spun so the hilt and blade became alternating

blurs. In mid-flip he caught it- "I will not stay

here."

 

Brennan's anger showed for the first time since

his arrival. "Is this some manner of expiation for

your guilt? A twisted version of i'toshaa-ni?"

 

"1 feel no guilt," Kellin told him. "That is for

 

Jennifer Robersoa

 

178

 

my jehan to do ... but I think it quite beyond

him."

 

Brennan groaned in sheer frustration. "How

many times have I told you? I have said again and

 

again—"

 

Kellin cut him off. "You have said, and I have

heard. But it means nothing. Not until he says it

directly to me."

 

Brennan shook his head. "I will not send word

to him again. That is finished."

 

Kellin nodded. "Because the last time he refused

to extend hospitality to your messenger and packed

him off home again. So, slighted, you surrender. I

think my jehan must be mad as well, to speak so

to the Mujhar of Homana."

 

"Aidan does not speak for himself, Kellin. He

speaks for the gods."

 

"Facile words, grandsire. But listen first to your-

self—and then recall that he is your SOM. I know

very well who should have the ordering of the

other."

 

Brennan lost his temper. Kellin listened in star-

tled surprise; he had never thought to hear such

language from his grandfather.

 

"Go, then." At last the royal fury was spent. "Go

into the taverns and drink yourself into a stupor.

Go to your light women and sire all the bastards

you wish so you may leave them as your jehan left

you, wondering what manner of man you are to

desert a child." A pale indented ring circled Bren-

nan's mouth. "Risk your life and the lives of hon-

orable men so you may enter the game with

Lochiel. I no longer care. You are Homana's heir

for now, but if I must I can find another."

 

Kellin laughed at him. "Who can you find?

From where? There are no more sons, grandsire;

 

your cheysula gave you but one. And no more

 

A TAPESTRY OF LJOIVS

 

grandsons, either; Aidan's loins are empty. He is

in all ways but half a man."

 

"Kellin—"

 

He raised his head. "There is no heir to be found

other than the one you invested twenty years ago."

 

Brennan reached out and caught the flipping

knife easily. "You are a fool," he said clearly. "Per-

haps Homana would be better off without you."

 

Kellin looked at the hand that held his knife. He

had not expected the weapon to be caught. Bren-

nan was at least as quick as he; a forcible re-

minder that the Mujhar of Homana was more than

merely a man, but a Cheysuli as well.

 

He met his grandfather's eyes. "May I have it

back?"

 

"No."

 

He did not avoid the packleader's eyes. To do so

was to submit. "I have need of a knife."

 

"You have another. Use it."

 

Kellin clenched his teeth. "That one belonged to

BIais. I have sworn never to touch it."

 

"Then unswear it," the Mujhar said. "Tu'halla

dei, Kellin. Such things "as that come easily to a

man who cares for nothing."

 

It was more than he had anticipated. It twisted

within his belly. "It shall be as this, then?"

 

Brennan did not move. "As you have made it."

 

After a long moment, Kellin averted his stare.

The young wolf, he acknowledged ruefully, could

not yet pull down the old.

 

Three

 

In his chambers, Kellin sat on the edge of his bed

and stared at the small darkwood chest for a very

long time. It rested inoffensively on a bench

against the wall, where he had placed it many

years before. He had looked at it often, stared at

it, hated it, knowing what it contained, but once

locked it had never been opened again.

 

He drew in a deep breath, wishing he need not

consider doing what was so difficult, because he

had made it so. He realized that in truth he need

not consider it; it was more than possible for him

to get another knife despite his grandfather's sug-

gestion. He could buy one in Mujhara, or find one

in the palace, or even go to Clankeep and have

one of the warriors make him one; everyone knew

Cheysuli long-knives were superior to all others,

and only one Cheysuli-made was worth the coin.

But the challenge had been put forth. The old wolf

mocked the young. The young wolf found it

intolerable.

 

His palms were damp. In disgust Kellin wiped

them against his breeches-clad thighs. He tests you

with this. Prove to him you are stronger than he

thinks.

 

Muttering an oath, Keilin slid off his bed and

strode without hesitation directly across to the

chest. The lid and the key atop it was layered with

dust; he had ordered no one to touch the chest.

 

180

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            181

 

Dust fell away as he picked up the key, smearing

fingertips. He blew the iron clean, squinting against

motes, hesitated a moment longer, then swore and

unlocked the chest. Kellin flung back the lid so

sharply it thumped against the wall.

 

His lips were dry. He wet them. A flutter of an-

ticipation filled his belly. / would do better to leave

this here, as I vowed. I want no part of this. Blais

is dead ten years, but it feels like ten hours. Kellin's

jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. Then he

thrust a hand inside and drew out the contents: a

single Cheysuli long-knife.

 

The grief had not lessened with the passage of

years, and the act of retrieving the knife intensi-

fied it tenfold. Kellin felt the tightening of his

belly, the constriction of his throat, the anguish of

his spirit. The wound, despite the decade, was still

too fresh.

 

Kellin held the knife lightly, so that it lay cross-

wise across his palm. Candlelight glinted off steel

because the hand beneath it trembled; he could

not help himself. He recalled in precise detail the

instant of realization, the comprehension that

Blais was doomed because his lir was dead. In that

moment he had come to understand the true cost

of the magic that lived in a Cheysuli's blood. And

knew how much he feared it.

 

The gods give warriors lir not to bless them, but

to curse them; to make them vulnerable, so they can

never be men but minions instead, set to serve spite-

ful gods. They give warriors lir simply to take them

away.

 

Kellin stared hard at the knife, daring himself

to break down. Beautifully balanced, the steel

blade was etched with Cheysuli runes denoting

Blais' name and Houses: Homana first, and Erinn.

The grip itself was unadorned so as not to inter-

fere with the hand, but the pommel made up for

 

182 Jennifer Roberaoa

 

the plainness. An elaborate snarling wolf's head

was set with emeralds for eyes.

 

Kellin's throat closed. To swallow was painful.

"A waste," he said tightly. "The gods would have

done better to take me in his place."

 

But they had not, despite his pleas, and he had

cursed them for it often. Now he simply ignored

them; there was no place in Kellin's life for gods

so vindictive and capricious as to first steal his

father, then permit his liege man to die.

 

Anger goaded his bruised spirit. Kellin slammed

shut the chest and turned to his belt with its now-

empty sheath. He slid the knife home with a deci-

sive motion so that only the wolf's head showed,

snarling a warning to the world. Apropos, Kellin

thought. Let them all be forewarned.

 

He dressed rapidly, replacing soiled breeches

with new; a plain wool shirt and velvet doublet,

both brown; and Homanan-style boots. Over it all

he fastened the belt, brushing the knife hilt with

the palm of his hand to make certain of its pres-

ence. Time I tested Corwyth's promise.

 

The Mujhar had assigned new watchdogs. Kellin

wondered briefly if they knew or were curious

about what had become of the last four, but he

did not trouble himself to ask. He merely told

them curtly to keep their distance, making no ef-

fort to befriend them or endear himself to them;

 

he did not want them as friends, and did not par-

ticularly care what they thought of him.

 

This time Kellin rode; so did they. They fol-

lowed closely, but not so closely as to tread upon

his mount's hooves. Testing them—and himself—

he led them deep into the Midden to its very heart,

where the weight of filth and poverty was palpable.

 

No one will know me here. And so they would

not; Kellin wore nothing to give away his identify

 

A TAPESTRY W LiONS            S83

 

save his ruby signet ring, but if the stone were

turned inward against his palm no one would see

it. He preferred anonymity- Let those of the Mid-

den believe he was a rich Mujharan lordling gone

slumming for a lark; he knew better. He wanted

a game, and a fight. As he had told the Mujhar,

he did nothing without a point.

 

The tavern he selected lay at the dead end of a

narrow, dark street little better than the manure

trench behind the hall garderobe in Homana-

Mujhar. It was a slump-shouldered hovel with

haphazard slantwise roof; the low door, badly

cracked, hung crooked in counterpoint to the roof.

The building resembled nothing so much as a

drunkard gone sloppy on too much liquor.

 

Kellin smiled tightly. This will do. He dropped

off his horse and waited impatiently for his watch-

dogs to join him on the ground. "Three of you

shall remain here," he said briefly. "One I will

take with me, because I must in compromise; it

seems I have no choice." He thrust the reins to

one of the guardsmen. "Wait here, in the shadows.

Do what you are honor-bound to do; I make no

claim on your loyalty. You answer the Mujhar's

bidding, but answer also a little of mine: leave me

to myself this night." He gestured toward one of

them. The man was young, tall, blocky-shouldered,

with pale blond hair and blue eyes. "You will

come in with me, but see you it is done without

excess attention. And strip off that tunic."

 

The young guardsman was startled- "My lord?"

 

"Strip it off. I want no royal dogs at my heels

tonight." Kellin appraised him closely. "What is

your name?"

 

"Teague, my lord."

 

Kellin gestured. "Now."

 

Slowly Teague stripped out of his crimson tunic

with its black rampant lion. He handed it reluc-

 

184

 

tantly to another guardsman, then looked back at

Kellin- "Anything else, my lord?"

 

"Rid yourself of your sword. Do not protest—

you have a knife still." He allowed derision to

shape the tone. "Surely more than enough weap-

onry for a member of the Mujharan Guard."

 

Cheeks burning, Teague slowly divested himself

of the swordbelt and handed it over to the man

who held his tunic.

 

Kellin assessed him again, chewing the inside of

his cheek. Finally he sighed. "Even a horse with

winter hair still shows its blood." He bent and

scooped up a handful of mud, then smeared it pur-

posefully across league's mail shirt to dull the

polished links and to foul the pristine breeches.

He ignored the young man's rigidity and pinched

mouth. When he was done, Kellin washed his

hands in slushy snow, then nodded at the discom-

fited guardsman. "They will not know you at

once."

 

Distaste was not entirely suppressed though

Teague made the effort. "They will not know me

at all, my lord."

 

Kellin grinned. "Better. Now, my orders." He

waited until his expectant silence gained Teague's

complete attention. "Once we are through that

door I am not to be called 'my lord,' nor do I

desire your interference in anything I undertake."

 

Teague's jaw was tight. "We are charged with

your life, my lord. Would you have me turn my

back on a knife meant for yours?"

 

Kellin laughed. "Any knife meant for my back

would have to be fast indeed. I doubt I will come

to harm—though the gods know I would welcome

the challenge." He gestured at the remaining three

guardsmen. "Take the horses and move into the

shadows."

 

A TAIVSTKY OF LKMS           185

 

•St

 

&

 

"My lord?" Teague clearly had not forsaken the

honorific. "It is not for me to reprove you—"

 

"No. It is not."

 

"—but I think you should know this is not the

best of all places to spend your time drinking or

dicing."

 

"Indeed," Kellin agreed gravely. "That is pre-

cisely the point. Now—you are to go in and find

your own table. I require two things of you only:

 

to sit apart from me, and to be silent."

 

Teague cast a scowl at his companions waiting

in the shadows, then grudgingly nodded. "Aye."

 

Kellin jerked a thumb at the door. and the

muck-smeared guardsman went in muttering under

his breath. Kellin waited until enough time had

passed to nullify the appearance of companion-

ship, then went in himself.

 

The stench of the hovel tavern struck him first.

Soiled rushes littered the packed earthen floor in

crumbled bits and pieces Kellin was certain har-

bored all manner of vermin. Only a handful of

greasy, sputtering tallow candles illuminated the

room, exuding an acrid, rancid aroma and wan,

ocherous light easily dominated by shadows. An

hour in such a place would render his clothing

irredeemable, but Kellin had every intention of

remaining longer than that. He anticipated a full

night.

 

Teague sat at a small flimsy table in the comer

nearest the door. A crude clay jug stood at his

elbow and an equally lumpy cup rested in his

hands, but he paid attention to neither.

 

Their eyes met, slid away. Kellin was faintly

surprised that Teague would enter so convincingly

into subterfuge. There was no hint of recognition

in the guardsman's face and nothing about his

posture that divulged his true purpose. Mud clung

to his mail shirt; a little had spattered across a

 

186 Jennifer Robersoa

 

cheekbone, altering the angle. His hair now also

was mussed, as if he had scrubbed a hand through

it hastily. Teague's expression was closed, almost

sullen, which suited Kellin's orders and the

surroundings.

 

Kellin was deliberate in his perusal of the room

and its occupants, knowing the men measured

him as carefully. He allowed them time to mark

his clothing, bearing, and size, as well as the

heavy knife at his belt. He wanted no one to un-

dervalue him, so that when the fight came it

would be on equal terms. He admired the elegant

simplicity of organized viciousness.

 

The tavern was crowded, but mostly because its

size was negligible. Most of the men spoke in quiet

tones lacking aggression or challenge, as if each

knew the other's worth and standing within the

context of the tavern, and did not overstep. There

would be rivals, Kellin knew, because it was the

nature of men, but with the arrival of a stranger

old rivalries would be replaced with unity. He and

Teague, apart or as one, would be suspect, and

therefore targets.

 

He grinned, and let them see it. He let them see

everything as he strode to the lone empty table

and sat down upon a stool, shouting to the wine-

girl to bring him a jug of usca.

 

She came almost at once to judge the cut of his

cloth and the color of his coin. Kellin dropped a

silver piece onto the table and let it ring, flicking

it in her direction with a single practiced finger.

Only the gold of his ring showed; the ruby with

its etched rampant lion rested against his palm.

 

"Usca," he repeated, "and beef."

 

She was a greasy, unkempt girl with soiled

clothing and filthy nails. She offered him a lone

grimy dimple and a smile with two teeth missing.

"Mutton and pork, my lord."

 

A TAPESTRY w LIONS           187

 

"Mutton," he said easily, "and do not stint it."

 

She wore a stained, threadbare apron over

soiled gray skirts, and the sagging bodice gaped

to display her breasts. She bent over to give him

fill! benefit of her bounty. He saw more than she

intended: flesh aplenty, aye, and wide, darkened

nipples pinching erect under his perusal, but also

a rash of insect bites. Dark brown hair swung

down in its single braid. A louse ran across her

scalp.

 

"My lord," the woman said, "we have more than

just mutton and pork."

 

She was certain of her charms. In this place, he

knew, no man would care about her filth, only the

fit of his manhood between her diseased thighs.

"Later," he said coolly. "Do not press me."

 

The brief flash of dismay was overtaken at once

by enmity. She opened her mouth as if to respond,

then shut it tight again. He saw her reassess his

clothing, the coin, then forcibly alter hostility into

a sullen acceptance- "Aye, my lord. Mutton and

usca."

 

Kellin watched her walk away. Her hips swung

invitation as if by habit; the rigidity of her shoul-

ders divulged her injured feelings. He laughed

softly to himself; he had frequent congress with

Midden whores, but not with one such as she. He

did not think much of acquiring lice as boon com-

panions in exchange for a dip in her well-plumbed

womanhood.

 

As he waited for usca and mutton, Kellin again

assessed the room. His entrance, as expected, had

caused comment, but that had died. Men gambled

again, paying him no mind except for the occa-

sional sidelong glance. Impatiently he pressed the

tip of a fingernail into the edge of the silver piece

and flipped the coin on the table. Again and again

he did it, so that the coin rang softly, and the wan

 

18S Jennifer JXoberson

 

light from greasy candles glinted dully on the

sheen of clean silver.

 

The woman returned with a boiled leather flask,

no cup; and a platter of mutton. She thumped

down the platter as he tested the smell of the flask.

"Well?"

 

Kellin caught the tang of harsh liquor through

the bitterness of boiled leather. He nodded, then

nipped the coin in her direction. She caught it

deftly, eyed his intent to discern if his mood

toward her had changed; plainly it had not, but

she bobbed a quick curtsy in deference to the sil-

ver. The overpayment was vast, but she accepted

it readily enough with no offer of coppers in

change. He had expected none.

 

"Do ye game?" she asked, jerking her head

toward a neighboring table.

 

And so the dance commenced; Kellin felt the

knot of anticipation tie itself into his belly. "I

game."

 

"Do ye wager well?"

 

Kellin drew the Cheysuli long-knife and sliced

into the meat. "As well as the next man."

 

Emerald wolf's-eyes glinted. She marked them,

and stared. "Would ye dice with a stranger?"

 

Kellin bit into the chunk of meat. It was tough,

stringy, foul; he ate it anyway, because it was part

of the test. "If his coin is good enough, no man is

a stranger."

 

Indecisive, she chewed crookedly at her lip.

Then blurted her warning out. "You lords don't

come here. The game is sometimes rough."

 

"Tame ones bore me." He cut more mutton. Em-

eralds winked.

 

Her own eyes shone with avarice. "Luce will

throw with you. Will ye have him?"

 

Kellin downed a hearty swallow of usca, then

tipped the flask again. Deliberately, he said, "I

 

A TAPESTRY OF LtONS

 

189

 

came here for neither the drink nor the meat. Do

not waste my time on idle chatter."

 

She inhaled a hissing breath. Her spine was stiff

as she swung away, but he noted it did not prevent

her from walking to the closest table. She bent

and murmured to one of the table's occupants,

then went immediately into the kitchen behind a

tattered curtain.

 

Kellin waited. He ate his way through most of

the mutton, then shoved aside the platter with a

grimace of distaste. The rest of the usca eventually

burned away the mutton's aftertaste.

 

A second flask was slapped down upon the table

even as Kellin set aside the first. The hand that

held it was not the woman's. It was wide-palmed

and seamed with scars. Thick dark hair sprouted

from the back. "Purse," the man said. "I dice

against rich men, not poor."

 

Kellin glanced up eventually. "Then we are well

suited."

 

The man did not smile or otherwise indicate

emotion. He merely untied a pouch from his belt,

loosened the puckered mouth, and poured a stream

of gemstones into his hand. With a disdainful ges-

ture he scattered the treasure across scarred wood.

His authority was palpable as he stood beside the

table, making no motion to guard his wealth. No

one in the tavern would dare test him by at-

tempting to steal a gemstone.

 

Real, every one. Rubies, sapphires, emeralds,

and a diamond or two for good measure. All were

at least the size of a man's thumbnail; some were

larger yet.

 

Kellin looked at Luce again. The man was huge.

The imagery flashed into Kellin's mind: A bull.

And so Luce seemed, with his thick neck, and a

wide-planed, saturnine face hidden in bushy brown

beard. His eyes were dark, nearly black. His

 

190 Jennifer Robes-son

 

crooked teeth were yellow, and he lacked his left

thumb.

 

A thief. But caught only once, or the Mujhar's

justice would have required more than a thumb.

 

On thick wrists Luce wore heavy leather bracers

studded with grime-rimmed metal. His belt was

identical, fastened with a massive buckle of heavy

greenish bronze. His clothing was plain homespun

wool, dark and unexceptional, but in a concession

to personal vanity—and as a mark of his status—

he wore a chunky bluish pearl in his right earlobe.

In the Midden the adornment marked him a

wealthy man.

 

A good thief, then. And undoubtedly dangerous.

 

Kellin smiled. He understood why the girl had

gone to Luce rather than to another. She intended

to teach the arrogant lordling a very painful lesson

in payment for his rudeness.

 

He untied his belt-purse, loosened the mouth,

then dumped the contents out onto the table. Gold

spilled across stained wood, mingling with the

glitter of Luce's stones. With it spilled also silver,

a handful of coppers, and a single bloody ruby

Kellin carried for good luck.

 

The pile of coins and lone ruby marked Kellin

a rich man also, but it did not begin to match the

worth of Luce's treasure. He knew that at once

and thought rapidly ahead to alternatives. Only

one suggested itself. Only one was worth the risk.

 

The bearded Homanan grunted and began to

scoop the gemstones back into his pouch. "A poor

man, then."

 

"No." Kellin's tone was deliberate, cutting

through the faint clatter of stone against stone.

"Look again." With an elegant gesture he pushed

the long-knife into the pile.

 

He heard the sibilance of indrawn breaths.

Luce's presence at Kellin's table had attracted an

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            191

 

audience. The huge man was among friends in the

Midden; Kellin had none. Even Teague, ostensibly

there to guard him, slouched at the back of the

crowd and appeared only marginally interested in

Luce and the lordling who was not, after all, so

rich a man as that—except he had now raised the

stakes higher than anyone might expect.

 

The fingers on Luce's right hand twitched once.

His eyes, dark and opaque, showed no expression.

"I'll touch it."

 

"You know what it is," Kellin said. "But aye,

you may touch it—for a moment."

 

The insult was deliberate. As expected, it caused

a subtle shifting among the audience. Luce's mouth

tightened fractionally in the hedgerow of his

beard, then loosened. He picked up the knife and

smoothed fingers over the massive pommel, closed

on the grip itself, then eventually tested the clean

steel as an expert does: he plucked a hair from his

beard and pulled it gently across the edge. Satis-

fied, he twisted his mouth. Then it loosened, slack-

ened, and the tip of his tongue showed as he

turned the knife in poor light. Emerald eyes

glinted.

 

Luce wet thick lips. "Real."

 

Kellin's hands were slack on the table top. Com-

pared to Luce's bulky palms and spatulate fingers.

Kellin's were almost girlish in their slender ele-

gance. "I carry no false weapons."

 

Near-black eyes flicked an assessive glance at

Kellin. "Cheysuli long-knife."

 

"Aye."

 

Flesh folded upon itself at the comers of Luce's

eyes. "You'd risk this."

 

Kellin shrugged in elaborate negligence. "When

I dice, there is no risk."

 

Thus the challenge was made. Luce's brows met,

then parted. "This is worth more than I have."

 

192 Jennifer Roberson

 

"Of course it is." Kellin smiled faintly. "A Chey-

suli knife cannot be bought, stolen, or copied .. .

only earned." Idly he rolled his ruby back and

forth on the splintered wood. "Be certain, Homa-

nan—if you win that knife from me, you will have

earned it. But if it concerns you now that you can-

not match my wager, there is something else you

may add."

 

Luce's eyes narrowed. "What?"

 

"If you lose," Kellin said, "your other thumb."

 

The tavern thrummed with low-toned growls of

outrage and murmurs of surprise. In its tone Kel-

lin heard the implicit threat, the promise of vio-

lence; he had challenged one of their own. But the

audacity, once absorbed, was worth a grudging

admiration. It was a wager to measure the cour-

age of any man, and Luce had more pride than

most to risk. They believed in him, Kellin knew,

and that alone would move a reluctant man to

accept a wager he would not otherwise consider.

 

Luce set the knife down very deliberately next

to Kellin's hand. It was a subtle display of fairness

that was, Kellin believed, uncommon to the Mid-

den, and therefore all the more suspect, but was

also a salute to Kellin's ploy. The handsome young

lordling was no friend to them, but no longer pre-

cisely an enemy. He understood the tenor of their

world.

 

Luce smiled. "A wager worth the making, but

over too quickly. Let's save us the knife—and the

thumb—for last."

 

Kellin suppressed a smile, "Agreed."

 

"One more," Luce cautioned, as Kellin moved

to sweep the coins into his pouch, "if you lose the

knife, an answer to a question."

 

Easy enough. "If I can give it."

 

Luce's gaze did not waver. "You'll tell me how

you came by such a knife."

 

A TAPESTRY OF Lsoivs            193

 

That was unexpected. Kellin was accustomed to

those in better taverns recognizing him and there-

fore knowing he was Cheysuli. But Luce clearly

knew nothing at all about him, least of all his race,

which suited him perfectly. "It is important to

you?"

 

Luce bent and spat. "I have no love of the shape-

changers," he said flatly. "If you got a knife from

one of them, it can be done again. I want to find

the way. Then I would be on equal ground."

 

It was puzzling. "Equal ground? With the

Cheysuli?"

 

Luce hitched massive shoulders. "They're sor-

cerers. Their weapons are bound with spells. If I

had a knife, I'd share in the power. If I had two,

I could rule it."

 

Kellin smiled. "Ambitious, for a thief."

 

Luce's eyes narrowed. "A thief, aye—for now.

But these men'11 tell you what my ambition earns

them." One meaty hand swung out to encompass

the room. "Without me they earn scraps- With me,

they earn feasts." His stare was malignant. "The

Midden is mine, lordling, and I'll be keeping it so.

It'd be easier done with Cheysuli sorcery."

 

Kellin displayed his teeth in an undiluted grin,

then gestured with a sweep of one eloquent hand.

"Sit you down, my lord of the Midden, and we

shall see precisely what power there is to be won."

 

Four

 

By the time Kellin had won some of Luce's jewels

and Luce a portion of Kelhn's gold, even Teague

had joined the crowd surrounding the table. No

one paid him the slightest attention, including the

prince he was commanded to protect.

 

Sweat stippled Kelhn's upper lip. Except for the

cracked door and holes broken in daub-and-wattle

walls, the small room was mostly airless. Now

that so many had moved in close to watch, ringing

the table, he could not draw a single breath with-

out inhaling also the stench of the tavern and the

overriding stink of wool- and grime-swathed men

who had not bathed since summer.

 

Kellin impatiently wiped the dampness from his

face with the edge of his hand, knowing his ner-

vousness came as much from belated acknowledg-

ment of Luce's dicing skills as the closeness of the

room. He had always been good himself, but Luce

was better.

 

The luck has turned. Kellin tossed back a swal-

low of usca from his third flask, trying to diffuse

the nagging sense of trepidation. /; favors Luce,

not me—and we are nearly through my coin.

 

Left were two silver pieces and a handful of cop-

pers, pitiful remainders of Kelhn's once-plump

purse. Though he had briefly owned a few of

Luce's jewels, the giant had easily won them back

and more, including the lone ruby.

 

194

 

A TAPESTRY OF LtONS

 

195

 

the

 

That is where my luck went. Kellin eyed

bloody glint in Luce's pile. He has it now.

 

Luce slapped one meaty hand down across the

table, scattering the dice and the last few coins of

the current wager. Dark eyes glittered. "Enough,"

he said. "Put up the rest of it, all of it—it's time

for the final wager."

 

To buy time, Kellin assessed him. The big man

had consumed cup after cup of usca, but nothing

of it showed in eyes or manner. There was no indi-

cation Luce was any less sober than when the

wine-girl first approached him, only a fixed desire

to begin the final pattern of the dance.

 

Kellin inhaled slowly and deeply, trying to clear

his head. An unexpected desperation made him

nervous and irritable, doubling the effects of his

over-indulgence in usca. His belly was unsettled as

well as his spirit. He could not bear the knowledge

he might well lose Blais' knife- He had only risked

the weapon because he had been certain of keep-

ing it.

 

Luce smiled for the first time. Behind him, Kel-

lin heard the murmuring of the Homanans. Their

anticipation was clearer, as was their absolute

faith in Luce's ability. Kellin found it particularly

annoying.

 

He shoved all that remained of his wealth into

the center of the table, mingling it with jewels,

coins, and dice, then challenged Luce in silence.

 

The big man laughed. "All, is it?" He flicked

onto the pile a glittering diamond. "Worth more

than yours." he said off-handedly, "but I'll have

it back anyway." Then, with abject contempt, he

jabbed a hand toward Kellin. "Your throw. Boy."

 

The insult stung, as it was intended, but not so

much after all. To Luce, he was a boy, for the man

was much older—but something else was far more

 

196 Jennifer Roberson

 

imperative than answering a gibe at his youth and

inexperience.

 

If I could win this throw. I could yet string out

the game a while and avoid offering the knife. Teeth

set tightly, Kellin scooped up the six ivory dice.

Carved markings denoted their value. He threw,

and counted the values before the dice stopped

rolling-

 

Leijhana tu'sai— Relief crowded out the desper-

ation in Kellin's belly. Sweat dried on his face. He

maintained a neutral expression only with great

effort, and only because he knew it would annoy

Luce. "Your throw," he said negligently, relaxing

on his stool. Inwardly jubilant, he waited. The

crowd around the table stirred; only one value

could beat the total on Kellin's dice, and it was

not easily accomplished.

 

Luce grunted and grabbed the dice. His mouth

moved silently as he whispered something and

shook the cubes in his hand.

 

A body shifted behind Kellin, breaking his con-

centration. A voice said irritably: "Don't push!"

 

Kellin ignored it, watching Luce entreat the dice

to fall his way, but within a moment the body

pressed close again, brushing his shoulder. Kellin

leaned forward in an attempt to escape the crowd-

ing. If they take no care, they will upset the table—

 

And they did so just as Luce threw. A body fell

into Kellin, who was in turn shoved against the

table. Coins, jewels, and dice spilled, showering

the rush-littered Hoor.

 

Even as Kellin, swearing, rose to avoid over-

turned usca, he recognized the miscreant- The ex-

pression in Teague's eyes was one of calculation

and satisfaction, not regret or anger, though he

voiced a sharp protest against the man who had

caused him to fall.

 

For only a moment Kellin's curiosity roused.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

197

 

Then he turned back to Luce, who cursed savagely

and dropped to his knees, scrabbling for dice. Oth-

ers were on the floor also, gathering coin and

gemstones.

 

How many will make their way into purses and

pockets? And then Kellin reflected that probably

none would; Luce's hold over the men was too

strong- A copper here and there might disappear,

but nothing of significance.

 

Luce came up from the floor, broad face dark in

anger. A malignancy glittered in near-black eyes.

"The dice," he grated. "I have them all, but one."

 

Teague held it aloft. "I have it." His smile was

odd as he tossed the cube in his left hand; the

right lingered very near his knife.

 

Luce thrust out a hand. "Give it here."

 

"I think not." Teague had discarded his trucu-

lence and sloppy posture. He looked directly at

Kellin. "The die is weighted improperly. You have

been cheated."

 

"A lie\" Luce thundered.

 

Teague tossed the cube to Kellin. "What say

you?"

 

Frowning, Kellin rolled the smooth ivory in his

fingers. It felt normal enough. The ploy could well

be Teague's way of rescuing him from a difficult

situation.

 

He flashed a glance at the guardsman and saw

nothing but a cool, poised patience. Nothing at all

indicated Teague might be lying.

 

Kellin considered. A second test of the cube di-

vulged a faint roughness at one rounded comer,

but that could come from years of tavern use

rather than purposeful weighting.

 

"A lie," Luce declared. "Give it here."

 

Kellin stared back. "You deny the charge."

 

"I do!"

 

"Then you will have no objection if we test it." Kel-

 

198 Jennifer Robersoa

 

lin kicked aside bits and pieces of soiled rushes.

He grimaced in distaste as he knelt down on the

packed earthen floor. It was a vulnerable position,

with Luce towering over him, but he assumed it

with as much nonchalance as he could muster. He

dared not hesitate now, not before the ring of hos-

tile faces -

 

"A lie," Luce repeated.

 

Kellin draped one forearm across a doubled

knee. He gripped the die loosely in his right hand.

"If it is a fair roll, you shall have the knife." He

saw it in Teague's hand, emerald eyes glittering.

"Otherwise, your remaining thumb is forfeit."

 

Luce breathed audibly. "Throw it, then."

 

Kellin opened his fingers and dropped the cube.

It bounced, rattled, then stilled.

 

"You see?" Luce declared.

 

Kellin smiled. "Patience is not your virtue." He

retrieved the die. "If the identical value shows

four more times, I think there will be no ques-

tion—"

 

Luce bellowed an order.

 

Kellin uncoiled from the floor and caught the

knife easily as Teague slapped it into his hand.

The blade rested against Luce's massive belly,

forestalling any attack by others. "I offer you two

things," Kellin said clearly. "First, your life; I

have no desire to gut you here. It would only add

to the stench." He showed the big man his teeth.

"The other is the answer to your question. You

see, I got this knife—" he pressed the tip more

firmly against Luce's belly above the bronze buckle,

"—in a sacred ritual. Few Homanans know about

it; only one has witnessed it. His name was Caril-

lon." Jubilation welled up in Kellin's spirit. He

had risked himself, and won. "It is the custom to

exchange knives when a Cheysuli liege man

swears blood-oath to serve the Prince of Homana."

 

A TAFESTKY w LKWS          199

 

Luce's disbelief and fury began as a belly-deep

growl and rose to a full-throated roar. "Prince—"

 

Kellin cut it off with a firmer pressure against

the heavy belly. "Cheysuli as well, Homanan. Tahl-

morra lujhala mei wiccan, cheysu." He laughed, de-

lighted to see the comprehension in Luce's face.

"Now, perhaps we should discuss your thumb."

 

"Gut me, then!" Luce roared, and brought his

knee up sharply.

 

The knife did not by much beat the knee to its

target, but Kellin's thrust was almost immediately

rendered ineffective. He intended to sheath the

steel in Luce's belly, but the man's upthrust knee,

driving home with speed and accuracy, deprived

Kellin of everything except a burst of incredible

pain, and the knowledge—even as he collapsed—

that he had made a deadly mistake.

 

—never hesitate— But he had. Now he lay writh-

ing on the filthy floor of a dirtier tavern, wonder-

ing if he would survive long enough to find out if

he could bed a woman again.

 

He had cut Luce, perhaps deeply, but not deeply

enough to kill; he heard the man shouting orders

to his confederates. Hands closed on Kellin even

as he groaned and tried to swallow the usca that

threatened to exit his body. Bile burned in the

back of his throat.

 

Teague. Somewhere. But they were two against

too many.

 

For a fleeting moment Kellin wished he had not

been so adamant about posting the remaining

watchdogs outside, but there was no time for re-

criminations. He had lost his knife on the floor

and had only his wits and skills with which to

save his life.

 

Hands dragged him upright. Kellin wanted very

badly to lie down again, but he dared not if he

were to preserve his life. So he tapped the pain,

 

299

 

used the pain as a goad. and channeled it into a

 

weapon.

 

He tore loose of the hands holding him, jabbing

with elbows and stomping with booted feet. One

man he butted so firmly beneath the chin that

teeth crunched. Something sharp sliced across his

outflung hands, grated across knuckles; a second

knife jabbed him in the back. But its tip fouled on

the heavy winter doublet as he spun away.

 

Kellin lashed out with a boot and smashed a

knee, then jammed an elbow into the man's face

as he doubled over. Blood spurted as the nose

broke, spraying Kellin as well as the Homanan.

 

Teague. Near, he knew; he could hear the guards-

man swearing by the name of the Mujhar. Kellin

hoped Teague was armed with more than oaths.

If I could find the door—

 

A table was shoved into his path. Kellin braced,

then swung up onto it, kicked out again, caught

one man's jaw flush. The head snapped back on

its neck. The man tell limply even as another re-

placed him.

 

Someone slashed at his leg. Kellin leapt high

into the air and avoided the knife, but as he came

down again the flimsy table collapsed. In a spray

of shattered wood and curses, Kellin went down

with it-

 

Something blunt dug into his spine as he rolled.

Wood, not blade—

 

"Mine!" Luce roared. "He's mine to kill!"

 

"Teague!" Kellin shouted.

 

"My lord—" But the answering shout was cut

off.

 

Kellin thrust himself upward. Arms closed around

his chest, trapping his own arms in a deadly hug.

His spine was pressed against the massive belt

buckle; his head beneath Luce's chin. The Homa-

nan's strength was immense.

 

A TWESTRY OF LHWS           201

 

A sharp, firm squeeze instantly expelled what

little breath was left in Kellin's lungs. The human

vice around his chest denied him another. Speck-

les crept into the comers of his eyes, then spread

to threaten his vision.

 

Kellin writhed in Luce's grasp. He kicked but

struck air, and the big man laughed. "Boy," Luce

said, "your gods can't hear you now."

 

He had not petitioned the gods. Now he did, just

in case, even as he snapped his head backward in

a futile attempt to smash Luce's face. He struck

nothing but muscled neck. Luce's grip tightened.

 

Frenziedly, Kellin fought. His breath was gone,

and his strength, but desperation drove him. He

would not give up. A Cheysuli warrior never gave

up.

 

Luce, laughing, shook him. A rib protested- "Lit-

tle prince," he baited, "where is your liege man

now?"

 

Blais would not permit this— Kellin arched his

body in a final attempt at escape, then went limp.

Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. He

hung slackly in thick arms.

 

Luce squeezed him a final time, threw him

down. "I'll have that knife now."

 

Kellin's breath came back in a rush. He heard

himself gasping and whooping as his lungs filled

slowly, then understood what Luce intended to do-

"No knife—mine-—" And it was there, kicked be-

neath shattered wood; Kellin clawed for it, touched

it» closed trembling fingers upon it even as Luce

saw his intent. But before the big man could react,

Kellin's hand closed over the hilt.

 

He came up from the floor in one awkward

lunge, still gasping for breath, still doubled up

from the pain of his bruised ribs. But to hesitate

or protect himself guaranteed death; Kellin slashed

out repeatedly, carving himself a clearing. He saw

 

202 Jennifer Roberson

 

s,

 

the glint of a swordblade—no, two—and realized     ^

the watchdogs were present at last. Teague had

reached the door, or else they had heard the

commotion.

 

Luce?

 

The man was there, armed as well. The knife he

held was not so elaborate as Kellin's but its blade

was equally deadly. Near-black eyes were fastened     ^

on Kellin's face. "I'll have that long-knife yet."        ^

 

Blood trickled into Kellin's right eye as he     ^

sucked at air. He scrubbed a forearm across his      ?

brow, shook back damp hair, then grinned at the     s

big man- Without the breath to answer, Kellin     f

beckoned Luce on with the waggle of one hand.       ^

 

By now most of the fighting had been stopped,

or stopped of its own accord. It had come down

to Kellin and Luce. The silence in the tavern was

heavy with expectation.

 

Luce still watched him, judging his condition.

Kellin knew it well enough: he was half-sick on

usca and the blow from Luce's knee, as well as

bruised about the ribs. He was stippled by half a

dozen nicks and slices, and a cut across his brow

bled sluggishly, threatening his vision.

 

Kellin forced a ragged laugh. "Are you truly the

king of the Midden? Do you think yourself fit to

rule? Then show me, little man. Prove to a Chey-

suli you are fit to hold his knife."

 

Luce came on, as expected. Kellin stood his

ground, watching the man's posture and the sub-

tle movements of his body; when Luce's momen-

tum was fully engaged, his intent divulged, Kellin

slipped aside and thrust out a boot. Luce stum-

bled, cursed, then fell against a table. His hands

thrust out to brace himself.

 

With a single definitive blow of Blais' knife, Kel-

lin chopped down and severed the thief's re-

 

 

A TAPESTSY OF LlOPHS            203

 

maining thumb. "There," he said, "the debt now

is paid."

 

Luce screamed. He clutched his bleeding hand

against his chest. "Shapechanger sorcery!"

 

Kellin shook his head. still trying to regain his

breath. "Just a knife in the hand of a man. But

enough for you, it seems."

 

The conquest of Luce ended the fight entirely.

Kellin saw bloodied faces and gaping mouths, torn

clothing and gore-splattered hair. The crimson tu-

nics of the watchdogs glowed like pristine beacons

in the smoky shadows of the tavern.

 

He ached. His profaned manhood throbbed. He

wanted no more than to lie down in the slushy

snow and cool the heat of pain, to drive away the

sickness, to regain in the bite of winter the self-

control he had forfeited to a despised desperation.

 

Kellin wanted no one, thief or guardsman, to

see how much he hurt. Without a word, without

an order, he turned and walked through the crowd

and pushed open the cracked door, taking himself

from the tavern into the cold clarity of the alley.

The stench was no better there, but the familiar

glitter of stars was an infinite improvement over

the opaque malignancy of Luce's enraged stare.

 

Kellin looked at the horses and very nearly

flinched. He could not bear the idea of riding.

 

"My lord?" It was Teague, exiting the tavern.

He was bloodied and bruised and very taut around

the mouth. "We should get you to Homana-

Mujhar,"

 

The response was automatic. "If I choose to go."

 

Teague neither flinched nor colored. His tone

was pitched to neutrality. "Are you done for the

evening, my lord?"

 

Kellin gifted him with a scowl as the other

guardsmen filed out of the tavern. "Is there some-

thing else you wished to do?"

 

204 Jennifer Roberson

 

Teague shrugged. "I thought perhaps you might

desire to find another game." He paused. "My

lord."

 

As he collected breath and wits, Kellin consid-

ered any number of retorts. Most of them were

couched in anger or derision. But after what

Teague had done, he thought the guardsman de-

served better.

 

He blew out a frosted breath, then drew another

into a sore chest. He wanted to lie down, or bend

over, or lean against the wall, but he would do

none of those things or risk divulging discomfort.      A/

Instead, he asked a question. "Was the die improp-      4-

eriy weighted?"                                      ;

 

Teague grinned. "As to that, I could not swear.      ,;

 

But when Luce spread his hand down across the

pile and challenged you to the final throw, I saw

one die replaced with another. It seemed logical

to assume it was weighted to favor Luce."

 

Kellin grunted agreement. "But it was not re-

placed before."

 

"No, my lord."

 

"You are certain?"

 

"My lord—" With effort, Teague suppressed a

smile and did not look at his companions. "I am

moved to say your luck was bad tonight."

 

"And, no doubt, my tavern selection." Kellin

sighed and pressed a hand against sore ribs. "I am

going home. You may come, or go, as you wish. It

is nothing to me."

 

Teague considered it. "I think I will come, my

lord." The faintest glint brightened his eyes. "I

would like to hear what the Mujhar has to say

when you arrive on his front step."

 

It was momentarily diverting. "To me, or to

you?"

 

"To you, my lord. I have done my duty."

 

A TAPESTKY OF LIONS            205

 

Kellin scowled. "It is not the Mujhar who con-

cerns me."

 

"Who, then?"

 

It was an impertinence, but Kellin was too tired

and sore to remind Teague of that. "The queen,"

he muttered. "She is Erinnish, remember? And

possessed of a facile tongue." He sighed. "My ears

will be burning tonight, as she can no longer red-

den my rump."

 

Teague surrendered his dignity to a shout of

laughter. Then he recalled whom it was he served—

the royal temper, Kellin knew, was notorious—

and quietly gathered up the reins of his own

mount and Kellin's. "I will walk with you, my

lord."

 

The assumption stung. "And if I mean to ride?"

 

"Then I will ride also." Teague lowered his eyes

and stared inoffensively at the ground. "But I

daresay my journey will be more comfortable than

yours."

 

Kelin's face burned. "I daresay."

 

The Prince of Homana walked all the way home

as his faithful watchdogs followed.

 

Five

 

The Queen of Homana pressed a wine-soaked cloth

against the wound in her grandson's scalp. "Sit

still, Kellin! Tis a deep cut."

 

He could not help himself; he lapsed into an

Erinnish lilt in echo of her own. "You'll be making

it deeper, with this! D'ye mean to go into my

brain?"

 

" 'Twould keep you from further idiocy, now,

wouldn't it?" The pressure was firm as she worked

to stanch the dribbling blood.

 

"That I doubt," Brennan said. "Kellin courts

idiocy."

 

" 'Twould seem so," Aileen agreed equably. Then,

when Kellin meant to protest, "Sit still."

 

Between them, they will slice me into little pieces.

Kellin sat bolt upright in a stool in his chambers,

bare to the waist. He was not in the slightest dis-

posed to remain still as she pressed liquor into his

scalp, because he could not. It stung fiercely. The

right side of his chest was beginning to purple

from Luce's affectionate hug, but Kellin was not

certain Aileen's ministrations—or her words—would

be gentler.

 

"You could bind his ribs," she suggested crisply

to Brennan, "instead of standing there glowering

like an old wolf."

 

"No," Kellin answered, knowing the Mujhar's

 

206

 

A TAPESTRY OF LtONS           207

 

hands would be far less gentle than hers. "You do

it, granddame."

 

"Then stop twitching."

 

"It hurts."

 

Aileen sighed as she peeled back the cloth and

inspected the oozing cut beneath. "For a Cheysuli

warrior, my braw boyo, you're not so very good

at hiding your pain."

 

"The Erinnish in me," he muttered pointedly.

"Besides, how many Cheysuli warriors must suffer

a woman to pour liquid fire into their skulls?"

 

Aileen pressed closed the cut. "How many re-

quire it?"

 

Kellin hissed. He slanted a sidelong glance at

his grandfather. "I am not the first to rebel against

the constraints of his rank."

 

The gibe did not disturb the Mujhar in the least.

He stood quietly before his battered grandson

with gold-weighted arms folded, observing his

queen's ministrations. "Nor will you be the last,"

Brennan remarked. "But as that comment was

aimed specifically at me, let me answer you in

like fashion: dying before you inherit somewhat

diminishes the opportunity to break free of my

authority." He arched a brow. "Does it not?"

 

Kellin gritted his teeth. "I'm not looking to die,

grandsire—"

 

"You give every indication of it."

 

"—merely looking for entertainment, something

to fill my days, something to quench my taste—"

 

"—for rebellion." Brennan smiled a little. "Noth-

ing you tell me now cannot be countered, Kellin.

For that matter, you may as well save your breath,

which is likely at this moment difficult to draw

through bruised ribs—" the Mujhar cast him an

ironic glance, "—because I know very well what

you will say. I even know what / will say; it was

said to me and to my rujholli several decades ago."

 

208 Jennifer Robersoa

 

Kellin scowled. "I am not you, or Hart, or

Corin—"

 

"—or even Keely," Aiieen finished, "and I've

heard this before, myself." Her green eyes were

bright. "Now both of you be silent while I wrap

up your ribs."

 

Kellin subsided into glum silence, punctuated

only by an occasional hissed inhalation. He did

not look again at his grandsire, but stared fixedly

beyond him so he would not provoke a comment

in the midst of intense discomfort.

 

He had told them little of the altercation in the

tavern, saying merely that a game had gone bad

and the fight was the result. No deaths, he pointed

out; the Mujhar, oddly, asked about fire, to which

Kellin answered in puzzlement that there was no

fire, only a little blood. It had satisfied Brennan in

some indefinable way; he had said little after that

save for a few caustic comments.

 

Kellin sat very still as Aiieen worked, shutting

his teeth against the pain—he would not permit

her to believe he was less able than anyone else

to hold his tongue—and said nothing. But he was

aware of an odd sensation that had little to do

with pain.

 

"—still," she murmured, as a brief tremor claimed

his body.

 

Kellin frowned as she snugged the linen around

his ribs. What is—? And then again the tremor,

and Aileen's muttered comment, and his own un-

intended reaction; every inch of flesh burned so

intensely he sweated with it.

 

Brennan frowned. "Perhaps I should call a

surgeon."

 

"No!" Kellin blurted.

 

"If there is that much pain—"

 

"—isn't pain," Kellin gritted. "Except—for that—"

He sucked in a hissing breath as Aiieen pulled

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

209

 

linen taut against sore flesh. "Call no one.

Grandsire."

 

He held himself still with effort. It wasn't pain,

but something else entirely, something he could

not ignore, that burned through flesh into bone

with a will of its own, teasing at self-control. Fin-

gers and toes tingled. It spread to groin and belly,

then crept upward to his heart.

 

"Kellin?" Aileen's hands stilled. "Kel[in—"

 

He heard her only dimly, as if water filled his

ears. His entire being was focused on a single sen-

sation. It was very like the slow build toward the

physical release of man into woman, he thought,

but with a distinct difference he could not voice.

He could not find the words. He knew only there

was a vast and abiding thing demanding his atten-

tion, demanding his body and soul.

 

"Ihlini?" he murmured. "Lochiel?"

 

He need only put out his hand, Corwyth had

said, and Kellin would be in it.

 

His ribs were strapped and tied. He could not

breathe.

 

—could not breathe—

 

"Kellin!" Aileen's hands closed on his naked

shoulders. "Can you hear me?"

 

He could. Clearly. The stuffy distance was gone.

The burning subsided, as did the tremors. He felt

it all go, leaching him of strength. He sat weak

and trembling upon the stool, sweat running down

his face. Damp hair stuck to his brow.

 

Gods— But he cut it off. He would not beg aid

or explanation from those he could not honor.

 

Kellin clenched his teeth within an aching jaw.

For a moment the room wavered around him,

running together until all the colors were gone.

Everything was a fleshy gray, lacking depth or

substance.

 

"Kellin?" The Mujhar.

 

219 Jennifer Roberson

 

He could make no answer. He blinked, tried to

focus, and vision eventually steadied. His hearing

now was acute, so incredibly acute he heard the

soughing of the folds of Aileen's skirts as she

turned to Brennan. He could smell her, smell him-

self: the bitter tang of his own fear, the acrid bite

of rebelling flesh.

 

"Brighter—" he blurted, and then the desolation

swept in, and emptiness, and a despair so power-

ful he wanted to cry out. He was a shell, not a

man; a hollow, empty shell. Shadow, not warrior,

a man lacking in heart or substance, and therefore

worthless among his clan.

 

In defiance of pain, Kellin lurched up from the

stool. He shuddered. Tremors began again. He felt

the protest of his ribs, but they did not matter. He

took a step forward, then caught himself. For a

moment he lingered, trapped upon the cusp, then

somehow found the chamberpot so he could spew

his excesses into pottery instead of onto the floor.

 

Even as Aileen murmured sympathy, Brennan

cut her off. "He deserves it. The gods know Hart

and Corin did, and Keely, when they followed such

foolish whims."

 

"And what of your whims?" she retorted. "You

did not drink overmuch, but you found Rhiannon

instead."

 

Kellin stood over over the chamberpot, one arm

cradling his chest. It hurt to bend over, hurt to

expell all the usca, hurt worse to draw a breath.

 

He straightened slowly, irritated by his grand-

parents' inconsequential conversation, but mostly

humilated by the dictates of his body. He felt no

better for purging his belly. Sickness yet lurked

within, waiting for the moment he least expected

its return.

 

Brennan's tone was uncharacteristically curt,

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

211

 

but also defensive as he answered his cheysula.

"Rhiannon has nothing to do with this."

 

"She was your downfall as much as gambling

was Hart's and / was Corin's!" Aileen snapped.

"Don't be forgetting it, Brennan. We all of us do

things better left undone. Why should Kellin be

different?"

 

He shivered once more, and then his body

stilled. In quiescence was relief, carefully Keltin

sought and found a cloth to wipe his mouth. It

hurt too much to move; he leaned against the

wall. Brickwork was cool against overheated flesh.

 

Distracted by his movement, Aileen turned from

her husband. "Are you well?"

 

"How can he be well?" Brennan asked. "He has

drunk himself insensible and now suffers for it, as

well as for a fight that nearly stove in his chest."

His mouth hooked down in derision. "But he is

young, for all of that; he will begin again tomorrow."

 

"No," Kellin managed. "Not tomorrow." The

room wavered again. He caught at brickwork to

keep from falling.

 

"Kellin-" The derision was banished from Bren-

nan "s tone. "Sit down."

 

The floor moved beneath Kellin's feet. Or was

he moving?"

 

"He's ill!" Aileen cried. "Brennan—catch—"

 

But the command came too late. Kellin was

aware of a brief detached moment of disorienta-

tion, then found himself sprawled across the floor

with his head in the Mujhar's arms.

 

He was cold, so cold—and a wail of utter despair

rose from the depths of his spirit. "—empty—" he

mouthed. "—lost—"

 

Brennan sat him upright and held him steady,

examining his eyes. "Look at me."

 

Kellin looked. Then vision slid out of focus and

 

212 Jennifer Roberson

 

the wail came back again. A sob tore loose in his

chest. "Grandsire—"

 

"Be still. Look at me." Brennan cradled Kellin's

head in his hands, holding it very still.

 

"Are you wanting a surgeon?" Aileen asked

crisply.

 

"No."

 

"Earth magic, then."

 

"No."

 

"Then—"

 

"Shansu," Brennan told her. "This is something

else, meijhana. Something far beyond the discon-

tent caused by too much usca."

 

It was indeed. If not for the Mujhar *s hands

holding him in place, Kellin believed he might fall

through the floor and beyond. "—too hard—" he

whispered. "Too—"

 

"—empty," Brennan finished, "and cold, and

alone, torn apart from the world and everything

in it."

 

'—lost—"

 

"And angry and terribly frightened, and very

small and worthless."

 

Kellin managed to nod. The anguish and desola-

tion threatened to overwhelm him. "How can—

how can you know?"

 

Brennan's severity softened. "Because I have felt

it also- Every Cheysuli does when it is time to

bond with his Ur."

 

"Lir!"

 

"Did you really believe you would never have

one?" Brennan's smile was faint. "Did you believe

you would not need one?"

 

"I renounced it!" Kellin cried. "When Blais

left—I swore—"

 

"Some oaths are as nothing."

 

"I renounced a Ur, and the gods." It was incom-

prehensible that now, after so long without one,

 

A TAPESTRY OF LlOPiS            213

 

he might require a Ur; or that he should have to

battle the interference of gods he did not honor.

 

"Clearly the gods did not renounce you," Bren-

nan said dryly. "Now the time is come."

 

Kellin summoned all his strength; it was a pa-

thetic amount. "I refuse."

 

The Mujhar smiled. "You are welcome to try."

 

Aileen was shocked. "You are overharsh!"

 

"No. There is nothing he can do. It is his time,

Aileen. He will drive himself mad if he continues

this foolishness. He must go. He is Cheysuli."

 

"And—Ermnish ... and Homanan—and all the

other lines—" Kellin shivered. " 'Tis all I count

for, is it not? My seed. My blood. Not Kellin at

aU\" His spirit felt as cold and hard as the floor.

Desperately, he said, "I renounce my hr."

 

"Renounce as you will," Brennan said, "but for

now, get up on the stool."

 

Kellin gritted his teeth. "You are the Mujhar,

blessed by the gods. I charge you to take it away."

 

"What—the pain? You earned it. The empti-

ness? I cannot. It can only be filled with a Ur."

 

"Take it away!" Kellin shouted. "I cannot live

like this!"

 

Brennan rose. His eyes, so intensely yellow, did

not waver. "You have the right of that," he agreed.

"You cannot live like this."

 

"Grandsire—"

 

"Get up, Kellin. There is nothing to be done."

 

He got up. He ached. He swore, even before Ai-

leen. He was profoundly empty, bereft of all save

futility and a terrifying apartness. "I renounced

it," he said, "just as I renounced the gods. They

have no power over me."

 

Brennan turned to Aileen. "I will have usca sent

up. Best he dulls his pain with that which caused

it; in the morning he will be better—" he slanted

a glance at his grandson, "—or he will be worse."

 

214 Jennifer Roberwa

 

She was clearly displeased. "Brennan."

 

The Mujhar of Homana extended a hand to his

queen. "There is nothing to be done, Aileen. Whether

or not he likes it, Kellin is Cheysuh. The price is

always high, but no warrior refuses to pay it."

 

"I do," Kellin declared. "/ refuse. I will not ac-

cept a lir."

 

Brennan nodded sagely. "Then perhaps you

should spend the next few hours explaining that

to the gods."

 

Six

 

"Leijhana tu'sai," Kellin murmured as his grand-

parents shut the door behind them. He was sick

to death of Brennan's dire predictions and Aileen's

contentiousness; could they not simply let him

alone? They try to shape me to fit their own idea of

how a prince should be.

 

Or perhaps they attempted to shape him into

something other than his father who had re-

nounced his rank and title as Kellin renounced his

Hr.

 

He drew in a hissing breath and let it out again,

trying to banish pain as he banished the previous

thought. Kellin had no desire to consider how his

behavior might affect his grandparents, or that the

cause of his own rebellion was incentive for the

very expectations he detested. Such maunderings

profited no one, save perhaps the occasional flicker

of guilt searching for brighter light. He had no

time for such thoughts; his ribs ached, and his

manhood as yet reminded him of its abuse- Best

he simply took to his bed; perhaps he would fall

asleep, and by morning be much improved in

health and spirit.

 

But restlessness forbade it even as he approached

the bed. He was dispirited, disgruntled, highly un-

settled. Even his bones itched. His body would not

be still, but clamored at him for something—

 

"What?" Kellin gritted. "What is it I'm to do?"

 

215

 

216

 

Wa •• rtfrtM

 

JUIBuT

 

He could not be srifl. Frustrated, Kellin began to

pace, hoping to burn out the buzz in blood and bones.

But he managed to stop only when he reached the

polished plate hanging cockeyed on the wall.

 

He stared gloomily at his reflection: a tall man,

fair of skin—for a Cheysuli, he thought, though

dark enough for a Homanan\—with green eyes di-

lated dark and new bruises on his face.

 

Aileen's applications of wine had stiffened his

hair. Kellin impatiently scrubbed a hand through

it, taking care to avoid the crusting cut. The raven

curls of youth were gone, banished by adulthood,

but his hair still maintained a springy vigor. He

scratched idly at his chest, disliking the tautness

of the wrappings. The linen bandages stood out in

stark relief against the nakedness of his torso.

 

Kellin stared at his reflection, then grinned as

he recalled the cause of sore ribs. "And what of

the thumbless thief?"

 

But the brief jolt of pleasure and vindication

dissipated instantly. Luce was not important. Luce

did not matter. Nothing at all mattered except the

despair that welled up so keenly to squash his

spirit flat.

 

Kellin turned from the plate abruptly. Better he

not look; better he not see—

 

Emptiness overwhelmed, and the savage desire

to tear down all the walls, brick by brick, so he

could be free of them.

 

He burned with it. Cursing weakly, Kellin lurched

to the narrow casement. Beyond lay Homana of

the endless skies and meadows, the freedom of the

air. He was confined by walls, oppressed by brick-

work; every nerve in his body screamed its de-

mand for freedom.

 

"Get out—" he blurted.

 

He needed desperately to get out, get free, get

loose—

 

A TMSSHW W LiSHW            217

 

"Shadow," he murmured. "Half-man, hollow-

man—" And then he squeezed shut his eyes as he

dug fingers into stone. "I will not ... will not be

what they expect me to be—"

 

Cold stone bit into his brow, hurting his bruised

face; he had pressed himself against the wall be-

side the window. Flame washed his flesh and set

afire every nick, scratch, and cut. Rising bruises

ached as blood throbbed in them, threatening to

break through the fragile warding of his skin.

 

He paced because he could not help himself; he

could not be still. A singing was in his blood, echo-

ing clamorously. He paced and paced and paced,

trying to suppress the singing, the overriding urge

to squeeze himself through the narrow casement

and fling himself into the air.

 

"—fall—" he muttered. "Fall and break all my

bones—"

 

Hands fisted repeatedly: a cat flexing its claws,

testing the power in his body, the urge to slash

into flesh.

 

He sweated. Panted. Swore at capricious gods.

He wanted to open the door, to tear it from its

hinges, to shatter the wood completely and throw

aside iron studs.

 

Kellin sat down on the stool and hugged bare

arms against wrapped chest, ignoring the pain. He

rocked and rocked and rocked: a child in need of

succor; a spirit in need of release.

 

Tears ran down his face. "Too many—" he said.

"Too many ... I will not risk losing a lir—" Only

to lose himself to an arcane Cheysuli ritual that

robbed the world of another warrior despite his

perfect health.

 

Liriess warriors went mad, he had been taught,

as all Cheysuli were taught. Mad with the pain

and the grief, the desperate emptiness.

 

"—mad now—" he panted. "Is this different?"

 

218 Jennifer Roberwn

 

Perhaps not. Perhaps what he did now was in-

vite the very madness he did not desire to risk in

bonding with a lir.

 

Brickwork oppressed him. The walls and roof

crushed his spirit.

 

"Out—" he blurted. But to go out was to

surrender.

 

He rocked and rocked and rocked until he could

rock no more; until he could not countenance sit-

ting on the stool another moment and rose to pace

again, to move from wall to wall, to stand briefly

at the casement so as to test his will, to dare the

desperate need that drove him to pace again, until

he reached the door.

 

Unlocked. Merely latched. He need only lift the

latch—

 

"No." A tremor wracked Kellin's body. He sup-

pressed it. He turned away, jubilant in his victory,

in the belief he had overcome it—and then felt

his will crumble beneath the simplicity of sheer

physical need-

It took but a moment: boots, doublet, russet wool

cloak, long-knife. Emeralds winked in candlelight.

 

Kellin stared at the knife. Vision blurred: tears.

Tears for the warrior who had once sworn by the

blade, by his blood, by the lir whose death had

killed him.

 

He thought of the words Blair had offered him

a decade before.

 

It hurt. It squeezed, until no room was left for

his heart; no room remained for his spirit.

 

"Y'ja'hai," Kellin breathed, then unlatched and

jerked open the door.

 

He did not awaken the horse-boy sleeping in straw.

He simply took a bridle, a horse—without benefit

of blankets or saddle—and swung up bareback.

 

Pain thundered in Kellin's chest. He sat rigidly

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           219

 

straight, daring himself to give in as sweat trick-

led down his temples. Scrapes stung from the

taste of salt, but he ignored them. A smaller pain,

intrusive but less pronounced, reminded him of

his offended netherparts, but that pain, too, he rel-

egated to nothing in the face of his compulsion.

 

Winter hair afforded him a better purchase

bareback than the summer season, when mounts

were slick-haired and the subsequent ride occa-

sionally precarious. It was precarious now, but not

because of horsehair; a rider was required to

adapt to his mount's movements by adjustments

in body both large and small, maintaining flexi-

bility above all else, but the skill was stripped

from Kellin. With ribs bruised and tightly strapped,

he was forced to sit bolt upright without bending

his spine, or risk significant pain.

 

He knew the way so well: a side-gate in the

shadows, tucked away in the wall; he had used it

before. He used it now, leaving behind the outer

bailey, then Mujhara herself as he rode straight

through the city to the meadowlands beyond. The

narrow track was hard footing in the cold, glinting

with frost rime in the pallor of the moon.

 

No more walls— Kellin gritted his teeth. No more

stone and brick, no more streets and buildings—

 

Indeed, no more. He had traded city for country,

replacing cobbles with dirt and turf, and captivity

for freedom.

 

But the emptiness remained.

 

If I give myself over to the lir-bond, I will be no

different from any warrior whose promise to chey-

sula and children to care for them always is threat-

ened by that very bond.

 

It seemed an odd logic to Kellin. How could one

promise supersede the other, yet still maintain its

worth? How could any warrior swear himself so

 

220 Jennifer Roberson

 

profoundly to lir and family knowing very well one

of the oaths might be as nothing?

 

For that matter, how could cheysula or child be-

lieve anything the warrior promised when it was

made very clear in the sight of gods and clan that

a lir came first always?

 

Kellin shook his head. A selfish oath demanded

from selfish gods—

 

The horse stumbled. Jarred, sore ribs protested;

 

fresh sweat broke on Kellin's brow and ran down

his face. Cold air against dampness made him

shiver convulsively, which set up fresh complaint.

 

He cast a glance at the star-freighted sky. Re-

venge for my slight? That I dare to question such

overweening dedication to you?

 

The horse did not stumble again. If the gods

heard, they chose not to answer.

 

Kellin, for his part, laughed—until the despair

and emptiness shattered into pieces the dark humor

of his doubts, reminding him once again that he

was, if nothing else, subject to such whims as the

gods saw fit to send him.

 

Merely because I am Cheysuli— He gripped the

horse with both knees, clutching at reins. He re-

called all too well what his grandsire had said

regarding madness. He recalled even more clearly

the wild grief in Blais' eyes as the warrior ac-

knowledged a far greater thing than that he must

give up his life; Tanni's death and the severing of

the /fr-bond had been, in that moment, the only

thing upon which Blais could focus himself, though

it promised his death as well.

 

Irony blossomed- Certainly he focused nothing

upon me, who had from him a blood-oath of service.

 

One sworn to the gods, at that.

 

Kellin and his mount exchanged meadowlands

for the outermost fringes of the forest. His passage

stirred the woods into renewed life, startling

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           221

 

birds from branches and field warren from bur-

rows. Here the moon shone more fitfully, frag-

mented by branches. Kellin heard the sound of his

horse and his own breath expelled in pale smoke.

He pulled the russet cloak more closely around his

shoulders.

 

The horse stopped. It stood completely still, ears

erect. Its nostrils expanded hugely, fluttered, then

whuffed closed as he expelled a noisy snort of

alarm.

 

"Shansu—" Even as Kellin gathered rein to fore-

stall him, the horse quivered from head to toe.

 

From the shadows just ahead came the heavy,

throaty coughing of a lion.

 

"Wait—" But even as Kellin clamped his legs,

the horse lunged sideways and bolted.

 

Seven

 

In the first awkward lunge, Kellin felt the slide of

horsehair against breeches and the odd, unbal-

anced weightlessness of a runaway. With it came

a twofold panic: first, the chance of injury; the

second because of the lion.

 

He had ridden runaways before. He had fallen

off of or been thrown from runaways before. It

was a straightforward hazard of horsemanship re-

gardless how skilled the rider, regardless how

docile the horse. A horseman learned to halt a run-

away mount with various techniques when footing

afforded it; here, footing was treacherous, and vi-

sion nonexistent. This particular runaway—at

night, in the dark, with customary reflexes obliter-

ated by pain and disorientation—was far more

dangerous than most.

 

Kellin's balance was off. He could not sit prop-

erly. He was forced to ride mostly upright, perch-

ing precariously, breaking the fluid melding of

horse and rider. Vibrations of the flight, instead of

dissipating in his body, reverberated painfully as

the horse broke through tangled undergrowth and

leapt fallen logs.

 

Branches snagged hair, slapped face, cut into

Kellin's mouth. A clawing vine hooked the bridge

of his nose and tore flesh. He felt something dig

at one eye and jerked his head aside, cursing help-

lessly. One misstep-—

 

222

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

223

 

He tried to let reflexes assume control, rather

than trusting to himself. But reflexes were ban-

ished. His spine was jarred as the horse essayed a

depression in the ground, which in turn jarred his

ribs. Kellin sucked in a noisy breath and tried to

ease his seat, to let the response of muscles to his

mount's motion dictate the posture of his body,

but failed to do so.

 

The horse stumbled, then dodged and lurched

sideways as it shied from an unseen terror. Kellin

blurted discomfort, biting into his cheek; he thought

of snubbing the horse's nose back to his left knee

in the classic technique, but the trees were too

close, the foliage too dense. He had no leeway, no

leverage.

 

The horse hesitated, then leapt again, clearing

an unseen impediment. It seemed then to realize

it bore an unwanted rider. Kellin felt the body

shifting beneath his buttocks, away from clamping

legs; then it bunched and twisted, elevating but-

tocks, and flung its rider forward.

 

Awkwardly Kellin slid toward the horse's head,

dangling briefly athwart one big shoulder. Hands

caught frenziedly at mane as he tried to drag him-

self upright, clutching at reins, digging in with left

heel, but the horse ducked out from under him.

 

Kellin was very calm as he hung momentarily

in the air. He was aware of weighty darkness, en-

croaching vines and branches, the utter physical

incomprehensibility that he was unconnected to

his mount—and the unhappy acknowledgment

that when he landed momentarily it would hurt

very much.

 

He tucked up as best he could, cursing strapped

ribs. One shoulder struck the ground first- He

rolled through the motion, smashing hip against

broken branches shrouded in tangled fern, then

flopped down onto his back as the protest of his

 

224 Jennifer Robersoa

 

ribs robbed him of control. He landed flat and

very hard, human prey for the hidden treacheries

of unseen ground.

 

For a moment there was no pain. It terrified

him. He recalled all too clearly the old Homanan

soldier who had taken a tumble from his horse in

the bailey of the castle. The fall had not been bad;

 

but as fellow soldiers—and Kellin with them—

gathered to trade jests, it became clear that

though old Tammis lived, his neck was broken. He

would not walk again.

 

The panic engendered by that image served as

catalyst for the bruised strength in legs and

arms. Kellin managed one huge jerking contortion

against broken boughs and fern. It renewed all the

pain, but he welcomed it. Pain was proof he could

yet move.

 

/ will walk again. But just now, he was not cer-

tain he wanted to. Now that he could move he did

not, but lay slack and very still against a painful

cradle. He forced himself not to gasp but to draw

shallow breaths through the wreckage of his chest.

 

When he at last had wind again, Kellin gasped

out a lengthy string of the vilest oaths he knew in

Homanan, Old Tongue, and Erinnish. It used up

the breath he had labored so carefully to recover,

but he felt it worth it. Dead men did not swear.

 

The horse was gone. Kellin did not at that mo-

ment care; he could not bear the thought of trying

to mount. He wished the animal good riddance,

suppressing the flicker of dismayed apprehen-

sion—a long and painful walk all the way to Mujh-

ara—then set about making certain he was whole.

Everything seemed to be, but he supposed he could

not tell for certain until he got up from the

ground.

 

Sound startled him into stillness. But a stride

 

A TAPESTRY Of LIONS           225

 

or two away came the coughing grunt of beast,

and the stink of its breath.

 

It filled Kellin's nostrils and set him to flight. It

might be bear, mountain cat— He flailed, then

stilled himself.

 

Lion?

 

It bore Corwyth's hallmark.

 

With effort Kellin pulled his elbows in to his

sides and levered his torso upright, lifting a bat-

tered chest until he no longer lay squashed and

helpless. "Begone," he said aloud, using the scorn

of royalty. "You have no power over me."

 

The odor faded at once, replaced with the damp

cold smells of winter. A man laughed softly from

the shadows shielding the beast. "The lion may

not," he said, "but be certain that / do."

 

Kellin's breath hissed between set teeth as Cor-

wyth exited the shadows for the star-lighted hol-

low in which the prince lay. The Ihini wore dark

leathers and a gray wool cloak. Pinned by a heavy

knot of silver at one shoulder, the cloak glowed

purple in the livid shadows of its folds.

 

Knowledge diminished pain; made it no longer

important. "Corwyth the Lion. But the guise is

now ineffective; I have learned what you are."

 

Corwyth affected a negligent shrug. "I am what-

ever it serves me—and my master—to be. For you,

it was a lion." The Ihlini walked quietly toward

Kellin, crackling no branches, snagging no vegeta-

tion. His hands were gloved in black. "Indeed, we

heard of the small prince's fear of lions. It permit-

ted us certain liberties, even though we were pow-

erless within the palace itself. Fear alone can

prove effective, as it did in your case. You be-

lieved. That belief has shaped you, Kellin; it has

made you what you are in heart and spirit, and

placed you here within my grasp."

 

Kellin longed to repudiate it, but he could not

 

226

 

speak. What Corwyth said was true. His own

weakness had provided the Ihlini with a weapon.

 

The gloved hands spread, displaying tiny white

flames that transformed themselves to pillars. They

danced against Corwyth's palms. "lan's death in

particular was most advantageous. Your certainty

that the Lion had killed him was unfounded—it

was but a child's imagination gone awry, interpre-

ting a passing comment into something of sub-

stance—but that substance, given life, nearly

consumed you." The flames within his palms

bathed Corwyth's smiling face with lurid illumi-

nation. His eyes were black pockets in a white-

limned mask. "That, too, served, though it was

none of ours. A fortuitious death, was lan's. We

could not have hoped for better."

 

Kellin stirred in protest, then suppressed a

grunt of pain. He wanted very badly to rise and

face the Ihlini as he would face a man, but pain

ate at his bones. "Lochiel," he said.

 

Corwyth nodded. "The hand at last is outstretched.

It beckons, Kellin. You are cordially invited to join

your kinsman in the halls of Valgaard."

 

"Kinsman!"

 

Corwyth laughed. "You recoil as if wounded, my

lord* But what else are you? Shall I recount your

heritage?"

 

Kellin's silence was loud.

 

The Ihlini continued regardless. "Lochiel was

Strahan's son. Strahan was Tynstar's son, who got

him on Electra of Solinde. She was, at the time,

married to Carillon and was therefore Queen of

Homana; but her tastes lay with her true lord

rather than the Mujhar who professed to be."

White teeth shone briefly. "Strahan was her son.

He was brother—rujholli?—to Aislinn, who bore

Niall, who sired Brennan—and a multitude of oth-

ers—who in turn sired Aidan. Your very own

 

A TAPESTKY OF LIONS           227

 

jehan." Corwyth nodded. "The line is direct, Kel-

lin. You and Lochiel are indeed kinsmen, no mat-

ter what you might prefer."

 

Something slow and warm trickled into Kellin's

eyes. He was bleeding—the cut Aileen had stanched?

Or another, newer one?

 

Corwyth laughed. "Poor prince. So battered, so

bruised .. . and so entirely helpless."

 

Kellin pressed himself up from the ground in a

single painful lunge, jerking from its sheath the

lethal Cheysuli long-knife. It fit his grasp so well,

as if intended for him. Blais could not have known—

He flipped it instantly in his hand and threw, arc-

ing it cleanly across the darkness toward the Ihlini

sorcerer. My own brand of Tooth!

 

But Corwyth put up a gloved hand now free of

flames. The knife stopped in midair. Emerald eyes

turned black.

 

"No!" Kellin's blurted denial was less of fear

than of the knowledge of profanation. Not Blais'

long-knife!

 

Corwyth plucked the weapon from the air. He

studied it a moment, then tucked it away into his

belt. His eyes were bright. "I have coveted one of

these for a century. I thank you for your gift." The

young-looking Ihlini smiled. "Without you, I might

never have acquired one; Cheysuli warriors are,

after all, well-protected by their lir." Corwyth

paused to consider. "But you lack a lir and there-

fore lack the protection. Leijhana tu'sai, my lord."

 

Kellin wavered. His fragile strength, born of

panic and fury, was spent. Nothing was left to

him, not even anger, nor fear. An outthrust hand

earned him nothing but empty air, certainly little

balance. Fingers closed, then the hand fell limply

as Kellin bit into his lip to forestall collapse. He

would not, would not, show such weakness to the

Ihlini.

 

228 Jennifer Roberson

 

"Give in to it," Corwyth suggested gently. "I am

not here to be cruel, KeUin ... you paint us so, I

know, and it is a personal grief; but there is no

sense in maintaining such rigid and painful con-

trol merely out of pride."

 

The darkness thickened. Sorcery? Or exhaustion

compounded by pain? "I am Cheysuli. I do not in

any way, in words or deed or posture, even by

implication, suggest that I am inferior to an

mlini."

 

Corwyth laughed. "Inferior, no. Never. We are

equal, my lord, in every sense of the word. Sired

by the gods, we are now little more than petty

children quarreling over a toy." His hand closed

over the wolf-headed knife tucked into his belt.

"Once, we might have been brothers. Rujheldi, as

we say—is it not close to rujhoUl?" Corwyth did

not smile. "Uncomfortably close, I see, judging by

your expression. But it is too late now for anything

more than enmity. The Cheysuli are too near ful-

fillment. The time is now to stop the prophecy

before it can be completed. Before you, my Chey-

suli rujheldi, can be permitted to sire a child upon

an Ihlini woman."

 

KeUin wanted very much to spit. He did not

because he thought it was time he showed self-

restraint. He, who had so little. With careful dis-

dain, he asked, "Do you believe I would so soil my

manhood as to permit it entry into the womb of

the netherworld?"

 

Corwyth laughed. It was a genuine sound kiting

into darkness. It stirred birds from a nearby tree

and reawakened Kellin's apprehension. "A man is

a fool to trust to taste and preference in a matter

so important. I recite to you your own history,

KeUin: Rhiannon, Lillith's. daughter, sired by lan

himself—"

 

A TAPESTRY OF LlOW            229

 

"lan was tricked. He was bespelled. He was lir-

less, and therefore helpless."

 

"—and Brennan, your grandsire, who lay with

Rhiannon and sired the halfling Ihlini woman at

whose breast you suckled."

 

Kellin's belly clenched. "My grandsire was seduced."

 

"But you are above such things?" Corwyth

shook his head. "A single birth, Kellin ... a single

seed of yours sowed in fertile Ihlini soil, and the

thing is done." His eyes were black and pitiless in

the frosted darkness. "We are not all of us sworn

to Asar-Suti. There are those Ihlini who would, to

throw us down, try very hard to insure the child

was conceived. The prophecy is not dependent

upon whose blood mingles with yours, merely that

it be Ihlini."

 

Kellin summoned the last of waning strength.

In addition to battered chest, a hip and shoulder

ached. Welts and scratches stung- Bravado was

difficult. "So, will you kill me here?"

 

Corwyth smiled. "You are meant for Lochiel's

disposition."

 

Kellin dredged up scorn. "If you mean to take

me to Valgaard, you will do it against my will.

That much you cannot take from me, Hrless or no."

 

"That may be true," Corwyth conceded, "but

there are other methods. And all of them equally

efficient."

 

He gestured. From the shadows walked two

cloaked men and a saddled horse. Kellin looked at

them, looked at the mount, and knew what they

meant to do.

 

"A long ride," Corwyth said, "and as painful as

I can make it." He glanced to the horse, then

looked back at Kellin. "How long do you think

you can last?"

 

Eight

 

Kellin awoke with his mouth full of blood. He

gagged, spat it out, felt more flow in sluggishly

from the cut on the inside of his cheek. Pressure

pounded in his head. It roused him fully, so that

he could at last acknowledge the seriousness of his

situation.

 

Corwyth's companions had flung him belly-

down across the saddle, little more than a bat-

tered carcass shaped in the form of a man. Ankles

were tied to the right stirrup, wrists to the left.

The position was exceedingly uncomfortable; the

binding around his ribs had loosened with abuse

and provided no support.

 

He recalled his defiant challenge: Cheysuli to Ih-

lini. He recalled losing that challenge, though lit-

tle of anything afterward; the pain had robbed

him of consciousness. Now consciousness was

back. He wished it were otherwise.

 

Kellin gagged and coughed again, suppressing

the grunt of pain that exited his throat and was

trapped with deliberate effort behind locked teeth.

Regardless of the discomfort, despite the incipient

rebellion of his discontented belly, he would not

disgrace himself by losing that belly's contents in

front of an Ihlini.

 

A thought intruded: Had I listened to my grand-

sire— But Kellin cut it off. Self-recrimination

merely added to misery.

 

230

 

A TAPESTRY w LIONS           231

 

The horse moved on steadily with its Cheysuli

burden. Every stride of the animal renewed Kel-

lin's discomfort. He wanted very much to sit up-

right, to climb down from the horse, to lie down

quietly and let his headache subside. But he could

do none of those things.

 

A crackling of underbrush forwamed him of

company as a horse fell in beside him. Kellin's

limited head-down view provided nothing more of

the world than stirrup leather and horsehair.

 

Then Corwyth spoke, divulging identity. "Awake

at last, my lord? You have slept most of the

night."

 

Slept? I have been in more comfortable beds. Kel-

lin lifted his head. His skull felt heavy, too heavy;

 

it took effort to hold it up. The light now was

better; he could see the Ihlini plainly. Dawn

waited impatiently just outside the doorflap.

 

Corwyth smiled. There was no derision in his

tone, no contempt in his expression. "One would

hardly recognize you. A bath would undoubtedly

benefit. Would you care to visit a river?"

 

The thought of being dumped into an ice-cold

river bunched the flesh of Kellin's bones. He sup-

pressed a shiver with effort and made no answer.

 

The Ihlini's smile widened. "No, that would

hardly do. You might sicken from it, and die . . .

and then my lord would be very wroth with me."

Blue eyes glinted. "I pity you, Kellin. I have seen

Lochiel's anger before, and the consequences of

it."

 

Kellin's mouth hurt. "Lochiel has tried to throw

down my House before." It was mostly a croak;

 

he firmed his voice so as not to sound so dimin-

ished. "Why do you believe he will succeed this

time?"

 

"He has you," Corwyth said simply.

 

"You have me," Kellin corrected. "And I would

 

232 JeaaSfer Robersoa

 

not count a Cheysuli helpless while his heart still

 

beats."

 

Russet brows arched. "Shall I stop it, then? To

be certain of my safety? To convince you, perhaps,

that you are indeed helpless despite your Cheysuli

bravado?"

 

Kellin opened his mouth to retort but found no

words would come. Corwyth's gloved hand was

extended, fingers slack. They curled slowly inward.

 

There was no pain. Just a vague breathlessness

that increased as the fingers closed, and a constric-

tion in his chest that banished the ache of his ribs

because this was much worse. Bruised ribs, even

cracked ones, offered little danger when a man's

heart was threatened.

 

Kellin stirred in protest, but his bonds held

firm. The horse walked on, led by Corwyth's min-

ions. The Ihlini's fingers closed.

 

He felt each of them: four fingers and a thumb,

distinct and individual. Each was inside his chest.

They touched him intimately, caressing the very

muscle that kept him alive.

 

It was, he thought, rape, if of a very different

nature.

 

Kellin desired very much to protest, to cry out,

to shout, to swear, to scream imprecations. But

his mouth would not function. Hands and feet

were numb. He thought the pressure in his head

might cause his eyes and ears to burst.

 

He could not breathe.

 

Corwyth's hand squeezed.

 

Kellin thrashed once, expelling breath and blood

in a final futile effort to escape the hand in his

chest.

 

"Your lips are blue," Corwyth said. "It is not a

flattering color."

 

Nothing more was left. Piece of meat—

 

A TAPSSTKY w LIONS           233

 

It was, Kellin felt, a supremely inelegant way to

die.

 

Then the hand stilled his heart, and he was

dead.

 

Kellin roused as Corwyth grabbed a handful of

hair and jerked his head up. "Do you see?" the

Ihlini asked. "Do you understand now?"

 

He understood only that he had been dead, or

very close to it. He sucked in a choking breath,

trying to fill flaccid lungs. The effort was awk-

ward, spasmodic, so that he recognized only the

muted breathy roaring of a frightened man trying

desperately to breathe.

 

/ am frightened— And equally desperate; he felt

intensely helpless, and angry because of it. Lo-

chiel's ambassador had humiliated him in the

most elemental of ways: by stripping a Cheysuli

of freedom, strength, and. pride.

 

"Say it again," Corwyth suggested. "Say again

Lochiel cannot throw down your House."

 

Kellin said nothing. He could not manage it.

 

The hand was cruel in his hair. Neck tendons

protested. "You have seen nothing. Nothing, Kel-

lin. I am proud, but practical; I admit my lesser

place without hesitation or compunction. The

power I command is paltry compared to his."

 

Paltry enough to kill him with little more than

a gesture.

 

Corwyth released his hair. Kellin's neck was too

weak to support his skull. It flopped down again,

pressing face against winter horsehair. He breathed

in its scent, grateful that he could.

 

"Think on it," Corwyth said. "Consider your cir-

cumstances, and recall that your life depends en-

tirely upon the sufferance of Lochiel."

 

Kellin rather thought his life depended entirely

on his ability to breathe, regardless of Lochiel's

 

234

 

intentions. As he lay flopped across the saddle, he

concentrated merely on in- and exhalations. Lo-

chiel could wait.

 

When they cut him from the horse and dragged

him down, Kellin wondered seriously if death

might be less painful. He bit into his tongue to

keep from disgracing himself further by verbal

protestation, but the sudden sheen of perspiration

gave his weakness away. Corwyth saw it, weighed

it, then nodded to himself.

 

"Against the tree," the flilini ordered his

companions,

 

The two hauled Kellin bodily to the indicated

tree and left him at its foot to contemplate ex-

posed roots as he fought to maintain conscious-

ness. Sweat ran freely, dampening his hair. He lay

mostly on one side. His wrists, though now cut

free of the stirrup, were still tied together. He no

longer was packed by horseback like so much

fresh-killed meat, but the circumstances seemed

no better.

 

Kellin blew grit from his lips. The taste in his

mouth was foul, but he had been offered no water.

 

The sun was full up. They had been riding for

hours without a single stop. In addition to the re-

sidual aches of the Midden battle and the discom-

fort of the ride, Kellin's bladder protested. It was

a small but signal irritant that compounded his

misery.

 

Kellin eased himself into a sitting position

against the tree trunk. He sagged minutely, testing

the fit of his ribs inside their loosened wrappings

and bruised Hesh, then let wood provide false

strength; his own was negligible.

 

/ am young, strong, and fit ... this is a minor

inconvenience. Meanwhile, he hurt.

 

Corwyth strode from his own mount to Kellin,

 

A TAPESTRY OF Liws           23S

 

who could not suppress a recoil as the Ihlini

touched the binding around his wrists. "There, my

lord: freedom." The wrappings fell away. Corwyth

smiled. "Test us as you like."

 

Kellin wanted to spit into the arrogant face.

Corwyth knew he knew there was no reason to

test- No man, Cheysuli or not, would risk his heart

a second time to Ihlini magic.

 

"Are you hungry? Thirsty?" Corwyth gestured,

and one of his companions answered with a

wrapped packet and leather flask delivered to Kel-

lin at once. "Bread, and wine. Eat. Drink." Cor-

wyth paused. "And if you refuse, be certain I shall

make you."

 

Immediately Kellin conjured a vision of his own

hands made by sorcery to stuff his mouth full of

bread until he choked on it. His heart had been

stopped once; better to eat and drink as bidden

than risk further atrocity.

 

With hands made stiff and clumsy by the

weight of too much blood, he unwrapped the par-

cel. It was a lumpy, tougfi-crusted loaf of Homa-

nan journey-bread. He set it aside carefully, ignoring

Corwyth's interest, and unstoppered the flask. With-

out hesitation—he would give nothing to the Ih-

lini, not even distrust—he put the flask to his cut

lips and poured wine down his throat.

 

It stung the inside of his mouth. Kellin drank

steadily, then restoppered the flask. "A poor vin-

tage," he commented. "Powerful you may be, but

you have no knowledge of wine."

 

Corwyth grinned. "Bait me, my lord. and you

do so at your peril."

 

Kellin stared steadily back. "Unless you heal

me, Lochiel may well wonder what you have done

to render his valuable kinsman so bruised."

 

Corwyth rose. "Lochiel knows you better than

that. Everyone in Homana—and Valgaard—has

 

236 Jennifer Roberson

 

heard of the Midden exploits undertaken by the

Prince of Homana."

 

Midden exploits. He detested the words. He de-

tested even more Lochiel's knowledge of them. To

forestall his own comment, he put bread into his

mouth.

 

"Eat quickly," Corwyth said. "We ride again al-

most immediately."

 

Kellin glared at him. "Then why stop at all?"

 

"Why, to keep you and anyone else from claim-

ing me inhumane!" With a glint in blue eyes, the

young-seeming Ihlini turned away to his mount,

then paused and turned back. "Would you like me

to help you rise so you may relieve yourself?"

 

Kellin's face caught fire. Every foul word he

knew crowded into his mouth, which prevented

him from managing to expell even one.

 

"Come now," Corwyth said, "it is an entirely

natural thing. And, as you are injured—"

 

"No," Kellin declared.

 

Blue eyes glinted again. "Hold onto the tree, my

lord. It might help you to stand up."

 

Kellin desired nothing more than to ignore the

suggestion entirely. But to do so was foolish in

the face of his need- Pride stung, but so did his

bladder.

 

"I will turn my back," Corwyth offered. "Your

condition presupposes an inability to escape,"

 

The comment naturally triggered an urge to

prove Corwyth wrong, but Kellin knew better

than to try. If the Ihlini could play with his

heart, Kellin had no desire to risk a threat to

anything else.

 

"Hurry," Corwth suggested. He turned away in

an elaborate swirl of heavy cloak.

 

"Ku'reshtin," Kellin muttered.

 

Silence answered him.

 

237

 

A TAPESTRY OF Ll(WS

 

'i

.1

 

Corwyth's companions escorted Kellin to his

horse when it was time to ride on. Corwyth met

him there. "You may ride upright, if you like.

Surely it will prove more comfortable than being

tied onto a saddle."

 

Kellin gritted teeth. "What will it cost me?"

 

"Nothing at all, I think—save perhaps respect

for my magic." Corwyth caught Kellin's wrists be-

fore he could protest. The Ihlini gripped tightly,

crossed one wrist over the other, and pressed until

the bones ached in protest. "Flesh into flesh, Kel-

lin, Nothing so common as rope, nor so heavy as

iron, but equally binding." He took his hands

away, and Kellin saw the flesh of his wrists had

been seamlessly fused together.

 

Gods— Immediately he tried to wrench his

wrists apart but could no more do that than rip

an arm from his body. His wrists had grown to-

gether at the bidding of the Ihlini.

 

He could not help himself: he gaped. Like a

child betrayed, he stared at his wrists in disbelief

so utterly overwhelming he could think of nothing

else.

 

My own flesh— It sent a shudder of repulsion

through his body. My heart, now this . .. what will

Lochiel do?

 

"A simple thing," Corwyth said easily. Then he

signaled to his companions. "Help him to mount

his horse. I doubt he will resist." Corwyth moved

away, then hesitated as if in sudden thought, and

swung back. "If he does, I shall seal his eyelids

together."

 

They rode north, toward the Bluetooth River,

where they would cross into the Northern Wastes

and then climb over the Molon Pass down into

Solinde, the birthplace of the Ihlini, and on to Val-

gaard itself. Kellin had heard tales of the Ihlini

 

238 Jennifer Roberson

 

fortress and knew it housed the Gate of Asar-Suti.

It was, Brennan had said, the Ihlini version of the

Womb of the Earth deep in the foundations of

Homana-Mujhar.

 

Kellin rode upright with precise, careful pos-

ture, trying to keep his torso very still. His legs

conformed to the shape of saddle and horse, but

his hands did not control the horse. The reins had

been split so that each of Corwyth's companions—

minions?—led the prisoner's mount. Corwyth rode

ahead.

 

They kept to the forest tracks, avoiding main

roads that would bring them into contact with

those who might know the Prince of Homana. Kel-

lin doubted anyone would recognize him. His face ,

was welted and bruised, his lower lip split and

swollen. He stank of dried sweat mixed with a film

of grit and soil, and leaves littered his hair. Little

about him now recommended his rank.

 

Snow crackled in deep shadows, breaking up be-

neath shod hooves. As afternoon altered to eve-

ning, the temperature dropped. Kellin shrugged

more deeply into his cloak as his breath fogged

the air.

 

When at last they halted, it was nearly full dark.

Kellin was so sore and weary he thought he might

topple off the horse if he so much as turned his

head. Let them see none of it. Slowly he kicked free

of stirrups, slung a leg across the saddle, and slid

from his mount before the Ihlini could signal him

down; a small rebellion, but successful.

 

He made no attempt to escape because to try

was sheerest folly. Better to bide his time until his

strength returned, then wait for the best moment.

Just now all he could do was stand.

 

Kellin leaned against the horse a moment to steady

himself, flesh cold beneath a film of newborn per-

spiration. He shivered. Disorientation broke up

 

A TAPESTRY w LIONS           239

 

the edge of consciousness. Weariness, perhaps—

Or—? He stilled. Sorcery? Corwyth's attempt to

tease me?

 

One of the minions put his hand on Kellin's

shoulder; he shrugged it off at once. The rebuke

came easily in view of who received it. "No one is

permitted to touch the Prince of Homana without

his leave."

 

Corwyth, dropping off his own mount, laughed

in high good humor. "Feeling better, are we?"

 

Kellin felt soiled by the minion's touch. An urge

to bare his teeth in a feral snarl was suppressed

with effort. He swung from the black-eyed man,

displaying a taut line of shoulder.

 

Corwyth pointed. "There."

 

Kellin lingered a moment beside his horse. His

head felt oddly packed and tight, so that the Ih-

lini's order seemed muted. A second shiver wracked

his body, jostling aching bones. Not just cold-

more—

 

"Sit him down," Corwyth said, but before the

minion could force the issue, Kellin sat down by

himself. "Better." Corwyth tended his own mount

as his companions tended Kellin's.

 

Kellin itched. It had nothing to do with bruises

and scrapes, because the itching wasn't in his skin

but in his blood. Flesh-bound hands flexed, curling

fingers into palms, then snapping out straight

again.

 

He could not eat, though they gave him bread,

nor could he drink, because his throat refused to

swallow. Once again he leaned against a tree, but

this time he needed its support even more than

before. He felt as if all his bones were soft,

stripped of rigidity. His spirit was as flaccid.

 

He shifted against wood, grimaced in discom-

fort, then shifted again. He could not be still.

 

Just like in Homana-Mujhar. He fixed his eyes on

 

'^ ,

 

240 Jennifer Roberson

 

Corwyth, who sat quietly by a small fire. "Was it

you who drove me from the palace?"

 

"Drove you?"

 

"With sorcery. Was it you?"

 

Corwyth shrugged- "That required neither magic

nor skill. I know your habits. You gamble, you

drink, you whore. All it required was the proper

time."

 

Kellin shifted again, hiding flesh-bound wrists

beneath a fold of his cloak because to look on them

was too unsettling. "You set the trap. I put myself

into it."

 

The Ihlini smiled. "A happy accident. It did save

time."

 

"Accident? Or my tahlmorra?"

 

That provoked a response. "You believe the gods

might have planned this? This?" Corwyth's sur-

prise was unfeigned. "Would the Cheysuh gods

risk the final link in the prophecy so willingly?"

 

Kellin scowled- "Who can say what the gods

would do? I despise them ., . they have done me

little good."

 

Corwyth laughed and fed a stick to the flames.

"Then perhaps this is their doing, if you and the

gods are on such bad terms."

 

Kellin shivered again. "If Lochiel knows so

much about me, surely he knows I have already

sired children. Why kill me now? Before, cer-

tainly—to prevent the precious seed from being

sown—but now it is too late. The seed is well

sowed."

 

"Three children," Corwyth agreed. "But all bas-

tards, and none with the proper blood. Halfling

brats gotten on Homanan whores." He shrugged

elegantly. "Lochiel only fears the Firstborn child."

 

Kellin stilled. Was it a weapon? "Lochiel is

afraid?"

 

Corwyth's expression was solemn. "Only a fool

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

241

 

would deny he fears this outcome. I fear it. Lochiel

fears it. Even the Seker fears fulfillment." Flames

illuminated his face. It was starkly white in harsh

light, black in hollowed contours. "Have you never

thought what fulfillment will bring?"

 

Kellin laughed. "A beginning for the Cheysuli.

An ending for the Ihlini."

 

Flames consumed wood. A pine knot cracked,

shedding sparks. Corwyth now was solemn. "In

your ignorance, you are certain."

 

"Of course I am certain. It has been promised

us for centuries."

 

"By the very gods you despise." Corwyth did not

smile, nor couch his words in contempt. "If that

is true, how then can you honor their prophecy?"

 

Kellin licked a numb lip. His body rang with

tension, as if he were a harp string wound much

too taut on its pegs- "I am Cheysuli."

 

"That is your answer?" Corwyth shook his head.

"Perhaps you are more Cheysuli than you believe,

even lirless as you are. Only fools such as your

people dedicate themselves to the fulfillment of a

mandate that will destroy everything they know."

 

Kellin's mouth twisted. "I have heard that old

tale before. When the Ihlini cannot win through

murder or sorcery, they turn to words. You mean

to undermine our customs."

 

"Of course I do!" Corwyth snapped. "And if you

had any wit to see it, you would understand why.

Indeed, the prophecy will destroy Ihlini such as

myself ... but it will also destroy the Cheysuli."

He extended an empty hand. "The prophecy of the

Firstborn will close its fist around the heart of the

Cheysuli, just as I did yours, and stop it." He shut

his hand. "Just like this."

 

It was immediate. "No." Kellin twitched, then

rolled his head against bark. "You play with

words, Ihlini."

 

242 Jennifer Roberson

 

"This is not play. This is truth. You see me as I

am: a man, not an Ihlini, but simply a man who

fears the ending of his race in the ascendancy of

another."

 

"Mine," Kellin agreed.

 

"No." Corwyth placed another stick on the fire.

His gloved hand shook. "The ascendancy is that

of the Firstborn." In firelight his eyes were hidden

by deep pockets of shadow. "Your child. Your son.

When he accepts the Lion, the new order replaces

the old."

 

"Your order."

 

Corwyth smiled faintly. "Tell me," he said, "is

your prophecy complete? No—I do not speak of

the words all of you mouth." His tone was ironic.

" 'One day a man of all blood shall unite, in peace,

four warring realms and two magical races.' What

I speak of is the prophecy itself in its entirety. It

was passed down century after century, was it

not?"

 

"The shar tahls make certain of that."

 

"But do they know the whole of it? Do they have

record of it?"

 

"Written down?" Kellin frowned. "Such things

can be lost if not entrusted to shar tahls in an oral

tradition."

 

Corwyth nodded. "Such things were lost, Kellin.

I know very well what the shar tahls teach are

mere fragments .. . pieces of yarn woven together

into a single skein. Because that is all they know.

In the schism that split the Firstborn into Cheysuli

and Ihlini, very little was left of the dogma on

which your future hangs." He shook his head.

"You know nothing of what may come, yet you

serve it blindly. We are not such fools."

 

Kellin said nothing.

 

The Ihlini pulled his dark cloak more closely

around his shoulders. "This profits nothing. I will

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           243

 

leave it to my lord to prove what I say is true."

Corwyth glanced at his companions. "I will leave

it to Lochiel, and to Asar-Suti."

 

Kellin shivered. Lochiel will kill me. Not for my-

self, For the child. For the seed in my loins.

 

In the scheme of the gods he detested, it seemed

he counted for very little.

 

Nine

 

Kellin watched the three Ihlini prepare to sleep.

Though his wrists remained sealed, he was certain

something more would be done to insure he could

not escape. Perhaps Corwyth would seal his eye-

lids, or stop his heart again.

 

But Corwyth did not even look at his captive.

The sorcerer quietly went about his business, pac-

ing out distances. Each time he halted, he sketched

something in the air. The rune glowed briefly pur-

ple, then died away.

 

Wards, Kellin knew- To keep him in, and others

out.

 

He watched them lie down in their cloaks. Three

dark-shrouded men, sorcerers all, who served a

powerful god no sane man could possibly honor.

 

Unless there is something to what Corwyth says.

But Kellin shut off the thought. Corwyth's declara-

tions of a separate Ihlini prophecy—or of the

Cheysuli one entire—was nothing but arrant non-

sense designed to shake Kellin's confidence.

 

But one telling question had been posed. How

do I Justify serving the prophecy for gods I cannot

honor?

 

Kellin shivered. He did not attempt to sleep. He

sat against the tree, wrists still bound by flesh,

and tried to think himself warm, tried to ease his

mind so it did not trouble itself with questionings

of Cheysuli customs.

 

244

 

A TAPESTHY OF Lioms           245

 

But why not? It was a Cheysuli custom that killed

Blais, not an Ihlini.

 

Heresy.

 

Is it?

 

Kellin inhaled carefully, held his breath a mo-

ment as he expanded cramped lungs, then blew

the air out again in a steady, hissing stream. He

stared across the dying fire to the three cloaked

shapes beyond. To Corwyth in particular. Kellin

knew very well the Ihlini worked merely to under-

mine his own convictions, which would" in turn

undermine a spirit that might yet protest its cap-

tivity; he was not stupid enough to believe there

was no motive in Corwyth "s contentions. But his

mind was overactive, his thoughts too restless;

 

even when he tried to think of nothing at all, an

overabundance of somethings filled his head.

 

It is a long Journey to Valgaard. The trick is to lure

them into a false sense that I will attempt nothing.

 

A mountain cat screamed. The nearness of the

sound was intensely unnerving. Kellin sat bolt up-

right and immediately regretted it. He reached for

his knife and realized belatedly he had none, nor

the freedom of hands to use it.

 

The scream came again from closer yet, shear-

ing through darkness and foliage. Corwyth and the

others, too, were up, shaking cloaks back from

shoulders and arms. Corwyth said something in a

low voice to the others—Kellin heard Lochiel's

name mentioned—then scribed a shape in the air.

Runes flared briefly, then went down. Corwyth's

men were free to hunt.

 

Kellin could not remain seated. He climbed

awkwardly to his feet and waited beside the tree.

The cat's voice lacked the deep-chested timbre of

the lion's, but its determination and alien sound

echoed the beast that had haunted so much of Kel-

lin's life.

 

246 Jennifer Roberson

 

Corwyth spared him a glance, as if to forestall

any attempt on Kellin's part to escape. But Kellin

was no more inclined to risk meeting the cat than

he was to prompt Corwyth to use more sorcery on

him.

 

The Ihlini bent and put new kindling on the fire,

then waved a negligent hand; flames came to life.

"The noise is somewhat discomfiting," he com-

mented, "but even a mountain cat is not immune

to sorcery. I will have a fine pelt to present my

master."

 

It seemed an odd goal to Kellin, in view of his

own value and Lochiel's desire for his immediate

company. "You would take the time to kill and

skin a cat?"

 

"Lochiel has an affinity for mountain cats. He

says they are the loveliest and most dangerous of

all the predators. Fleet where a bear is slow; more

devious than the wolf; more determined than a

boar. And armed far more effectively than any

man alive." Corywth smiled. "He keeps them in

Valgaard, in cages beneath the ground."

 

A fourth scream sounded closer yet. Even Cor-

wyth got to his feet.

 

A shudder wracked Kellin. "What is—" he grit-

tened his teeth against another assault. "—ku'resh-

tin—" he managed. "What threat do I offer?"

 

Corwyth cast him a glance. "What inanities do

you mouth?"

 

A third shudder shook him. Kellin gasped. His

bones were on fire. "What are you—"

 

Lir, said a voice, the wards are down. I have done

what I could to lead the others astray. Now it is up

to you.

 

He understood then. "No!" Kellin cried. "I want

none of you!"

 

/ am your only escape.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

247

 

Corwyth laughed. "You may want none of me,

but I have you nevertheless."

 

Kellin was not talking for the Ihlini's benefit.

What consumed him now was the knowledge his

Ur was near. If he gave in, it would win. And he

would be no freer than any other Cheysuli bound

by oaths and service.

 

He wavered on his feet. / renounced you. I want

no part of you.

 

Would you rather go to Valgaard and let Lochiel

destroy you? The tone was crisp. His methods are

not subtle.

 

His spirit screamed with need. The lir was close,

so close—he had only to give in, to permit the

channel to be opened that would form a perma-

nent link.

 

He repudiated it. / will not permit it.

 

Then die. Allow the Ihlini to win. Remove from

the line of succession the prince known as Kellin,

and destroy the prophecy.

 

He gritted his teeth. / will not pay your price.

 

There is no other escape.

 

It infuriated him. Kellin brought his flesh-

bound hands into the moonlight. A test, then, he

challenged.

 

The lir sighed. You believe too easily what the

Ihlini tells you to. His art is in illusion. Banish this

one as you banished the lion.

 

Kellin stared hard at his wrists. The skin al-

tered, flowing away, and his wrists were free of

themselves.

 

Corwyth marked the movement. He turned sharply,

saw the truth, and jerked the knife from his belt.

 

"The wards are down," Kellin said, "and your

minions bide elsewhere. Now it is you and I."

 

You will have to kill him, lir. He will never let you

go.

 

"Go away," Kellin said. "I want nothing to do

with you."

 

Corwyth laughed. "Is this your attempt at es-

cape? To bait me with babbled nonsense?"

 

You must kill him.

 

He wanted to shout at the Ur. He is armed, Kellin

said acidly. He is also Ihlini.

 

And has recourse to no arts now that I am here.

 

We have not bonded. I will not permit it.

 

The tone was implacable. Then die.

 

"Come out!" Kellin shouted. "By the gods, I will

fight you both!"

 

Corwyth's laughter grated. "Have you gone mad?

Or do you use this to bait me?"

 

Distracted by a battle fought on two fronts, Kel-

lin glared. "I need no lir for you. I will take you

as a man."

 

"Do try," Corwyth invited. "Or shall I stop your

heart again?"

 

He cannot, the lir declared. While I am here, such

power is blunted.

 

Then why do I hear you? Near an Ihlini, the link

is obscured.

 

You forget who you are. There is that within you

that breaks certain rules.

 

"My blood?" Kellin jeered. "Aye, always the

blood!"

 

Old Blood is powerful. You have it in abundance.

The voice paused. Have you not read the birthlines

latety?

 

"Do you want your blood spilled?" Corwyth

asked. "I can do that for you ... Lochiel will not

punish me for that."

 

Kill him, the lir said. You are weary and injured.

He will defeat you even without sorcery.

 

Kellin laughed. With what? My teeth?

 

Those are your weapons, among others. The tone

 

A TMSSTKY or Lwm

 

was dryly amused. But mostly there is your blood.

 

If a man's form does not serve, take on another.

 

Yours? But I do not even know what animal you

are!

 

You have heard me. Now hear me again. The

scream of a mountain cat filled the darkness but

a handful of paces away.

 

Corwyth's face blanched. "I am Ihlini!" he cried.

"You have no power here!"

 

Show him, it said. Let him see what you are.

 

Kellin was desperate. "How?"

 

Forget you are a man. Become a cat instead.

 

Kellin looked at Corwyth. The knife in the Ih-

lini's hand had belonged to Blais. Kellin wanted

it back.

 

Corwyth laughed. "You and I, then."

 

Kellin was angry, so angry he could hardly hold

himself still. His bones buzzed with newfound en-

ergy and flesh hardened itself over tensing muscle

and tendon. He shook with the urge to shred the

Ihlini into a pile of cracked bone and bloodied

flesh.

 

A beginning, the lir said.

 

And then he understood—to accomplish what

was required he must shed all knowledge of

human form, all human instincts. Anger could

help that. Anger could assist him.

 

/ want Corwyth dead. I want the knife back.

 

There is only one way to gain what you desire. I

have given you the key. Now you must open the door.

 

To what future?

 

To the one you make.

 

"Come, then," Corwyth said. "I will shatter all

your bones, then knit them together again. Lochiel

need never know."

 

Kellin smiled. He forgot about his ribs and all

the other nagging pains. He thought about lir-

 

250 Jennifer Robersoa

 

shape instead. He thought about mountain cats,

and the instincts that served them.

 

"You cannot," Corwyth declared. "This is a

trick."

 

Kellin laughed. "Do you forget who I am? You

know so much about me and the others of my

House—surely you recall that we claim the Old

Blood." He paused. "With all of its special gifts."

 

Corwyth lunged. He was quick, very quick, and

exceedingly supple. Kellin dodged the outthrust

knife with no little effort or pain, then ducked a

second thrust.

 

Concentrate, the lir commanded. Fingers and toes

are claws. Flesh is thickly furred. The body is lean

and fit. Jaws are heavy and powerful, filled with

tongue and teeth. All you desire is the taste of his

flesh in your mouth—his blood spilling from his

throat into yours—and the hot sweet scent of his

death.

 

The knife nearly caught his side. Kellin twisted,

grimacing as ribs protested.

 

Mountain cat, it said. Far superior to any beast

bred by god or demon.

 

Kellin rolled as Corwyth struck a third time. He

panted audibly, trying to divorce his mind from

his body, to let his instincts dictate motion-

Now.

 

Anger fed his strength. Kellin saw the glint of

the knife in Corwyth's hand—Blais' knife!—and

then, briefly, everything faded. The world was

turned inside out, and when it came right again

it was a very different place.

 

His mouth dropped open to curse the flilini, but

what issued forth was a rising, angry wail. He felt

the coiling of haunches to gather himself; the whip

of a sinuous tail; the tightness in his empty—too

empty!—belly. Kellin bunched, and sprang.           ^

 

The knife glinted again. Kellin reached out in

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

2S1

 

midair with a hind leg and slashed the weapon

from Corwyth's hand. He heard the Ihlini's cry,

and then Kellin was on him.

 

Corwyth went down easily. Lost in the killing

frenzy, Kellin did not think about what he did. He

simply closed powerful jaws on the fragile throat

of a man and tore it away.

 

There was no sense of jubilation, vindication, or

relief. Merely satiation as the cat fed on the prey's

body.

 

Ten

 

What am I—? Comprehension was immediate.

Kellin hurled himself away from the body on the

ground. No more the cat but a man, appalled by

what had occurred. Gods—I did THAT?

 

Corwyth was messily dead. He lay sprawled on

the ground with blood-soaked cloak bunched up

around him, gaping throat bared to the moon.

 

I did.

 

He was shaking- All over. He was bloodied to

the elbows. Blood soaked his doublet. Blood was

in his mouth. Everywhere, blood—and the taste of

Corwyth's flesh.

 

Kellin thrust himself from the ground to his

knees, then bent and hugged sore ribs as his belly

purged itself. He wanted very much to purge his

mind as well, to forget what he had seen, to forget

what he had done, but the memory was livid. It

excoriated him.

 

He scrubbed again and again at his face, trying

to rid it of blood, but his hands, too, were bloody.

Frantically Kellin scooped up double handfuls of

dirt and damp leaves and scoured hands, then

face, pausing twice to spit.

 

Lir.

 

Kellin jumped. He spun on his knees, panting,

bracing himself on one stiff arm, and searched av-

idly for the mountain cat who had driven him be-

yond self. There was no sound. No cat. He saw

 

252

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           2S3

 

nothing but star-weighted darkness and the scal-

loped outline of dense foliage.

 

Gone. Breathing steadied. He scraped the back

of a hand across his chin. Fingers shook.

 

Lir. The tone was gentle. The death was required.

Just as the deaths of the minions were required.

 

"You killed them?"

 

They are dead.

 

He barked a hoarse laugh. "Then you have bro-

ken one of the most binding rules of the Ur-bond.

You are not supposed to kill Ihlini."

 

The tone was peculiar. We are reflections of one

another.

 

"What does that mean?"

 

You do that which you are commanded not to do.

And now I as well.

 

It astounded him. "Because of me you broke the

rule?"

 

We are very alike.

 

He contemplated that. He knew himself to be a

rebel; could a lir be so also? If so, they were indeed

well matched-

He cut it off at once. "I want nothing to do with

you."

 

It is done. The men are dead.

 

Kellin stiffened. He refused to look at Corwyth's

body. "There was no warning—you said nothing

of what I would feel!"

 

You felt as a cat feels.

 

"But I am a man."

 

More, it said. Cheysuli.

 

Kellin spat again, wishing he had the strength

of will to scour his mouth as well as his flesh. A

quick glance across the tiny campsite offered re-

lief: Ihlini supplies laid out in a neat pile.

 

"Water." He pressed himself from the ground

and walked unsteadily to the supplies. He found a

leather flask and unstoppered it, then methodi-

 

254 Jennifer Roberson

 

cally rinsed his mouth and spat until the taste of

blood and flesh was gone. As carefully, he poured

the contents of a second flask into one hand and

then the other, scraping flesh free of sticky blood

with cold, damp leaves.

 

"I'toshaa-ni," he murmured, and then realized

that the ritual merely emphasized the heritage

that had led him to this.

 

Dripping, Kellin rose again. He made himself

look. The view was no better: a sprawled, stilled

body with only the pallor of vertebrae glistening

in the ruin of a throat.

 

He shuddered. "I renounced you," he declared.

"I made it very plain. Now more than ever it is

imperative that I do not bond with a lir. If that is

what it means—"

 

"That" was necessary. "That" was required.

 

"No." He would not now speak inside his head

but say it as a man, so there existed no doubt as

to who—and what—he was. "It was butchery, no

more."

 

It was to save your life. The tone was terse, as if

the lir suppressed a great emotion. What the Ihlini

do, they do to preserve their power. Lochiel would

have killed you. Or gelded you.

 

"Gelded—"

 

Do you think he would permit you to breed? You

are his ending. The moment your son is born, the

world begins anew.

 

Kellin wiped damp hands across his face, warp-

ing it out of shape as if self-inflicted violence

would banish acknowledgment. "I want nothing

to do with this."

 

It is too late.

 

"No. Not if I renounce you, as I have. Not if I

refuse to bond with you."

 

Too late, the lir repeated. The tone now was

muted.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           255

 

Suspicion flared. He had been taught to honor

all fir, but at this moment, conversing with this

lir, he was afraid to assume it beneficent. "Why?"

Alarm replaced suspicion. "What have you done?"

 

It was necessary.

 

It filled him with apprehension. "What have you

done?"

 

Lent you a piece of myself.

 

"You!"

 

Required, it insisted. Without that part of me. you

would never have accomplished the shapechange.

 

A shudder wracked Kellin from head to foot.

The flesh on his scalp itched as if all his hairs

stood up. "Tell me," he said intently. "Tell me

what I have become."

 

Silence answered him.

 

"Tell me!" Kellin shouted. "By the gods, you

beast, what have you done to me?"

 

The tone was odd. Why does a man swear by gods

he cannot honor?

 

The inanity amazed him. "If I could see you—"

 

Then see me. A shadow moved at the edge of the

trees. See me as I am. Know who Sima is.

 

A soft rustle, then nothing more. In the reflec-

tion of dying flames, gold eyes gleamed.

 

Kellin nearly gaped. "You are little more than

a cub\"

 

Young, Sima conceded. But old enough for a lir.

 

"But—" Kellin blurted a choked laugh, then cut

it off. "I want nothing to do with you. With you,

or with any of it. No lir, no bonding, no shape-

change. I want a full life ... not a travesty always

threatened by an arcane ritual that needlessly

wastes a warrior."

 

Sima blinked. / would die if you died. The cost

is equally shared.

 

"I do not want to share it! I want not to risk it

at all."

 

296 Jennifer Roberwa

 

A tail twitched. She was black, black as Sleeta,

the Mujhar's magnificent lir. But she was small,

as yet immature, gangly as a half-grown kitten.

Incongruity, Kellin thought, in view of her

intransigence.

 

/ am empty, Sima said. / am but a shadow. Do

you sentence me to that?

 

"Can I? I thought you said it was too late."

 

Gold eyes winked out, then opened again. If you

wish to renounce me, you may. But then the Ihlini

will be victorious, because both of us will die.

 

She did not sound young. She sounded ineffably

old. "Sima." Kellin wet his lips. "What have you

done to me?"

 

The sleek black head lowered. Tufted ears flat-

tened. The tail whipped a branch to shreds.

 

"Sima!"

 

Caused you to change before the balance was

learned.

 

Kellin's mouth felt dry. "And that is a bad

thing?"

 

If balance is lost and not regained, if it is not

maintained, a warrior in lir-shape risks his humanity.

 

His voice sounded rusty. "He would be locked

in beast-shape?"

 

If he lost his balance and spent too long in lir-

shape, he could lose knowledge of what he was. Self-

knowledge is essential. Forgotten, the man becomes

a monster caught between two selfs.

 

After a long moment, Kellin nodded. "Leijhana

tu'sai," he said grimly, "for giving me the chance

to become a child's nightmare."

 

I gave you the chance to survive. Corwyth would

not have killed you, but he would have brought you

pain. And Lochid would have done worse.

 

Kellin did not argue. He would not speak to her.

He would give her no opportunity to drag him

deeper into the mess she had made of his life.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             257

 

Because he could not stay in the clearing with

the mutilated body, Kellin took Corwyth's horse

for his own. He turned the other mounts loose; he

had no time for ponying.

 

Sima did not honor his moratorium on speech.

They would have killed me.

 

He knew immediately what she referred to. For

the first time, he contemplated what it was to a

lir to experience guilt. He understood there was

no choice in killing the minions; they would have

skinned her and taken the pelt to Valgaard for

presentation to Lochiel.

 

Even as they presented me. Grimly Kellin said. "I

would wish that on no one, beast or no."

 

Leijhana tu'sai. Sima twitched her tail.

 

Kellin slanted her a hard glance as he snugged

the girth tight. "You know the Old Tongue?"

 

Better than you do.

 

He grunted. "Privy to the gods, are you? More

favored than most?"

 

Of course. All lir are. The cat paused. You are an

angry man.

 

"After what you have made of me, do you expect

gratitude?"

 

No. You are angry all the time.

 

He slipped fingers between girth and belly to

check for a horse's favorite trick: intentional bloat-

ing to keep the girth loose. "How would you know

what I am?"

 

/ know.

 

"Obscurity does not commend you."

 

Sima thumped her tail. A difficult bonding, I see.

 

"No bonding at all." As the horse released its

breath in response to an elbow jab, Kellin snugged

the girth tighter. "Go back to wherever it is lir

come from."

 

/ cannot.

 

"I will not have you with me."

 

258 Semdfer Robersoa

 

You cannot NOT have me.

 

"Oh?" Kellin cast her an arch glance. "Will you

stop me with violence?"

 

Of course not. I am sworn to protect you, not in-

jure you.

 

"That is something." He looped reins over the

bay gelding's neck. "Go back to the gods, cat. I

will have none of you."

 

You have no choice.

 

"Have I not?" Kellin gritted his teeth and put a

boot toe into the left stirrup. Swearing inven-

tively, he swung up into the saddle and settled

himself slowly. "—I think I have every choice,

cat."

 

None. Not if you wish to survive.

 

"There have been Hrless Cheysuli before."

 

None who survived.

 

Kellin gathered in reins. "General Rowan," he

said briefly. "Rowan was meticulous in teaching

my history. Rowan was one of Carillon's most

trusted men. He was a lirless Cheysuli."

 

He did not lose a lir. He never had one. He was

kept from the bonding by the Ellasians who did not

know what he was.

 

"I know what I am. I know what you are." He

swung the horse southwesterly. "Go back to the

gods who sent you. I will have none of them, or

 

you."

 

Lir—

 

"No." Kellin spared a final glance at the body

beside the fire. In time the beasts would eat it. He

would not be one of them; he had done his part

already. "Tu'halla dei," he said. "Or whatever the

terminology from warrior to renounced lir."

 

The sleek back cat rose. / am Sima. I am for you.

 

Kellin kicked the horse into a walk. "Find an-

other lir."

 

There IS none! she cried.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LlOIVS            259

 

For the first time he heard the fear in her tone.

Kellin jerked the horse to a halt. He turned in the

saddle to stare angrily at the mountain cat. "I saw

what became of Tanni. I know what became of

Blais. I am meant to hold the Lion and sire a First-

born son—do you think I dare risk it all for you?

To know that if you die, the prophecy dies also?"

 

Without me, you die. Without you, I do. With both

of us dead, there is no need for the prophecy.

 

Kellin laughed. "Surely the gods must see the

folly in this! A lir is a warrior's weakness, not his

strength. I begin to think the /ir-bond is nothing

more than divine jest."

 

/ am for you, she said. Without you, I am empty.

 

It infuriated him- "Tell it to someone who

cares!"

 

But as he rode from the campsite, the mountain

cat followed.

 

Eleven

 

Kellin was exhausted by the time he reached Clan-

keep. He had briefly considered riding directly to

Homana-Mujhar—no doubt Brennan and Aileen

wondered what had become of him—but decided

against it. Clankeep was the answer. His problem

had nothing at all to do with the Homanan por-

tion of his blood, but was wholly a Cheysuli

concern.

 

/ will tell them what has happened. I will explain

what I was forced to become, and the result—surely

they cannot countenance a warrior who in lir-shape

compromises every bit of his humanity. He stead-

fastly ignored the shadow slinking behind him

with gold eyes fixed on his back. They will under-

stand that this kind of bonding -cannot be allowed

to stand.

 

Kellin sighed relief. He felt better already. Once

his plight was explained, all would be understood.

He had spent portions of his childhood in Clan-

keep and knew the pureblood Cheysuli could be a

stiff-necked, arrogant lot—he had been accused of

his share of arrogance by the castle boys in child-

hood—but they had to acknowledge the difficulty

of his position. Kellin knew very well his request

would be neither popular nor readily accepted,

but once they fully understood what had occurred

the Cheysuli would not refuse. He was one of their

own, after all.

 

260

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           261

 

I will speak to Gavan. Gavan was clan-leader, a

man Kellin respected. He will see this is serious,

not merely an inconvenience. He will know what

must be done.

 

Kellin felt gingerly at the bridge of his nose. It

was whole, but badly scratched. His left eyelid

was swollen so that a portion of his vision was

obstructed. His clothing was crusted with dried

blood. I can smell myself. It shamed him to show

himself to Gavan and the others this way, but how

better to explain his circumstances save with the

gory proof before them?

 

He was not hungry though his belly was empty.

The idea of food repulsed him. He had eaten the

throat of a man; though he was free now of the

taste, his memory recalled it. Kellin wanted noth-

ing at all to do with food.

 

He listened for and heard the faint rustling be-

hind. Sima did not hide her presence, nor make

attempt to quiet her movements. She padded on

softly, following her lir.

 

Kellin's jaws tautened. Gavan will see what has

happened. He will know what must be done.

 

Clankeep, to Kellin, was perfectly ordinary in

its appearance. He had been taught differently, of

course; the keep had been razed twenty years be-

fore on the night of his birth, when Lochiel himself

had ridden down from Valgaard with sorcerers at

his beck. The Ihlini had meant to destroy Clankeep

and kill every living Cheysuli; that they had failed

was in no way attributable to their inefficiency,

but to the forced premature birth of Aidan's son.

Cut from his mother's belly before the proper

time, Kellin was at risk. Lochiel had immediately

returned to Valgaard. In that retreat, a portion of

Clankeep and her Cheysuli were left alive.

 

Kellin, gazing with gritty, tired eyes on the

 

262 Jennifer Roberson

 

painted pavilions clustered throughout the forest

like chicks around a hen, saw nothing of the past,

only of the present. That the unmortared walls

surrounding the pavilions were, beneath cloaks of

lichen and ivy, still charred or split by heat did

not remind him of that night, because he recalled

nothing of it. He had no basis for comparison

when he looked on the present Clankeep. To Kellin

it was simply another aspect of his heritage, with-

out the depressing weight of personal recollection.

 

Despite the hour he was welcomed immediately

by the warriors manning the gate and was es-

corted directly to the clan-leader's pavilion. In the

dark it stood out because of its color: a pale saf-

fron bedecked with ruddy-hued foxes. Moonlight

set it softly aglow.

 

Kellin dismounted as his escort ducked into Ga-

van's pavilion; a second warrior took Corwyth's

horse and led it away. Kellin was alone save for

the cat-shaped shadow nearby. He ignored her

utterly.

 

In only a moment the first warrior returned and

beckoned him inside, pulling aside the doorHap.

Kellin drew in a deep breath and went in, acutely

aware of his deshabille. He paused inside as his

eyes adjusted to the muted glow of a firecaim,

then inclined his head to the older man who

waited. Gavan offered the ritual welcome in the

Old Tongue, then indicated a place to sit upon a

thick black bear pelt. Honey brew and dried fruit

also were offered. Kellin sat down with a mur-

mured word of thanks and accepted cup and plat-

ter- Irresolute, he stared at both, then set aside the

fruit and drank sparingly of the liquor. Like the

Ihlini wine, it burned his cut mouth.

 

Gavan wore traditional leathers, though tousled

graying hair indicated he had risen hastily from

bed. In coal-cast shadows his dark Cheysuli face

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           263

 

was hollowed and eerily feral, dominated by yel-

low eyes above oblique, prominent cheekbones.

Some of Gavan's face was reflected in Kellin's,

though his own was less angular and lacked the

sharpness of additional years.

 

The clan-leader sat quietly on a bear pelt before

Kellin, a ruddy dog-fox curled next to one knee.

His eyes narrowed minutely as he observed Kel-

lin's state. "Harsh usage."

 

Kellin nodded as he swallowed, then set aside

the cup. "Ihlini/' he said briefly. He was flattered

by the instant response in Gavan's eyes: sharp,

fixed attention, and a contained but palpable ten-

sion. Kellin wondered fleetingly if Gavan had been

present during the Ihlini attack. Then he dis-

missed it, thinking of the man instead. I will have

more care from him than from my own Jehan.

 

"Lochiel?" the clan-leader asked.

 

Kellin shook his head. "A minion. Corwyth.

Powerful in his own right . .. but not the master

himself."

 

Gavan's mouth compressed slightly. "So the

war begins anew."

 

Kellin swallowed heavily. "Lochiel wants me

captured and taken to Valgaard. No more does he

want me killed outright, but brought to him

alive." Though his mouth was clean, he tasted Cor-

wyth's blood again. It was difficult to speak. "In

my dying—or whatever he decrees is to be my

fate—I am to be Lochiel's entertainment."

 

Gavan set aside his cup. "You have not gone to

the Mujhar."

 

"Not yet- I came here first." Kellin suppressed

a shudder as the image of throatless Corwyth rose

in his mind; this man would not understand such

weakness. "There is a thing I must discuss. A

frightening thing—" he did not like admitting such

to Gavan, but it was the simple truth, "—and a

 

264 Jennifer Roberson

 

thing which must be attended." It was more diffi-

cult than expected. Kellin flicked a glance at the

mountain cat who lay so quietly beside him. He

longed to dismiss her, but until all was explained

he did not dare transgress custom. A lir was to

be honored; arrant dismissal would immediately

predispose Gavan to hostility. "I killed Corwyth,

as I said—but not through a man's means."

 

Gavan smiled faintly as he looked at Sima. "It

is my great personal joy that the bonding has at

last occurred. It is well past time. Now you may

be welcomed into the clan as a fully bonded war-

rior ... it was of some concern that the tardiness

of the /ir-bonding might cause difficulty."

 

Kellin's mouth dried. "Difficulty?"

 

Gavan gestured negligent dismissal. "But it is

of no moment, now. No one can deny your right

to the Lion."

 

This was a new topic. "Did someone deny it?"

 

A muscle jumped briefly in Gavan's cheek. "There

was some talk that perhaps the mixture of so many

Houses in your blood had caused improper dilution."

 

"But the mixture is needed." Kellin fought to

control his tone; he realized in a desperation fray-

ing into panic that things would not be sorted out

so easily after all. "The prophecy is very explicit

about a man of all blood—"

 

"Of course." Neatly, Gavan cut him off. "A man

of all blood, aye .. . but a man clearly Cheysuli."

He smiled at Sima. "With so lovely a lir, you need

fear no warrior's doubts."

 

Kellin found it difficult to breathe. To gain time

he looked around the interior of the pavilion: at

the dog-fox next to Gavan; at the glowing fire-

caim; at the bronze-bound trunk with a handful

of Cheysuli ornaments scattered across its closed

lid; at the compact warbow—once called a hunt-

ing bow—leaning against the trunk; at the shad-

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

265

 

ows of painted lir on the exterior of the pavilion

fabric.

 

Lastly, at Sima. Gold eyes were unblinking.

 

Kellin picked up the cup of liquor and drained

it. It burned briefly, then mellowed into a warmth

that, in an empty belly, set his vision to blurring.

 

His lips felt stiff. "Carillon had no lir."

 

Gavan's black brows, as yet untouched by the

silver threading his hair, moved more closely to-

gether. Clearly, he was baffled by the non sequitur-

"Carillon was Homanan."

 

"But the clans accepted him."

 

"He was the next link. After Shaine: Carillon.

After Carillon: Donal."

 

"Because Carillon sired only a daughter- A Solin-

dish halfling."

 

"Aislinn. Who wed Donal and bore Niall." Gavan

smiled then, his faint consternation clearing. "Is

this because Niall, too, was late receiving his Hr?

Did you fear, as they say he did, that you would

never receive one?" He smiled, nodding his head

in Sima's direction. "You need fear nothing. Your

future is secure."

 

Kellin drew in a deep breath, ignoring the twinge

in his chest. Ga van's words seemed to come from

a great distance. "What if—" He broke off, then

began again. "What if I had never received a lir?"

 

Gavan shrugged. "There is no profit in discussing

what did not occur."

 

Kellin forced a smiled. "Curiosity. What if I had

never received, nor bonded with a lir?" He was no

good at disingenuity; the smile broke up into

pieces and fell away, "I am well beyond the age a

warrior receives a lir. Surely before now there

must have been some discussion in case I never

did."

 

The clan-leader made a dismissive gesture. "Aye,

it was briefly discussed; there is no sense in hiding

 

266 Jennifer Robersoa

 

it from you. It is a serious matter. Because you are

the only direct descendant with all of the proper

bloodlines—"

 

"Save one."

 

Gavan inclined his head slightly. "—save one,

aye .. . still, it remains that you are the only one

with all of the necessary lineage required to pro-

duce the man we await."

 

"The Firstborn."

 

"Cynric." Gavan's eyes were bright. "So your

jehan has prophesied."

 

Kellin did not desire to discuss his jehan. "Had

I not received my lir, what would have happened?

Would you have questioned my right to inherit?"

 

"Certainly clan-council would have met to dis-

cuss it formally at some point."

 

"Would you have questioned it?" Suddenly, it

mattered. It mattered very much. "Would the

Cheysuli have rejected my claim to the Lion?"

 

"The Mujhar is in no danger of giving up his

claim any time soon." Gavan smiled. "He is a

strong man, and in sound health."

 

"Aye." Kellin's nerves frayed further. It seemed

no matter how careful he was, how meticulous his

phrasing, he could not get the answer he wanted;

 

yet at the same time he knew what the answer

was, and dreaded it. "Gavan—" He felt sweat

sting a scrape on one temple as the droplet ran

down beneath a lock of hair. "Would the Cheysuli

accept a lirless Mujhar?"

 

Gavan did not hesitate. "Now? No. There is no

question of it. We are too close to fulfillment .. .

a lirless Cheysuli would prove a true danger to the

prophecy. We cannot afford to support a Mujhar

who lacks the most fundamental of all Cheysuli

gifts. It would provide the Ihlini an opportunity

to destroy us forever."

 

"Of course." The words were ash. If he opened

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

267

 

his mouth too widely, he would spew it like a dis-

mantled firecairn.

 

Gavan laughed. Yellow eyes were bright and

amused, and wholly inoffensive. "If you are feeling

unworthy in the aftermath of bonding, it is a natu-

ral thing. The gift—and the power that comes with

it—is entirely humbling." He arched black brows.

"Even for Mujhars—and men who will be

Mujhar."

 

All of Kellin's anticipated arguments in favor of

severing the partial bond with Sima evaporated.

He would get no understanding from Gavan;

 

likely, he would get nothing even remotely ap-

proaching sympathy. He would simply be stricken

from the birthlines and summarily removed from

the succession.

 

Leaving no one. "Blais," he said abruptly.

"There was a time when some warriors wanted

Blais to be named prince in my place."

 

"That was many years ago."

 

Kellin felt the dampness of perspiration stipple

his upper lip. He wanted-to brush it dry, but to

do so would call attention to his desperation. "The

a'saii still exist, do they not? Somewhere in Ho-

mana, separate from here . . . they still desire to

make their own tahlmorras without benefit of the

prophecy."

 

Gavan lifted his cup of honey brew. "There are

always heretics."

 

Kellin watched him drink. If Blais had sur-

vived— He put it into words. "If Blais had sur-

vived, and I had gained no lir, would he have been

named to the Lion?"

 

Gavan's eyes were steady. "In lieu of a proper

heir, there would have been no other. But such a

thing would have delayed completion for another

generation, perhaps more. Blais lacked the Solin-

dish and Atvian bloodlines. It would have taken

 

Jennifer Robersoa

 

268

 

time—more time than we have. - . ." Gavan drank,

then set aside his cup. "But what profit in this,

Kellin? You are a warrior. You have a lir. It falls

to you, now, without question. It all falls to you."

 

Coals crumbled in the firecaim. Illumination

wavered, then stilled. It glowed in Gavan's eyes.

 

"Too heavy," Kellin murmured, swallowing

 

tightly.

 

Gavan laughed aloud. A hand indicated Sima.

"No burden is too heavy if there is a lir to help

you bear it."

 

Twelve

 

Though offered a place in Clankeep, Kellin did not

accept it. There was something else he wanted—

needed—to do; something he should have done

years before. He had avoided it with a steadfast

intransigence, taking a quiet, vicious pleasure in

the wrong done him because it fanned the flames

of rebellion. A part of him knew very well that

without what he perceived as true cause, his defi-

ance might yet be warped into something other

than a natural maturing of personality. He was

expected to be different from others because of his

heritage and rank; hot temper and hasty words

were often overlooked because of who he was.

That in itself sometimes forced him to more rebel-

lion because he needed to provoke a response that

would mitigate self-contempt.

 

He knew very well what the mountain cat said

was right. He was too angry, and had been for

years. But he knew its cause; it was hardly his

fault. A motherless infant prince willingly de-

serted by a father had little recourse to other

emotions-

 

Kellin stood outside the pavilion. Like Gavan's,

it also bore a fox painted on its sides, though the

base color was blue instead of saffron. The pavil-

ion was difficult to see in the darkness; moonlight

was obscured by clustered trees and overhanging

branches. The Cheysuli had moved Clankeep after

 

269

 

270 Jennifer Roberson

 

the Ihlini attack, for a part of the forest had

burned. Only rain a day or two later had pre-

vented more destruction.

 

Accost him now, just after awakening, so he has

no time to marshal defenses or rhetoric. Kellin drew

in a deep breath that expanded sore ribs, then

called through the closed doorflap that he desired

to see the shar tahi

 

A moment only, and then a hand drew aside the

flap so that the man stood unobstructed. He wore

leather in place of robes, and ^'r-gold weighted his

arms. He was alert; Kellin thought perhaps the

man had not been asleep after all.

 

"Aye?" And then the warrior's expression al-

tered. An ironic arch lifted black brows. "I should

have expected this. You would not come all the

times I invited you in the daylight . . . this suits

your character."

 

It sparked an instant retort. "You know nothing

about my character!"

 

The older man considered it. "That is true," he

said at last. "What I know of you—now—has to

do with the tales they tell." He widened the door-

flap. "By your expression, this is not intended to

be a sanguine visit. Well enough—I had gathered

by your continued silence you did not accept my

offers of aid as anything other than insult."

 

"Not insult," Kellin said. "Unnecessary."

 

"Ah." The man was in his late fifties, not so

much younger than the Mujhar. Thick hair grayed

heavily, but the flesh of his face was still taut, and

his eyes were intent. "But now there is necessity."

 

Kellin did not look at Sima. He simply pointed

to her. "I want to be rid of that."

 

"Rid?" The shar tahl's irony evaporated. "Come

in," he said curtly.

 

Kellin ducked in beside him. Hostility banished

the dullness engendered by Gavan's honey brew;

 

A TAPESTRY OF LJWS           27t

 

nerves made him twitchy. He stood aside in stiff

silence as the shar tahl permitted the mountain

cat to enter.

 

He waited edgily. There were many things he

wanted to say, and he anticipated multiple

pointed responses designed to dissuade him. The

shar tahl would no more understand his desire

than Gavan would have; the difference was, Kellin

was better prepared to withstand anything the

shar tahl might suggest by way of argument. He

disliked the man. Dislike lent him the strength of

will to defy a man whose service was to the gods,

and to the preservation of tradition within the

clans.

 

"Be seated," the shar tahl said briefly. Then, to

Sima, "You are well come to my pavilion."

 

The cat lay down. Her tail thumped once. Then

she stilled, huge eyes fixed on Kellin.

 

With a grimace of impatience, Kellin sat down.

Neither food nor drink was offered; tacit insult,

designed to tell him a thing or two. Then we are

well matched. I have things to say as well.

 

"So." The older man's expression was closed,

severe in its aloofness. "You want to be rid of your

lir. Since it is well known you had none, I can only

assume this is a very recent bonding."

 

"Aye, very recent; last night." Pointedly, Kellin

added, "When I was a captive of the Ihlini."

 

The shar tahl's expression did not alter; he

seemed fixed upon a single topic. "Yet now you

wish to sever that bond."

 

Kellin's hands closed into fists against crossed

legs. "Does it mean nothing to you that the Prince

of Homana was captured by the Ihlini, and less

that he escaped?"

 

The shar tahl's mouth tightened minutely. "We

will speak of that later. At this moment the Prince

 

272 Jennifer Robersw

 

of Homana's desire to sever what the gods have

made for him is of greater concern."

 

"Because it has to do with gods, and you are a

shar tahl." Kellin did not bother to hide the deri-

sion in his tone. "By all means let us discuss that

which you believe of more import; after all, what

is the welfare of Homana's future Mujhar com-

pared to his desire to renounce a gift of the gods?"

 

"Yet if you renounce this bond, there is no more

need to concern ourselves with the welfare of Ho-

mana's future Mujhar, as he would no longer be

heir." The shar tahl's eyes burned brightly. "But

you know that. I can see it in your face." He nod-

ded slightly. "So you have been to Gaven already

and what you have heard does not please you.

Therefore I must assume this meeting is meant

merely to air your grievance, though you know

very well nothing can come of it. You cannot re-

nounce the /M--bond, lest you be stripped of your

rank. And you would never permit that; it would

echo your jehan's actions."

 

Kellin's response was immediate. "I did not

come to speak of my jehan\"

 

"But we will." The older man's tone allowed no

room for protest. "We should have had this con-

versation years ago."

 

"We will not have it now. My Jehan has nothing

to do with this."

 

'"Your jehan has much to do with this. His deser-

tion of you has to do with everything in your life."

 

"Enough."

 

"I have hardly begun."

 

"Then I will end it!" Kellin glared at the man.

"I am still the Prince of Homana. My rank is

higher than yours."

 

"Is it?" Black brows arched. "I think not. Not

in the eyes of the gods .. . ah, of course—you do

not recognize their sovereignty." The shar tahl

 

A TAPESTRY OF LlWS            273

 

lifted a quelling hand. "In fact, you detest them

because you believe they stole your Jehan from

you."

 

Much as he longed to, Kellin knew better than

to shout. To give in to such a display was to

weaken his position. "He was meant to be the heir.

Not I. Not yet; my time was meant for later. They

did steal him."

 

"A warrior follows his tahlmorra."

 

"Or obstructs the prophecy?" Kellin shook his

head. "I think what they say of him is true: he is

mad. No madman bases his actions on what is real.

He does as he does because his mind is addled."

 

"Aidan's mind is no more addled than your

own," the shar tahl retorted. "In fact, some would

argue it is more sane than yours."

 

"Mine!"

 

The warrior smiled grimly. "Your reputation

precedes you."

 

For only an instant Kellin was silent. Then he

laughed aloud, letting the sound ml the pavilion.

"Because I drink? Because' I wager? Because I lie

with whores?" The laughter died, but the grin was

undiminished. "These actions appear to be a tradi-

tion within my family. Shall I name you the

names? Brennan, Hart, Corin—"

 

"Enough." The irony was banished. "You came

because you wish to renounce your lir. Allow me

to do my office. Bide a moment, my lord." The

shar tahl rose abruptly and moved to the doorflap.

He ducked out, leaving Kellin alone with a silent

black mountain cat. After a moment the priest re-

turned and resumed his seat. His smile was hu-

morless. "How may I serve my lord?"

 

Kellin's impatience faded. Hostility dissipated.

If the man could aid him, he had best mend his

manner. "The bonding was done hastily, to enable

me to escape the Ihlini. Even she admits it." He

 

274 Jennifer Roberaoa

 

did not glance at Sima. "She speaks of balance,

and the danger in lacking it. I have none."

 

The shar tahl now was serious. "You assumed

^r-shape in anger?"

 

"In anger, fear, panic -, ." Kellin sighed; the

vestiges of pride and hostility faded utterly. Qui-

etly, he explained what had happened—and how

he had killed a man by tearing out his throat.

 

The dark flesh by the older man's eyes folded

upon itself. His eyes seemed to age. "A harsh

bonding. But more than that, an improper one. It

is only half done."

 

"Half?" Kellin looked at the cat. "Do you mean

I could renounce her?"

 

"No. Not safely. Your lirlessness is ended; half-

bonded or no, you will never be what you were.

The question now is, what will you permit your-

self to be?"

 

Alarm bloomed. "What do you mean?"

 

"You are angry," the shar tahl said. "I perhaps

understand it better than most—your jehan and I

have shared many confidences." The severity of

the face now was replaced with a human warmth

that nearly unmanned Kellin. "Aidan and I have

spent much time together. It was why I desired to

speak with you before, to explain his reasoning."

 

"Let him explain it!"

 

The shar tahl sighed. "The proper time is not

yet come."

 

Bitterness engulfed. "There never will be a

'proper time'!" Kellin cried. "That is the point!"

 

"No." The shar tahl lifted a hand, then let it

drop. "That is not the point. There will come a

time, I promise - . - when the gods intend that you

should meet."

 

"When he intends, you mean .. . and he never

will." Kellin gathered himself to rise- "This is

bootless. It wastes my time."

 

A TAPESTRY OF Lfws           275

 

"Sit down." The tone was a whipcrack. "You

have come to me with a serious concern that needs

to be addressed. Set aside your hatred and hostil-

ity long enough, if you will, to permit me to ex-

plain that you are in grave danger."

 

"I have escaped the Ihlini."

 

"This has nothing to do with the Ihlini. This has

to do with yourself. It is of the balance I speak."

The shar tahl glanced at Sima. "Has she explained

what could happen?"

 

"That I might be locked in beast-form if I lose

my balance?" Kellin's mouth twisted. "Aye. After

she urged me to take ftr-shape."

 

"Then she must have believed it necessary." The

shar tahl studied Sima with something very akin

to sympathy, which seemed an odd thing to Kel-

lin; the lir were considered far wiser than their

warriors. "The lir are proscribed from attacking

Ihlini. If she urged you to assume /ir-shape before

the proper time, fully cognizant of the risk, it was

because she believed it necessary to preserve your

life." The yellow eyes were intent. "The life has

been preserved. Now we must insure that the

mind within the body is preserved as well."

 

"Burr—" Kellin cut it off- It was time for truth,

not protest. Defiance crumbled in the face of his

admission. "I have resented you for years."

 

"I know." The shar tahl reached for a jug and

cups, then poured two full. "Drink. What you must

know will dry your mouth; wet it first, and then

we shall begin."

 

"Can I learn it by dawn?"

 

"A thing so vital as this cannot be learned in a

night. It requires years." Burr sipped his honey

brew. "A young warrior is taught from the day of

his birth how to strike the balance in all things.

We are a proud race, we Cheysuli, and surpass-

ingly arrogant—" Burr smiled, "—because we are,

 

276 Jennifer Robersoa

 

after all, the children of the gods .. . but we are

not an angry race, nor one much given to war

except when it is required. The Homanans have

called us beasts and predators, but it is because

of what we can do with our bodies, not our desire

for blood. We are a peaceful race. That desire for

peace—in mind as well as lifestyle—is taught from

birth. By the time a young man reaches the age

to receive a lir, his knowledge of self-control is

well-rooted. His longing for a lir supercedes the

recklessness of youth—no young Cheysuli would

risk the wrath of the gods that might result in

lirlessness."

 

"is that true?" Kellin asked. "You are a shar

tahl—would the gods deny a boy a Ur because he

does not suit their idea of a well-behaved

Cheysuli?"

 

Burr laughed. "You are the most defiant and

reckless of Cheysuli I have ever known. Yet there

is the proof that the gods do as they will." A hand

indicated Sima. "You have your place, Kellin. You

have a tahlmorra. Now it is your task to acknowl-

edge the path before you."

 

"And take it?"

 

"If it is what the gods intend."

 

"Gods," Kellin muttered. "They clutter up a life.

They bind a man's spirit so he cannot do as he

will."

 

"You, I believe, are a perfect example of the fal-

lacy in that logic. You do—and have always

done—precisely as you desire." Burr sipped li-

quor, then set the cup aside. "You must fully ac-

cept your lir. To remain half-bonded sentences

both of you to a life to which no man—or lir—

should ever be subjected."

 

"Madness," Kellin said. He worked a trapped

twig from the weave of soiled breeches. "What if

I told you I believed it was arrant nonsense, this

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           277

 

belief that lirlessness results in madness? That I

believe it is no more than a means for a man's

misplaced faith in his gods to control him, or de-

stroy him?"

 

Burr smiled. "You would not be the first to sug-

gest that. In fact, if you were not the heir to the

Lion and therefore assured of your place, I would

say your defiance and determination resembles

the a'saii." He drank, watching Kellin over the

rim of his cup- "It is not easy for a man to accept

that one moment he is in the fullness of his prime,

healthy and strong, while the next he is sentenced

to the death-ritual despite his continued health

and strength. It is the true test of what we are,

Kellin; do you know of any other race which will-

ingly embraces death when there appears to be no

reason to die?"

 

"No. No other race is so ludicrously constrained

by the gods." Kellin shook his head, tapping the

twig against his knee. "It is a waste. Burr! Just as

kin-wrecking is!"

 

"That. I agree with," Burr said. "Once, the cus-

tom had its place .. . there was a need, Kellin."

 

"To cast out a man because he was maimed?"

Kellin shook his head. "The loss of a hand does

not render a man incapable of serving his clan or

his kin."

 

"Once, it might have. If a one-handed warrior

failed, because of his infirmity, to protect a single

life, he was a detriment. There was a time we

dared not permit such a risk, lest our people die

out entirely."

 

Kellin gestured. "Enough. I am speaking now of

the death-ritual-1 contend it is nothing more than

a means of control, a method by which the gods—

and shar tahls, perhaps?—" he grinned in arch

contempt, "—can force others to do their will."

 

Burr was silent. His eyes were partially hidden

 

278 Jennifer Roberson

 

behind lowered lashes. Kellin thought perhaps he

might at last have provoked the older man into

anger, but when Burr at last met his eyes there

was nothing of anger in his expression. "What the

gods have required of men is duty, honor, rever-

ence—"

 

"And self-sacrifice!"

 

"—and sacrifice." Burr finished. "Aye. I deny

none of it. But if we had not offered any of these

things, Kellin, you would not be seated here before

me contesting the need for such service."

 

"Words!" Kellin snapped. "You are as bad as

the Ihlini. You weave magic with words, to ensor-

cell me to your will."

 

"I do nothing but state the truth." Burr's tone

was very quiet, lacking all emotion. "If a single

man in your birthline had turned his back on his

tahlmorra, you would not be the warrior destined

to inherit the Lion."

 

"You mean if my Jehan had turned his back on

his tahlmorra." Kellin wanted to swear. "This is

merely another attempt to persuade me that what

my jehan did was necessary. You said yourself you

are friends ... I hear bias in his favor,"

 

"It was necessary," Burr said- "Who can say

what might have become of you if Aidan had not

renounced his title? Paths can be altered, Kellin—

and prophecies. If Aidan had remained here, he

would be Prince of Homana. You would merely be

third in line behind Brennan and Aidan. That

extra time could well have delayed completion of

the prophecy, and destroyed it utterly."

 

"You mean, it might have prevented me from

lying with whatever woman I am supposed to lie

with—according to the gods—in order to sire Cyn-

ric." Kellin tossed aside the twig. "A convenience,

nothing more. No one knows this. Just as no one

knows for certain a warrior goes mad if his lir is

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            279

 

killed." He smiled victory. "You see? We have

come full circle."

 

Burr's answering smile was grim. "But I can

name you the proofs; Duncan, Cheysuli clan-

leader, kept alive by Ihlini sorcery though his lir

was dead, and used as a weapon to strike at his

son, Donal, who was meant to be Mujhar."

 

Kellin felt cold; he knew this history.

 

"Teiman, Blais' jehan, who assumed the role of

clan-leader to the heretical a'saii. A warrior who

would have, given the chance, pulled Brennan

from the Lion and mounted it himself." Burr's

tone was steady. "Tieman renounced his lir. In the

end, completely mad, he threw himself into the

Womb of the Earth before the eyes of your Jehan

and jehana in an attempt to prove himself worthy

to hold the Lion. He did not come out."

 

Kellin knew that also.

 

Burr said softly, "First we will speak of your

jehan. Then of the balance."

 

Kellin wanted it badly. "No," he said roughly.

"What I leam of my jehan will be learned from

him."

 

Burr looked beyond him to the slack door-flap.

He said a single word—a name—and a warrior

came in. In his arms he held a small girl asleep

against his shoulder; by his side stood a tousle-

haired boy of perhaps three years.

 

"There is another," the shar tahl said. "Another

son; do you recall? Or have you forgotten entirely

that these are your children?"

 

"Mine—" Kellin blurted.

 

"Three royal bastards." Burr's tone was unre-

lenting. "Packed off to Clankeep like so much un-

wanted baggage, and never once visited by the

man who sired them."

 

Thirteen

 

Kellin refused to look at the children, or at the

warrior with them. Instead he stared at Burr.

"Bastards," he declared, biting off the word.

 

The shar tahl's voice was calm. "That they are

bastards does not preclude the need for parents."

 

Kellin's lips were stiff. "Homanan halflings."

 

"And what are you, my lord, but Homanan, Sol-

indish, Atvian, Ennnish. .. ?" Burr let it trail off.

"/ am pure Cheysuli."

 

"A'saU?" Kellin challenged. "You believe I

should be replaced?"

 

"If you refuse your lir, assuredly." Burr was re-

lentless. "Look at your children, Kellin."

 

He did not want to. He was desperate not to.

"Bastards have no place in the line of succession—"

 

"—and therefore do not matter?" Burr shook his

head. "That is the Homanan in you, I fear ... in

the clans bastardy bears no stigma." He paused.

"Did lan know you felt so? He, too, was a

bastard."

 

"Enough!" Kellin hissed. "You try to twist me

inside out no matter what I say."

 

"I shall twist you any way I deem necessary, if

the result achieved is as I believe it should be."

Burr looked at the boy. "Young, but he promises

well. Homanan eyes—they are hazel—but the hair

is yours. And the chin—"

 

"Stop it."

 

280

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           281

 

"The girl is too young yet to show much of what

she shall be—"

 

"Stop it!"

 

"—and of course the other boy is but a handful

of months." Burr looked at Kellin, all pretenses to

neutrality dropped. "Explain it away, if you

please. Justify your actions with regard to these

children, though you refuse to permit your jehan

the same favor."

 

"He traded me for the gods!" It was a cry from

the heart Kellin regretted at once. "Can you not

see—"

 

"What I see are two children without a jehan,"

Burr said. "Another yet sleeps at the breast of a

Cheysuli woman who lost her own baby. I submit

to you, my lord: for what did you trade them?"

 

Words boiled up in Kellin's mouth, so many at

first he could not find a single one that would,

conjoined with another, make any sense at all. Fu-

rious, he thrust himself to his feet. At last the

words broke free. "I get nothing from you. No

truths, no support, no honorable service! Nothing

more than drivel mouthed by a man who is truer

to the a'saii than to his own Mujhar!"

 

Burr did not rise. "Until you can look on those

children and acknowledge your place in their

lives, speak no word against Aidan."

 

Kellin extended a shaking hand. He pointed at

Sima. "I want no lir."

 

"You have one."

 

"I want to be rid of her."

 

"And open the door to madness."

 

"I do not believe it."

 

Burr's eyes glinted. "Then test it, my lord. Chal-

lenge the gods- Renounce your lir and withstand

the madness." He rose and took the small girl

from the silent warrior's arms, settling her against

his shoulder. Over her head, he said, "It will be a

 

282 Jennifer Robersoa

 

true test, I think. Certainly as true as the one Teir-

nan undertook at the Womb of the Earth."

 

Desperate, Kellin declared, "I have no room in

my life for the impediment of halfling bastards'"

 

"That," Burr said, "is between you and the

gods."

 

Kellin shut his teeth. "You are wrong. All of you.

I will prove you wrong."

 

"Tahlmorra lujhalla mei wiccan, cheysu," Burr

said- Then, as Kellin turned to flee, "Cheysuli

i'haUa shansu."

 

Kellin did not stay the rest of the night in Clan-

keep but took back his borrowed mount and rode

on toward Mujhara. He had moved beyond the

point of weariness into the realm of an exhaustion

so complex as to render him almost pretematu-

rally alert. Small sounds were magnified into a

clamor that filled his head, so that there was no

room for thought. It pleased him. Thought re-

newed anger, reestablished frustration, reminded

him yet again that no matter what he said—no

matter who he was—no Cheysuli warrior would

accept him as one of them so long as he lacked a

lir.

 

They would sooner have me go mad with a lir

than go mad because I renounce one.

 

It made no sense to Kellin. But neither did the

mountain cat who shadowed his horse, loping in

its wake.

 

He had tried to send her away. Sima refused to

go. Since he had made very clear his intentions to

forswear her, the cat had said nothing. The link

was suspiciously empty -

 

As if she no longer exists. And yet here she was;

 

he had only to glance over a shoulder to see her

behind him.

 

Would it not be simpler if he shut off that link

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           283

 

forever? Certainly less hazardous. If Sima died

while as yet unbonded, he could escape the death-

ritual.

 

Though Burr says I will not.

 

Kellin shifted in the saddle, attempting to lessen

the discomfort of his chest. The shar tahl had chal-

lenged him to test the conviction that a lirless war-

rior went mad. And he had accepted. Part of the

reason was pride, part a natural defiance; uneasily

Kellin wondered what might happen if he lost the

challenge. If, after all, the Cheysuli belief was

based on truth.

 

What does it feel like to go mad? He slowed his

mount as he approached the city; star- and moon-

light, now tainted by Mujhara's illumination,

made it difficult to see the road. What was Teiman

thinking, as he leapt into the Womb?

 

What had his father thought, and his mother, as

the warrior without a lir tested his right to the

Lion, and was repudiated?

 

/ would never throw myself into the Womb of the

Earth. It was— He brought himself up short.

Madness?

 

Kellin swore the vilest oaths he could think of.

An arm scrubbed roughly across his face did noth-

ing to rid his head of such thoughts. It smeared

grime and crusted blood—he had left Clankeep

without even so much as a damp cloth for clean-

ing his face—and tousled stiffened hair. His cloth-

ing was rigid with dried blood and scratched at

bruised flesh. Inside the flesh, bones ached.

 

He did not enter Mujhara by way of the Eastern

Gate because they knew him there. Instead he

angled the horse right and rode for the Northern

Gate. Of all the gates it was the least used; the

Eastern led toward Clankeep, the Southern to

Hondarth, the Western to Solinde. The Northern

opened onto the road that, followed to its end, led

 

284 Jennifer Kobersoa

 

to the Bluetooth River: beyond lay the Northern

Wastes, and Valgaard.

 

Kellin shivered. / would have gone there, had

Corwyth persevered.

 

Through the Northern Gate lay the poorer sec-

tions of Mujhara, including the Midden. Kellin in-

tended to ride directly through, bound for

Homana-Mujhar on its low rise in the center of

the city. He wanted a bath very badly, and a bed—

 

His horse—Corwyth's horse—shied suddenly,

even as Kellin heard the low-pitched growling. He

gathered rein, swearing, as the dog boiled out of

the darkness.

 

Kellin took a deeper seat, anticipating trouble,

but the dog streaked by him. Then he knew.

 

The link that had been so empty blazed sud-

denly to life, engulfing him utterly. He heard the

frantic barking, the growls; then Sima's wailing

cry. The link, half-made though it was, reverber-

ated  with   the   mountain  cat's  frenzied

counterattack.

 

"Wait!" It was a blurt of shock. Stunned by the

explosion within the link, Kellin sat immobile. His

body rang with pain and outrage; yet none of it

was his own. "Hers." She had said they were

linked, even if improperly. He felt whatever the

cat felt.

 

Freed of the paralysis, Kellin jerked the horse

around, feeling for the long-knife retrieved from

Corwyth. He saw a huddle of black in the shad-

ows, and the gleam of pale slick hide as the dog

darted in toward Sima. It was joined by another,

and then a third; in a moment the noise would

bring every dog at a run.

 

They will kill— The rest was lost. A man-shaped

shadow stepped out of a dark doorway and, with

a doubled fist, smashed the horse's muzzle.

 

Kellin lost control instantly, and very nearly his

 

A TAPESTRV OF LIONS           285

 

nose. The horse's head shot skyward, narrowly

missing Kellin's bowed head. The animal fell back

a step or two, scrabbling in mucky footing, fling-

ing his head in protest.

 

Before Kellin could attempt to regain control of

the reins, hands grabbed his left leg. It was sum-

marily jerked out of the stirrup and twisted vio-

lently, so that Kellin was forced to follow the

angle or risk having his ankle broken. The position

made him vulnerable; a second violent twist and

a heave tipped Kellin off backward even as he

grabbed for the saddle.

 

"Ku'reshtin—" He twisted in midair, broke free

of the hands, then landed awkwardly on his feet—

leifhana tu'sai!—and caught his balance haphaz-

ardly against the startled horse's quivering nimp.

 

Before he could draw a breath, the man was on

him.

 

Inconsequentially, even as he fought, Kellin be-

lieved it ironic. He had no coin. All anyone would

get from him was a Cheysuli long-knife; which, he

supposed, was reward enough.

 

His own breathing was loud, but over his noise

he heard the yowling of the mountain cat and the

clamor of dogs. His concentration was split—for

all he wanted no Hr, he did not desire her to be

killed or injured—which made it that much

harder to withstand his assault.

 

Booted feet slipped in muck. The alley was nar-

row, twisted upon itself, hidden in deep shadow

because dwellings blocked out much of the moon.

Kellin did not hesitate but grabbed at once for

Blais' knife; massive hands grasped his right arm

immediately and wrenched his hand away from

the hilt. The grip on his arm was odd, but firm

enough; then it shifted. Fingers closed tautly on

flesh, shutting off strength and blood. Kellin's

 

286 Jennifer Robes-son

 

hand was naught but a lifeless blob of bone, flesh,

and muscle on the end of a useless arm.

 

"Ku'resh—"

 

The grip shifted. A knee was brought up as Kel-

lin's captive forearm was slammed down. The

bones of his wrist snapped easily against the

man's thigh.

 

Pain was immediate, Kellin's outcry echoed the

frenzy of the mountain cat as she fought off the

dogs. But the attacker was undeterred. Even as

Kellin panted a shocked protest colored by angry

oaths, the stranger wound his fists into the blood-

stiffened doublet. He lifted Kellin from the

ground, then slammed him against the nearest

wall.

 

Skull smacked stone. Lungs collapsed, expelling

air. A purposeful elbow was dug deeply into Kel-

lin's laboring chest, rummaging imperiously

amidst the wreckage of fragile ribs. Bones gave

way.

 

He inhaled raggedly and managed a breathless

string of foul words in a mixture of Homanan, Old

Tongue, and Erinnish, depending on the words to

give him something on which he might focus. The

pain was all-consuming, but not nearly so

astounding as the violence of the attack itself.

 

Sima's screaming echoed in the canyon of

cheek-by-jowl dwellings- A dog yelped, then an-

other; others belled a call to join the attack.

 

Lir— It was instinctive. He meant nothing by

it. The appeal faded immediately, though not the

knowledge of it.

 

Kellin sagged against the wall, pinned there by

a massive body. A shoulder leaned into his chest.

His broken wrist remained trapped.

 

The odd grip tightened, shirting on his forearm.

"First the thumb," the attacker grunted.

 

There was no air, no air at all—but pain—

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           287

 

"First the thumb, then the fingers—"

 

Kellin sucked frantically at air.

 

"—and lastly, the hand—"

 

He knew the truth then- "Luce!" Kellin gasped.

"Gods—"

 

"None here, little princeling. Only me." A grin

split Luce's beard in the pallor of the night. "I'll

hold the hand just so—" He did it one-handed,

while the other snagged the long-knife from Kel-

lin's belt.

 

One word, no more, "Wait—"

 

"What? D'ye think to buy me, princeling? No,

not Luce—he's enough coin to last him, and ways

of getting more." Luce's breath stank. He hooked

an elbow up and slammed it into Kellin's jaw. The

back of Kellin's skull smashed against stone wall;

 

he felt a tooth break from the blow, and weakly

spat out the pieces. Luce laughed. "A love-tap,

nothing more . . . and speaking of that, perhaps I

should make you mine to use as I will—a royal

sheath for my sword—"

 

Kellin squirmed against the wall. His vision yet

swam from the blow, and he tasted blood in his

mouth. He did not know if it came from the empty

root socket, or was expelled from pierced lungs.

 

Luce still pinned the broken wrist against the

wall. In the other hand gleamed the knife. He set

the point between Kellin's spread tegs and tapped

cloth-warded genitals. "The Midden's a harsh

place full of desperate people—but Luce would

protect you. Luce would make you his—"

 

"Sima!" Kellin shouted, spraying blood and des-

peration. In the distance he heard growls and

yelps, and the wailing cry of an infuriated cat.

"Sim—"

 

But Luce shut it off with a dig of an elbow into

broken ribs. "First the thumb," he said.

 

288 Jennifer Robersoa

 

Kellin understood what a lir was for. He had

repudiated his own. What, then, was left?

 

He hurt very badly. The injuries were serious.

Even if Luce did nothing else, he would probably

die regardless.

 

Sima had said before she had given him the key.

Now it was his task to open the door again.

 

Kellin used the pain. He used the pain, the fury,

the frustration, the fear. He feasted on it, and al-

lowed it to fill his spirit until there was nothing

left of the man but the elemental drives to kill,

and to feed.

 

As the knife came down to sever the thumb from

his hand, the hand was no longer there. In its

place was the flexing paw of a mountain cat.

 

Fourteen

 

With a shocked cry. Luce let go. The knife glinted

briefly, then tumbled into muck. Kellin dropped

four-footed to splayed, leathery pads, then twisted

sinuously in the body made for fluid movement,

like water over stone; like runoff in the ancient

cut of a waterfall over sheer cliffs.

 

He will learn what it means to harm a Cheysuli—

But then the thought spilled away into a jumble

of crazed images tumbled one against another, all

stuck together like layers of leaves adhered one on

top of another, until vision fell out of focus and

no longer mattered at all. What mattered now was

scent and the stink of a frightened man; the sound

of the man's sobbing; the taste of promised

revenge.

 

The cat who was Kellin reached out. Easily—

so easily!—he slapped a negligent paw across the

giant's thigh. Claws dug in sharply; blood spurted

through rent cloth.

 

Luce screamed. Thumbless hands clutched at

his bleeding thigh, trying to stanch it. Lazily, exul-

tant in his strength, Kellin reached out again and

slapped at the other meaty thigh so that it, too,

bled. As Luce sobbed and whimpered, he curved

a playful paw around one ankle and dug claws

into bone. With a snarl that warped his mouth

slantways, he jerked the man to the ground. The

 

289

 

290 feanffer Roberson

 

sound of the skull splitting was swallowed by his

snarl.

 

The noise of the hounds was gone. Tail lashed

anticipation, beating against cold air. Kellin

moved to stand over his meal so no one else could

steal it.

 

Lir!

 

Kellin did not listen.

 

Lir! Do not!

 

It was easier to frame the feelings, the images,

not the words. His mouth was no longer human.

His response was built of instinct, not the logic of

a man. You want it.

 

No. No, lir. Leave it. A bleeding Sima was free

of dogs, though some lay dead, others dying, while

another ran off yelping. Leave it.

 

He challenged her. YOU want it.

 

No.

 

I hunger. Here is food. He paused. Are you my

mate?

 

Come away.

 

He panted. He drooled. Hunger was paramount,

but pain ate at his spirit. It was easiest to give in,

to let instinct rule a comprehension that was, even

more quickly now, flowing away from him. I hun-

ger. Here is food.

 

You are man, not cat.

 

Man? I wear a cat's shape.

 

You are man. Cheysuli. Shapechanger. You have

borrowed this shape. Give it back. Let the earth

magic have it back. When you have learned the

proper balance, you can borrow the shape again.

 

He let his tail lash. Who am I, then?"

 

Kellin. Not cat. Man.

 

He considered it. / do not feel like a man. THIS

is man, this food here beneath me. Saliva dripped

from his jowls. You want it for yourself.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           291

 

Come away, she said. You have wounds to be

healed. So have I.

 

The dogs hurt you?

 

I have hurts. So do you. Come away, lir. We will

have them healed.

 

Nearby a door was opened. Someone looked out

into the street. He heard a gabble of voices. He

understood none of the words- Noise, no more; the

noise of puny humans.

 

He lowered his jaws. Blood, sweat, urine, fear,

and death commingled in a powerful perfume. He

would taste it—

 

NO. The female was at his side. She leaned a

shoulder into his. Her chin rubbed at his head. If

you would feed here, there will be no choice but to

kill you.

 

Who would kill me? Who would dare?

 

Men.

 

Inner knowledge gloated. They could not accom-

plish it.

 

She leaned harder, rubbing against his neck.

They could. They would. Come away, lir. You are

badly hurt.

 

Another door opened. A slash of candlelight

slanted into the street. In its illumination he saw

the dead hounds, the slack hulk of a man. Voices

cried out, full of terror.

 

Away? he asked. But—the food—

 

Leave it, she said. There is better elsewhere.

 

The big cat hurt. His wounds were uncounted,

and untended; he required tending. He went with

her then because the urge to feed had left him. He

felt disoriented and distant, unsure of himself. She

led him away from the alley to another not far

away and found a hidden comer.

 

Here, she said, nudging at a shoulder.

 

She was wounded, he saw. Blood spiked the fur

on her spine. He turned to her. tending the bites,

 

292 Jennifer Robersm

 

licking to wash the blood away. She had been hurt

by the hounds, torn and tainted by the audacity

of mere beasts who did not know what it was to

be gods-blessed.

 

Leave it, she said. Remember what you are.

 

He paused. / am— He checked.

 

Gold eyes were intent. What are you?

 

I am—as you see me.

 

No.

 

I am—I am—

 

Remember! she snapped. Recall your knowledge

of self .

 

He could not. He was what he was.

 

She leaned against him. He smelled her fear, her

blood. She was alien to him, who did not know

what she was to him. Stay here. You are too badly

wounded to walk. Wait here for me.

 

It frightened him. Where are you going?

 

For help. Stay here.

 

She left him. He crouched against the wall, tail

whipping a counterpoint to the pain in his foreleg,

in his ribs, in his jaws. Licking intensified pain.

He flattened his ears against his head and pulled

back his lips from his teeth in a feral grimace of

pain and fear.

 

She had left him alone, and now he was

helpless.

 

Men came. And torches. The big cat shied back,

huddling into a comer as he snarled and growled

a warning. He slitted eyes against the flame and

saw silhouettes, man-shapes holding sticks with

fire blooming from them. He smelled them: they

stank of anticipation, apprehension; the giddy

tang of an excitement nearly sexual, as if they

hoped to mate once the task was done. The odor

was strong. It filled up his nostrils and entered

his head, causing the reflex response that dropped

 

A TAPESTRY OF LtONS            293

 

open his jaws. Raspy in- and exhalations as he

scented the men made him sound like a bellows.

 

Lir. It was the female. Sima. Lir, do not fear.

They have come to help, not harm.

 

Fire.

 

They will come no closer, save one. She slunk out

of the blinding light into his slime-coated corner.

Blood crusted across her shoulders; she had run,

and bled again. Let the man come.

 

He permitted it. He pressed himself against the

wall and waited, one swollen paw dangling.

Breathing hurt. He hissed and shook his head; a

tooth in his jaw was broken.

 

The man came away from the fire. Kellin could

not judge him by any but a cat's standards: his

hair was silver like frost in winter sunlight, and

his eyes glowed like coals. Metal glinted on naked

arms, bared by a shed cloak despite the winter's

bite.

 

"Kellin." The man knelt down on one knee, un-

mindful of the muck that would soil his leathers.

"Kellin."

 

The cat opened his mouth and panted. Pain

caused him to drool.

 

"Kellin, you must loose the cat-shape. There is

no more need."

 

The cat rumbled a growl; he could not

understand.

 

The man sighed and rose, turned back to the

men with flames. He spoke quietly, and they

melted away. Light followed them, so that though

empty of men the corner still shone with a sickly,

frenzied pallor.

 

The men were gone. In their places was a void,

a blurred nothingness that filled the alley. And

then a tawny mountain cat stalked out of the fad-

ing flame-dazzle with another at his side: a mag-

nificent black female well into her prime. Her

 

294 Jennifer Robersoa

 

grace denounced the gangliness of the young fe-

male with Kellin who was, after all, little more

than a cub.

 

Three mountain cats: two black, one tawny

gold. In his mind formed the images that in hu-

mans would have been speech; to him, now, the

images made promises that they would lend him

required strength, and the healing he needed so

badly.

 

In their eyes he saw a man. Human, like the

others. His hair was not winter-frost, but black as

a night sky. His eyes were green coals in place of

ruddy or yellow. He did not glint with gold; he

wore no gold at all. He was smooth and sleek and

strong, with the blood running hot in his veins.

 

Pain blossomed anew. Broken bones protested.

 

Three cats pressed close. The tawny male

mouthed his neck; Kellin flattened his ears and

lowered his head. He hurt too much to display

dominance postures to one who was clearly much

older and wiser than he.

 

Come home, the cat said. Come home with me

now.

 

Kellin panted heavily. In the muck, his pads

were damp with sweat. Weakness overrode cau-

tion. He let them guide his mind until he saw

what "home" meant: the true-body that was his.

Fingers and toes in place of claws. Hair in place

of fur, and smooth, taut flesh too easily bruised by

harsh treatment.

 

Come home, the tawny cat said, and in its place

was a man with eyes that understood his pain and

the turmoil in his soul. "I have been there," he

said. "My weakness is my fear of small dark places

... I will be with you in this. I understand what

it is to fear a part of yourself over which you have

no control." Then, very softly, "Come home, Kel-

lin- Let the anger go."

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           295

 

He let it go. Exhaustion engulfed, and a blurred

disorientation. Spent, he slumped against the half-

grown female. She licked at his face and scraped

a layer of skin; human skin, not feline.

 

Kellin recoiled. He pressed himself into the

stone wall.

 

"Kellin." Brennan still knelt. Behind him

torches flared. "Shansu, Kellin—it is over."

 

"I—I—" Kellin stopped. He swallowed hard

against the sour taste of bile. He could frame no

proper words, as if he had lost them in his trans-

formation. "I."

 

The Mujhar's expression was infinitely gentle. "I

know. Come with me." Brennan paused. "Kellin,

you are hurt. Come with me."

 

He panted shallowly. He cradled his wrist

against a chest that hurt as much. His legs were

coiled under him so he could rise instantly in a

single upward thrust.

 

Brennan's hand was on his shoulder.

 

Kellin tensed. And then it mattered no longer.

He closed his eyes and sagged against the stone.

Tears ran unchecked through grime, perspiration,

and blood old as well as new. He was not

ashamed.

 

Brennan's hand touched his blood-stiffened hair

softly, tenderly, as if to frame words he could not

say- And then the hand was gone from Kellin's

hair, closing instead on the arm that was whole.

"Come up from there, my lord."

 

His grandsire had offered him no honor in man-

ner or words for a very long time, nor the deep

and abiding affection that now lived in his tone.

 

Kellin looked at him. "I am not . . . not . .." He

was still too close to the cat. He wanted to wail

instead of speak. "Am. Not. Deserving .. ." He

tried again in desperation, needing to say it; to

recover the human words. "—not of such care—"

 

Jennifer Roberson

 

296

 

Tears shone in Brennan's eyes. "You are deserv-

ing of many things, not the least of which is care,

Shansu, my young one—we will find a balance for

you. Somehow, we will find a proper balance."

 

Torchlight streamed closer. Kellin looked be-

yond his grandfather and saw the royal guard.

One of the men was Teague.

 

Their faces had been schooled to show no emo-

tion. But he had seen it. He had seen them, and

the fear in their eyes as they had looked upon the

cat who had been to all of them before nothing

more than a man.

 

Kellin shuddered, "I was—I was ..." The wail

was very near. He shut his mouth upon it, so as

to give them no more reason to look upon him

with fear and apprehension.

 

They were the elite guard of a warrior who be-

came a mountain cat at will. It was not new to

them, who had seen it before. But Brennan was

nothing if not a dignified man of immense self-

control. Kellin was not and had never been a dig-

nified man; self-control was nonexistent. In him,

as a human, they saw an angry man desirous of

shedding blood.

 

In him now, as a cat, they saw the beast instead.

 

They know what I have become. What I will al-

ways be to them. It spilled from Kellin's mouth,

accompanied by blood. "Grandsire—help me—"

 

Brennan did not shirk it. "We will mend the

body first. Then we shall mend the mind."

 

Fifteen

 

He was but half conscious, drifting on fading

awareness that told him very little save his

wounds were healed at last, his broken bones

made whole—yet the spirit remained flaccid. He

wanted badly to sleep. Earth magic drained a

man, regardless of which side he walked.

 

His eyes were closed, sticky lashes resting

against drawn cheeks. Earth magic reknit bones,

but did not dissipate bruises or prevent scarring

from a wound that would otherwise require

stitching. It merely restored enough health and

strength to vanquish immediate danger; a warrior

remade by the earth magic was nonetheless well

cognizant of what had occurred to require it.

 

Kellin's face bore testimony to the violence done

him. The flesh across the bridge of his nose had

been torn by a thorn; welts distorted his cheeks;

 

his bottom lip was swollen. He had drunk and

rinsed out his mouth, but the tang of blood re-

mained from the cuts in his lip and the inside of

his cheek.

 

A hand remained on Kellin's naked shoulder.

Fingertips trembled against smooth, freshly

sponged flesh; Aileen had seen to the washing.

"Shansu," Brennan murmured hoarsely, lifting

the hand. He, too, was drained, for he had under-

taken the healing alone. It would have been better

had there been another Cheysuli to aid him, but

 

297

 

298 Jennifer Roberson

 

Brennan had not dared waste the time to send for

a warrior. He had done the healing himself, and

now suffered for it.

 

Kellin was dimly aware of Aileen's murmuring-

The Mujhar said something unintelligible, then

the door thumped closed. Kellin believed himself

alone until he heard the sibilance of skirt folds

against one another, the faint slide of thin slipper

sole on stone where the rug did not reach. He

smelled the scent she favored. Her presence was a

beacon as she sat down by his bed.

 

"She is lovely," Aileen said quietly. "This must

be very much what Sleeta looked like, before she

and Brennan bonded."

 

He lay slumped on one side with his back to

her- A shoulder jutted skyward. Along his spine

and the curve of his buttocks lay warmth, incredi-

ble warmth; the living bulk of a mountain cat.

 

Kellin sighed. He wanted to sleep, not speak,

but he owed Aileen something. Into the limp hand

curled against his chin, he murmured, "I would

sooner do without her, lovely or no."

 

"D'ye blame her, then? For being what you

are?"

 

It jerked him out of lassitude into startled wake-

fulness. He turned over hastily, thrusting elbows

beneath his spine to lever his sheet-draped torso

upright. "Do you think /—"

 

"You," Aileen said crisply; she was not and had

never been a woman who deferred, nor did she

now blunt her words because of his condition.

"Are you forgetting, my braw boyo, that I've lived

with a Cheysuli longer than you've been one?"

 

It took him aback. He had expected sympathy,

gentleness, her quiet, abiding support. What Ai-

leen offered now was something other than that.

"It is because of Sima that I—did that."

 

"Did what? Killed a man? Two?" Aileen did not

 

^

 

!»

 

299

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

smile. "I'm born of the House of Eagles; d'ye think

the knowledge of killing's new to me? My House

has been to war more times than I can count ...

my birthlines are as bloody as yours." She sat very

straight upon the stool, russet-hued skirts puddled

about slippered feet. "You've killed an Ihlini sor-

cerer, and a Homanan who meant to kill—or

maim—you; as good as dead to the Cheysuli; I

know about kin-wrecking.'' Aileen's tone was

steady, as were her eyes. "The first killing won't

be questioned; he was an Ihlini."

 

His mouth flattened into a grim, contemptuous

line. "But the other was Homanan."

 

"Thief or no," she said, "some will call you a

beast."

 

Memory was merciless. "I was."

 

"So now you're blaming your lovely lir."

 

"She is not my lir. Not yet. We are not fully

bonded."

 

"Ah." Aileen's green eyes narrowed. She looked

more catlike for it, with a fixed and unsettling

stare. "And you're for ending it, are you?"

 

She read him too easily. Kellin slumped back

onto bolsters and bedclothes. She was due honor

and courtesy, but he was very tired. Bones were

healed, but the body was yet unaware of its im-

proved condition, save the blazing pain was gone.

Stiffriess persisted; after all that had happened in

the space of two days, his resiliency was weak-

ened. Youth could not usurp reality though its

teeth be blunted. "I have no choice. She made me

become—"

 

"I'm doubting that." Aileen's tone was level, un-

forgiving; she offered no platitudes designed to

ease his soul, but harsher truths instead. "By the

gods, I'm doubting that\ You're the blood of my

blood, Kellin, and I'll not hear a word against you

from others—but / will say what I choose. In this

 

300 Jennifer Roberson

 

instance, I hide none of it behind kindness and

love, but tell it to you plainly: you've only yourself

to blame,"

 

His protest was immediate, if incomplete.

"Me?"

 

"No Cheysuli warrior alive is without anger,

Kellin. He merely controls it better. You control

nothing at all, nor make any attempt."

 

He had no time to think, merely the need to fill

the toothed silence yawning between them; to

fight back with words from a heart that was filled

to bursting with despair and desperation: could

she not understand? She was his own blood. "I

did not want to kill them, granddame—at least,

aye, perhaps the Ihlini—he threatened me, after

all!—but not the Homanan, not like that—he was

a thief, aye, and deserving of roughness, but to kill

him like that?" He gestured impatiently, disliking

his incoherency; it obscured the strength of intent.

"Kill him, aye, because he meant to kill me, or

maim me in such a way as to cut me off from my

clan, but I never wanted to kill him—at least, not

as a cat ... as a man, aye—"

 

"Kellin." She cut him off sharply with voice and

gesture; a quick motion of eloquent hand. It was

a Cheysuli gesture. "If you would listen to what

you just said—or tried to say!—you would under-

stand why it is imperative that you fully accept

your lir,"

 

All his muscles stood up inside flesh in mute

repudiation. "My lir—or the beast who would be

my lir—has nothing to do with this."

 

Aileen rose. She was in that moment less his

granddame than the Queen of Homana. "You are

a fool," she declared. "A spoiled, petulant boy

trapped in a man's body, and dangerous because

of it. A boy filled to bursting on anger and bitter-

 

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           301

 

if

 

ness can do little harm; a man may do more. A

man who is half a beast may do more yet."

 

"I am not—"

 

"You are what you are," she said flatly. "What

are we to think? Aye, a man under attack will do

as he must to survive—d'ye think I will excuse a

man who means to kill my grandson?—but a man

such as you, gifted so terribly, can never be a

man."

 

Gifted so terribly. He had not looked on it as

such. "Grandsire also wears the shape of a cat."

 

Her mouth was compressed. She permitted her-

self no latitude in the weight of her displeasure.

"No man in all of Homana, not even a Midden

thief, need fear that the Mujhar of Homana would

ever lose himself to the point he sheds his human-

ity and feeds as a beast."

 

It shook him. Her face was taut and pale; his

own felt worse. He felt it would stretch until the

bones of his skull broke through, shredding thin-

ning flesh, thereby displaying the true architecture

lying too near the surface.'

 

Human? Or beast? Kellin swallowed heavily. "I

want nothing to do with it. You are not Cheysuli—

surely you can understand how I feel. Does it not

frighten you that the man whose bed you share

becomes a cat at will?"

 

"I know the man," she said evenly. "I'm not

knowing you at all."

 

"But—lam/!"

 

"No. You are a bared blade hungry for blood,

with no hand on its hilt to steady its course."

 

' * Granddame—"

 

"He is old," Aileen said, and the cracks of des-

peration in her self-control began abruptly to

show. "He is the Mujhar of Homana, in whose

veins the Old Blood flows, and he serves the

prophecy. There is no doubt in him; what he does,

 

302 Jennifer Robersoa

 

he does for the Lion, and for the gods who made

the Cheysuli. What I think does not matter, though

he honors me for it; he does what he must do."

Her hands trembled slightly until she hid them in

skin folds. "How do you think it felt to be given

a tiny infant and told the future of a realm de-

pended on that infant, because the infant's father

was meant for the gods, not men?"

 

Kellin did not answer. There were no words in

his mouth.

 

"How do you think it felt for him to realize the

entire fate of Homana and his own race depended

solely on that infant; that there would be no others

to shore up the claim. If that infant died, the

prophecy died with him. Aidan can sire no more."

 

Beside him, Sima stirred.

 

"How do you think it has been for him to watch

what you became? To see you waste yourself on

whores, when there is a cousin in Solinde ... to

see you risk yourself in the Midden, when there

are safer games nearby ... to hear you rant about

fatherlessness when he has been a father in every

way but seed, and even then he is your grandsire!

How do you think it feels?"

 

He wet dry lips. "Granddame—"

 

Aileen's face was white and terrible. "How do

you think it feels to know that your grandson—

the only heir to the Lion—lacks the balance that

will maintain his humanity; that if he does not

gain it, the beast in him will prevail?" Aileen

leaned close. "He is my husband," she declared.

"He is my man. If you threaten him with this, be

certain you shall suffer."

 

It shocked him. "Granddame!"

 

She was not finished. "I wasted too many years

not honoring him enough. That time is past. I will       .,

do what I must do to keep him from destroying       £

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

303

 

himself because a spoiled, defiant grandson re-

fuses to grow up."

 

"Granddame, you cannot know—"

 

"/ know," she said. "I saw his face when he

looked at you. I saw his fear."

 

The Erinnish possessed his tongue. "I'm not

knowing what to do\"

 

Aileen stepped close to the bed. Her hand

touched Sima's head. "Be what you are. Be a

Cheysuli warrior. You're in need of the gods' care

more than any man I know."

 

It filled his mouth before he could prevent it,

lashing out to punish. The question was utterly

unexpected, yet even as he asked it, Kellin knew

he had desired to frame the words for many, many

years. "Does it mean nothing to you at all that

your son repudiates you?"

 

Color spilled out of her face.

 

Kellin was appalled. But the words were said;

 

he could not unsay them. "I only mean—"

 

"You only mean that he deserted his mother as

well as his son. yet she does nothing?" Aileen's

eyes were a clear, unearthly green, and empty of

tears. "She has not done nothing, Kellin—she has

done everything within her power to convince him

to come home. But Aidan says—said—no, when he

answered my letters at first. He answers nothing

now; he said I need only ask the gods." Her chin

trembled minutely. "He has a powerful faith, my

son—so powerful it blinds him to the needs of

other people."

 

"If you went there—"

 

"He forbids it."

 

"You are his jehana\"

 

Her fingers folded themselves into her skirts. "I

will not go as a supplicant to my own son. I have

some measure of pride."

 

"But it must hurt you!"

 

304 Jennifer Rohersoa

 

Her eyes dimmed behind a glaze of tears. "As it

hurts you. As it hurts Brennan. We are all of us

scarred by the absence of Aidan."

 

Cold fury filled Kellin. "And you wonder why I

want nothing to do with a lir, or with the gods!

You have only to look at him, and what obsession

has made of him. I will not be so bound."

 

"You will be Mujhar one day. That will bind

you even as it does your grandsire."

 

Kellin shook his head. "That is different- What

kind of a Mujhar risks himself by bonding with an

animal who might be the death of him? Does he

not therefore risk his realm as well—and the

prophecy?"

 

Aileen's voice was steady. "What is worth hav-

ing if you are naught but a beast, and your people

desire to kill you?"

 

Sixteen

 

One hundred and two steps. Kellin counted them

as he climbed down from the Great Hall into the

undercroft of Homana-Mujhar, where the Womb

of the Earth lay within /t'r-warded walls. As a boy

he had gone once with lan, and once with the

Mujhar. He had never gone alone.

 

Not entirely alone. The cat is with me.

 

He did not want her there. But she was the rea-

son he went down to the Womb at all.

 

One hundred and two steps. He stood in a small

closet made of stone and depressed the keystone.

A wall turned on edge, and the Womb lay before

him.

 

Air was stale, but did not stink of an ending.

The passageway walls were damp-slicked and

shiny. He carried a torch; it smoked and streamed,

shedding fragile light as he put it forward to illu-

minate the Womb.

 

Kellin tensed, though he knew what to expect;

 

three visits were not enough to diminish the im-

pact. Lir leapt out of walls and ceiling, tearing

free of stone. They were incredibly lifelike, as if a

sculptor had captured living animals and encased

them in marble rather than carving them. They

stared back at him from hard, challenging eyes:

 

creamy ivory veined with gold.

 

The Womb gaped. Its rim was nonexistent in

distorting light, so that he could not see the rune-

 

305

 

306 Jennifer Robersoa

 

worked edge. Only the deeper blackness that

marked its mouth.

 

Kellin wet drying lips and moved past the Ur-

carved door slowly, holding the torch outthrust so

he did not mistake the footing and tumble to his

death.

 

But would I die? I am meant to be Mujhar ...

those to be Mujhar can survive the rebirth.

 

He did not have the courage to accept the

challenge.

 

Kellin stepped inside. The Womb's maw ex-

panded as the torch, held in an unsteady hand,

illuminated the truth: a perfectly rounded hole

that had accepted men before and refused to give

them a second birth.

 

"Carillon," he murmured. "The last Prince of

Homana to enter into the Womb and be born in

the shape of a king."

 

He had learned the histories. He knew his

birthline. Carillon of Homana, the last Homanan

Mujhar.

 

"After him, Donal. Then Niall. Then—Brennan."

Kellin's jaws tightened. The next should have been

my jehan, had he the courage to understand.

 

But Aidan had renounced it. Aidan had been a

coward.

 

Should I leap into the Womb to prove my worthi-

ness? Can I atone for my jehan's weakness with my

own strength? He stared hard at the marble lir. "Is

that what they want?"

 

No answer. The lir stared back in silence.

 

Kellin turned and set the torch into a bracket.

Carefully he took three steps to the edge of the

Womb, then squatted down beside it. Buttocks

brushed booted heels. Sore thighs protested, as

did newly knit ribs.

 

Silence.

 

Kellin's mouth went dry. In the presence of the

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

307

 

Lion, he had felt many things. But the Womb was

not the Lion. It spoke to him of a heritage far older

than the Lion's, who was, in the unbiased nature

of measurement, naught but a newmade thing. A

cub to the Womb's adulthood. The walls were

man-made, and the lir carved within stone, but

before men had meddled to glorify what they per-

ceived as the tangible proof of power, there had

been the Womb.

 

"A gate," Kellin murmured. "How many have

gone through it?"

 

Movement caught his attention. A black shadow

paced into the vault, then rounded the Womb. It

sat down across from him so that the Womb lay

between, black and impenetrable. Gold eyes threw

back smoky torchlight, opaque and eerily slanted.

 

Now, she said. Your choice.

 

He did not speak as a lir. "Is it?"

 

/; has always been your choice.

 

"According to the prophecy, there can be no

choice. If a warrior repudiates his tahlmorra, his

service to the prophecy, he is denied the afterlife."

 

Her tail twitched once, then folded over arched

toes. He had seen housecats sit so; incongruity.

She was not and could never be tame. A man may

turn his back on life after death. It is his right to do

so. It is the price of living.

 

"To choose how he will live after he is dead?"

Kellin grinned derisively. "I sense obscurity. I

smell the kind of argument that must content my

jehan, who trafficks with the gods. How else could

a man be made to repudiate his son?"

 

He did not. He answered his tahlmorra. Her tail

twitched again. He created your tahlmorra in the

following of his own.

 

Kellin frowned. "I mislike oblique speech. Say

what there is to say."

 

308 Jennifer Robersoa

 

That it is a warrior's choice to be other than the

gods might prefer him to be.

 

"And therefore alter the prophecy?"

 

Your jehan might say that altering of the prophecy

also follows its path.

 

Kellin swore and sat down upon his rump, let-

ting his heels slide forward. With blatant disre-

gard for proprieties, he dangled both legs into the

void. "You are saying that a man who turns his

back on the prophecy also follows it by that very

repudiation. But how? It makes no sense. If I made

myself celibate and sired no more children, there

would be no Firstborn. How would that serve a

prophecy that exists solely to make another

Firstborn?"

 

You have already sired children.

 

He thought about it. So he had. They, too, each

of them, claimed the proper blood. Save for the

final House, the final link in the chain. Kellin drew

in a deep breath. "If I went to Solinde and found

myself an Ihlini woman with whom I could bear

to lie and got a child upon her, the task is finished.

The prophecy complete."

 

Sima's tail twitched. She offered no answer.

 

"I could do it tomorrow, if I decided to. Leave.

Go to Solinde. Find myself a woman, and end this

travesty."

 

Sima displayed her teeth. No one ever said it

would be difficult.

 

Kellin exploded. "Then if it is so easy to do—"

But he let it trail off. "The blood. It comes to that.

lan lay with Lillith and sired Rhiannon. Rhiannon

lay with my grandsire and bore—who? A daugh-

ter? The one who in turn lay with Lochiel and

bore him the daughter with whom I shared a cra-

dle?" Kellin hitched his shoulders. "And who, no

doubt, would be the unlikehest woman with

whom I should be matched—and therefore is, in

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

309

 

the perversity of the gods, the very woman they

intend for me to lie with. To sire the proper son.

Cynric, the Firstborn.'"

 

Sima held her silence.

 

The image was vivid before him. "Lochiel will

geld me. He will show the woman to me—or,

rather, me to her—and then he will geld me! So

that I know, and she knows, how very close we

came—and how superior the Ihlini are despite our

Cheysuli gifts."

 

Sima bent her head and licked delicately at a

paw.

 

"No answer?" Kellin asked. "No commentary?

But I believed the lir were put here to aid their

warriors, not obfuscate the truth."

 

The cat lowered her paw. She stared directly at

him across the black expanse of the Womb. Feral

gold eyes dominated the darkness. / am not your

lir. Have you not declared it? Have you not re-

nounced me as your jehan renounced you?

 

Had he? Had he?

 

A lirless warrior was destined to go mad. A lirless

Cheysuli was not a warrior at all. A lirless Cheysuli

could never be Mujhar. Could never hold the Lion.

Could never sire the Firstborn because the Chey-

suli would look to another.

 

A solution presented itself. An answer to the

questions.

 

Kellin shuddered once- Sweat ran down his tem-

ples and stung the scratches on his face. Breathing

was shallow, though the ribs now were healed. A

flutter filled his belly, then spilled to genitals.

 

He swallowed painfully because his throat was

dry and tight. He pressed both hands against cold

stone on either side of his thighs. Fingertips left

damp marks. Within the link, he said, Let the gods

decide.

 

Jeaaifer Robersoa

 

310

 

Kellin, prince of Homana, thrust himself into

the Womb.

 

No top. No bottom. No sides.

 

No beginning, nor an ending.

 

Merely a being.

 

Kellin bit his lips bloody so he would not

scream. It would diminish him to scream. Such

noise would dishonor the gods.

 

Gods? What did he know of gods? They were,

he had said, little more than constructs invented

by men who desired to rule others, to keep lesser

men contained so that they maintained the power.

 

Gods. His father worshiped them. Jehan, father,

sire . .. there were so many words. None of them

made sense. Nothing at all made sense to a man

who leapt into the Womb.

 

The only sense in such folly was the search for

sense, so he might understand what manner of

man he was and what he was meant to be in the

context of the gods.

 

Gods. Yet again.

 

If he renounced them, if he repudiated them,

would they permit him to die?

 

If there were no gods, then surely he was dead.

 

Kellin fell. There was no bottom. He did not

scream at all.

 

What were the Cheysuli but children of the

gods? It was what the word meant.

 

Upon such unflagging faith was a race made

strong, so others could not destroy it.

 

Men who had nothing in which to believe soon

believed in Nothing. Nothing destroyed a man.

Nothing destroyed a race.

 

Was Nothing, then, a demon?

 

Belief replaced Nothing. Belief destroyed the

demon.

 

The Cheysuli were, if nothing else, a dedicated

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           311

 

race. Once a thing made sense within the context

of their culture, belief was overriding. Belief was

their champion; it overwhelmed Nothing so the

demon died of disuse, of DisBelief.

 

In the Womb, Kellin laughed. What had Sima

said as Kellin looked upon flesh-bound wrists?

"You believe too easily in what the Ihlini tells you

to. His art is illusion. Banish this one as you ban-

ished the Lion."

 

Illusion was another's successful attempt to

make a man believe in something that did not

truly exist. The key to banishing illusion was to

disbelieve.

 

Corwyth, and other Ihlini, had tried very hard

to make the Cheysuli disbelieve in the prophecy.

 

The Ihlini disbelieved. Teirnan and the a'saii

had—and did—disbelieve. And if disbelief could

defeat illusion, and yet the prophecy survived, was

it therefore a true thing, a thing with substance?

 

Or was it simply that the Cheysuli who believed

in it believed 50 strongly that the weight of their

faith, the contents of their spirits, destroyed the

disbelief?

 

The champion of the gods, called Belief, de-

stroyed the demon whose true-name was

DisBelief.

 

Kellin cried out in the confines of the Womb: "I

do not understand.'"

 

History rose up. So many lessons learned. The

hours and days and weeks and months Rogan had

spent with him, laboring to instruct so that Kellin

comprehended the heritage of the races he

represented-

 

He could name all his races, all the Houses in

his blood. They were each of them necessary.

 

So was it necessary for him to have a lir; to

renounce the bond was to renounce his very self

and the legacy of the blood.

 

312 Jennifer Robersw

 

A ^rfcs-s Cheysuli had hurled himself into the

Womb. He had placed his fate within the hands

of the gods.

 

Kellin's shout echoed: "Tahlmorra lujhalla mei

wiccan, cheysu!"

 

He had invited them to decide. If a man did not

believe, would he risk himself so? If DisBelief

ruled him, he would therefore commit suicide by

issuing such a challenge, for a challenge with no

recipient was no challenge at all but the sub-

stanceless defiance of an ignorant child.

 

Suicide was taboo.

 

Paradox, Kellin thought: Suicide was taboo, yet

a Hrless Cheysuli undertook the death-ritual. His

sojourn in the forest was meant to find his death

however it chose to take him; it was nothing else

but suicide, though a man did not stab himself, or

drink poison knowingly.

 

He died because of beasts. He died as prey to

predator, as meat for the gods' creatures.

 

From flesh-colored clay in the hands of the gods,

a man became meat.

 

The Wheel of Life turned so that the clay was

fired in the kiln of the gods and set upon the earth

to live as the clay willed. Believing or

DisBelieving.

 

Kellin understood.

 

"Y'ja'hai!" he shouted.

 

Clay without the blood of a lir was nothing but

colorless powder. Unmixed. Unmade. Never

thrown upon the Wheel.

 

Kellin understood.

 

Kellin Believed.

 

The image of Sima's face flashed before blind

eyes.

 

"I accept," he said. "Y'ja'hai." Then, desper-

ately, "Will you accept me?"

 

A TAPESTKY OF LIONS

 

313

 

The words rang in his head. Ja'hai-na, she said.

Y'ja'hai.

 

The /fr-link meshed, locked, sealed itself to-

gether. Nothing could break it now but the death

of warrior or lir.

 

That knowledge no longer mattered to Kellin.

He was whole. He was Cheysuli.

 

The Womb of the Earth was fertile. The Jehana

gave birth once again after nearly one hundred

years, to suckle the newbom man upon the bosom

of his tahlmorra.

 

The Prince of Homana would one day become

Mujhar.

 

He roused to torch-smudged darkness and the

gaze of marble lir. He lay sprawled on his back

with arms and legs splayed loosely, without pur-

pose or arrangement, as if a large negligent hand

had spilled him from its palm onto the vault floor.

 

He thought perhaps one had.

 

"Lir?" He gasped it aloud, because before he had

refused to honor her in -the link. "Sima?" And

then, scraping himself up from the floor, he

wrenched his body sideways, to grasp frenziedly

at the cat who sat quietly by the hole into which

he had pushed himself. Lir? This time in the link,

so there was no room for doubt. There would

never be doubt again. He would not permit it;

 

could not allow himself—

 

Sima blinked huge eyes.

 

He scrabbled to her on awkward knees, needing

to touch her fur; requiring to touch the body that

housed the blazing spirit. Lir? Lir?

 

Sima yawned widely to display fearsome fangs.

Then she shook her head, worked wiry whiskers,

and rose. She padded all of two steps, pressed her

head into his shoulder, then butted him down. She

was ungentle; she wanted him to acknowledge the

 

314 Jennifer Roberson

 

power in her body despite its immaturity. She was

lir, after all; far superior to cat.

 

He could say nothing but her name. He said it

many times despite the fur in his mouth as she

leaned down upon him; despite the weight on his

chest as she lay down across him; despite the

warping of his mouth as her tongue reshaped his

lips.

 

Lir—lir—lir. He could not say it enough.

 

Sima kneaded his shoulders. Smugly, she said,

Better now than never.

 

While the tears ran down his face.

 

Seventeen

 

Kellin clattered down the stairs to the first floor,

intent on his destination. Behind him came Sima,

glossy in mid-morning light; gold eyes gleamed.

Daily her gangliness faded and was replaced by a

burgeoning maturity, as if full bonding had at last

loosed the vestiges of cubhood. She would one

day, Kellin believed, rival Sleeta for size and

beauty.

 

A month ago you would not have considered it,

she told him.

 

A month ago I was lirless, and therefore lacked a

soul. What man without a soul can acknowledge his

lir's promise?

 

Within the link, she laughed. How we have

changed in four weeks!

 

He left behind the staircase and strode on

toward the entryway. Some would argue I have not

changed at all; that I still frequent taverns—

 

But not those in the Midden.

 

No, but taverns all the same—

 

And the women in them?

 

Kellin grinned; its suddenness startled a passing

serving-woman, who dropped into an awkward,

red-faced curtsy even as he went by- 7s there some-

thing you have neglected to tell me? Is there more to

a link between warrior and female lir than I have

been led to believe?

 

That is vulgarity, lir.

 

31S

 

Jennifer Roberson

 

316

 

Of course it is. You had best get used to it. No one

has ever argued for my kindness and decency—have

you not heard the stories?

 

Sima padded beside him, bumping a shoulder

into his knee. / need hear nothing, lir. What you are

is in your mind.

 

So I gave up privacy when I linked with you.

 

She yawned. When a warrior bonds with a lir, he

no longer desires privacy.

 

It was true. He shared everything with Sima,

save the intimacy his vulgarity implied. And while

she did not climb into the bed he shared with a

woman, she nonetheless was fully aware of what

passed within it; she merely curled herself on the

floor and slept—or pretended to. Kellin had gotten

used to it, though he supposed there was gossip

exchanged regarding a certain perverse affinity for

a mountain cat as onlooker; and he was not cer-

tain he disapproved. Let them wonder about him.

He would sooner be of interest than taken for

granted, as he believed the Mujhar was.

 

"Kellin! Kellin?" It was Aileen, silver threads

more evident in fading hair. "Have you a

moment?"

 

He paused as she came down the corridor.

"Now?" He displayed the warbow he carried, and

the suede quiver full of white-fletched arrows. "I

was bound for a hunt with my watchdogs." Kellin

grinned. "They require activity. Of late I bore

them, now I am reformed."

 

Aileen arched an ironic eyebrow. "You are not

'reformed,' my lad, merely diverted. And 'twill only

take a moment; a letter has come from Hart. Bren-

nan wants you in the solar."

 

"Bad news?"

 

Aileen touched a fingertip to her upper lip. "I'm

thinking not," she said neutrally, "depending on

point of view."

 

A TAPESTKY OF LIONS            317

 

"On point of—" His suspicions blossomed as he

saw the glint in green eyes. "Gods—'tis Dulcie,

isn't it? Grandsire's put off Hart long enough,

waiting for me to measure up ... and now that he

believes I've done it, he begins a discussion about

marriage!"

 

"There was discussion of it a decade ago," she

reminded him. " 'Tis nothing new, and should not

surprise you. You are both well-grown."

 

He put up a silencing hand. "Enough. I will go.

Will you send word to the watchdogs I will be

delayed?"

 

" 'Tis sent," Aileen said. "Now, go to Brennan.

Whatever complaint you have to make is better

made to him."

 

"Aye. You argued against the marriage that de-

cade ago." Kellin sighed. "But now you are for it,

undoubtedly; catch the feckless warrior before he

becomes less malleable."

 

"You are not now and never will be malleable,"

Aileen retorted, "merely occasionally less inclined

to defy." She pointed. "Go."

 

Kellin went.

 

The solar was less bright now that the sun had

moved westward, but displayed no shadows. The

Mujhar sat in his usual chair with his legs

propped on a stool and a wine cup in his hand.

Against his thigh rested a creased, wax-weighted

parchment held down by a slack hand-

 

The door stood ajar. Kellin shouldered it open

more fully and crossed the threshold, tapping rat-

tling arrows against one knee. "So, I am to be

wed. This year, or next? In Homana, or Solinde?"

 

Brennan smiled. He showed more age now; the

healing of his grandson had left its mark. "Have

you no objection?"

 

"A mouthful, but you will hear none of them."

 

318 Jennifer Robersoa

 

Kellin tapped arrows again as he halted before his

grandsire. "What does Hart say?"

 

"That there is no sense in putting off what must

be done."

 

"How cognizant of tenderness is my great-uncle

of Solinde." Kellin sighed. "I suppose it must,

then. To link Houses, and bloodlines .. . and no

doubt beget the child who will fulfill the proph-

ecy." Irony spilled away. "Neither of us has a

choice, grandsire. Neither Dulcie, nor me. Like

you and granddame; like Niall and Gisella; Uke

Donal and Aislinn."

 

"Nor did Carillon and Solindish Electra,

through whose blood comes the proper match."

Brennan's mouth twisted- "So many years, so

many marriages—all designed to bring us to this

point."

 

"Not to this point, surely; to the birth, grand-

sire. Wedding Dulcie means nothing at all to the

gods, only the son born of the union." Kellin ges-

tured with the warbow. "Have it carved in stone,

if you will, like the Hr within the Womb: Kellin of

Homana shall wed Dulcie of Solinde, and so beget

the Firstborn."

 

Brennan's fingers creased soiled parchment.

"Left to your own devices—"

 

Kellin took it up. "Left to my own devices, I

would doubtless waste my seed on a dozen differ-

ent whores for the rest of the month, then turn to

a dozen more." He shrugged. "Does it matter? I

have known since I was ten it would come to this

... Dulcie knew it, too. It may as well have been

settled as we soiled our royal wrappings; there

never was a chance we could look another way."

 

"No," Brennan conceded. "We are so very close,

Kellin—"

 

"Then be done with it. Have her come here, or

I will go there. I do not care." He waved bunched

 

A TAPcsmv w LHMS         319

 

arrows. "Write it now, if you will. Let me be about

my hunt. My watchdogs wait."

 

Brennan's mouth compressed though the faint

displeasure engendered by flippancy was less pro-

nounced than resignation. "Be about it, then. I

will have this sent tomorrow."

 

Glumly, Kellin nodded. "My last hunt in

freedom."

 

Brennan barked a laugh. "I doubt Dulcie will

curtail your hunting, Kellin! She is very much

Hart's daughter, in spirit as well as tastes."

 

"Why? Does she wager? Well, then, perhaps we

will make a match of it after all." But levity faded

in the face of his future now brought so near. Kel-

lin shrugged. "It will do well enough. At least she

is half Cheysuli; she will understand about Sima."

 

"Indeed," Brennan said gravely; a glint in his

eye bespoke the irony of the statement because

but four weeks before Sima was sheer impediment

rather than half of Kellin's soul.

 

Kellin, who knew it; who saw the look in his

grandsire's eye and colored under it. lifted his

arrows. "I will help replenish the larder." Erinn

slid into his words. " 'Twill take a day or two—

don't be expecting me back before then." He

grinned, "And aye, I'll be taking my watchdogs;

 

they'll be hunting as well!"

 

Spring had arrived fitfully, turning snow to

slush, slush to mud, then freezing it all together

in a brief defiant spasm before resolving itself to

its work. Kellin felt an affinity for the season as

he rode out with Teague and the others; now more

than ever he longed to remember winter, because

then there had been no cause to concern himself

with a wife.

 

"Cheysula," he muttered.

 

320 Jennifer Roberson

 

Teague, next to him on a red roan, lifted inquisi-

tive brows. "What?"

 

Kellin repeated the word. "Old Tongue," he

said, "for 'wife.' "

 

"Ah." Teague understood at once. "That time at

last, is it?"

 

Kellin knew the incident in the Midden tavern

had sealed their friendship, though Teague was

careful to keep a distance between them so famil-

iarity did not interfere with service. The others

also had relaxed now that their lord was easier in

himself; he knew very well the prevailing opinion

was that Sima had worked wonders with the

prince's temperament. For all he had initially dis-

turbed them the night he was trapped in cat-form,

they did not in any way indicate residual fear.

 

"That time," he agreed glumly. "I hoped it

might wait a year or two more—or three, or

four—"

 

"—or five?—"

 

"—but they'll not wait any longer. I'll be wed

before summer, I'll wager."

 

Teague laughed. "Then you know nothing of

women, my lord. She will be wanting an elaborate

wedding with all the Houses of the world invited

so they can bring her gifts."

 

KelUn considered it. "She did not appear to be

much concerned for such things when I saw her

last."

 

"How old was she?"

 

"Twelve?" He shrugged. "Or thirteen; I have

lost track."

 

The young watchdog grinned. "Then she'll be

Just the age to demand such elaboration! You will

not escape, my lord. But it offers you respite; it

will take at least until next winter to prepare for

such a feast!"

 

Kellin slanted a glance at Sima across one

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             321

 

shoulder. "I do not know which is worse: wedding

immediately with little ceremony—" he turned

back to guide his mount, "—or putting it off a year

so that so much can be made of it!"

 

One of the others joined in: a man named Ennis,

who was Teague's boon companion. "Better now

than tomorrow," he offered. "That way we can be

done with our duty that much the sooner."

 

Kellin looked at him blankly.

 

Ennis grinned. "Do you think the Princess of Ho-

mana will desire our company?"

 

He had not considered that. Perhaps his mar-

riage would offer him respite from the watchdogs,

but Kellin was not convinced trading one for the

other would prove so good a thing.

 

They left Mujhara and headed directly north,

toward the woods that fringed the road. Because

not so many people traveled the North Road,

hunting was better. It did not take long for Kellin

and his watchdogs to flush game. He hung back

slightly, letting the Homanans do much of the

work, and waited until they were so caught up in

chasing down a hart that they forgot about him

entirely.

 

Satisfied, he glanced down at Sima. Now we can

test it.

 

She fixed him with an unwavering stare. Best to

know now what the last four weeks have wrought.

 

Kellin dismounted and dropped reins over a

limb thrust slantwise from a tree. He left the

horse, quiver, and warbow and walked farther

into the woods, conscious of the anticipatory flut-

ter in his belly.

 

Be not so fearful, Sima suggested, following on

his heels. We have time.

 

How much? he asked uneasily. What should hap-

pen if, driven to anger in the midst of political tur-

 

322 JeoaiCer Kobersoa

 

moil, I forget my human trappings and become

nothing more than a beast?

 

Time, she repeated. What turmoil is there to be?

You are prince, not king. You matter little yet for the

turmoil to involve you.

 

A humbling reminder. Kellin sighed and beat

his way through brush to a small clearing, then

closed his hand on the wolf's-head pommel of

Blais' knife. "Strength," he murmured, invoking

his kinsman's memory. "You had your share of it,

and of courage; lend a measure to me."

 

Sima pressed against one knee, then flowed

away to take up position nearby. She sat with tail

tucked over toes, ear-tufts flicking minutely. You

have learned much in four weeks.

 

Kellin rubbed at too-taut shoulders, trying to

ease the tension. / have learned advice in four

weeks. The doing yet remains, and that is what I

fear.

 

Be what you are, Sima said. Kellin. That is all

you can be, regardless of your shape.

 

"More," he said. "I was more, twice."

 

Sima blinked. That was before.

 

"Before you?" He grinned. "Aye, and therefore

did not count; I was lirless, and unblessed."

Humor spilled away. "Well enough- Let us see

what I become when I trade my shape for

another."

 

He squeezed the hilt once more, then let his

hand fall away. With careful deliberation Kellin

detached himself from the moment and let his

awareness drift from the here and now to the there,

with no sense of time, where the magic resided

deep in the earth.

 

Power pulsed. At first it was coy, caressing his

awareness so he knew it was there for the taking,

then flowing away to tease him yet again with

insubstantiality.

 

A TAPESTRY OF Lio/vs            323

 

It was frustrating. Sima—

 

Yours to do, she told him.

 

He concentrated. Power flirted, seduced; he

wanted it very badly. His body rang with tension

that was almost sexual, an intense and abiding

need- He let himself go into it until awareness of

self became awareness of need, of what would sat-

isfy him, and then Power uncovered itself like a

woman shedding draperies and let him touch it.

 

—different—

 

It was. Before he had merely thought of the

beast, neglecting to recall that he was a man with

a man's distinct needs. The beast had overtaken

all that was man, until he was helpless and un-

aware, beaten down from his humanity into ani-

mal instinct. This time he knew. His name was

Kellin, not cat, and he was a man, A fully bonded

Cheysuli warrior who had recourse to the magic

that lived in the womb of the earth.

 

He touched it. It set his fingertips atingle.

 

Kellin, he whispered. Man, not cat—but lend me

the shape, and I will do it honor.

 

Senses flared- Images broke up his mind. No

longer human images of a human world, but the

patterns of a cat.

 

Am I—?

 

Not yet, Sima said. There is more yet to be done.

 

More- He did not know more.

 

He fell. He was in the Womb again, empty of

everything save a vague but burning awareness

that he was a man who desired, but briefly, to give

his human form to the earth so he might, for only

a while, walk the world as a cat.

 

Not so much to ask.

 

Vision exploded. His eyes were open, but he saw

nothing save a disorientation so great it threat-

ened equilibrium. Kellin thrust out a staying hand

intended to hold him upright, but it broke through

 

324 Jennifer Robersoa

 

the crust of the earth and sank deep into the river

of Homana's Power.

 

Earth magic. There for the taking.

 

Kellin took it.

 

There, Sima said. Not so difficult after all.

 

Smells engulfed, replacing reliance on sight. In

cat-form, Kellin exulted.

 

Let us run, Sima suggested- Let us run as cats,

so you know what it is to honor the gods.

 

He did not think much of gods. But in this form,

filled with the glory of /fr-shape, Kellin could not

protest.

 

If it was gods who were responsible, he would

honor them.

 

Eighteen

 

Kellin ran through the sun-dappled forest with

Sima at his shoulder, lovely, magnificent Sima—

no other warrior's lir was half so beautiful!—and

took joy in the pure, almost sensual freedom the

cat-shape gave him. He explored it as he ran,

marking the differences within his brain, yet the

samenesses as well- His awareness of self was un-

changed despite the body's alteration; he knew

perfectly well he was a man in a borrowed form

that would, when he chose, be exchanged once

again for the proper body. There was no division

in his soul other than that his awareness permit-

ted; he did not wish himself one or the other. He

simply was what he was: a Cheysuli warrior with

magic in his blood, who could, when he desired

to, become a mountain cat-

 

You see? Sima asked.

 

Kellin exulted. He believed he understood him-

self at last, and the needs that lived in his soul;

 

he could control himself in this shape as easily as

he could in human form. He need only remember,

to keep alive the spark of self-knowledge that re-

called he was Kellin, and human, so as not to tip

the balance from Ur-shape into beast form.

 

Not so difficult. His muscled body stretched,

fluid in graceful motion, stronger by far than the

human shape. She has taught me much in the past

weeks. I understand better. I understand what it is.

 

32S

 

326 Jennifer Robersoa

 

Sima interrupted. A stag. Just ahead. Fit for

Homana-Mujhar?

 

He saw it; it was. A fine, huge stag with a mag-

nificent rack of antlers.

 

Kellin slowed, then stilled even as Sima did.

The stag stood unmoving, poised in a patch of sun-

light. Flanks heaved from exertion; was he prey to

someone's hunt?

 

Kellin did not care. The stag was theirs, now,

and indeed fit for Homana-Mujhar. He was large

and would no doubt prove difficult to take down,

but there were two of them. Together they could

manage it.

 

First leap to you, Kellin said.

 

Sima was pleased. She crouched even as he did,

tail barely twitching at the tip. She tensed in a

perfect stillness, tufted ears motionless.

 

Now— She was instantly in motion: a black,

sleek blur that sprang effortlessly from the ground

and hurled herself through the air.

 

Sima screamed. For an instant Kellin pinned

tufted ears, wondering why she would startle the

stag into flight and risk losing the prey, then saw

the feathered shaft of an arrow protruding from

her flank as she twisted in midair and fell.

 

She screamed again, and so did he. Her pain

was his own, and the shock that consumed her

body. She was down, twisting to bite frenziedly at

the shaft.

 

Kellin heard a human voice shouting in fear and

horror. A man burst through the bushes on foot.

His face was drained; when he saw both cats, his

horror was redoubled- "My lord! My lord, I did

not mean it! It was the stag—the arrow was loosed

before I saw her!"

 

The /ir-link was alive with Sima's pain. Kellin

shuddered with it, and the hair along his spine

stood up straight. The shout of rage that issued

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            327

 

from his throat was not that of a man, but of the

beast instead.

 

The arrow in Sima's flesh dug deeply into his

own. Pain, shock, and weakness merged into fury,

and the comprehension of hideous truth: his lir

was dying; so, then, was he.

 

Kellin screamed, and leapt.

 

The man thrust up a warding arm, but made no

effort to draw the knife that might have saved his

life. His mouth warped open in horror, but he did

not move. It was as if he did not believe that his

Cheysuli lord, though bound now by /ir-shape,

would ever truly harm him.

 

The man went down beneath the cat and gave

up his life in an instant. He did not even cry out

as the throat was torn from his body.

 

Other men burst from the trees on horseback

and drew up in a ragged, abrupt halt that set

horses' mouths to gaping and men to swearing.

Kellin dared them to attack. He stood over the

prey and dared them to take it.

 

The keening scream welted in his chest and

burst from his throat. Their faces twitched and

blanched. None of them moved.

 

"Teague," one said, though the word made little

sense. "Gods—he has killed TeagueV

 

Sima panted behind him. Kellin turned his drip-

ping head and saw her sprawled on her right side,

feathered shaft buried deep in her left flank. It

bore the Mujhar's colors, and the richer crimson

of her blood.

 

She panted. Her tongue lolled- The gold eyes

dimmed.

 

Lir! Kellin cried.

 

She was beyond speech. He felt only her fear

and pain and the bewildered questioning of what

had happened.

 

Anger burned fiercely. Kellin swung back to the

 

328 Jeaaifer Roberson

 

others and took a single step toward them. Horses

snorted uneasily; one jibbed at the bit.

 

"My lord," a man said; his hands shook on the

reins. A companion broke and ran, then a third,

then a fourth. The one who had named the prey

remained behind. "My lord," he said again, and

his young face twisted in a mingling of shock and

outrage, "Do you even know whom you have

killed?"

 

Kellin tried to say it: "The man who nearly killed

Sima!" But none of the words came out. Only a

keening growl.

 

"He was your friend!" the Homanan shouted,

tears filling his eyes. "Or now that you are a beast,

do you only count them as friends?" In his anger,

the young man drew his knife and threw it to the

ground. "There! You may have it. I want none of

it! I forswear my service; I renounce my rank. I

want nothing to do with a prince who kills his

friends, for assuredly he is not the man I want as

my king!" He scrubbed hastily at his face- "The

Mujhar is a man I honor, but I owe you nothing.

I give you nothing; I am quit of royal service as of

this moment!"

 

Kellin could not form the words. With effort he

beat back the pain within the link, the knowledge

of Sima's condition, and concentrated long enough

to banish the shape that prevented communica-

tion. Human-form came quickly, too quickly; he

stumbled to his knees, bracing himself upright

with one hand thrust into deadfall. "Wait—" he

blurted,

 

"Wait? Wait?" It was Ennis; Kellin's human

eyes recognized him now. "For what? So you may

change again, and tear out my throat?" Ennis's

grief was profound. "He was my friend, my lord.

We grew up together, and now you have killed

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            329

 

him. Do you expect me to wait while you fashion

an explanation?"

 

"Sima—" Kellin panted. He hung there on

hands and knees, then scrubbed haphazardly at

his bloodied face. "My lir—in her pain, I could not

stop." Sima's pain still ruled him, though now he

was a man. Breathlessly he insisted, "He attacked

her! What else was I to do? Permit him to kill her?

Then he kills me!"

 

"He wanted the stag, my lord! None of us saw

the cat." Ennis reined in his restive horse. His an-

guished face was twisted. "Will you permit me,

my lord, to recover the body? I would prefer to

give it a proper burial before you decide to eat it!"

 

Disorientation faded. The link remained strong,

as did the pain contained within it, but Kellin was

no longer a cat and he felt Sima's pain another

way. He understood the difference between her

senses and his own.

 

A man dead? By his doing? Still weak from the

abruptness of his shapechange, Kellin turned awk-

wardly and saw the body sprawled in deadfall; the

torn and bloodied throat. He recognized the man,

acknowledged the handiwork. In that moment he

fully comprehended what he had done. "NO!"

 

"Aye," Ennis retorted. "You have blood on your

mouth, my lord; royalty or not, you cannot hide

the truth from a man who has seen the Prince of

Homana murder an innocent man."

 

Nearby, Sima panted. Blood matted her flank.

 

Brief concentration broke up in response to re-

newed pain. The link was filled with it, stuffing

Kellin's head. He could think of nothing else but

his lir. "Sima—"

 

"May I take the body?" Ennis persisted. "You

may find another dinner,"

 

Teague. It was Teague. He had killed Teague.

 

330 Jennifer Robersoa

 

Lir? Sirna's tone was weak. Lir, you must heal

me. Waste no time.

 

"Will you permit me the leave to take my friend

back?" Ennis asked.

 

Now, Sima said. Her tongue lolled from her

mouth. Lir—

 

Teague was dead. Sima was dying. No doubt at

that moment Ennis would prefer his prince died

also, but Kellin could not give in merely to please

him. He would not permit the travesty to go forth.

 

"Take him," he rasped, moving toward the cat,

thinking only of the cat so he could avoid the

truth. "Take him to my grandsire."

 

Ennis blurted a laugh that was profound in its

anguish. "Be certain I shall! The Mujhar shall be

told of this. He needs to know what manner of

beast is his heir."

 

The tone flayed. "Go!" Kellin shouted. "It is a

matter of balance—I have no control! It you would

live, take Teague and go!" He knelt down at

Sima's side- What am 1 to do? How do I heal you?

 

You are Cheysuli, she said. Rely on that which

makes you a warrior, and use it to heal me.

 

The instructions he found obscure, but her con-

dition alarmed him. It was all he could do not to

fling back his head and howl his fear and pain.

"Magic," he panted. "Gods—give me the magic."

 

He was Cheysuli. The power came at his call.

 

When it was done, Kellin came awake with a

snap and realized in his trance he tread close to

sleep, or to collapse. His bloodied hands were yet

pressed against Sima's side, but the arrow was

gone. He saw a few bits of feathers lying on the

ground with the arrowhead itself, but the shaft

was gone, as if burned to ash.

 

The breath came back into his lungs all unex-

pectedly, expanding what had collapsed, refilling

 

A TAPESTRY OF Lf OPUS            331

 

what was empty. He coughed painfully. The world

slid sideways; braced arms failed and spilled him

to the ground, so that he landed flat upon his

spine. The back of his skull thumped dully against

leaf-strewn ground.

 

Sima stirred next to him. The healing is com-

plete. You have done well.

 

He could not so much as open his eyes. Had I

not, we would both be bound for the afterlife. I was

not in so much of a hurry.

 

Nor I. She shifted closer yet, pressing the

warmth of her body against his right side. The

magic drains a man. There is balance in that, also

... we have time, lir. No need to move at once.

 

He did not much feel like moving ever, let alone

at once. Kellin sighed, welcoming the coolness of

the deadfall beneath him. His itching face felt

crusted. He longed to scratch it, but to do that

required him to move a hand. It was too much to

attempt.

 

Lir. Sima again, resting her chin upon his shoul-

der. / am sorry for the man.

 

"What m—" He broke off. Kellin thrust himself

to hands and knees and hurled himself over, to

look, to seek, to reassure himself that none of it

was true.

 

Teague's body was gone, but bloodied leaves

and hoofprints confirmed the truth Kellin desired

to avoid. Teague indeed had died, and Ennis had

carried him home.

 

Kellin touched his crusted face with fingers that

shook. Teague's blood.

 

"Gods," he choked aloud, "why do you permit

this?"

 

Lir. Sima rose, butted at an arm. Lir, it is done.

It cannot be undone.

 

"I killed—" He could not voice it, could not

find the words. "I killed Teague—"

 

332 Jennifer Roberson

 

Reflex, she told him. A cat, to protect himself,

strikes first. You struck to protect me.

 

"Teague," Kellin mouthed.

 

Even the comfort of the ft'r-link was not enough.

 

He had killed a man who was not an Ihlini, not

a thief, not an enemy.

 

/ have killed a friend.

 

Kellin sank down- to the ground and pressed his

face against it, unmindful of bloodied leaves.

 

/ have killed a friend.

 

He recalled Teague's presence in the Midden

tavern where Luce held sovereignty, and how the

Homanan had aided him. How Teague had, of

them all, not looked upon him as a beast the night

he had nearly killed Luce because Teague had a

better understanding of what lived in his lord's

mind,

 

I swore to have no friends because I lost them

all—because they all died .. . and now when I let

one come close again after so much time, I kill him

MYSELF—

 

He wound rigid hands into his hair and knotted

them there, then permitted himself to shout as a

man might shout to declare his grief and torment.

 

But the sound, to Kellin, was naught but a

beast's wail.

 

Nineteen

 

It was demonstrably obvious, when Kellin reached

Homana-Mujhar, that Ennis and the others had

carried word before him. The horse-boy who took

his mount did so with eyes averted and led the

horse away quickly, not even waiting for his cus-

tomary coin- Off-duty men gathered before the

guardhouse in the bailey fell silent as Kellin

walked by them, breaking off conversation to stare

from the corners of their eyes- They measured

him, he knew; they looked for the proof in his face,

in his clothing, in the expression in his eyes-

 

What do they see?

 

He had washed the blood from face and hands,

and scrubbed at his jerkin? He believed no blood-

stains remained, but possibly none were required;

 

he wore guilt in his posture despite his desire not

to.

 

Sima padded beside him. They watched her,

too, marking her apparent health. She did not

limp or show any indication an arrow had but

hours before driven her toward death. It was a

natural healing, but to the Homanans, who had

little knowledge of such things, it seemed to sug-

gest that Kellin's reaction was one of whim. not

of need; as if he had killed Teague because the

idea had occurred, and because he could.

 

Kellin paused inside the palace to inquire as to

the Mujhar's whereabouts, and was told to go at

 

333

 

334 Jennifer Roberson

 

once to the Great Hall. Inwardly, Kellin's spirit

quailed. Not in privacy? Or is it that he will discuss

it with me as Mujhar, not grandsire, nor even Chey-

suli warrior?

 

Sima bumped his leg. / am with you.

 

No. Kellin paused. This is for me to face alone.

Go up to my chambers and wait.

 

She hesitated, then turned and padded away.

 

Kellin brushed haphazardly at the perspiration

stippling his upper lip, then went on toward the

Great Hall, Foreboding weighted his spirit until

he twitched with it, desiring to scratch at stinging

flesh.

 

Brennan was on the throne. The Lion's head

reared above the Mujhar in a display of wooden

glory. Aged eyes stared blindly; Kellin was grate-

ful the Lion could not see what had become of a

prince who would one day inherit it.

 

It was nearing sundown. Light slanting through

stained glass formed lattices on the stone floor, so

that Kellin walked through sharp-etched pools of

pure color. In spring, the firepit was unlighted.

Kellin walked its length steadily, though more

slowly than was his wont; he would not shirk the

confrontation but did not desire to hasten it. What

would come, would come; no need to accelerate

it.

 

He reached the dais all too soon. And then he

saw Aileen standing at Brennan's right side with

one hand on the Lion. It is serious— Kellin

clamped closed his teeth, feeling again the empti-

ness in his jaw where Luce had broken a tooth.

Healing had sealed it closed, but the tooth was

banished forever.

 

His grandsire looked old. The years had been

kind to him for a long time, but now the kindness

was banished. The healing four weeks before had

left its mark, and the knowledge Ennis had

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           33S

 

brought. Dark skin no longer was as supple and

taut, permitting brackets to form at nose and

mouth, and webwork patches beside his eyes. The

Mujhar *s hands rested lightly over the curving,

clawed armrests, but the knuckles were distended.

 

Kellin halted before the dais. Briefly he inclined

his head to Aileen, then offered homage to the

Mujhar. He waited in tense silence, wishing Sima

stood beside him; knowing it as weakness. It was

time he acknowledged it.

 

Brennan's eyes did not waver. His voice was

steady. "When a king has but a single heir, and

no hope of any others, he often overlooks such

things as the hot blood of youth, and the trouble

a boy can rouse. Gold soothes injured pride and

mends broken taverns. It will even, occasionally,

placate an angry jehan whose daughter has been

taken with child. But it does not buy back a life.

Even a king dares not overlook that."

 

Kellin wet dry lips. "I do not ask you to overlook

it. Merely understand it."

 

"I have been told by Ennis and the others that

they heard Teague cry out; that he knew he had

made a mistake."

 

"My lord, he did."

 

"And yet you used the power of /ir-shape to kill

him anyway."

 

It would have been better, Kellin decided, if the

Mujhar had shouted at him, because then he could

rely upon anger. But Brennan did not; he merely

made quiet statements in a grave and habitual

dignity that Kellin knew very well he could never

emulate.

 

He inhaled a trembling breath. "My lord, I am

moved to remind you of what you already know:

 

that a warrior in /ir-shape encounters all of the

pain his lir does. It—affects—him."

 

"I do know it," Brennan agreed. "But a warrior

 

336 Jennifer Roberson

 

in lir-shape is yet a man, and understands that a

Homanan who acknowledges his mistake is not to

be murdered."

 

Behind his back, Kellin balled his hands into

fists. It would undermine his appeal if he shouted;

 

and besides, he was guilty. "Sima was wounded.

She was dying. All I could think about was that

he had shot her, that she was badly hurt, and that

if she died, I died also." The words were hard to

force past a tight throat. "He was my friend, my

lord. I never meant to kill him."

 

"You did. In that moment, you did indeed in-

tend to kill him." Brennan's hands closed more

tightly over the armrest. "Do you think I cannot

see it? I am Cheysuli also."

 

Grief and anguish commingled to overwhelm.

"Then why confront me like this?" Kellin cried.

"By the gods, grandsire—"

 

But Brennan's sharp gesture cut Kellin's protest

off. "Enough. There are other things to concern

ourselves with than whether I understand what

led to the attack."

 

"What other things?" Kellin demanded. "You

yourself have said we cannot buy back Teague's

life, but I will do whatever I must to atone for my

mistake."

 

Brennan leaned forward. "Do you hear what you

are saying? You speak of Teague's death as a mis-

take, an unfortunate circumstance you could not

avoid."

 

"It was!"

 

"Yet when Teague makes a mistake, you re-

spond by killing him." Brennan's face was taut.

"Tell me where the difference lies. Why is one mis-

take excused—because you are a prince?—while

one results in murder?"

 

"I—" Kellin swallowed heavily. "I could not

help myself."

 

A TAPESTRY OF LSONS            337

 

"In /ir-shape."

 

"Aye." He understood now what Brennan meant

him to see. "I felt her pain, her fear—"

 

"And your own,"

 

"And my own." Kellin's face warped briefly. "I

feared for her, grandsire—I had not had her very

long, yet I could not imagine what it would be like

to lose her. The grief, the anguish—" He looked at

Brennan. "I thought I might go mad."

 

"Had she died, you would have." The Mujhar

sank back into the Lion. "It is the price we pay.

All your arguments against the death-ritual now

mean nothing."

 

Kellin stared hard at the stone beneath his

boots. "Aye."

 

"Through the link, her pain was yours .. . and

you feared she would die. Knowing what it would

cost."

 

"My life," Kellin murmured.

 

"So you took his, even though you might have

turned to Sima at once and begun the healing that

would have saved two lives: hers, and Teague's."

 

His mouth was stiff, awkward. "I could not help

myself."

 

"No," Brennan agreed in abject weariness, "you

never have been able to- And that is why you are

here before us now: to decide what must be done."

 

He looked up sharply. "What must be done?" he

echoed. "But—what is there to do? There are ritu-

als for Teague, and his family to tend, and i'toshoa-ni

for me—"

 

"Kellin." Brennan's voice was steady. He glanced

briefly at Aileen, whose expression was so taut as

to break, then firmed his mouth and looked back

at his grandson. "Tell me why the qu'mahlin came

about."

 

It was preposterous. Kellin nearly gaped. "Now?"

 

"Now."

 

338 JeaaSfer Robersoa

 

"You desire a history lesson?"

 

"I desire you to do whatever I require of you."

 

"Aye." It was blurted before Kellin thought

about it. Frowning his perplexity, he began the

lesson. "A Homanan princess ran away with a

Cheysuli. Lindir, Shaine's daughter—she went away

with Hale, Shaine's liege man." In the face of

Brennan's expectant patience, Kellin groped for

more. "She was meant to wed Ellic of Solinde, to

seal an alliance between Homana and Solinde, but

she ran away instead with Hale." He paused.

"That is what I was taught, grandsire. Is there

more you want?"

 

"Those are the political concerns, Kellin. What

the elopement did as regards Homana and Solinde

was to destroy any opportunity for peace to flour-

ish; the two realms remained at war. But that

would not cause the birth of the qu'mahlin, which

was a strictly Homanan-Cheysuli conflict."

 

"Shaine's pride was such that he declared them

attainted, subject to punishment."

 

"That is pan of it, Kellin. But think a moment

,. - consider something more." Brennan's fingers

tightened against aged wood. "It is one thing for

a king to declare his daughter and his liege man

attainted; he has the right to ask for their lives if

he chooses to. It is quite another for that king to

declare an entire race attainted, and set all of Ho-

mana against it."

 

Kellin waited for more. Nothing more was said.

"Aye," he agreed at last. "But Shaine was a mad-

 

man-

 

"Even a madman cannot lead his people into

civil war if they do not believe what he has said.

What did he say, Kellin?"

 

He knew it very well; Rogan had been at some

pains to instruct him, and the Cheysuli at Clan-

 

339

 

A TAPESTRY OF LSOIVS

 

keep as well. "He said we were demons and sor-

cerers and had to be destroyed."

 

"Why were we demons and sorcerers? What was

his foremost proof?"

 

"That we could assume the shape of animals at

will—" Kellin broke it off. He stared blindly at his

grandsire. "That we could assume beast-shape and

kill all the Homanans." He felt ill. "As—I killed

Teague."

 

"As you killed Teague." Brennan sighed deeply.

"In the days of Shaine, the Homanans believed

themselves in danger. It was far easier to kill all

the Cheysuli than risk their sovereignty. And so

they tried- Shaine began it, and others carried it

out. It took many years, including Ihlini and

Solindish domination, before the Cheysuli were

admitted again to Homana without fear of

extermination."

 

"Carillon," Kellin murmured. "He ended the

qu'mahlin."

 

"And made a Cheysuli Prince of Homana when

he sired no sons of his own.." A silver forelock had

frosted to white. "Before the Lion came into the

hands of Homanans, it was a Cheysuli legacy. The

kingdom of Homana was a Cheysuli realm. But we

gave it up rather than have the Homanans fear us,

knowing that someday it would fall again to us,

and to the Firstborn who would bind four realms

and two magical races in a true peace." Brennan

drew in a breath. "How can the Homanans permit

a man to rule them who cannot control himself

when he assumes /ir-shape? He is, to them, night-

mare; a beast without self-control. And I am not

so certain, just at this moment, the Homanans are

wrong."

 

It shocked. "Grandsire—"

 

"I know what it is to share pain through the

link- I know what it is to be driven half-mad by

 

340 Jennifer Roberson

 

fear—you have heard stories, I know, of how I am

in small places—but I do not kill."

 

"Grandsire—"

 

"What if it happens again?"

 

"Again!" Kellin stared. "You believe it might?"

 

"I must- These four weeks you have achieved

much, but obviously self-control in /ir-shape is not

one of them. I cannot risk it, Kellin."

 

"Given time, guidance—"

 

"Aye. But I cannot risk it while you remain in

Homana-Mujhar. It gives the Homanans too broad

a target."

 

Kellin's belly clenched. "Clankeep, then." Where

he would have to explain to Gavan, and to Burr,

and to men and women who would not under-

stand how a Cheysuli warrior could permit such

atrocity in the name of his lir, whom once he had

meant to banish. "Balance," he murmured. "If I

can learn the balance ..."

 

"There is another balance, Kellin. One which

has eluded you through all of your life, and which

I have, in my ignorance, permitted to warp that

life. I am as much to blame as you are, in this."

 

Aileen stirred. "No. Not you. I will not allow

you to blame yourself."

 

Kellin looked at her. Aileen's green eyes blazed

with conviction as she stared at her husband; he

would get no support from her. He longed for

Sima. but would not call her to him. "Banish-

ment, then."

 

"The Council has approved."

 

Kellin winced.

 

"It is not a permanent thing. You will be per-

mitted home when I am assured you have learned

what you need to know."

 

"And when the rumors have died down." Kellin

sighed. "I understand, grandsire. But—"

 

"I know." Brennan's eyes were filled with com-

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           341

 

passion. "It has happened before. My own jehan

grew weary of the excesses of his sons, and ban-

ished two of them. Hart he sent to Solinde, Corin

to Atvia. Neither wanted to go any more than you

desire to go. As for me—" he smiled briefly at Ai-

leen, "—I was made to wed before either of us was

ready."

 

Aileen's face was rigid. "I do not regret it now."

 

"We both did then." Brennan turned back to his

grandson, "For a six-month, a year—no longer

than is necessary."

 

Kellin nodded. "When?"

 

"In the morning. I have made arrangements for

the journey, and a boat will be waiting."

 

"Boat?" Kellin stared. "A boat? Why? What

need have I of a boat?" Trepidation flared into

panic. "Where are you sending me?"

 

"To the Crystal Isle. To your jehan."

 

Panic transmuted itself to outrage. "No!"

 

"It is arranged."

 

"l/narrange it! I will not go!"

 

"You wanted this for years."

 

"Not now. Not for ten years, grandsire! I have

no intention of going to my jehan."

 

Brennan's gaze was level. "You will go. For all

your anger and bitterness, and the multiplicity of

your small rebellions, you are still a warrior of the

clan. I am Mujhar. If I bid you to do so, you will

go."

 

"What has he to do with this? This is something

I must deal with on my own! I do not require the

aid of a man who cannot keep his son but must

give up everything to live on an island—"

 

"—where you will go." Brennan rose. "Aidan

has everything to do with this. We could not have

predicted it then, and I doubt it occurred to him—

he was in thrall to the gods, and thought of noth-

ing else but the tahlmorra meant for him—but it

 

342 Jennifer Robersoa

 

is something we must deal with now. You will go

to the Crystal Isle and see your jehan."

 

"Why? Why do you think this will help me?"

 

"Because perhaps he can remove the boy's anger

and replace it with a man's understanding that

what the world—and gods—mete out is what he

must deal with in a rational, realistic manner,

without recourse to an anger that, in asserting it-

self, kills men." The muscles flexed in Brennan's

jaw. "Because there is nowhere else I can send you

and not be afraid."

 

Kellin stared. Shame banished outrage. "Of me?

You are afraid of me?"

 

"I must be. I have seen what happens when the

anger consumes the man." His eyes were bleak.

"You must go to the source of your pain. To some-

one who can aid you."

 

"I want nothing to do with him'."

 

"He shaped you. By his very distance, by his

own tahlmorra, he shaped you. I think it is time

the jehan, and not the grandsire, tended the clay

that his own loins sired." Brennan pushed a

trembling hand across his brow. "I am too old to

raise you now. It is Aidan's turn."

 

"Why," Kellin spat out between clenched teeth,

"did you wait so long for this? I begged it all those

years'"

 

"He did not wish it, and I believed you did not

need it."

 

"Does he wish it now?"

 

"No."

 

"But now you believe I need it."

 

"Aye."

 

It congealed into bitterness. "Would I need it

now if I had had it then?"

 

Brennan shut his eyes. "Gods—I cannot say .. .

if so, I am to blame for what you have become—"

 

"No!" Aileen cried, "By all the gods of Erinn,

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           343

 

Brennan, I've said it before—I'll not have you

blaming yourself for this! What must I do to con-

vince you? He is what he is. Let him take it to his

father. Aidan is more fit to deal with aberration

than either of us!"

 

"Why?" Kellin asked. "Because he is 'aberra-

tion,' and now I am also?"

 

Aileen looked at him. "You are my grandson,"

she said. "I love you for that—I will always love

you for that—but I cannot comprehend a man who

lacks the self-control to prevent him from killing

other men." Her hands balled into fists. "I am

Erinnish, not Cheysuli—I cannot understand the

soul of a Cheysuli. That it is wild, I know, and

untamed, and unlike that of any other, I know.

But it is an honorable soul also, well-bound by the

gods, and duty . .. yours is unbound. Yours is as

unlike Brennan's—or Corin's—than any I have

known. It is most like Aidan's in its waywardness,

but with a blackness of spirit that makes you dan-

gerous. Aidan was never that." Aileen glanced at

Brennan briefly, then back-to her grandson. "Go

to your father. 'Tis what you need—and, I'm think-

ing, Aidan also."

 

Kellin's jaws hurt. "You said—'no longer than

is necessary.' How am I to know?"

 

Brennan reached for and took into his own one

of Aileen's hands. "Until Aidan sends you back."

 

He looked at Aileen in desperation. "Was it your

idea?"

 

She offered oblique answer though her face was

wasted. "In Erinn," she said quietly, "a man ac-

cepts his punishment. And the will of his lord."

 

Kellin stood there a long time. Then, sum-

moning what little pride remained, he bowed and

took his leave.

 

Interval

 

He had, since coming to the Crystal Isle, seen to

it that much of its wildness was tamed, at least

so much that a man might walk freely along a

track without fearing to lose an eye to an importu-

nate branch. And yet not so much wildness was

vanquished that a man, a Cheysuli, might feel his

spirit threatened by too much change.

 

It was incongruity: to make the wildness useful

without diluting its strength. And to offer change

within a culture whose very strength was wildness.

 

He wore leathers, as always, snug against flesh

that did not as yet begin to wither with age, and

/ir-gold on bare arms that did not surrender mus-

cle. He was fit, if but a few years beyond his

prime; a young man of twenty would call him

old—perhaps, more kindly, older—but to another

man he represented all that was remarkable about

a Cheysuli.

 

He paused at the border between woodlands

and beach. Sunlight glinted off water, scouring

white sands paler yet, so that he was forced to lift

his hand against the blinding glare.

 

Blobs swam before his eyes, robbed of dis-

tinctness by the brilliance of the sun. They coa-

lesced along the horizon, where the sea lapped in.

He saw the blobs take shape, forming legs, tails,

heads. He whistled. The blobs paused, then came

 

344

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            345

 

flying, transmuting sundazzled formlessness into

spray-dampened bodies recognizable as canine.

 

Tongues lolled. Tails whipped- They lashed their

own bodies in a frenzy to reach him, to display a

devotion so complete as to render words obsolete.

 

They were his now. The big male had died

nearly twenty years before—of grief, he believed—

but the others had survived despite the death of the

woman who had caused them to be born. Most of

those were dead, now, also—giant dogs died

sooner—but they had bred as well, so that the is-

land never lacked for companionship of a sort no

Cheysuli had known before; they did not keep pets.

 

Nor were these pets; they were, by their exis-

tence, in the beating of great hearts, living memo-

rials to Shona.

 

To him, they were sanity.

 

He paused as they joined him. The exuberance of

their greeting endangered those parts most revered

by a man; grinning, he turned a hip each time a

tail threatened, then grabbed two or three until the

dogs, all astonished, spun to whip tails free. Then it

began again, until he told them with false sternness

that the game was over; that they were to be still.

 

He sat down there in the sand, warding off in-

quisitive noses, until the dogs, too, settled with

grunts and great rumbling sighs. Wise eyes

watched him, waiting for the sign that he meant

to rise and find a stick to toss for their pleasure;

 

but he did not. and after a time they slept, or

lay quietly: an ocean of storm-hued wolfhounds

sprawled upon the beach of an island, in its beget-

ting, very alien to their souls. They were Erinnish,

though none of these had been there.

 

They were all he had of her. The son she had

borne in the midst of her dying, in the flames of

a burning keep, was not and never had been his

to tend. Another man might have grieved, then

 

346             Jennifer Roberson

 

done what he could to raise up the living soul

whose heart was partly hers, but he was denied

that comfort. All he had of her, in the days and

the darkness, were memories and dogs.

 

He honored the gods with his service. He did

not question its needs, or the path he had taken;

 

it was his tahlmorra. A great security resided in

the knowledge that what he did served a greater

purpose; that sacrifices made in the name of that

greater purpose, no matter how difficult, would in

the end bear out his seeming madness. Let them

attach scorn to his name now, but one day, long

after his bones had rotted, they would call him

something else.

 

"But my spark is nothing compared to the flame

of his." Aidan smiled. "My name is a spark, and

Kellin's a bonfire—but Cynric's will blaze with all

the terrible splendor of a wildfire as it devours the

land around it."

 

He knew they would curse him. Men were often

blind when it came to needed change. When they

acknowledged what had happened—and what still

would come—they would claim him an emmissary of

a demon not to their liking, when all he did was serve

the gods who had decided to mend what had broken.

 

"Revolution," he said; the dogs twitched ears.

"If they knew what was to come, they would none

of them agree; they would all become a'saii."

 

But he would not permit it. That was his pur-

pose, to guide his people closer to a true under-

standing that out of devouring names would rise

a new world.

 

It would be difficult. But the gods would see to

it he had a means to persevere. If it required a

weapon, a weapon would be given.

 

Aidan was content. He knew his path very well.

All he had to do was wait for the weapon, then set

it on its path.

 

One

 

The chapel was built of standing stones set into a

tight circle. Most of them still leaned a little, like

teeth settling badly in a diseased jaw, but some-

one had taken the time—probably years—to see

that many of the stones had been pushed back into

proper alignment. The circle was whole again,

with a carved lintel stone set over the darkened

entrance, and a heel stone put up in front. Kellin

went slowly to it, drawn by its singular splendor.

 

The side facing him was unnaturally flat,

chipped and rubbed smooth. Across the dark gray

face ran runic symbols he had seen but once be-

fore, in his Ceremony of Honors. He recognized

most of them, but he was not perhaps as conver-

sant in the Old Tongue as he should be. / have

lived too long among Homanans.

 

Kellin was transfixed by the shapes carved into

the stone. The runes were incised deeply; he

thought the carvings no more than fifteen or

twenty years old. The heel stone was older yet, but

not so ancient as the circle itself. An infant stand-

ing within the shade of his fathers.

 

Standing, the heel stone reached Kellin's chest-

As he loielt, the runes became clearer. He put a

finger upon their shapes to trace them out. "One

day - . . blood . . . magic."

 

"One day a man of all blood shall umte, in peace,

 

349

 

350 Jennifer Roberson

 

four warring realms and two magical races," said

the voice. "And if those few words you mouthed

are all you know of the Old Tongue, it is well you

come to me for instruction."

 

Kellin did not move. His fingers remained ex-

tended to touch the runes. Only the tips trembled.

Not what I expected a Jehan to say to his son as

he sees him for the first time. It served to fuel his

anger.

 

Aidan stood in the chapel doorway. The sunlight

was full on his face, glinting off the gold freighting

arms and ear. It struck Kellin as incongruity;

 

oddly, he had expected a simple man, not a war-

rior. But Aidan was that, and more; best Kellin

remember it.

 

He wanted very badly to say all manner of

things, but he desired more to find just the right

challenge. Let Aidan lead him, then; he would

await the proper moment.

 

"Get up from there," Aidan said. "I am not the

sort of man to require homage."

 

He does not know me. It shook him; he had ex-

pected Aidan to know. It altered his intent. "You

gave that up," Kellin said, forgoing patience.

"Homage."

 

Aidan smiled. "That, as well as other unneces-

sary things." He hesitated- "Well, will you rise?

Or have you come with broken legs to have them

made whole again?"

 

Kellin wanted to laugh but suppressed the

sound. He was not certain he could control it.

"No," he said only-

 

"Good. I am not a god; I do not perform

miracles."

 

Delicate contempt- "Surely you can heal. You

are Cheysuli."

 

"Oh, aye—I have recourse to the earth magic.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LSONS             351

 

But you are too healthy to require it." Aidan ges-

tured. "Rise."

 

Kellin rose. He found no words in his mouth,

only an awkward, wary patience inhabiting his

spirit.

 

Aidan's ruddy brows arched. "Taller than I be-

lieved . .. are you certain the clan desires to lose

 

you?"

 

It was perplexing. "Why should you believe the

clan might lose me?"

 

"Have you not come for the teaching?" It was

Aidan's turn to frown. "The clans send to me those

men—and women—who wish to leam what it is a

shar tahl must do. I serve the gods by interpreting

and teaching divine intentions . . ." He shrugged.

"/ make no differentiation between a man who is

physically more suited to war than to study, but

the clans often do. I am persuaded they would

labor most assiduously to talk you out of coming

here." The glint in his eyes was fleeting. "Surely

the women would."

 

It was disarming, but Kellin would not permit

it to vanquish his irritation^ He used the reminder

that his appearance was considered by most, espe-

cially women, as pleasing to look for himself in

Aidan. He saw little. Aidan's hair was a rich, deep

auburn, almost black in dim light, save for the

vivid white wing over his left ear. His eyes were

what a Cheysuli would describe as ordinary,

though their uncompromising yellowness Homa-

nans yet found unsettling. His flesh was not so

dark as a clan-bred warrior, but then neither was

Kellin's.

 

There we match; in the color of our flesh. But not,

I am moved to say, in the color of our hearts.

 

Aidan's tone was polite- "Have you come to

leam?"

 

It nearly moved him to a wild, keening laughter;

 

352 Jennifer Roberson

 

what he wanted to learn had nothing to do with

gods. In subtle derision, he said, "If you can teach

me."

 

Aidan smiled. "I will do what I can, certainly.

It is up to the gods to make you a shar tahl."

 

"Is that—?" Kellin blurted a sharp sound of dis-

belief. "Is that what you think I want?"

 

"What else? It is what I do here: prepare those

who desire to serve the gods more closely than

others do."

 

Kellin moved around the heel stone. He marked

that the sun had been in Aidan's eyes; that what

his father saw of him was little but silhouette, or

the pale shadow of three dimensions.

 

He sees a warrior, somewhat taller than expected,

but nonetheless kneeling in communion with the

gods. Well, I will have to see to it he knows me for

what I am, not what he presupposes. He moved to

the front of the stone, permitting Aidan to see him

clearly. Now what do you say?

 

Aidan's skin turned a peculiar grayish-white.

His flesh was a chalk cliff in the sun, showing the

damage done by rain and damp and age. Even the

lips, carved of granite, were pale as alabaster.

 

"Echoes—" Aidan blurted, "—but Shona. The

kivama—" He was trembling visibly.

 

Kellin had not believed he much resembled his

dead mother; they said she was fair, and her eyes

brown. But obviously there was something; Aidan

had seen it too quickly. Or perhaps only feels it

because of his kivama.

 

Contempt welled up. He wanted badly to hurt

the man. "She did bear me," he said. "There

should be something of her in me."

 

Aidan's face was peeled to the bone so the shape

of his skull was visible. The eyes. so calm before,

had acquired a brittle intensity that mocked his

 

A TAPESTKY OF LIONS           353

 

former self-possession. His mouth was unmoving,

as if something had sealed it closed.

 

Is this what I wanted, all those years? Or do I

want more yet?

 

Aidan drew in a breath, then released it slowly.

He smiled a sad, weary smile. The chalk cliff of

his face had lost another layer to the onslaught of

exposure; in this case, to knowledge. "I knew you

would hate me. But it was a risk I had to take."

 

Kellin wanted to shout. "Was it?" he managed

tightly. "And was it worth it?" He paused, then

framed the single word upon years of bitterness.

"Jehan."

 

In Aidan's eyes was reflected as many years of

conviction. "Come inside," he said. "What I have

to say is best said there."

 

He did not want to—he felt to do as asked would

weaken his position—but Kellin followed. The

chapel was not large inside, nor did it boast sub-

stantial illumination; a tight latticework roof

closed out the sun, Kellin allowed his eyes to ad-

just, then glanced briefly around the interior. A

rune-carved alter stood in the center. Set against

the tilted walls were stone benches. Torch brack-

ets pegged into seams in the stonework were

empty.

 

"Where is your lir7" Aidan asked.

 

"She led me here, then disappeared."

 

"Ah." Aidan nodded. "Tee! disappeared this

morning as well, so that all I had were the dogs;

 

it was a conspiracy, then, that we should meet

without benefit of lir."

 

Kellin did not care overmuch about what the

lir conspired to do. He was wholly fixed on the

acknowledgment that the man who stood before

him had planted the seed which had grown in

Shona's belly, only to be torn free on a night filled

 

394 JeoaSSer Roberson

 

with flames. He loved her, they say. Could he not

have loved her son as well?

 

Aidan sat down on one of the benches. Kellin,

pointedly, remained standing. Bitterly he said,

"Surely with your kivama—aye, I know about it—

you must have known I was coming."

 

Color had returned to Aidan's face. It was no

longer stretched so taut, no longer empty of a

tranquillity that annoyed one who lacked it. "I do

not question your right to bitterness and hatred,

but this is not the place for it."

 

Kellin barked a harsh laugh. "Is that why you

brought me in here? To tame my tongue and ren-

der me less than a man?" He wanted to jeer. "You

forget, jehan—I have none of your reverence, nor

your humility. If I choose to honor the gods, I do

it in my own fashion. And, I might add, with less

elaboration," He cast a scornful glance over the

chapel. "I did not know a man would exchange

the flesh of his own son for the confines of stone."

 

Aidan waited him out. "I would not expect you

to offer reverence or humility. You are not the

man for it."

 

It was veiled insult, if Kellin chose to take it so.

Another might acknowledge it as simple statement

of fact. "Do you believe me too weak to be as you

are? No, jehan: too strong. I am not a coward. I

do not turn my face from its proper place to hide

upon an island with a mouth full of prophecies."

 

"Indeed, you are not weak. Nor are you a cow-

ard." Aidan shrugged. "Nor am I, but I give you

the freedom to believe as you will—just now, there

is more. What you are is a confused, angry young

man who only now confronts his heritage—and

knows his ultimate fate lies in other hands." He

overrode the beginnings of Kellin's protest. "You

mentioned my kivama first—shall we let the gift

guide me in the examination of your soul?" He

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           355

 

smiled without intending offense, reminding qui-

etly that what he could do was what few others

could. "You will do as I did when the time has

come: acknowledge and fully accept what the gods

have designed for you in the ordering of your life."

 

"If you know it, then tell me!" Kellin cried-

"You claim communion with the gods. Tell me

now and save me time wasted in discovering it for

myself!"

 

"And deny you the chance to grow into the man

the gods intend you to be?" Aidan smiled. "A war-

rior cannot circumvent a tahlmorra so easily ...

he is charged to become what he is meant to be-

come in the husbandry of his soul. Were I to tell

you what becomes of you, I might well alter what

is meant to happen."

 

"Obscurity," Kellin charged. "That is what you

teach here: how to speak in riddles so no man can

understand."

 

"A man learns," Aidan countered, "and then he

understands."

 

Kellin laughed. "Tell me," he challenged. "If in-

deed you can. Prophesy for me. For your only

son."

 

Aidan did not move upon the bench. His hands

lay in his lap. "Do you forget who I am?"

 

"Who you are? How could I? You are the man

I have sought all my life—even when I denied it—

and now that I have found you I am at last able

to tell you precisely what I think of you and your

foolish claims!"

 

"I am the mouthpiece of the gods."

 

Kellin laughed at him.

 

And then his laughter died, for Aidan began to

speak. "The Lion shall lie with the witch. Out of

darkness shall come light; out of death: life; out

of the old: the new."

 

"Words," Kellin began, meaning to defame the

 

3S6 Jennifer Robersm

 

man who said them, to leech them of their power,

but his challenge died away.

 

"The Lion shall lie with the witch, and the wit-

ch-child born of it shall join with the Lion to swal-

low the House of Homana and all of her children."

 

"Jehan!"

 

Yellow eyes had turned black. Aidan stared

fixedly at Kellin, one hand raised to indicate his

son. "The Lion," he said, "shall devour the House

of Homana."

 

"Stop—"

 

His voice rose. "Do you think to escape the

Lion? Do you think to escape your fate?" Lips

peeled back. "Small, foolish boy—you are nothing

to the gods. It is the Lion's cub they desire, not

the Lion himself ... you are the means to an end.

The Lion shall lie down with the witch."

 

Kellin was instantly taken out of himself, swept

back ten years. To the time of Summerfair, when

he had put on his second-best tunic to go among

the crowds and see what he would see, to taste

suhoqla again and challenge a Steppes warior. To

enter the tent filled with a sickly, sweetish odor;

 

to see again the old man who sat upon his cushion

and told who he was, and what would be his fate.

 

"Lion—" Kellin whispered, staring at his father.

"There is a lion—after all—"

 

Aidan smiled an odd, inhumane smile. "Kellin,"

he said plainly, "you are the Lion."

 

Two

 

"I am sorry." Aidan's tone was quiet, lacking its

former power. "But I warned you. It is never a

simple thing—and rarely pleasant—to learn your

tahlmorra."

 

Kellin clung to the heel stone for support. He

did not precisely recall how he had reached it.

He remembered, if dimly, stumbling out of the

shadow-clad chapel into clean sunlight—and then

he had fallen to his knees, keeping himself upright

only by virtue of clinging to the heel stone as a

child to its mother's neck.

 

He continued to clutch it. He twisted his head

to ask over a shoulder. "Do you know what you

said?"

 

Aidan, squinting against sunlight, sighed and

nodded. "Most of it. I can never recall clearly what

I say when I prophesy, but the intent remains in

my mind," His eyes were steady, if darkened by

the acknowledgment of what had occurred. "De-

spite what you led me to believe with regard to

your ignorance of your tahlmorra, it is not the first

time you have heard such words."

 

"I was ten." Kellin stood up and relinquished

his grip on the stone, aware of a cold clamminess

in his palms. "But I did not know—"

 

"No," Aidan agreed, "a child could not. Nor

many men. You were not ready. Even now you are

not."

 

357

 

358 Jennifer Roherson

 

Resentment congealed. "So you did it to prove

something."

 

Mildly, Aidan said, "You did ask. In plain and

impolite words."

 

Another time he would have fought back. Just

now something else struck him as more impor-

tant. "You said—" He looked warily at the chapel,

as if it were responsible for putting the thoughts

inside his head. "You said / am the Lion."

 

"You are."

 

"But how? I am a man. Not even in lir-sbape

am I a lion!"

 

Aidan nodded. "Where words will not serve,

symbols often do." He traced the runes inscribed

in the heel stone. "These are symbols. And so is

the Lion."

 

"The Lion is a throne."

 

"That, too, is a symbol." Aidan smiled. "You are

a man in all the ways in which a man is measured;

 

fear nothing there. But you are also the next link

in the prophecy of the Firstborn. It may somewhat

devalue my dedication to say this so baldly, but

prophecies are sometimes little more than colorful

pictures, like the Ur we paint on pavilions."

 

It gave Kellin something, a tiny bit of strength

with which to reassert his challenge. "Then there

is no truth to it."

 

"Of course there is truth to it. Does the painted

animal shape mean there is no living Ur?" Aidan

shook his head. "A prophecy does not lie. At times

circumstances change, and the fate itself is

changed; they gave us free will, the gods. The ulti-

mate result may be altered, but what served as

catalyst was never a falsehood. It is not graven in

stone." He tapped fingertips against the heel

stone. "This will remain here forever—for as long

as the world has—to speak of the prophecy and

all it entails. Eighteen words." His smile was not

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            359

 

condescending, but unadorned serenity; he was

certain of his place within the prophecy. "Eigh-

teen simple words that have ruled our lives since

before we were even conceived."

 

Kellin looked at the runes. " 'One day—' " But

he broke off reflexive quoting. There was another

matter he considered more important. "How can

I be the Lion?"

 

"You are. No more than that. You are the Lion

.. . just as I was the broken link."

 

Kellin wanted to deny it all, to accuse the shar

tahl who was also his father that purposeful obscu-

rity offered no one an answer. But what came out

of his mouth was a simple truth: "I do not

understand."

 

"That is one of my purposes here: to explain

things more fully."

 

Bitterness reasserted itself. "To other men

whose lives have been twisted by their

tahlmorras?"

 

"Come with me."

 

It provoked. "Where? To that palace? I have

seen it. You do not live there."

 

"To my pavilion." The smile, now lacking the

unearthly quality of prophecy, was freely offered

again with nothing more in its shaping than hospi-

tality. "I am Cheysuli, Kellin. Never forget that."

 

Aidan's pavilion clustered with others in a

smaller version of Clankeep. It was pale green

with ravens adorning its sides; on the ridgepole

sat the model.

 

Sima, sprawled on a rug before the doorflap,

blinked sleepily in the sun. You found him.

 

Kellin scowled. As you meant me to. That is why

you left me.

 

She was unrepentent. Teel and I thought it best.

 

I do not appreciate such secrecy in my own lir.

 

360 Jennifer Roberson

 

Nor does your jehan. She twitched her tail. Even

now he chastises Ted.

 

He deserves it. So do you. He did not stoop to pat

the cat but went on by her and into the pavilion as

his father pulled back the flap.

 

Aidan seated himself on a brown bear pelt and

gestured for Kellin to make himself comfortable.

"We built the Keep here because I saw no sense

in inhabiting a palace. We are Cheysuli. We are

here to rebuild what we can of the old religion,

while imbuing it with new." He smiled. "I am

somewhat controversial with regard to my beliefs;

 

some elders name me a fool."

 

Kellin said nothing. He had come for none of

this.

 

"This is a place of history and magic," Aidan

continued, "and we treat it as such. Palaces have

no place here."

 

He disputed at once. "I thought the Cheysuli

built it. There are runes in the pillars. Old Tongue

runes, like those on the heel stone." It was proof;

 

it was enough; it trapped his traitorous father.

 

"Runes can be carved later, as those on the heel

stone were."

 

Kellin exhaled patience. He was wrung dry of

it. "So, it is a Homanan palace after all. Should

that matter? The Homanans are our people, too."

 

Aidan smiled. "If that was a test, then assuredly

you have passed it."

 

In succinct Homanan, Kellin swore. "I did not

come for this!"

 

"No." Aidan rested his hands on his knees. "Ask

what you will, Kellin."

 

Kellin did not hesitate. The question had been

formed nearly twenty years before. He had

mouthed it every night, practicing in his bed, se-

cure in his draperies as a child in its mother's

womb. Now he could ask it in the open, in the

 

A TAPESTRY OF LtWS           361

 

light, of the man who knew the answer- "Why did

you give me up?"

 

Aidan did not hesitate. "It was an infinitely

Cheysuli reason, and one you will undoubtedly

contest, though you should know better; you, too,

are Cheysuli."

 

Kellin inhaled angrily on a hissing breath.

"Tahlmorra. That is your answer."

 

"The gods required me to renounce my title,

rank, and inheritance. I was the broken link. The

chain could only be mended—and therefore made

much stronger—if I gave precedence to the next

link. Its name was Kellin." Aidan's eyes did not

waver. His tone did not break. His demeanor was

relaxed. All of his self-possession was very much

in opposition to the words he spoke. "It was the

hardest thing I have ever done."

 

Through his teeth, Kellin said, "Yet you did it

easily enough."

 

The first crack in Aidan's facade appeared. "Not

without regret. Not without pain. When I set you

into my jehana's arms—" Aidan broke it off, as if

afraid to give up too much of himself after all. His

tone was husky. "You were Shona's child. You

were all I had of her. But I was, in that moment,

a child of the gods—"

 

"It is a simple thing to blame gods."

 

Aidan's lips parted. "It was done for Homana."

 

"Homana! Homana, no doubt, would have been

better off with a contented prince instead of one

who lacked a Jehan. Do you know what my life has

been?"

 

"Now, aye—the kivama has told me."

 

"And what does it mean? Nothing? That I spent

my childhood believing myself unworthy, and my

adulthood cognizant that / mean nothing at all,

save I can sire a son?" Kellin's fists trembled

against his thighs. "Use your famous kivama and

 

362 Jennifer Robersw

 

see what you did by renouncing a son in favor of

the gods."

 

"Kellin." The chalk cliff sloughed another layer;

 

soon it would be bare, and the true man uncov-

ered. "I never intended for you to suffer so. I knew

it would be hard, but it had to be done . . - and

you are not, above all things, a malleable man.

You choose your own path—have always chosen

your path—no matter the odds."

 

"I was a child—"

 

"So was I!" Aidan cried. "I had dreams, Kellin—

nightmares. To me, the Lion was a vastly frighten-

ing thing." With effort, he let it go. He smiled

sadly, no longer hiding his truths. "Do you know

what it is like for a Jehan to at last acknowledge

that the thing which frightens him most is his own

son?"

 

Kellin was nearly incoherent with outrage. "Is

this your excuse for giving me up? That you are

afraid—"

 

"It was necessary. There was a purpose in it for

me—and one, I believe, for you."

 

Kellin jeered. "Facile words, jehan."

 

"True words, Kellin."

 

"Why would you be afraid of me? I am your

son."

 

"You are the Lion. You are meant to lie down

with the witch. You are meant to sire the First-

born." Aidan's eyes did not waver. "It is one thing

to serve the gods, Kellin, knowing what you work

toward—it is entirely another to realize that what

you do matters in the ordering of the world." His

smile was without humor. "Men who honor no

gods, who fail to serve the gods, cannot under-

stand the enormity of the truth: that the seed of a

single man's loins can alter forever the shape of a

world."

 

Kellin was furious. "You will not blame me for

 

A TAPESTRY w LIONS           363

 

this! You will not for one moment lay this at my

door-flap! Do you think I am a fool? Do you think

me so ignorant as to be led by facile words? By

the gods, jehan—by any fool's gods—I will not be

turned aside by your faith, by your admirable de-

votion, by the mouthings of a madman when I

want to know the answer to a single, simple

question!"

 

"And I have told you why!" Kellin had at last

shattered Aidan's composure. It loosed the final

layer of cliff and laid bare the underside of the

man, not the shar tahl; the once-born Prince of

Homana who had bequeathed it all to his infant

son. "My tahlmorra. You should understand a little

of that, now that you know what yours is."

 

"Jehan—"

 

"Would you have me hold you by the hand and

lead you through it? Are you so blind—or so

selfish—that you cannot permit yourself to see an-

other man's pain?"

 

Kellin expelled a curse framed upon the Old

Tongue. "What manner of pain could lead a man

to renounce his son?"

 

"The pain in knowing that if he did not, an en-

tire race might be destroyed."

 

"Jehan—"

 

"The throne was never meant for me. Here is

where I was bound. The link—my link—was shat-

tered in Valgaard; do you understand what I

mean? I was broken, Kellin ... / was .. . my link—

a symbol—was destroyed. Yours was left whole.

Whole, Kellin—to be joined with the rest of the

chain when Brennan is dead, and a new king as-

cends. Do you see? I was in the way. I was unnec-

essary, The gods required a prophet, not another

rump upon the throne ... someone to proclaim

the coming of the Firstborn. Someone to prepare

the way."

 

364 Jennifer Roberson

 

"Jehan—"

 

"You are the Lion. You are meant to devour the

House of Homana."

 

Kellin's face spasmed. "You say first I am the

Lion, and then I am a link in a chain . -." He

shook his head in emphatic denial. "I understand       t

none of it!"

 

Aidan's voice was hoarse. "We are all but links.

Mine was shattered. Its destruction sundered the

chain. Even now it lies in Valgaard, in Lochiel's       i

keeping."                                             1,

 

"A real chain?"

 

"A real chain."

 

"Broken."

 

"I broke it. I broke me to strengthen you."

 

Kellin bared his teeth. "What good does it do,        .'

then, if Lochiel holds it?"                              ij»

 

"Someone must get it back."                       H

 

"From Lochiel?"                                     H

 

"Someone must take the two halves and make       ^

them one again."                                   J

 

Kellin understood. He sprang to his feet. "By       ^

 

the eods—not /! I will not be used in a personal       f,

*              i      n                       SB

revenge that concerns only you.                        j|

 

Aidan's eyes were infinitely yellow. "Lochiel       ^

killed your jehana."                                   ^

 

Kellin recognized the battle and struck back at

once, using all his weapons, "I never knew her.

What does it matter?"

 

"He cut you from her body as he burned down all       <

ofClankeep."

 

It hurt desperately. He had blamed himself so

long for his mother's death. "No—"

 

"He wanted the seed," Aidan said. "He wanted

to raise you as his own, to turn you against your

House ... to defang the Lion utterly before it

reached maturity."

 

Kellin fastened on a thing, a small, cruel thing,

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            365

 

because he needed to, to salvage his anger, to

shore up his bitterness. They were things he knew.

"Where were you," he asked viciously, "while Lo-

chiel the Ihlini cut open my mother's belly?"

 

Aidan's eyes mirrored Kellin's desperation.

"Where do you think I got this?" A trembling hand

touched the white wing in his hair. "A sword. It

broke open my skull and spilled out all the wits,

all the words, all the things that make a man ...

and turned me into someone no one, not even I,

can truly understand." His face was wasted. "Do

you think, in all your hatred, when you lie awake

at night cursing the man who left you, that any

man, any father, would ask the gods to give him

such a fate?"

 

Kellin was shaking. He could not stop himself.

"I want—I want ..." He wet dry lips. "I want to

be free of the beast."

 

"Then kill it," Aidan said,

 

"How?"

 

"Go to Valgaard. Rejoin two halves of a whole."

 

"And that will make me whole?" Kellin's wild

laugh tore his throat. "Expiation for your weak-

ness does nothing to destroy my own!"

 

"Go to Valgaard."

 

Kellin bared his teeth. "You have not seen what

I have become!"

 

"Nor has Lochiel." Aidan rose and opened the

doorflap. "Perhaps the beast in you is a weapon

for us all."

 

"/ killed a friend'" Kellin cried. "Do you say it

was necessary, that the gods required this to fash-

ion a weapon?"

 

The chalk cliff shapechanged itself to granite.

"The gods required me to give up my son- Now

that son provides a way for us to destroy an Ihlini

who would, given the chance, bring down all of

us. He would smash the Lion to bits, then feed it

 

3W Jennifer Roberson

 

chip by chip into the Gate of Asar-Suti." Aldan's

tone was unflinching. His eyes condemned the

weakness that would permit a man to refuse.

"Make the sacrifice worth it. Make the death of

your friend count for something—as Shona's death

did."

 

Kellin's throat hurt. "This is not what I came

for."

 

"It is," Aidan said. "Have I not said I am the

mouthpiece of the gods?"

 

Kellin gestured helplessness. "All I ever

wanted—all I ever wanted—was some word, some

indication you cared, that you knew I existed . ..

but you gave me nothing. Nothing at all."

 

Silence lay heavy between them. Then the faint-

est of sounds, so subtle that in another time, in

another moment, no one would have marked it. It

was the soft sibilance of a man's hand crumpling

fabric.

 

Tears stood in Aidan's eyes as he clung to the

doorflap. "What I gave you—what I gave you was

what I believed you had to have." His mouth

worked briefly, "Do you think I did not know what

it would cost you?"

 

"But you never came."

 

Aidan's laugh was a travesty. "Had I come, I

would have taken you back. Had I sent word, I

would have told you to come. For the sake of your

son, Kellin, I had to give up my own."

 

"For my son!"

 

"Cynric," Aidan whispered, and the blackness in

his eyes ate away the yellow. "The sword and the

bow and the knife—"

 

"No!" Kellin shouted. "What of me? What of

me? / am your son, not he! What about me?"

 

Aidan's eyes were empty of all save prophecy.

"You are the Lion, and you shall lie down with

the witch."

 

A TAPCSTSY w LKMS          367

 

"Jehan—" he said brokenly. "Is this what they

have done, your beloved gods? Made you over into

this?"

 

"The Lion shall devour the lands."

 

For the first time in his life, Kellin put his hands

on his father.

 

For the second time in Aidan's life, he put arms

around his son. "Do not be ashamed," he said.

"There is no shame in tears."

 

Muffled, Kellin said, "I am—a warrior."

 

"So am I," Aidan agreed."But the gods gave us

tears nonetheless."

 

Three

 

They stood upon the dock, facing toward the city

of Hondarth sprawled indistinct on the distant

shore: the former Prince of Homana, who might

have been Mujhar, and the present prince, his son,

who one day would be.

 

The sea-salt breeze blew into their faces, ruffling

hair, tickling eyelashes, softly caressing mouths.

Behind him, silent wolfhounds gathered at the

border between wooden dock and paler sand,

waiting for their master. Perched in a nearby tree

sat the raven called Teel, while the lovely moun-

tain cat, blue-black in the light of the sun, waited

mutely beside her warrior.

 

Kellin slanted a pensive, sidelong glance at his

father. They did not, he had decided, much resem-

ble one another. The son of Shona and Aidan ap-

peared to be a mixture of everyone in his ancestry—

which was, he felt, a stew of hybrid spices—save

that the cat at his side and the gold on his flesh

marked him as something more distinct than

merely human.

 

He does not look so old as I thought yesterday.

Kellin stripped a wayward lock of hair from an

eye, blinking away the sting. Yet if one looks at

the eyes, he seems older than anyone else. "So—you

expect me to go." He snapped his fingers. "Just

like that."

 

Aidan's smile was faint, with a hint of irony in it.

 

368

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

369

 

"It would be folly indeed to expect quite so much

acquiescence ... surely you still have questions."

 

"A multitude. This one, to begin: how can you

say I am the Lion who is meant to lie down with

the witch? What witch? Who is it? How can it be

done?" Kellin gestured incomprehension. "Even

now my grandsire discusses a marriage between

me and Dulcie—and I sincerely doubt Dulcie is

this witch."

 

Aidan's smile was unabated, as was the irony.

"Marriages, no matter how well planned, do not

always occur."

 

It provoked Kellin to retort sharply. "As one

nearly did not occur between Aileen of Erinn and

the Prince of Homana?"

 

Aidan laughed, unoffended. "Old history. They

are well content, now; and that marriage did

occur."

 

"What of mine?"

 

"Oh, I believe you will indeed be married."

Aidan nodded. "One day.",

 

It seemed important to know. "To this witch?"

 

Aidan's tone was deliberate, akin to Rogan's

when the tutor labored to instruct an easily dis-

tracted student. "What precisely have I said, when

I prophesy?"

 

"That the Lion will lie with the witch." Kellin

sighed. "I have heard it more than once."

 

"Lying down with a 'witch' does not necessarily

mean you will marry her."

 

"Ah." Black brows sprang upward. "Then you

advocate infidelity."

 

Aidan showed his teeth in a challenging grin

that Kellin saw, in surprise, was very like his own.

"I advocate merely that you do what must be

done. How it is done is up to you."

 

"To sleep with an Ihlini . . ." Kellin hitched his

shoulders because the flesh between them prick-

 

Jennifer Roberaon

 

370

 

led; the idea was unattractive. "That is what she

is, this witch, is she not? An Ihlini?"

 

"It has been done before."

 

"Oh, aye—grandsire did. lan did. I know the

stories."

 

"Do you?" Aidan's brows slanted upward in

subtle query. The wing of white hair, against deep

russet, was blinding in the sunlight. "Do you also

know that / slept with one?"

 

"You!" It was entirely unexpected from a man

who was shar tahl. "They say you bedded no one

after my jehana died."

 

"I did not. I cannot. Surely they told you the

cost of kivama, when the partner dies. It is much

like a lirless warrior, save the body does not die.

Only the portion of it that might, given opportu-

nity, given the wherewithal, sire another child."

 

"But—I am the only one."

 

"And will ever be." Aidan looked at him. "In

Atvia, before I married Shona, I bedded an Ihlini

woman. And the second time, I knew it."

 

"Willingly?"

 

"With Lillith?" Aidan sighed. "To excuse myself,

to justify my action, I might prefer to say that

even that first time she ensorcelled me ... but it

would be a lie. What I did. I did because I desired

it; because I could not, in my maleness, deny my-

self the gratification found in a woman's body, de-

spite whom she might be."

 

"Lillith . .." Kellin tasted the name and found

it oddly seductive. "It was she who lay with lan

and bore him a child."

 

"Rhiannon, who later lay with my fehan and

bore him a child. Melusine is her name."

 

"You know it?"

 

"She is the woman who sleeps with Lochiel. She

bore him a child ... while she herself, Melusine,

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            371

 

was born of Cheysuli blood as well as Ihlini—yet

chooses to serve Asar-Suti."

 

It seemed surpassing odd, "How do you know

all this?"

 

"Lochiel sees to it I know. Lochiel and I—" Ai-

dan's taut, angled smile was strangely shaped, "—

have long been adversaries on more battlefields

than the obvious ones- He sends me messages."

 

"Lochiel?" Kellin found it incomprehensible.

"Why?"

 

"To make certain I know." Wind ruffled the

white wing against Aidan's temple. "Her name is

Melusine, and she bore him a daughter. It was

that daughter with whom you shared a cradle."

 

Kellin grunted. "I know something of that."

 

"Do you?" Aidan's gaze was steady. "Shall I tell

you the whole of it, then, so you may have another

thing for which to hate me?"

 

"What? More?" It might have stung once; it

might have been a weapon Kellin took pride in

wielding, but no longer. Much remained between

them, but some of the pain "was assuaged. "Then

tell me, and I will decide if I should rekindle my

hatred."

 

Aidan looked directly at him- "I bargained for

you. It was little more, to him, than a simple

trade. I was to choose—" He rubbed briefly at his

forehead as if it ached, then glanced away toward

distant Hondarth. "There were two babies, as you

know: you, and Lochiel's daughter. I had no way

of telling which was which. You were both of you

swaddled, and asleep; it is somewhat difficult to tell

one infant from another, in such circumstances."

 

"Aye. How did you?"

 

"I did not."

 

"But—you chose me."

 

"I left Valgaard with a child in my arms. I did

not know which one it was." Aidan sighed. "Not

 

372 Jennifer Roberson

 

until I unwrapped you and saw you were male.

Then I knew, and only then, that my choice had

been correct."

 

"But—if you had chosen the girl ..." Kellin let

it go. The repercussions he saw were too complex

to consider.

 

"If I had, you would have been reared as Lo-

chiel's son."

 

And the girl as a princess within the bosom of

Homana'MuJhar, where she might have worked

against us. The flesh rose on Kellin's bones. He

rubbed at his arms viciously, disliking the weak-

ness that made his fear so plain. "So." It seemed

enough.

 

"So." Aidan nodded. "You know the whole of

 

it."

 

Kellin stared fixedly across the lapping water.

He could not look at his father. He had spent too

long hating from a distance to give way easily, to

admit to circumstances that might persuade a

man to act in such a way as to ignore his son.

"You risked a great deal."

 

"It was my only choice. It was Homana's only

chance."

 

Kellin frowned fiercely. "You said—the Lion

will devour the House. Is that not the same fate

Lochiel aspires to give us?"

 

"There is a difference between swallowing the

lands, and destroying them. Words, Kellin—sym-

bols. Intent is divulged with words. Think of the

prophecy."

 

"Eighteen words, again?"

 

" '—shall unite, in peace—' " Aidan said. "Well?"

 

Kellin sighed, nodding. "Then to unite the lands,

I must swallow them. Swallowing, one might

argue, is a form of uniting."

 

Aidan smiled, "Vivid imagery. It helps a man to

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

373

 

remember." He looked at the waiting boat. "We

all make choices. You shall make yours."

 

Kellin saw his father form the eloquent Cheysuli

gesture he had detested so long. He matched it

easily with his own hand. "Tahlmorra."

 

Aidan's answering smile was serene. "You have

run from it long enough,"

 

"So, now you send me to it. To Lochiel and Val-

gaard—and to the witch?"

 

"That," Aidan said, "is for the gods to know."

 

Kellin sighed disgust. "I have not had much

congress with gods. They are, I am convinced, ca-

pricious, petty beings."

 

"They may indeed be so, as well as other things

perhaps not so reprehensible." Aidan was unof-

fended. "The example for all manner of behavior

lies before you; we all of us are their children."

 

"Even the Ihlini?"

 

"Stubborn, resentful children, too spoiled in

their power. It is time they recalled who gave it

to them."

 

Kellin chewed his lip. "Why am I to bring you

this chain? What are you to do with it?"

 

"Tame the Lion."

 

"Tame me!" He paused- "Tame me?"

 

"Who shall, in his turn, swallow the Houses—

unite them, Kellin!—and bring peace to warring

realms."

 

He clamped his teeth together. "All because of

a chain. Which you broke. And left, like a fool, in

ValgaardV

 

"Aye," Aidan admitted. "But then I have never

suggested I am anything else."

 

" 'Mouthpiece of the gods,' " Kellin muttered.

"You claim yourself that."

 

"And so I am. But the gods made all men, and

there are foolish ones," He smiled. "Bring me back

the chain, and the beast shall be tamed."

 

374 Jennifer Roberson

 

"A quest," Kellin gritted.

 

"The gods do appear to enjoy them. It passes

the time."

 

Kellin shook his head. There was much he

wanted to say, but too little time in which to say

it. He had been given his release; time he took it,

and went.

 

"Shansu," Aidan said. "Ckeysuli i'halla shansu."

 

Kellin's tone was ironic. "If there is any such

thing in Valgaard." He paused. "You said you

would not go to Homana-Mujhar because you

feared you would bring me back."

 

"Aye."

 

"I am here now. That risk is gone." He hesi-

tated. "Will you go home now?"

 

The wind teased auburn hair. "This is my

home,"

 

"Then—to visit. To be hosted by the Mujhar and

his queen." It was hard to force the words past

the lump in his throat. "She wants nothing more,

jehan. Nor does he. Can you give them that now?"

 

Aidan's soft laugh was hoarse. "You believe me

so much a monster as that . . -" He sighed. "There

is still much to be done here."

 

"But—"

 

"But one day I will return to Homana-Mujhar."

 

Kellin smiled faintly. "Is that prophecy?"

 

"No. That is a jehan who is also a son, and who

would like to see his parents."

 

Kellin sighed. There yet remained one more

thing.

 

He looked away to the distant shore, then

turned back and stared hard at Aidan as Sima

leapt into the boat. "Fathers desert their chil-

dren." He used Homanan purposely; he did not in

this moment intend to discuss his own sire, but

those of other children.

 

The wind stripped auburn hair back from Ai-

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            375

 

dan's face. It bared, beneath the skin, the architec-

ture of bone that was ineffably Cheysuli, if housed

in paler flesh. "Aye."

 

"Other fathers . ., Homanan, Ellasian, Solin-

dish—they must do it all over the world—" / did

it myself. I banished three to Clankeep. "—Is there

ever a reason?"

 

"Many reasons."

 

It was not the proper answer. Kellin reshaped

the question. "Is there ever justification?"

 

"Only that which resides in a man's soul,"

Aidan answered. "To the child, bereft of a father,

bereft of the kivama that might explain the feel-

ings that caused the father to leave, there is noth-

ing save an emptiness and a longing that lasts

forever."

 

"Even if—" Kellin hesitated. "Even after the fa-

ther is dead?"

 

"Then it is worse. A deserted child dreams of

things being put to rights, of all the missing pieces

being found and rejoined. A deserted child whose

dreams die with the father's'death knows only a

quiet desperation, a permanent incompleteness;

 

that the dream, even born in hatred, pain, and

bitterness, can now never come true."

 

Kellin swallowed with difficulty. Unevenly he

said, "A hard truth, jehan."

 

"And the only one there is."

 

Four

 

Kellin bought a horse in Hondarth, rode it across

the city, then traded it for another at a second

livery. The second mount, a plain brown gelding

disinclined to shake his entire body with violent

dedication every four steps, proved considerably

more comfortable. The ride commenced likewise.

 

It crossed his mind once, as he and Sima neared

the turning to Mujhara, that he could go home.

What would the Mujhar do, send him away again?

But the order had been for him to remain with his

father until Aidan saw fit to send him home; Kel-

lin could, he thought, argue that it was done.

 

Except he knew better. It most decidedly was

not done, it being the ludicrous quest to fetch out

of Valgaard two halves of a chain his father had

broken, then foolishly left behind.

 

He might have kept it for himself and saved me

the trouble.

 

Sima flanked his horse. Aye. Then we would be

where we were three weeks ago: banished to the is-

land. She paused. Where there are dogs.

 

Kellin laughed aloud. "Fastidious, are we? Dis-

inclined to consort with dogs?" He grinned at his

horse's ears; he knew the cat sensed his amuse-      ^

ment within the link. "They are good dogs, Sima,

regardless of your tastes. They do not bark like

terriers, snatching at ankles if you move . .. nor

 

376

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           377

 

do they bell like hounds on the morning you most

desire to sleep."

 

No, she admitted. But I am quieter even than

those Erinnish beasts.

 

"Usually," he said. "Your purring, beside my

ear, is enough to shatter my skull."

 

You told me once it helps you to go to sleep.

 

"If I cannot sleep, aye; there is something sooth-

ing about it. But when you sprawl down next to

me and take up with rumbling when I am already

asleep ..." He let her fill in the rest. You are not

a housecat, lir. You are considerably larger in many

aspects, most markedly in your noise—and in the

kneading of your claws.

 

Sima forbore to answer.

 

It grew cold as they drew closer to the Bluetooth

River. Kellin was grateful he had thought to buy

a heavier cloak in Hondarth; he wished now it was

fur-lined. But it was nearly summer, and people

in the lowlands did not think of such things when

the sun shone so brightly.

 

He shivered. If I were home in Homana-Mujhar,

or within a woman's arms— Kellin sighed. That is

my favorite warmth.

 

I thought I was.

 

He grinned. There are certain kinds of warmth not

even a lir may provide.

 

Then I must assume you would prefer a roadhouse

woman and her bed to the cold ground tonight.

 

He straightened in the saddle. Is there one?

 

One? Or both?

 

Either. A woman without the roadhouse would

prove warm enough, as would a roadhouse without

a woman. But a woman in a roadhouse would be

the best of all.

 

Then you may rest well tonight. There is one

around the curve of the road.

 

Jennifer Roberson

 

378

 

So there was. Content, Kellin rode up to the sta-

ble and dropped off his horse with a sigh of relief.

There was no boy to do the work for him, so he

led the horse inside the daub-and-wattle building,

stripped his mount of tack, then rubbed him down

and put him into an empty stall with hay and a

measure of grain. He left saddle and bridle be-

neath drying blankets, then went out into the twi-

light to look for Sima.

 

She waited beneath a tree, melding into dusk.

Kellin dropped to one knee and butted his brow

against hers. Tomorrow we go on.

 

She butted back. Do we?

 

You saw the cairn at the. turning. It is but three

leagues to the ferry. We will cross first thing .. . by

sundown tomorrow, we will be in Solinde.

 

Sima twisted her head and slid it along his jaw,

so that a tooth scraped briefly. And by sundown

the day after that, Valgaard?

 

His belly tightened. / would sooner avoid it—but

 

aye, so we will.

 

Sima butted his cheek, tickling his left eye with

the tuft of an ear. He buried his face in the silk of

her fur, then climbed back to his feet. Keep yourself

to the trees.

 

Keep yourself to one wine.

 

Kellin grinned. But not to one woman? So much

faith in me, lir!

 

No, Sima answered. There is only one woman.

 

Kellin did not care. One would be sufficient.

 

The common room was small but well-lighted,

and the rushes were clean. Prosperous place ...

Kellin glanced around. As well it should be, so

close to the ferry crossing and the North Road

out of Ellas, frequently traveled by merchants. He

made arrangements for a room, moved to a table

 

A TAPESTRV OF LIONS

 

379

 

nearer the kegs than the front door, and looked for

the girl.

 

It did not take long to find her, nor for her to

find him. Even as he hooked out the stool from

beneath the small table, she was at his side. Deft

hands unpinned his cloak, then stripped it from

his shoulders.

 

The girl froze. Black eyes were avid as she saw

the gold on his arms; a glance quickly flicked at

his left ear assured her that her assessment was

correct.

 

She smiled, black eyes shining bronze in the

light as ft'r-gold glinted. She was young and pretty

in a wild, black-eyed way, bold in manners and

glances. Content with the weight of his wealth, she

eyed the fit of his leggings.

 

She was quite striking, though in time her looks

would coarsen. For now, she would do. Better than

most. Kellin smiled back. It was an agreement

they reached easily without speaking a word;

 

when he tossed the silver.coin down on the table

to pay for his food and drink, she caught it before

it bounced. Indeed, she will do—much better than

expected.

 

"Pleasure, my lord?"

 

He grinned briefly. It was a two-part question,

as she well knew when she asked it. "For now,

usca. If you have it."

 

"We hae it." White teeth flashed as the coin dis-

appeared into a pocket in her voluminous woolen

skirt. She wore a faded crimson blouse and a yel-

low tabard-smock over it, but both were slashed

low to show off small, high breasts. She had

pinned her thick black hair at the back of her neck

in a bundled mass, but locks had come loose and

straggled down her back. Finer strands curled

against the pallor of her slender neck.

 

380 Jennifer Robersoa

 

Kellin found the disarray, and the neck, infi-

nitely appealing. "And what else?" he asked.

 

She showed her teeth again. "Lamb."

 

"Lamb will do." He let her see his assessment

of her; she would mark it flattery, in the glint of

green eyes. "What do they call you?"

 

"They call me whate'er they like," she said

frankly. "So may you. But my name be Kirsty."

 

"Kirsty." He liked it. "Mine is Kellin."

 

She measured him avidly. "You're a shape-

changer, are ye no', wi' all that gold ... ?" She

nodded before he had a chance to answer. "I ne'er

seen a shapechanger w'out the yellow eyes."

 

He found her northern speech as appealing as

her slender neck with its weight of hair. He gave

her the benefit of a slow, inviting smile he had

found years before to be most effective. "Do I

frighten you?"

 

Arched black brows shot up. "You?" Kirsty

laughed. "I've been all my life a wine-girl . ..

'tisn't much a man hoe to frighten me!" She

paused consideringly. "Do ye mean to, then?"

 

Her hand rested against the table. He put out

his own and gently touched the flesh that lacked

the smooth silken feel of the court women he had

known before turning to the Midden; he found her

hand familiar in its toughened competence, and

therefore all the more attractive. "No," he said

softly. "I would never mean to hurt you."

 

Kirsty promised much with eyes that bespoke

experience without prevarication. "I'll bring your

lamb, then, and the usca ... but I'm working,

now. I canna gie ye my company till later."

 

He turned his hand against hers so she could

see the bloody glow of the ring on his forefinger.

It was unlikely a north country girl would recog-

nize the crest, but she would know its value well

enough.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LlO\S           381

 

Black brows rose again. "You'd nae gie me that

for a night, nor a week of nights!"

 

"Not this, perhaps—" he could not; it signified

his rank, "—but certainly this." He touched the

torque at his neck.

 

Her eyed widened. " Tis too much'. For a wine-

girl? Hae ye no more coin?"

 

"I 'hae' coin." He mimicked her accent. "But

you hae a pretty neck."

 

She assessed the torque again. "A man's, no' a

woman's ... t'would lie low—here—" She touched

her collar bone, then drew her fingers more slowly

to the cleft of her high breasts and smiled to see

his eyes.

 

He understood the game, "Do you not want it,

then?"

 

For her, the game was ended. Dreams filled her

eyes as the breath rushed out of her mouth. "Wi*

that I could go to Mujhara! Am I a fool? Nae, I'd

take it. But what d'ye want for it?"

 

"Your company. Now."

 

"Bu' . .." She glanced around. "Tam'd turn me

out, did I no' tend the others."

 

"I will pay Tarn, too."

 

A smooth brow knitted. "Hae it been so long,

then, that ye're that hungry?"

 

"Hungry," he answered, "for all the things that

satisfy a man." He clasped her fingers briefly, then

released her hand. "Food and drink first. Come

when you can."

 

Her eyes were on the torque. "Promises made

are no' kept, sometimes. D'ye think I'm a fool,

then?"

 

For answer Keilin rose and stripped the torque

from his neck. He hooked it around her own, then

settled its weight low, on delicate collar bones. Its

patina glowed richly against the pallor of her skin.

 

Her fingertips touched it. "Oh . .."

 

Jennifer Roberson

 

382

 

Kellin grinned. "But you will earn it, my lass,

with me."

 

Kirsty laughed aloud, then bent close to him.

"Nae, I think not—'tis a gift\ I'd hae done you for

naught at all."

 

"For naught!"

 

"Aye!" Her laugh was throaty. "I've no' seen a

man like you in all o' my days!"

 

Chagrined, he clapped a hand to her rump and

found it firm and round. "Lamb and usca, then,

before I die of hunger."

 

"Won't be hunger you die of!" She swung and

was gone before he could retort-

 

Kellin ate lamb, drank usca, and laid a few wa-

gers on the fall of the dice in a friendly game at

another table. He was marked as Cheysuli, but no

one appeared to resent it. Eyes followed the glint

of gold when he moved in the lamplight, but the

greed was friendly and lacking in covetous intent.

 

Kirsty appeared at last and ran deft fingers

down his arm. Then she touched the buckle of his

belt and tugged. "I'm done," she said. "Are you?"

 

"That depends," he gathered up his modest win-

nings, "on which game you refer to. With this one,

aye; most certainly I am done. The other is not

yet begun—" he grinned, "—and like to last all

night."

 

She laughed softly. "Then coom prove it to me."

 

He rose and hooked a finger through the torque.

He lifted it; then, using it, he pulled her closer.

very close, so his breath warmed her face. "What

more proof of my intent is necessary?"

 

Her hand was skilled as she slid it between his

legs. "There's proof—and there's proof."

 

Kellin laughed quietly. "Shansu, meijhana—or

would you prefer an audience?"

 

A TAPKSTHY OF LHMS           383

 

"Those words," she said, brows lifting. "What

are those words?"

 

He said it into her ear. "I will explain them

elsewhere."

 

Kirsty laughed and hooked an arm around his

waist as his settled across her shoulders. "This

way, my beastie—"

 

"No." He halted her instantly, humor dissipat-

ing. "Do not refer to me so."

 

" Twas just ..." Her defense died. She nodded.

 

Kellin pulled her close, sorry he had broken the

mood. "You know better where my room is."

 

Kirsty took him there.

 

He awakened hours later, aware of usca sour-

ness in his mouth and a certain stiffiness in his

shoulders. Kirsty had proven her mettle, and had

certainly drained him of his.

 

The room was dark. It took Kellin a moment to

adjust his eyes. The stub of a candle had long since

melted down, so that the only illumination was

from the seam of moonRght between ill-fitted

shutters. It lent just enough light to see the pallor

of Kirsty s shoulder, jutting roofward. Raven hair

and blankets obscured the rest of her.

 

/ like black hair—and such white, white skin. She

was curled against him like a cat, rump set

against his left hip. Would she purr, like Sima?

 

But his mind drifted in search of an answer to

an unknown question. He wondered what had

wakened him. Usually he slept the night through,

unless he dreamed of the Lion; but it had been

weeks since the last nightmare, and he believed Kir-

sty had effectively banished the beast for the night.

He lay in perfect silence, listening to her breathing.

 

Lir, Sima said, has the girl stolen your senses

along with other things? I have called for you three

times.

 

Jennifer Robersoa

 

Ah. Kellin sighed and rubbed at his eyes. What

is it?

 

If you wish to ride to Valgaard. you had better

leave your bed.

 

Why? Do you want to leave now? It was ludi-

crous. / said we would go in the morning.

 

Your horse is leaving. Sima sounded smug.

 

My horse— He understood at once.

 

Kellin sat up, swearing, and tossed the covers

aside. Kirsty mumbled a protest and dragged the

blankets back. His clothing lay in a tangled heap

on the floor, and no doubt the leather was cold.

Kellin swore again and reached for leggings.

 

Kirsty turned as he buckled his belt. "Where

d'ye go?"

 

"To rescue my horse." He meant to take his

cloak, but Kirsty had pulled it up around her

shoulders.

 

She stared at him. "How d'ye know it wants

rescuing?"

 

"My lir told me." He bent to pull on his boots.

 

"Yer beast?"

 

"Not a beast. She is a mountain cat." He

grinned briefly, tossing her the bone. "Her fur is

as black and lovely as your hair."

 

Kirsty hunched up beneath blankets and cloak,

unsure of the compliment. "Will ye coom back?"

 

Kellin pulled open the door. "Would a man be

so foolish as to desert you in the midst of a cold

night?"

 

Kirsty laughed- "Then I'll gie ye sommat to re-

member me by." She flung back cloak and cover-

let, displaying cold-tautened breasts, and it was

only with great effort that Kellin departed the

room.

 

Upon exiting the roadhouse, Kellin was sorry he

had left the cloak behind. The night was clear and

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

385

 

cold, belying the season. Bare arms protested with

pimpled flesh; he rubbed them vigorously, sliding

fingertips across cooling /ir-gold, and strode on

toward the stable intending to settle the business

at once, then hasten back to bed.

 

The building was a black, square-angled blob in

the moonlight, blocky and slump-roofed. He ap-

proached quietly, accustomed to making no sound

in the litheness of his movements, and touched the

knife hilt briefly.

 

Sima's tone was clear. They are taking the saddle,

too.

 

Kellin swore beneath his breath. Just as he

reached the stable two men appeared, and a horse.

His horse. The gelding was bridled and saddled,

as if they intended to ride immediately.

 

He recognized them from the common room.

Greedier than I thought— Kellin moved out of

shadow into moonlight. "I doubt you could pay

my price. You lost in the game tonight."

 

They froze- One man clung to the horse, while

his companion stiffened beside him. Then the first

put up his chin. "Go back to Kirsty," he said, "and

we'll let ye be. 'Twill be a gey cold night, the

other."

 

The dialect was thick. Kellin deciphered it, then

added his own comment. " 'Twill be a gey cold

night, withal—for one of us... ." He slipped into

the lilt he had learned from his grandmother-

Erinnish was similar- "But I'll be keeping yon

horse for myself as well as the bonny lass."

 

Both men showed their knives. Kellin showed

his- The display resulted in a muttered conversa-

tion between the two Homanans, as Kellin waited.

 

Eventually his patience waned. "We each of us

has a knife. In that, we are well-matched. But are

you forgetting I am Cheysuli? If a knife will not

do to persuade you who is better, Hr-shape will."

 

386 Jennifer Roberwa

 

It sufficed. The man holding the reins released

the gelding at once as the other stepped away. The

horse wandered back toward the warm stable.

 

Kellin sighed. "Go on your way. That way." He

gestured. "You'll be bedding down elsewhere, my

boyos."

 

The men goggled at him. "We have a room!"

 

"Not any more."

 

"Ye canna do this!"

 

" 'Tis done." He grinned at them. "You tried to

steal my horse, but that's done for the night. Now

I've stolen your bed." He gestured. "On your

way."

 

They muttered something to one another, then

turned toward the road.

 

Kellin raised his voice. "Ckeysuli i'haSa. shansu!"

 

They did not, either of them, offer an answer he

understood.

 

"No, I thought not." Kellin went after the horse,

caught and gathered dragging reins, then led the

gelding into the stable. "Disturbed your sleep, did

they?" He reached for the knotted girth. "Then we

are a proper pair—though I dare say I miss the

woman more than—" He turned. The noise was

slight, but his hearing better than most.

 

It was too late. Weight descended upon him.

Kellin went down with only a blurted protest.

 

Five

 

It was the cold that finally woke him. The earthen

floor was packed hard as stone, and was twice as

cold. The scattered straw offered no protection.

Kellin's flesh, as he roused, rose up on his bones

all at once and he shivered violently in a sus-

tained, convulsive shudder that jarred loose the

fog from his head.

 

"Gods—" His teeth clicked together and stayed

there, clamped against the chattering he would

not acknowledge.

 

Awake again?

 

He started to hitch himself up on one elbow,

thought better of it almost at once, and stayed

where he was. He rolled his head to one side and

felt at the back of his skull, marking the lump.

Something crusted in his fingers: dried blood, he

guessed; at least it wasn't still flowing.

 

"Lir? Where are—uh." He scowled as he found

her seated very close to his side. Aggrievedly, he

said, "You might have at least lay down next to

me! Some warmth is better than none!"

 

The last time we spoke of warmth, you claimed a

woman's better than mine.

 

"That was in bed. Am I in bed now? No! I am

lying sprawled on an icy stable floor with not even

a saddle blanket for my—" He broke it off in as-

tonishment. "—nor any clothing, either! My leath-

ers—"

 

387

 

388 Jennifer Roberson

 

Sima slitted gold eyes against a stream of invec-

tive. When he at last ran out of oaths he stopped>

caught his breath, and shut his eyes against the

pain in his battered head.

 

He felt empty, somehow—and then Kellin

clutched a naked earlobe. "My ;i'r-gold!" He sat

upright, unmindful of his headache. "Gods—they

took my gold\"

 

Sima twitched her tail. Gold is gold. Blessed or

no, its value to a man remains the same.

 

"But—it took me so long to get it—"

 

You were in no hurry, she reminded him primly.

You denied it—and me—for a very long time.

 

Kellin gingerly rubbed the back of his tender

skull, then felt the stiffness of abused neck tendons

and attempted to massage the pain away. "Gloat-

ing does not become you."

 

Everything becomes a lir.

 

"And Blais' knife, too." Acknowledgment of a

further atrocity sent a shudder through his body.

"Oh, gods—oh, gods ... my ring. My signet ring.

Gods, lir—that ring signifies my rank and title!"

He clutched the naked finger. "It has adorned the

hand of every Prince of Homana since, since—"

He gave it up. "Lir—" And then a burst of ironic

laughter crowded out his panic. "Fitting, is it not?

For ten years I rebel against the constraints of my

rank—and now thieves steal its symbol from me!

Surely the gods had a hand in this."

 

Or a foolish warrior.

 

Levity vanished. "You are not in the least

surprised."

 

/ warned you. She licked a paw.

 

"Does it mean nothing to you that what they

have done is heretical? To rob a Cheysuli warrior

of his /ir-gold, and the Prince of Homana of his

signet—"

 

—is brave, if nothing else; I admire them for their

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           389

 

gall. Sima blinked, then slitted eyes. You can fetch

it back.

 

"In a saddle blanket? They have taken every-

thing else!"

 

Surely the girl can bring you clothing.

 

"The girl likely was part of this." Realization

stabbed him. "What coin I have left is in my

room—" he reconsidered it, "—or was."

 

Then you will have to tend it yourself.

 

Kellin swore again. Then, with excessive care,

he got off the cold ground at last, found the near-

est saddle blanket, and wrapped it around his

loins. He was just tucking in the end when the

stable door creaked open.

 

Kirsty stood silhouetted in moonlight, swathed

in his cloak. He saw the tabard and woolen skirt,

and leather shoes. Unbound hair, tangled from the

evening's sport, hung below her hips.

 

Sima blinked again. A conclusion perhaps best

not jumped to.

 

"Thieves," Kellin declared-in answer to Kirsty's

expression. "Did you know nothing of it?"

 

She put up her chin. "If I knew aught, I'd be

other than here, ye muddle-headed whelp! D'ye

think me so foolish as to coom to ye if I knew?"

 

"A clever woman would, merely to mislead me."

He was curt in his headache and humiliation.

"Have you clothing I can put on?"

 

Kirsty tossed back her untamed mane. "Ye'd

look gey foolish in my clothing, ye ken."

 

Kellin sighed. "Aye, so I would. Have you men's

I might put on?"

 

"Tam'll hae some. T'will cost, and nae doot'll

be no' to your liking, but better than ye wear

now." Her grin was abruptly sly. "Not that I'm

minding, ye ken."

 

"I ken," he said dryly. "And I will pay Tarn.

 

390 Jennifer Roberson

 

Though the gods know that torque alone would

buy me a trunkful."

 

She clutched at it. " 'Tis mine! Ye said so!"

 

" 'Tis yours. I said so. Keep it, Kirsty—run and

fetch the clothing." Silently he said, If I can trust

you to come back.

 

Kirsty swung on her heels and hastened away

while Kellin sat down on a haphazard pile of grain

sacks and tried to ignore the cold and the thumping

in his head.

 

She was back after all in but a handful of mo-

ments, and had the right of it; the clothing was

not at all to his liking. But he put on the grimy

smock and woolen baggy trews without com-

plaint, then stuffed straw into the toes of Tarn's

oversized, decaying boots so they at least re-

mained on his feet. The soles were worn through,

the poor heels all run down, but even tattered

leather was better than bare feet.

 

His earlobe hurt. The thieves had paid scant at-

tention to the wire and how it hooked; they had

wrenched it out of the hole with little regard to

his flesh. But the lobe, if sore, was whole; he re-

called very clearly that his grandsire lacked all of

his.

 

Kirsty touched his arms. "No' the same wi' nae

gold."

 

Anger got the best of him. "Is that what you

wanted all along?"

 

She drew back, warding the torque against his

eyes. "Nae! And I only meant ye dinna look the

same wi'oot it, not that I wanted it! Now ye look

like a Homanan, and a poor one at that!"

 

He laughed with little amusement. "So I do; one

might mistake me altogether as a common low-

born roadhouse-keeper." He regretted the words

at once; what had she done to deserve them? "I

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            391

 

am sorry—I am poor company. My thanks for the

clothing. Now—which way did they go?"

 

"They?"

 

"The thieves. You know them, do you not?"

 

Kirsty said nothing.

 

"I saw them earlier, in the common room. They

knew you, Kirsty, and you knew them." He paused.

"I do not intend to kill them, merely fetch back

my things. What they took is—sacred." He left it

at that.

 

Kirsty chewed on a lock of hair. "North," she

said finally, "across the river."

 

It was very near dawn. Already the sky behind

her began to lighten. "Into Solinde."

 

She shrugged. "They're Solindish. They coom

onc't a four-week."

 

"To steal."

 

"To work."

 

"One and the same, perhaps?" Kellin sighed.

"Which way across the river?"

 

"Westward." She jerked her head- "They might

ha' hurt ye worse."

 

"I said I will not kill them." He glanced at the

stalls. "I have need of a horse."

 

Sima questioned that. What of lir-shape?

 

Within the link, he refused. Too dangerous. No

balance, yet—and now no time to team it. Kellin

shivered. For now, I will ride a horse.

 

Kirsty stared. "Now ye want a horse? Ye hae no

such coin in your purse, ye ken. I looked—here

'tis—I dinna want it!" She slapped it into his

hand. "I only meant, how will ye buy the horse?"

 

"On promises," he said.

 

"Promises o' what? You've naught left; you've

said so."

 

He turned from her and moved to the nearest

stall. "This one will do- Where is the bridle?—ah."

 

392 Jennifer Robersoa

 

He took it down from its peg, slipped the posts

that fenced in the horse, and slipped inside.

 

"You'll no' turn thief," she said. "That be Tarn's

horse."

 

"Not yours."

 

"Nae. I own nothing but what I wear—and

this." She clutched the torque. Her black eyes

were very bright, but it was not from good humor;

 

Kellin thought perhaps tears. "Unless you mean

to take it back."

 

"No, I will do no such thing. Here, have back

the coin—it will pay for the clothing. But I also

need a horse. If you would have Tarn repaid for

that, there is a thing you can do." He bridled the

piebald horse, then led it from the stall. He would

not take saddle also; he took too much already. "If

you would pay back Tarn—and put coin in your

pockets, as well—you need only go to Mujhara,

and then to Homana-Mujhar."

 

"Homana-Mujhar!" She gaped. "To the palace?"

 

"They'll give you coin for the torque." He swung

up bareback onto the piebald back and winced;

 

the spine was well delineated. "That way it will

stay with like pieces instead of winding up with

a money-lender ... tell them I used it to pay a

debt."

 

"Tell who?" She tossed back her head. "The

Mujhar himself?"

 

He grinned. "They do know me there."

 

She was instantly suspicious. "I'm to tell them

Kellin sent me to trade this for coin? Och, aye—

they'll toss me oot i' the street!"

 

"Not immediately. After a meal, perhaps." He

glanced at Sima. Coming?

 

She stood up from the shadows and shook her

coat free of straw, then slid out of darkness into

the dawn of a new day. Kirsty let out a startled

shriek and leapt back three paces.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LlOfVS            393

 

"My lir," he said briefly. "Do you see what I

mean about her fur and your hair? Both such a

lovely, glossy black."

 

The girl clutched at the shining torque. "In the

eyes," she mumbled, staring at him. "E'en wi'oor

the gold!"

 

"I thank you," Kellin said. "It is a compliment."

 

As he rode away from the stable, Kirsty called

a final farewell. "Homana-Mujhar, indeed! I'll be

keeping this for myself."

 

Kellin sighed as he settled himself carefully

athwart the treacherous spine. "Worth a trunkful

of clothing and an entire herd of horses."

 

But less than your missing fir-gold, your ring—

and your kinsman's knife.

 

Kellin offered no answer. Sima, as always, was

right.

 

By the time they reached the ferry, Kellin's dis-

comfort in his nether regions matched the thumping

in his head. He was altogether miserable, wishing

for his horse hack, and alt his gold back, and the

knife, and most particularly the saddle that would

have made things, even on this horse, much easier

to bear.

 

He thought his head might burst. A closer in-

spection with fingers had not divulged anything

he did not already know—the swelling was soft

and tender, the cut dried. He wondered what they

had struck him with—the roadhouse, perhaps?

 

He began a complaint to Sima. They might have

been— Halfway through the comment he cut off

the communication through the link. It made his

head hurt worse. He waved a gesture at the cat

that dismissed conversation; she flicked tufted

ears and held her silence accordingly, but he

thought she looked amused.

 

The ferry was docked this side of the river. Re-

 

394 Jennifer Robersoa

 

lieved, Kellin halted the piebald and slid off care-

fully, so as not to jar his head. A man was slumped

against a cluster of posts roped together, the stub

of a pipe clenched in his teeth. His eyes were

closed, but he was not asleep.

 

Kellin led the horse up. "Did you give passage to

two men early this morning? Just before dawn?"

 

One eye opened. Graying brown hair straggled

around his face beneath a threadbare cap. " 'Twould

be hard for a body to walk across, would ye no'

say?"

 

Kellin suppressed a retort. "Then you did."

 

"Dinna see bodies in the river, do ye?—though

they be carried awa' by now." The other eye

opened. "She's angry in the spring."

 

Kellin looked beyond the man he took to be the

ferry-master to the river beyond. It was spring,

and the river did seem angry; the thaw had thick-

ened the Bluetooth so that it ran nearly out of its

banks, with a high, fast current that would suck a

man down all too easily.

 

"They robbed me," Kellin said. "I am angry,

also."

 

The ferry-master squinted. "Doesna look like ye

had so much to steal."

 

"Now, no. Before, I did. This is the best I could

do," he paused. "Did you give two Solindishmen

passage across the river?"

 

"If I said aye, would ye be after passage, too?"

 

"The woman said it was where they were l?ound."

 

"Kirsty?" The man brightened. He was, Kellin

judged, nearly as old as the Mujhar- "Did she send

ye, then?"

 

"She sent me."

 

He raked Kellin with a glance from brown eyes

set deeply in shadowed sockets. "Then ye must ha'

pleased her. She's no needing to be sending a

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           395

 

robbed man after those who coom to see her onc't

a four-week."

 

Kellin hung onto his patience with effort. The

thudding in his head made it increasingly difficult.

"We pleased each other well enough. Did the men

cross here?"

 

"Dinna walk, did they?" He heaved himself

from the planking and jabbed the pipe in Sima's

direction. "She tame, yon cat?"

 

Kellin opened his mouth to vigorously deny that

a Ur could be tamed; he shut it once he recalled

what Kirsty had said: that he could, in Tarn's

clothing, pass as a Homanan. This close to So-

linde, this close to Valgaard, it might be better to

keep his moufh shut with regard to Ur. "Aye," he

said. "Tame enough."

 

"Then you'd best go no farther north," the ferry-

master warned. "There's a man o'er the Pass who

pays gold and jewels for cats like her."

 

He was indignant. "Who does?"

 

The ferry-master made a sign against evil. "A

man," he said only. "He'cfhae her faster than the

river would eat a man." His truculence now was

vanished. "Aye, they crossed. Will ye?"

 

"I will. At once."

 

The man unwound the coil of rope tying up the

ferry. "Hae ye coin for it?"

 

"I have—" No. He did not. "—this horse."

 

"That horse! That one? What would I be doing

wi' Tarn's old nag?"

 

"Mine was stolen," Kellin said tightly through

his teeth. "I bought this one to track the thieves,

so I might get back my own mount—which is, I

might add, considerably better than 'Tarn's old

nag.' "

 

"Aye, it would be, ye ken? Not many worse than

Tarn's old nag." He jerked his head toward the

ferry. "Coom aboard, then, you and yon cat ... if

 

396 Jennifer Robersoa

 

Kirsty sent ye after them, there's a reason for't.

I'll no' take the nag." He grinned briefly. "Kirsty'11

make it right."

 

Knowing how she spent her nights, Kellin judged

she would. Nonetheless, he was grateful.

 

Almost as soon as he was aboard, Kellin was

sorry. The Bluetooth fought the ferry every inch

of the way, spuming over the sides of the flat, thick

platform until the boards ran white with foam.

The old piebald spread his legs and dropped his

head even as Kellin grabbed hold of a rope; Sima

dug claws into aged wood and lashed her tail an-

grily in counterpoint to the heaves the ferry-

master put to the ropes.

 

By the time they reached the other side, Kellin's

tattered clothing was soaked. Sima bared her

teeth and shook droplets free of her coat. As soon

as the ferry thumped the bank she sprang for land;

 

Kellin led the piebald off and thanks the gods for

putting firm land beneath his feet.

 

"Aye," the ferry-master said, "she's a gey wicked

bitch in the spring. Summer's better," He jerked

his head westward. "That way, they went. They

won't be expecting ye, so they willna be in a

hurry. Ye'll hae them by sundoon."

 

Kellin nodded thanks. "Is this because of Kirsty?"

 

"Och, she's a right'un, that lass .. . but ye've a

pinched look in the eyes that says they hit ye a

mite too hard." He grinned around the pipe. "And

ye speak too well for a man born to wear Tarn's

clothes." He jerked his head again. "Gi* on wi' ye,

then. Ye'll be back by tomorrow, and ye can pay

for your ride."

 

Kellin smiled. "Cheysuli i'halla—" He broke it

off instantly, cursing the headache that mangled

his wits so.

 

The ferry-master's eyebrows shot up beneath the

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           397

 

lock of greasy hair. "Ah. Well, then. Not tame after

all, is she?" He coughed. "Yon cat."

 

"No." Kellin swung up onto the piebald and

wished immediately his pride had permitted him

to find a log and mount, like a woman. "There are

times I wish she were."

 

The brown eyes were sharp. "Then 'tisn't the

horse you're wanting, or the coin . . . more like

cat-shaped gold, is't?"

 

"More like," Kellin said. He kicked the horse

into motion.

 

"Aye, well . .. I've no' known them to be so fool-

ish before." He briefly showed a gap-toothed grin

that gave way to the pipestem. "Be wary of So-

linde. Up here so close to Valgaard—well . .." He

let it go. "They'd be wanting more than yon cat."

 

This time he did not hesitate. "Leijhana tu'sai.

Cheysuli i'halla shansu."

 

Six

 

The westward road was not so well-traveled as

the one cutting down from the Bluetooth into the

center of Homana. It was narrow and twisty,

winding its way through silted huddles of downed

trees and acres of water-smoothed boulders car-

ried this way and that by a temperamental river

gone over its banks to suck back again, leaving

detritus in its wake. Tarn's old nag was not a par-

ticularly coordinated horse, and Kellin spent much

of his time trying to keep his head very still upon

his neck as the horse stumbled its way along.

 

"By sundown," Kellin muttered in reference to

the ferry-master's prediction as the piebald tripped

again. "By then, I may well be lacking a head en-

tirety. It will have fallen off and rolled to a halt

amidst that pile of boulders, there, and when the

crows have picked it clean no one will know the

difference between it and that rock, there."

 

Sima chanced the lir-iink. I will go on ahead. Let

me find them—/ will come back and fetch you.

 

It pulsed within his skull. Kellin hissed in pain

and shut his eyes against it, then waved her on.

"Go, I am little threat to them if I find them in

this state. They will laugh, and be on about their

business with no fear of me."

 

The cat whipped her tail, then left at a springy

lope.

 

The horse stumbled on. After a while Kellin bal-

 

398

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           399

 

anced himself, shut his eyes, and gave himself over

to a state very akin to sleep, in hopes that when

he awoke the pain would be dispersed.

 

He roused to a quiet voice pitched over a rush

of water. "I had expected to eat alone, but your

horse has other ideas." A pause. "I am glad of the

company; will you share my meal?"

 

Kellin opened his eyes. He slumped atop the pie-

bald, which had in turn wandered off the road to

a cluster of tumbled boulders very near the river's

edge. He smelled smoke and fish. It made his belly

rumble.

 

The stranger laughed. "I will take that as

acceptance."

 

"Where am I?" Kellin glanced around. The road

was not so far; he could see it winding Westward.

 

"Here," the man said, amused. "At my camp-

site, such as it is; but I have had good fortune in

my fishing, and there is enough for us both." His

hazel eyes were friendly- The piebald snorted

against the hand that held his bridle; the stranger

grinned and pushed the muzzle away. "You have

been hard used; I have wine for the ache."

 

He was a young, fine-featured man, perhaps Kel-

lin's age or a year or two older. His hair was dark,

nearly black, and fell smoothly to his shoulders.

His clothing was spun of good wool of uniform

yam. Kellin marked him a well-to-do man: linen

tunic died blue, with black embroidery at the col-

lar; black-dyed breeches; good boots, and a brilliant

crimson cloak thrown on loosely over shoulders.

 

Kellin considered refusing. There were the thieves

to think about. But his head did ache, his belly

did rumble—and Sima was on their trail. He need

only wait for her, and by the time she returned,

his condition would be improved.

 

400 Jennifer Robecson

 

"My thanks," he said. Then recalled what he

looked like. "But I have nothing—"

 

The stranger waved a hand. "Your company is

enough. I am not so far from my destination; I

can be generous." He smiled again. "You might do

better to walk, then to go another step atop this

horse."

 

"Aye." Kellin smiled crookedly and slid off, grit-

ting his teeth against the pounding in his head. It

was worse, not better; but the road was hard and

the horse clumsy. He was lucky his head remained

on his neck.

 

"My name is Devin," the stranger said as Kellin

pulled the reins over the piebald's neck. "The wine

I have is Solindish white; will it do?"

 

Kellin followed. "Any wine will do. I am not fit

to judge its taste." A glance from Devin told Kellin

he had perhaps misphrased his answer; he had

meant because of his head, but Devin's quick as-

sessment indicated the stranger believed he meant

his station. He thinks me a poor man; well, for the

moment, I am. He led the piebald to the water-

wracked, uprooted tree at the riverbank and tied

him to a branch next to Devin's mount, a fine

glossy bay very like Kellin's stolen horse.

 

A fire was built between a tumble of clustered

boulders and the water's edge, hosting two speck-

led fish speared and hung belly-up along two

stripped branches resting in crotched braces. The

lap of the river was but paces away, so the sound

was loud. Devin squatted near the fire, digging

through packs. "Here." He tossed the wineskin. "I

have another; drink as you will. I will tend the

fish."

 

Kellin caught the skin as he turned from the

piebald and swallowed, glad of the liquor's bite.

If he drank enough, it would dull the pounding in

his head, but that would be poor manners. He

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

m

 

owed Devin sober companionship, not the rude-

ness of a man undone by misfortune.

 

Devin made conversation as he inspected the

sizzling fish. "I misjudged the distance," he said,

"or I would have stayed the night in the last road-

house I passed- The ground is a hard bed when

one is used to better." He lifted one of the speared

fish. "Here. Trout. I daresay it will complement

the wine."

 

Kellin accepted the proffered fish-laden stick

with thanks and sat down against the closest boul-

der. He thought Devin was indeed accustomed to

better; a sapphire gleamed on one hand, while a

band of twisted gold glinted on the other,

 

Devin took the other fish for himself and sat

back against his packs, blowing to cool the meat.

"Have you a wife?" he asked.

 

Kellin shook his head. His mouth was full of

fish.

 

"Ah. Well, neither do I—for but a four-week

more!" He grinned. "I am-bound for my wedding.

Wish me good fortune, my friend, and that the girl

is comely ... I have no wish to share my bed with

a plain woman!"

 

Kellin swallowed. "You have never seen her?"

 

"No. A dynastic thing, this marriage. To bind

the bloodlines closer." Devin chewed thoughtfully.

"A man like you weds for love, or lust—or because

the woman has conceived, and her father insists!—

but a man like me, well ..." He sighed. "No

choice for either of us. The match was suggested

by her father, and mine accepted eagerly; one can-

not help but to rise in service to a powerful lord."

 

Kellin's smile was crooked. "No."

 

"I envy you. You need not wed at all, if that is

your desire—well, I should not complain; my lot

is better than yours." Devin's attitude was friendly

 

402 Jennifer Xo6erMm

 

enough, but all too obviously he believed Kellin

lowborn. "What is your trade?"               i

 

Kellin wanted to laugh. If he told Devin the

truth— He grinned, thinking of the thieves. "What

other trade is there but to aspire to higher in life—

and the coin to make it possible?"

 

Devin's eyes narrowed consideringly as he washed

down trout with wine. "You are a passing fair

mimic."

 

"A mimic?"

 

"Aye. Put on finer clothing, wash the grime from

your face, you could pass for a highborn man."

He stoppered the wineskin. "You might make a

mummer."

 

Kellin laughed, thinking of his grandparents.

"There are those who have accused me of that

very thing. I did but playact the role, they said—

then admonished me to learn my part better." He

jerked his head westward- "When you came down

the road, did you pass two men with a bay very

like your own?"

 

Devin shrugged. "I passed many people. I do not

recall the horse." His eyes brightened over the

fish. "Why?"

 

"The horse they have is mine. It was stolen from

me ..." He ran a hand through tousled hair. "You

see, I am not precisely the man I appear to be."

Kellin plucked at Tarn's grimy tunic. "They took

more than my horse."

 

"And left you with that piebald horse and anoth-

er's clothing?" Devin shouted a laugh. "Aye, it

makes sense—you have not the manner of a low-

born man, either."

 

Kellin thought of the Midden and his visits.

"Some might argue with that."

 

"Well. at least they left you your life. Did they

knock you on the head?" He grinned as Kellin gri-

maced an answer. "I thought so. The dullness in

 

A rAPEsrHyoFZ.KWs          403

 

your eyes ... aye, well, drink more wine." He fin-

ished his fish. "If I were not expected, I would

help you catch the thieves. I have certain gifts that

would improve the sport."

 

"Gifts?"

 

Devin grinned. "Arts." He reached for the wine-

skin, then turned as movement on the road caught

his eyes. Almost at once he froze. "Be still!" He

put out a hand- "Do not move—gods, but what a

beauty . . . and a fitting gift for the girl's father.

He covets them. I shall have to see if I can take

her."

 

Kellin turned, asking, "Covets what—?" And

broke off immediately. Suspicion blossomed.

 

He dropped the fish, set down the wineskin qui-

etly, and wished he had his knife. He stared hard

at the friendly stranger.

 

"She is lovely'." Devin breathed.

 

Kellin did not answer. He reached out very care-

fully and closed his hand around the hilt of De-

vin's knife.

 

Devin twisted at once, slapping down at Kellin's

grasping hand. "What are you—wait—" He rolled

and scrambled up, poised for attack. The light in

his eyes was gone, replaced by a cold, piercing

stillness. Quietly, he said "Only a fool steals from

an Ihlini."

 

The cold knot solidified in Kellin's belly. He

knelt on one knee with the other booted foot

planted, grasping a stolen knife. "And only a fool

thinks he can capture a lir."

 

Realization kindled in Devin's eyes, then damped

to coals. He shook his head- "You have no power

before me."

 

"Nor you before me."

 

Devin raised his hands. "I have these."

 

"And I have your knife."

 

Devin's eyes narrowed- His young face was

 

404 Jennifer Roberaoa

 

stretched taut across prominent cheekbones. His

lips were bloodless. He studied Kellin carefully,

then murmured something beneath his breath.

"They say—" He shut his mouth, then began

again. "They say we are very alike. Ihlini and

Cheysuli. That we are bloodkin." He remained half

crouched, prepared to receive an onrush. "Do you

believe it?"

 

"Does it matter?"

 

"It does. If there is truth to it. If we are to kill

one another."

 

"Are we?"

 

Devin shrugged. "To serve Asar-Suti, I will kill

whomever I must—" In one smooth motion he

ripped his cloak from his shoulders and swirled it

at Kellin, snapping weighted comers.

 

The blaze of crimson came at his face, aimed for

his eyes. Kellin ducked the cloak easily enough,

but it served merely as distraction; Devin scooped

up and hurled a river rock that nearly struck Kel-

lin's head.

 

Ku'resh— As Keliin dodged it, the Ihlini hurled

himself forward.

 

They went down together hard, smashing into

rocks spewed up by the Bluetooth River. Devin's

fingers dug into Kellin's throat. He squirmed be-

neath the Ihlini, thrashing legs to gain leverage,

and managed to thrust a knee upward that imper-

iled Devin's balance. The Ihlini tensed, shifted,

and Kellin bucked him off. The knife was lost

somehow, but he scrambled to his feet even as

Devin came up clawing.

 

It was an obscene dance, an intercourse of

grasping hands reaching to crush a throat. Kellin

was aware of Sima's nearness by the sound of her

growls and snarls, but the link was completely

empty. In its place was an odd disorientation, a

buzzing interference that told him all too clearly

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             405

 

what he should have known before; what he would

have known before had his wits not been so

muddled.

 

They were too near the river. Sand shifted.

Rocks rolled. Kellin's feet slid inside oversized,

straw-stuffed boots. No foothold— He slipped even

as Devin changed grasp, and Kellin stumbled. He

brought the heel of his right hand up against the

underside of Devin's jaw, meaning to snap the

neck, but the Ihlini twisted his head sharply aside.

 

This, then— Kelin hooked a foot and caught De-

vin's ankle. He dropped the Ihlini, then turned and

lunged for the knife but a pace away.

 

Devin's feet scissored out. Kellin, caught, fell

hard, trying to twist, but Devin's hands were on

him. —knife—

 

The Ihlini had it. Kellin saw the brief glint, saw

the tip meet Tarn's grimy fabric, then plunge

through.

 

Gods—Sima— He squirmed, sucking in his belly.

 

Devin gasped a triumphant laugh. Steel dug

through flesh and slid between ribs. The Ihlini's

mouth was a rictus of victory and exertion. "Who

wins this one?"

 

Kellin jerked himself off the blade, willing him-

self not to think of the pain, the damage, the risk.

He saw the blood smearing steel, saw the crimson

droplets staining damp sand, but refused to ac-

knowledge it.

 

He twisted his torso and brought up a booted

foot. One thrashing thrust jarred against Devin's

thigh, then glanced off. It was enough. Kellin lev-

ered himself up, grasping hair and tunic, and

threw Devin over. He let his weight fall and

pinned the Ihlini, then grabbed handfuls of dark

hair and began to smash the skull against the

sand.

 

The wound was bad. If he did not kill Devin

 

406 Jennifer Roberson

 

soon, he would soon bleed to death. What a sweet

irony if they killed one another.

 

Devin bucked. An upthrust knee missed Kellin's

groin but not his belly. Pain blossomed anew, and

bleeding. His tunic was sodden with it.

 

"—wait—" Devin gritted. "—only need to wait—"

But he did not. He bucked again, broke Kellin's

grasp, and scrambled away from him. "Now—"

 

Kellin staggered upright, sealing the wound

closed with his left arm pressed hard against his

ribs. He fell back two steps, stumbled over a rock,

tried to steady his footing. Strength was fading

fast.

 

Devin laughed. His face was scratched and red-

dened in patches; it would bruise badly if he lived

long enough. "Cheysuli blood—" he gasped, "—is

red as Ihlini—red as my own . .. are we kinsmen,

then?" He smeared an arm across his face. "I have

only to wait—you will do me the favor of dying

even if I never touch you again."

 

"My lir—will touch—you—" It was all Kellin

could manage as he labored to keep his breath.

 

"Your lir'? I think not. The lir are proscribed

against harming Ihlini, Have you ever wondered

why?" Devin's breath was returning.

 

Kellin backed up. He heard the rush of the river,

the promise of its song. What he needed was time

to recover himself, but time he did not have. Devin

had time.

 

He could not hold the blood in. It crept through

his fingers, then dripped to the sand. A rock was

red with it, turning slowly black. Behind Kellin

the river roared louder.

 

"Enough," Devin said, bending to grab the

knife. "I am expected in Valgaard. This foolish

dance delays me."

 

Kellin bent and scooped up a round stone. He

let fly, then scooped another and threw again.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           407

 

Devin ducked, but did not let go of the knife. He

knew better; why loose the only weapon and

chance the enemy's retrieval?"

 

The Ihlini advanced. "One more throw, and

your heart will burst. Do you think I cannot tell?"

 

Kellin retreated, clutching bloodied wool against

his chest. The world around him blurred. Not like

this—not what I could ask for in the manner of my

death—

 

Sima screamed. Devin lunged.

 

Kellin twisted from the knife as the blade was

thrust toward him. He caught the outstretched

arm in both hands and wrenched, snapping it

over, trying with grim determination to break the

limb entirely.

 

Devin shouted. The knife fell free, then the Ihlini

stumbled forward and threw his weight against

Kellin.

 

A curious warmth flowed throughout his chest.

Kellin saw the Ihlini's mouth moving, but heard

no words. He sagged, thrust out a braced foot to

hold himself up, and clung to Devin.

 

The bank behind them broke. Both flailing bod-

ies tumbled into the river.

 

Kellin loosed his grasp on Devin as the waters

closed over his head. He thrust himself upward,

thrashing; ill-fitting boots filled with water and

dragged him down again.

 

Sima—

 

He clawed, sealing his mouth shut, trying to

make his way upward where he could breathe

again. The boots were pulled off his feet.

 

Sima—

 

The river rolled. He broke the surface briefly

and sucked air. Then the beast caught him again,

threw him over, hurled him downward. He tum-

bled helplessly, clawing at current, holding his

breath in lungs that refused to serve him.

 

408 Jennifer Robersm

 

He was briefly embraced within the treacherous

arms of a buried tree, deep in the water- Then the

tunic tore loose and he was free of it, of snag and

tunic; he thrashed again but could no longer tell

which was surface and which was bottom.

 

He breathed water. He was hurled against a

rocky protuberance, then scraped off again and

tumbled, limbs flailing uselessly. His right leg

caught, wedged into a cleft between the rocks.

Kellin twisted in the current, was tumbled help-

lessly, and felt the dull snap.

 

No pain. His leg was numb. Both legs were

numb. His entire body was nothing but a blob of

useless flesh, too vulnerable, too fragile, to with-

stand the beast in full spate.

 

The river dragged him free, then threw him

heedlessly against another promontory. He sur-

faced briefly, coughed a garbled plea for air, for

aid, then the river reclaimed him.

 

This time she was cruel. She hurled him into

her depths and kept him there, like a cork caught

in a millrace, and when she threw him out again,

into the lesser current, she did not notice if the

broken body breathed or not.

 

Interval

 

The master of Valgaard was found deep in the un-

dercroft of the fortress, feeding his cats. They did

not cluster at his feet as housecats do, courting

morsels, demanding affection, because they were

not pets, but mountain cats. tawny, russet, and

black, who prowled the confines of their cages bar-

ing great teeth, snarling as he dangled promised

offal before them, and red, bloodied meat.

 

He was a handsome man, and knew it; it

pleased him to know it, though breeding almost

assured it. And young, less than thirty, clearly in

his prime—though that was won from the Seker

and was not a natural thing. He kept his dark,

springy hair closely cropped against a well-shaped

head balanced on an elegant neck, and adorned

supple fingers with a clutch of rings. They glinted

bloody and bronze in the torchlight.

 

A man arrived. He stood in the archway and did

not step into the chamber. His voice was pitched

very quietly, so as not to disturb the cats; more

importantly, so as not to disturb the master. "My

lord."

 

Lochiel did not look away from his cats; he en-

joyed their ferocity. "Have you news of Devin?"

 

The man folded his hands before him, eyes fixed

on the floor so as not to offer offense. "We are not

certain, my lord. We believe so."

 

Lochiel turned. His eyes were a clear ale-brown

 

409

 

410 Jennifer Roberson

 

set beneath winged brows that on another man

might suggest femininity; on him, they did not.

No one alive would suggest he was less than a

man. The structure of his face was of peculiar clar-

ity, as if the gods had labored long to make him

perfect. "Why are you uncertain?"

 

"We found a horse, and packs containing certain

articles belonging to Devin—included among them

was the ring your daughter sent him—but Devin

was not with the horse. There were signs of vio-

lence, my lord—bloodied sand, and a fallen knife

... but no body. At least, not there." The servant

did not look up from the floor. "We found a man

downriver not far from fhe horse, thrown up in

the bank like driftwood."

 

"Dead?"

 

"He was not when we found him. He might be

now. He is sore hurt."

 

Lochiel threw meat to the cats, one by one, and

smiled to see unsheathed claws trying to fish meat

bestowed from one cage into another. "Where is

my daughter?"

 

"With him, my lord. She was hawking out of

the defile, in the canyon—she saw us bring him

up."

 

Lochiel sighed. "Not the most impressive way

to meet your bridegroom." He glanced at bloodied

hands and wished them clean; they were. "It will

be an annoyance if Devin dies. I researched his

pedigree most carefully."

 

"Aye, my lord."

 

Lochiel observed the cats. His day was now dis-

turbed. "They will have to wait. I will have them

eat no meat save it comes from my hands."

 

"Aye, my lord. My lord?"

 

Lochiel arched an inquisitive brow.

 

"We saw a cat, my lord. As we came over the

 

A TAPESTRY OF LlO\S

 

411

 

Pass. A sleek, black female, young but promising

well. She hid herself almost at once."

 

"Had she a mate?"

 

"None we saw. We were thinking of the man,

and came straight on to the fortress."

 

"Very well. I will send you out tomorrow to

leam the truth of her." He glanced at the black

male who eyed him hungrily. "Perhaps if you are

good, I shall give you a mate." He frowned pen-

sively. "It would be a pity if my daughter lost

hers. I need children of them." He touched one of

his rings. If Cynric is born— His mouth com-

pressed, robbing the line of its purity.

 

If Cynric were born after all, there was only one

sure way, one certain course to defeat him; but

such insurance was costly and required a sacrifice.

Yet he he had failed in all his attempts. Asar-Suti

did not countenance failure.

 

The Ihlini studied his rings, considering, know-

ing the answer already. If Kellin lived to sire the

child, that sure way, that exacting, definitive

course would have to be taken.

 

Lochiel sighed- If we are to block the Firstborn, I

shall have to make a child for the Seker to inhabit.

 

PART IV

 

One

 

"You should not be here," my mother declared.

 

I heard the rustle of her skirts as they dragged

across the threshold. She wears them long and

mil, using up bolts of costly cloth that might bet-

ter be distributed among several women instead

of only one. But that was my mother; she lived

solely for her position as Lochiel's wife, as if it

might mislead a stranger into forgetting what she

herself detested: that the taint of Cheysuli blood

also ran in her veins.

 

"Undoubtedly," I agreed. "But I am here now;

 

proprieties no longer matter." I glanced at her

then, and saw the skirts were the deep, rich red

of the thickest Homanan wine. She glittered with

jet. All black and red, and white..,. Even to car-

mined lips against the pallor of her flesh. She

bleaches it deathly white, to hide the Cheysuli

taint.

 

"Who is he?" She moved closer.

 

"A man," I answered evenly, with off-handed

negligence. Then, to prick her: "He may well be

Devin."

 

She cast me a sharp, well-honed glance designed

to discover the truth; I hid it behind the mask. I

had learned it of my father, who said he had

learned it to turn the witch from the door.

 

It was his jest to say so. We are all of us witches.

 

4SS

 

416 Jennifer Robersoa

 

"Devin or no, you had best take yourself else-

where," she said. "There are servants who can

tend him, and I am better suited to intimacy than

you."

 

Aye, so she would be; she encouraged it con-

stantly.

 

I shrugged. "I have already seen him, I met

them in the canyon when they brought him up;

 

they wrapped him in a blanket, but that was taken

off when they put him in the bed." I paused. "I

know what a man looks like."

 

Carmined lips compressed into a thin, retentive

seam. She looked at the man lying so still in the

bed. He was well-covered now, but I had seen the

naked flesh. It was blue from the water, and slick

with bleeding scrapes reopened by the ride. They

had brought him to Valgaard trussed like a new-

killed stag. The marks still dented wrists and

ankles.

 

"Will he live?" she asked.

 

I shrugged. "If my father desires him to."

 

Her glance was sharp. "If he is Devin, be certain

your father will indeed desire it."

 

I shrugged again. Everyone in Valgaard knew I

was meant to wed Devin of High Crags no matter

what / wanted; men, particularly fathers, are not

often disposed to ask women what they prefer.

 

My father was less disposed to ask anything at

all of anyone; Lochiel need never do so. What was

not given, he took. Or made.

 

Well, so did I. Given the chance.

 

I looked at the man in the bed. Devin? Are you

Devin?

 

My mother made a noise. She bent, studied his

scraped and swollen face, then shook her head

slightly. "He is damaged."

 

"Somewhat," I agreed dryly. "Whoever he is, he

survived the Bluetooth. Worth respect, for that . ..

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           417

 

would you expect a man who goes in handsome

to come out better for it?"

 

He was, at present, decidedly unhandsome; the

river robs a body of the blood that lends flesh

color, the heart that maintains life, and the spirit

to drive the heart. He was a slab of flesh made

into the form of a man, with two arms, a head,

and two legs, though one of the legs was broken. I

had seen the end of the bone pressing hard against

bruised flesh below the knee, turning it white and

shiny, but it had not broken through.

 

"His ear is torn," she said, "and his lip badly

split."

 

"Aye," I agreed. There was much more than

that. The entire left side of his face was mottled

black with bruising, and bled colorless fluid from

abrasions. "Turn back the covers, lady mother.

There is worse yet to see."

 

She did; I expected it. But she looked first at

something that was not, so far as we knew, injured

by the river. He was a man, and whole.

 

I shut my teeth very tightly. There is in my

mother a quality of need, as if she requires a man

to note her beauty, to remark upon it, and to pro-

fess his ardent interest. She is indeed beautiful,

but no man in Valgaard is foolish enough to give

her more than covert glances. She is Lochiel's

wife.

 

It had never been so bad as the past two years.

I knew its cause now, though realization was slow,

and comprehension more sluggish yet. No daugh-

ter desires to see her mother made jealous by her

daughter's ascension to adulthood. But she was. It

had been a hard truth, but I understood it at last.

 

Lochiel's wife was jealous of Lochiel's daughter.

 

You bore me, I said inwardly. How can you envy

the child you yourself bore?

 

But her power was negligible. She was Lochiel's

 

418

 

wife, while I was his daughter. Her value therefore

was finished; she had borne him a single girl-child

and could bear him no more. Now the value

passed to the daughter who would, if married

wisely, insure the downfall of the Cheysuh.

 

It was what she lived for. Despite that she was

the bastard daughter of the Cheysuli warrior who

sat upon the Lion in the Great Hall of Homana-

Mujhar.

 

"What is this?" She touched his chest. "A knife

wound, and deep."

 

I could not see his body because of the way she

held the blankets, but I did not need to look. I

knew what was there. The Bluetooth is cruel. "He

should have bled to death, but the river sealed it.

When he warms, it will bleed anew. We shall have

to be ready."

 

She studied him avidly, marking the- shape of

his battered nose, the muddying of his jawline by

swollen bruises, the mutiliated left ear. Even his

mouth, as if she measured its shape against the

way she might desire it to fit her own.

 

I drew in a sharp breath. It sickened me to see

her behave so.

 

She looked on him, and smiled. Then she looked

at me. Something dark moved in her eyes. "You

may have him."

 

It stopped the breath in my chest. That she

could suggest such a thing was monstrous. She

would give me my bridegroom because he was so

badly hurt as to make him unattractive, and there-

fore unworthy of her interest.

 

Revulsion filled me. I looked at the man in the

bed, so battered, bruised, and broken. / hope you

are handsome. Ami I hope she chokes on it!

 

"Now," she said, "I will order the women in.

We will do what we can do ... I must make cer-

tain my daughter does not lose the man before the

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           419

 

bedding." She said a single word, very quietly—

she is, after all, Ihlini—and women came into the

chamber.

 

They stripped him of bedclothes and began to

clean his body, swabbing gouges and scrapes,

cleaning the knife wound. He made no sound or

movement until they touched his leg, and then he

roused.

 

The indrawn hiss was hardly audible in the fuss

around his bed, but I heard it. The tendons in his

neck stood up, hard and rigid, beneath pale flesh.

 

My mother put her hand on his brow, pushing

away stiffened hair. It was black as my own, and

thick, but lacking luster. Sand crusted the pillow.

 

"Fever," she said crisply. "Malenna root, then."

 

I looked at her sharply. "It will leave him too

weak!"

 

"You see how he fights the pain. I need him

weak, and compliant, so the root may do its

work."

 

So you can assert your control. But I did not say

it.

 

With no word spoken, the women melted against

the walls, faces downtumed. I knew, without look-

ing, my father had come. " 'Sore hurt,' I was told."

He walked through the door. "The leg must t»e

set."

 

"You could heal it," I blurted, then wished I had

said nothing; one does not suggest to my father

what he can or cannot do.

 

My father smiled. "We do not yet know who

he is. He could well be Homanan—why waste the

Seker's gift on a man who is unworthy?" He ges-

tured. "I will set it by conventional means."

 

That meant splints and linen. They were

brought, and my father motioned for the women

to hold him down. He clasped the bruised ankle,

then pulled the bone straight.

 

420 Jennifer Robersoo

 

I watched the man who might be Devin, and

therefore meant for me. Eyes rolled beneath pale,

vein-threaded lids. His head thrashed until one of

the woman caught it between her hands and

stopped its movement. The tendons stood up

again, warping his neck; the battered mouth

opened. It split the lip again so that it bled, run-

ning down his chin to drip against his neck. It'

spilled into the creases and stained the pillow.        ;-

 

Brilliant crimson against the pallor of fragile      4

flesh. Devin's flesh?

 

I felt a frisson of nervous anticipation. If he were

Devin, he was to be, with me, a means to destroy

the prophecy. I could not help but hope he was

indeed Devin so that our plans could continue; we

were close, too close, my father said, to losing the

battle. Kellin, Prince of Homana, need only sire a

son and the thing was done.                         <

 

But I smiled as I thought of it. Indeed, he need

only sire a son upon a particular woman—but Kel-

lin had proved all too selfish with respect to his

conduct. For years my father had laughed to hear

of the prince's exploits, saying that so long as Kel-

lin behaved in such a wayward manner he actu-

ally aided us, but I knew it could not last. He

would have to die, so that we could be certain.

 

It seemed a simple task. Kill Kellin of Ho-

mana—and produce an Ihlini child blessed by the

Seker so we need never concern ourselves with the

prophecy ever again.

 

The blood ran freely from the split lip. My

mother made a sound of disgust. I wanted very

badly to take up a clean cloth and blot away the

blood, to press it against his lip so he would not

lose more, but I dared not be so intimate before      ,,,

my father.

 

, "There." My father placed the splints on either

side of his leg, then bound it tightly with linen.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

421

 

The mouth went slack again. His struggle had

done more then reopen his lip; now blood flowed

sluggishly from his swollen nose.

 

My mother smiled to see it. "A most unfortunate

accident."

 

My father's gaze was on her, steady and un-

flinching. I could not discern his thoughts. "He

will recover," he said, "provided Asar-Suti desires

him to." He looked now at me. "I will certainly

request it. We need this man."

 

1 stiffened. "Is it Devin?"

 

"They have searched his baggage more closely.

A pouch contained the ring you sent last year, a

cache of ward-stones, and the eagle claw charm

against lir intrusion. And—this." He held it up in

the light. It was a gold ring set with a deep blood-

red stone, nearly black; in its heart light stirred

as if roused from sleep. My father smiled. "It

knows me."

 

"A lifestone!" my mother said, then looked more

closely at the man in the bed.

 

I shut my teeth together. ~It makes a difference,

does it? You look again to see if he might present a

different face.

 

"Devin would have one, of course; he is sworn

to the Seker." My father's pale brown eyes looked

at me over the glinting lifestone- "Unless this man

is a thief who stole from Devin, then fell into the

water, I think it unlikely he is anyone else."

 

My mother frowned. "It is set in a ring. Why

would he not wear it?"

 

His gaze dwelled on her face. "Solinde is not

entirely ours, anymore. Even in High Crags, men

honor the shapechanger who holds court in Lestra.

An Ihlini sworn to the god cannot move so freely

now without taking precautions. He was wise to

put it away."

 

My mother's carmined lips compressed. "That

 

422 Jennifer Roberson

 

will be changed. We shall rule again, as in the

days of Tynstar and Bellam."

 

Lochiel  laughed.  "Did you  know  them

personally?"

 

Color flared in her cheeks; she, as I, heard the

irony. "I know as much of our history as anyone,

Lochiel. Despite my Cheysuli blood!"

 

"Ah, but my blood is theirs." He smiled. "Tyn-

star was my grandsire."

 

It silenced her at once. Even among the Ihlini,

who understood his power, Lochiel was different.

It was easy to forget how old he was, and how

long-lived his ancestors.

 

I smiled to myself. Tynstar, Strahan, Lochiel—

and now Ginevra. I am their legacy. It was more

than she claimed, and Melusine knew it.

 

"Shall we see if he is Devin?" My father held

the ring in such a way that the light sparked from

it. "If he is an opportunist who decides, upon

awakening, he would benefit from our care, we

can take steps now to present him with the lie."

 

I looked at the ring. Light moved within it slug-

gishly. Indeed, it did know my father; the blood

of the god ran in his veins, as it did in the veins

of all those sworn to Asar-Suti. I as yet claimed

none of it outside of my natural inheritance; I was

to drink the cup at my wedding, to seal my service

forever to the Seker.

 

"Will it kill him?" my mother asked.

 

Lochiel smiled at her, "If he is not Devin, as-

suredly." He held the ring. "My gift to you, Melu-

sine—adjudicate this man."

 

"Wait!" I blurted, and regretted it at once as my

father turned to me.

 

Carmined lips stretched back to display my

mother's white teeth. "No," she said venomously.

"He gives you everything—this he gives to me!"

She snatched the ring, bent over the unconscious

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

423

 

man, grasped his left hand and pushed the ring

onto his forefinger. "Burn," Melusine said. "If you

are not Devin, let the godfire devour you!"

 

"You want it to!" I cried. "By the god himself,

I think—" But my accusation died as godfire flared

up from the ring, a clean and livid purple. I fell

back a step even as my mother did, who laughed.

 

"You see?" she said. "Not Devin at all!"

 

But the burst of flame died. The hand was un-

blemished. Light glowed brilliantly deep in the

lifestone's heart.

 

"Ah," Lochiel said. "A premature assumption."

 

"Then—it is he?" I looked at the ring upon the

hand. "This is Devin."

 

"It appears so- A lifestone is linked to an Ihlini

as a Hr is linked to a Cheysuli." For a brief mo-

ment he frowned, looking at Devin. "It is but an-

other parallel . .." But he let it go. "We will have

confirmation when he awakens."

 

I drew in a breath and asked it carefully. "Then

why not heal him instead of relying on normal

means?"

 

Lochiel smiled. "Because even Devin must learn

that he is solely dependent on me for such paltry

things as his life." He extended his hand. My

mother took it. "Nurse him well, Ginevra. There

is no better way to judge a man than from the

depths of pain. It is difficult to lie when your

world is afire."

 

He led my mother from the room. They would

go to bed, I knew. It made my face bum; I did not

understand what need it was they answered, save

there was one, only that they seemed to be, in all

ways such private things are measured, particu-

larly well suited.

 

One of the women blotted away the blood on

Devin's face. Another came forward with a cup.

Malenna root, I knew, mixed in with water. I

 

424 Jennifer Robersoa

 

wanted to protest it, but did not; it was true he

needed the fever purged. If it weakened him too

much, I would prevail upon my father to make

certain he survived,

 

My father wanted a child. An heir to Valgaard,

and the legacy of the Ihlini. If I did not marry

Devin, we would have to find someone else whose

blood was proper. Why waste the time? The man

was right here.

 

I sat down on a stool and stared at him. Live, I

told him. There is much for you to learn.

 

And as much for me.

 

I had seen my parents' marriage. I was not so

certain I desired the same for myself.

 

I sighed. The Seker grant me the knowledge I need

to make my way in this. I want to serve my father—

but I want to serve me also!

 

Two

 

The fever broke before dawn. The malenna root

did its work, purging his body of impurities so

that the sweat ran upon his flesh. The worst was

done, I thought; now could come the healing. It

would take much time because of the severity of

his injuries, but I believed he would survive.

 

The women my mother had left to tend him slid

sidelong glances at me as they cleaned him. They

dared say nothing to me, though I knew they felt

it improper for me to remain in attendance. But

he was my bridegroom; how could they believe I

would not be interested in whether he lived or

died?

 

I sat upon a stool close to his side. He fascinated

me. I wanted to study him covertly so he need

never know. A man awake is too aware of his pride

and the manner of his appearance; I wanted to

know him without such impediments.

 

His breathing sounded heavy in his chest. The

wad of bandage pressed over the knife wound

came away soiled with blood and fluid, but seemed

clean enough. It did not stink of infection. It was

a simple wound, if deep; with care he would

recover.

 

He stirred and moaned, twisting his head against

the pillow. The oozing of the scrapes on his face

had stopped and his skin had begun to dry, puck-

ering the flesh into a crusted film. The hollows

 

425

 

426 Jennifer Roberson

 

beneath his eyes were darkened by bruising. Eye-

lids flickered. His lashes were as long as mine, and

as thick.

 

Incongruous thought; I banished it. Then sum-

moned it back again as I studied the fit of his

swollen nose into the space between his eyes, be-

neath arched black eyebrows. He was badly bruised,

aye, but I thought my mother was blind. She

could not see beyond the wreckage wrought by the

river to the good bones beneath.

 

/ think when you are healed, you might surprise

us all. I drew in a breath. "Devin?"

 

Lids flickered again, then opened. His eyes were

a clear brilliant green, but glazed with weakness.

Malenna root, I knew; it would rob him of his wits

for longer than I preferred. I wanted them back.

 

I scraped my stool closer, so he could see me.

His lips were badly swollen and crusted with

dried blood. He moved them, winced, then took

more care as he shaped the words. They—it—was

malformed, but clear enough. "Who—?"

 

I smiled. "Ginevra."

 

I waited. I expected him to respond at once that

he was Devin, or to make some indication he knew

who I was. Instead, he touched his mangled bot-

tom lip with an exploratory tongue tip, felt its

state, and withdrew the tongue. Lids closed a mo-

ment, then lifted again.

 

"Your name?" I persisted, desiring verbal con-

firmation in addition to the lifestone.

 

A faint frown puckered his forehead. With the

hair swept back I could see it was unmarred; the

river had spared him her savagery there, at least.

"My leg ..." A hand moved atop the furred cover-

let, as if it would pull the blanket aside.

 

"No." I stopped the hand with my own- "Your

leg is broken, but it has been set." The hand

 

A TAPESTRY OF LlO!VS

 

427

 

stilled. I removed mine. "Do you recall what

happened?"

 

The forehead puckered again. "What place is

this?"

 

"Valgaard."

 

There was no change of expression in his eyes.

What I saw there was a puzzled blankness.

 

It had to be the malenna. "Valgaard," I repeated.

 

He moved his mouth carefully. His words were

imprecise. "What is—Valgaard?"

 

It astounded me. I turned sharply to one of the

women. "How much malenna was he given?"

 

She paled. "No more than usual, Lady."

 

"Too much," I declared. "No more—do you

hear?"

 

"Aye, Lady." She stared hard at the floor.

 

He moved slightly, and I looked back at once.

"Why am I here?" he asked.

 

"This is where you are supposed to be. But you

were hurt. There was a fight—you fell into the

river." Or was pushed; how-better to hide a body?

 

"The river?"

 

Indeed, too much root. "The Bluetooth." I stud-

ied him more closely, marking the dullness of his

eyes. More black than green in reflection of the

root. "Do you truly recall none of it? Not even the

man who stabbed you?"

 

"I remember—being cold—" He paused. "—

heavy." The eyes closed, then opened. Their clar-

ity was improved, but not their knowledge. "No

more .. ." He stirred. "—head hurts."

 

"The Bluetooth," I repeated, beginning to un-

derstand. If he had struck his head, which was

entirely likely in the river, he would likely be con-

fused for a day or two. Combined with the root, it

was fortunate he was conscious at all. "It will

come back on its own," I promised. "You will

 

428 Jennifer Robersoa

 

know where you are, and that you are safe ..." I

paused. "Devin."

 

"Is that—I am Devin?"

 

I grinned. "Tell me when you are certain."

 

He looked at me more closely, "Who are you?"

 

Your bride, I answered, but could not say it

aloud. "Ginevra."

 

He repeated it after me, rolling the soft, sibilant

first syllable between his teeth an extra moment.

His accent was odd, more Homanan than Solin-

dish, but Devin is a High Crags man, from high

up on the border between the two lands. I had

heard the speech before. "How long—?"

 

"You were brought yesterday. My father sent

out a search party since you were so late." I

smiled wryly. "You are valuable. It was of some

concern."

 

"Why?" The struggle was in his eyes. "I remem-

ber none of it—"

 

"Hush." I leaned forward. "Do not tax yourself

... it will come."

 

"I should remember." Dampness glistened on

his forehead. He made more sense as conscious-

ness solidified. "Who am I, that my tardiness is

worth a search party?"

 

"Devin of High Crags." I hope it might light the

snuffed candle of his mind.

He tried. "No . .."

 

No help for it. It was best simply to say it. "We

are meant to be wed."

 

The candle within lighted, blazing in his eyes, but

the knowledge was not increased. "WedE When?"

His mouth taxed him badly. "I remember noth-

ing—"

 

I sighed. "Know this, then, so you need not re-

main in ignorance. I am Ginevra of the Ihlini,

daughter of Lochiel—and we are meant to wed so

we can bring down the Cheysuli." I stopped short,

 

A TAPESTRY w LIONS           429

 

seeing the expression in his eyes. "The Cheysuli,"

I repeated. "Do you recall nothing of them?"

 

"—a word—"

 

"A bad word." I sighed. "Let it go, Devin. It will

come back, and all will be remembered."

 

"Who am I?"

 

"Devin of High Crags." I smiled. "Like me, you

are Ihlini." It was a bond stronger than any, and

he would know it once his mind was restored.

 

He sighed. "Ihlini, Cheysuli ... nothing but

words to me. I could be either and never know it."

 

I laughed. "You would know," I told him. "Be

certain you would know, when you went before

the god."

 

His eyes snapped open. "The god?"

 

"Asar-Suti." He knew all of it, but I would tell

him regardless. "My father will take you before

the Seker. The god requires your oath. You are to

wed Lochiel's daughter, and Lochiel is the Seker's

most beloved servant. It is necessary." I smiled.

"There is no need for you to worry. You are Ihlini.

The Seker will know it, just as your lifestone

does."

 

He followed the line of my gaze and saw the

ring upon his hand. He lifted the hand into the au-

to study the stone, saw how his fingers trembled

and lowered it again. "I—have no memory of this

ring."

 

That was of concern. He was indeed badly dam-

aged in his mind if he forgot what a lifestone was.

But I dared not tell him that. "It will come to

 

you."

 

His eyes were slitted. "You—will have to teach

me. I have forgotten it all."

 

"But surely not this." I drew a rune in the air.

It was only a small one; it lacked the intricacy of

my mother's handiwork, but was impressive

enough if you have never seen it—or if one has

 

430 Jennifer Roberson

 

forgotten what godfire looks like. It glowed livid

purple.

 

He stared at it, transfixed. His fingers trembled

upon the fur-"Can I—do that?"

 

"Once, you must have. It is the first one we ever

leam." I left the rune glowing so he would have a

model. "Try it."

 

He lifted his hand and I saw how badly it shook.

Awkwardly he attempted to sketch the rune, but

his fingers refused to follow the pattern. It was if

they had never learned it.

 

The hand dropped to the bed. He was exhausted.

"If I knew it once, I have forgotten."

 

I dismissed my own rune. It was somewhat dis-

comfiting to discover an Ihlini who could not even

form the simplest rune, but not surprising. He

would recall it. For the moment his mind was

empty of power, of the knowledge of his magic,

like a young child. "It will come again." I paused.

"If it does not, be certain I will teach you."

 

The lips moved faintly, as if to form a smile.

But his eyelids dropped closed. The root was reas-

serting its control.

 

I rose quietly. He looked very young and vulner-

able. Against his hand the lifestone was black.

 

Black, not red.

 

"It will come back," I said.

 

At the door, as I lifted the latch, I heard a sound.

I turned back and saw the faint glint of green eyes.

"Ginevra," he said, as if to try out the fit of my

name within his mouth.

 

I smiled. "Aye."

 

The lids closed again. "Beautiful," he whispered.

 

Nonplussed, I did not answer. I did not know if

he meant my name, or the woman who bore it.

 

Then I thought of my mother. I could not help

but smile. You gave him to me, I thought. Now let

you see what comes of it.

 

A TAPESTRY w Lions           431

 

I went at once to my father. With him was my

mother, who sat upon a window seat in my fa-

ther's tower chamber and gazed down upon the

smoky bestiary before the gates. I thought she was

very like the fortress, strong, proud, and fierce. I

wished I could like her, but that had died. I knew

her heart now, and the knowledge bruised my

own.

 

"He remembers nothing," I told them. "Not

even his name."

 

My father stood before a burning tripod brazier.

It turned his eyes bronze. He waited.

 

"I told him. I told him mine as well, and that

we are to wed. I told him where he is. But he

recalls none of it ... not even that he is Ihlini."

 

That brought my mother's head around. Bells

tinkled in her hair. "He forgets that?"

 

I refused to flinch beneath the contempt. "He

has been badly injured. It will come back."

 

"Did you test him?" my father asked.

 

I flattened my palms against my skirts and held

my hands very still. "What magic he knew is for-

gotten. Even bel'sha'a. He is a child, my lord fa-

ther—an infant empty of power." I took a careful

breath, knowing what I said was incredibly impor-

tant. "If you sought a tool, you could not find a

better one. He has nothing on which to rely save

what we give him. There are no preconceptions.

How better to teach the man how to serve the

master than by replacing the old memories with

the new?"

 

Only the faintest glint in his eyes betrayed his

interest. I knew I had caught him. Now there was

no need for subtlety.

 

My father smiled. I saw him glance at my

mother who watched him with narrowed eyes.

Hers, too, are pale brown, though not like his; hers

 

432

 

are almost golden except when the light hits them

fully, and then the Cheysuli shows.

 

"He shall be mine," Lochiel said.

 

I put up my chin. It was time I declared myself

lest she do it first. "But you will share him with

me."

 

My father laughed. "I shall do better than that.

He shall be your charge until I believe the time is

right . - - you may have the training of him. In all

things."

 

I could not help the burst of pride in my chest.

Never had he bestowed upon me such a gift. It

was a mark of his acknowledgment of my blood.

He was giving me the opportunity to serve my

heritage.

 

Still, I hesitated. "Are you sure I am worthy?"

 

He laughed. "You need not fear that you might

tarnish the vessel. I will be here for you ... I will

see what you do. He is meant for the god, Ginevra,

as you are. Do you think I would give him immor-

tality only to have you watch him sicken and die

the way others do?"

 

"Lochiel!" my mother cried. "You promise too

much."

 

"Do I?" His tone was cool. "Do you wish it for

you in place of your daughter?"

 

Color stained her face. "You have never sug-

gested it. Even when I asked—"

 

He made a subtle gesture with his hand. I had

seen it before; I had tried to mimic it desperately

because it always silenced my mother. "Melu-

sine," he said, "you live here on my sufferance."

 

Her red lips trembled, then firmed. "I am your

wife."

 

"That does not make you worthy of the Seker's

favor."

 

Her eyes blazed almost yellow. "You promise it

to her\"

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            433

 

He stood next to me. His hand was on my shoul-

der. The fingers crept into my hair, which hung

loose to my hips, and I felt the warmth of his flesh

through the velvet of my gown. "Ginevra is the

flesh of my flesh, the blood of my blood, the bone

of my bone," he said quietly. "Her mind is mine

as well. You are none of these things ... I used

you to get the child, and now I have her."

 

"Lochiel!"

 

His other hand rose. I could see it from the cor-

ner of my eye. I looked at my mother because I

could look nowhere else. "Melusine," he said, "I

have cared for you. You bore me a child. You suck-

led Kellin of Homana when I bid you do it. You

have served me well. But you surely must see that

you and your daughter are destined for different

ends."

 

"I bore her!" It was her only chance now.

 

"In blood and pain; I know it. But so do the

mares, and the cows, and the ewes . .. and they

are not elevated by the honor of the Seker." He

paused. "Surely you must see."

 

Her face was very pale. "You mean me to die,

then."

 

"Not before due time."

 

"Before her time!"

 

Lochiel sighed. "You are a shrew."

 

It was incongruous. He was the most powerful

sorcerer in the entire world, yet all he did was call

my mother a name.

 

It infuriated her; I saw then what he did. "A

shrew! In the name of Asar-Suti, are you mad? A

shrew?"

 

My father laughed. There was something be-

tween them I could not understand. "Melusine, do

you believe you have displeased me? You are all

I could wish for. You suit me."

 

JeaaSfer Robenoa

 

434

 

Her eyes glinted yellow. "Then why do you

threaten me?"

 

"To relieve my boredom." He smoothed my

hair, then released it. "She is lovely, our Ginevra

. .. and this binding of the bloodlines will insure

our survival. But Devin must go before the god.

The blessing is required."

 

My mother was less angry now, but still unset-

tled. She hated to be used; before, I ^iad not seen

it. I was old enough now to begin to understand.

"And if the blessing is denied?" She cast me a

glance. "What happens to Devin then?"

 

"He dies/* Lochiel said.

 

My mother looked at me and laughed.

 

I could not echo her. I knew she hoped he would.

 

Three

 

"A fool," I told him.

 

He ignored me. He sat up anyway and swung

his legs over the edge of the bed. I watched not

the splinted leg itself, which was at issue, but the

face of the man who struggled to redeem himself

in the eyes of the woman he was meant to wed.

 

It meant something to him. It meant a great

deal to him. It pleased me to know why; that of

all things in the world to come unexpectedly, we

would make a match between a man and a woman

who loved one another.

 

His color was much improved. A lock of black

hair, now clean and glossy, fell forward over his

forehead. The swelling of his face was gone, so

that the clean lines of nose and brow formed a

perfect melding, complementing the oblique angles

of his cheekbones and the clarity of his eyes

framed in sooty lashes that rivaled my own.

 

"A fool," I murmured, applying it to myself

though he believed it meant for him. Never had I

thought I could love a man the way I loved Devin,

and we not even wed yet. We were, as yet, nothing

but intendeds; but they all knew, everyone, despite

our circumspection. It was easier for them to

know than for us to admit it. As yet, we said noth-

ing of it.

 

The ends of the splint tapped down; Devin

winced. It would not stop him, I knew; I had

 

435

 

436 Jennifer Roberson

 

learned that much of him in the past few weeks.

A stubborn, intransigent man.

 

And entirely beautiful, in the way a man can be

who is clearly a man. Male, I thought, Expressly,

completely male. like the cats in the undercroft.

 

I wanted to laugh. My mother had lost. It

pleased me intensely that he was as I expected,

as I had dreamed between sleep and wakefulness,

when my body would not be quiet. I understood,

now, what lay between my parents.

 

"Devin—" I shook my head. "It is not necessary.

I know you are not a weakling ... let it heal."

 

His mouth was compressed in a grim. Hat line.

He intended to try again. I sighed and set my

teeth; he would only damage himself.

 

I made a slight gesture from my chair, so that

the bindings undid themselves and the splints fell

away. Unbound, the leg was ill-suited to standing.

 

Devin looked at the fallen linen and the wooden

sticks. "You did that."

 

I arched my brows. "I did warn you."

 

"No—you called me a fool."

 

"That was my warning."

 

He scowled. Beneath black brows, his eyes glit-

tered like glass. "I cannot stand without aid."

 

"No."

 

He sighed. "The lesson is duly learned. Will you

bind it up again?"

 

He would not admit it, but the leg hurt. Forgo-

ing magic, because I longed so much to touch him,

I knelt on the ground and bound it up by hand

again. The flesh was flaccid and soft. The bones

inside knit, but the muscles were wasting,

 

He watched me as I tied the knots. His voice

was hoarse, as if he held back something he longed

to say. "If we Ihlini are truly as powerful as you

say, why leave healing to splints and linen bind-

ings? Why not ensorcell my leg?"

 

A TAPESTKY OF LIONS

 

437

 

I sat down in my chair again. We spent much

time together in the small chamber, as I taught

him what he knew already but did not recall. "My

father desired you to know limitations."

 

"Ah." His mouth hooked down.

 

"And there is another reason. Healing is a Chey-

suli gift."

 

"It would seem a benevolent gift. Perhaps if I

had a Cheysuli here . . ." He grinned. "I see a

storm in your eyes."

 

"You should. Besides, a Cheysuli here in Val-

gaard would have no power. It is because of the

Gate—the Seker is too strong. The only magic here

is that which he makes himself."

 

Devin's expression was serious. "And when will

I see him?"

 

"When my father wishes you to." I sketched on"-

neth. "Try it, Devin."

 

"I have tried."

 

"Again."

 

He put his hand into the air. His other was

naked of lifestone; he had taken it off because, in

losing weight, the ring would not seat itself prop-

erly. "Your father has not come to me again. How

is he to know when I am ready?"

 

"Make the rune. He will know."

 

"Because you will tell him?"

 

"No one tells Lochiel anything; no one has to.

My father knows things." I sighed. "Devin—"

 

He tried. Fingers warped, twisted, mimicking

the patterns. Only the barest outline appeared,

and then he let his hand drop. "There. You see?"

 

"You mastered bel'sha'a," I reminded him.

"Ori'neth comes next."

 

Devin was glum. "I have no aptitude."

 

I laughed at him outright. "Aptitude! You are

Ihlini." I smiled at his disgruntlement. "It was

better. This time I could see the air parting. When

 

438 Jennifer Robersoa

 

you can separate the air and put the godfire in the

seam between air and air, you will have learned

the trick." I paused. "You learned bel'sha'a."

 

"In six weeks," he said. "I will be an old man

before I learn the third level, and useless as a hus-

band." He scowled at me. "What use are such

tricks, Ginevra? They could not stop a man."

 

"These could not. it is true .. . but these are the

first runes, Devin. This is a baby's game, to keep

the child occupied." I laughed as the scowl deep-

ened. "But you are a baby! I could make bel'sha'a

when I was three years old. A six-month later I

mastered ori'neth. I have no doubt it was the same

for you—you have only forgotten. The river stole

your wits."

 

"I may never get them back."

 

He was depressed. I pulled my chair closer, hesi-

tated a moment, then leaned forward and caught

his hand. It was an intimacy I would not have

dared two weeks before, but something I needed

now. I wanted to lessen the pain of his weakness.

 

And increase your own?

 

I went on regardless, ignoring my conscience.

"An Ihlini does not gain his powers until he

reaches adolescence, and even then it takes years

to focus all the skills. I am not so well-versed my-

self." I was, but no need to tell him that; I was

Lochiel's daughter, and the blood showed itself. "I

am a child leading an infant, but who better to

recall the days when a simple trick proved diffi-

cult? See this?" I made a gesture and felt the tin-

gling coldness in my fingertips. The godfire came

as I bid it, luridly purple. It hung in a glowing

sheet between Devin and me, but our hands re-

mained linked. "This is—"

 

He jerked his hand from mine and lifted it as if

to shred the godfire. I tore it aside before he burned

 

A r/iffEsrar OF Liofvs

 

439

 

himself; he did not yet know how to ward himself.

A sheen of perspiration coated his face, "Ginevra—"

 

"What is it?" 1 left my chair and knelt by the

bedside. "Devin—what is it?"

 

"That—that—" His eyes were frightened. "I re-

member. Dimly. Fire—flame . . ." He closed his

eyes. His body went slack against the pillows.

"Why can I remember no more?"

 

"It will come," I told him, as I had so many

times.

 

He shifted against the bedclothes. "How can you

be certain? How can you know? And if I am not

able to master such things .. ." The chiseled lips

compressed themselves flat, robbing them of shape.

"An Ihlini with no arts is hardly fit to be wed to

Lochiel's daughter."

 

I took his hand into my own and pressed it

against my mouth. "He will be fit," I said. "I will

see to it."

 

Devin's eyes were black. His breathing was shal-

low and quick. "Can you do such a thing?"

 

Against his flesh, I said, '*! can do many things."

 

The hand turned in my own. He caught my fin-

gers, carried my hand to his mouth, and let me

feel the hardness of his teeth in the tenderness of

his lips, "Show me," he breathed,

 

I shuddered once. "Not—yet."

 

"When?"

 

It was a difficult truth, but he was due it rather

than lies. "When my father is convinced you are

fit to serve the god."

 

Devin's breath was warm against my hand as

he laughed softly. "Fathers need not always rule

their daughters in such matters as this."

 

"Mine does." I pulled free of his grasp. "If you

forget that, even once, it could be your death."

 

"Ginevra—"

 

"He is Lochiel," I said; I knew it was enough.

 

440 JeaalCer Roberwn

 

The tension in his body fled. His mouth moved

faintly into an ironic smile. And then it, too, died,

and I saw in its place a harrowing despair. "I have

nothing," he said. "I am nothing—save what you

make me."

 

It shook me. "You are Devin."

 

"I am no one," he said, "save what you tell me.

I am denned by you." His eyes burned livid as

god/ire, save they were green in place of purple.

"You are my sanity."

 

I petitioned the Seker to lend him the strength

to find his own sanity, lest mine prove too weak.

And then I left the room. I wanted too badly to

give him what he asked.

 

When the splint at last came off and Devin was

able to stand, I learned he was taller than I had

expected. He had lost flesh in his illness, but

movement and better meals would restore him.

 

Within the week the crutch was tossed away and

he walked freely on his own. With renewed mobil-

ity came vigor and curiosity to see where I lived.

He walked easily enough, but I saw the trace of

tension in his mouth and around his eyes. I

wanted him to see all of Valgaard so he would

know it as I did; it was to be his home. It was

important that he understand the kind of power

contained in the fortress, so he would not forget

himself—once he had relearned the arts—and

wield it improperly.

 

He progressed at last from ori'neth to H'ri'a. The

rune pattern was roughly worked, but achieved,

glowing fitfully in the air. He was most pleased

that it smoked and sputtered, shedding bits of

godfire; I reminded him that control was more

important than appearance.

 

"You require new clothing," I told him as we

walked the cobbled courtyard.

 

A TAPESTKY OF LIONS

 

441

 

"I have clothing. And you have already said ap-

pearance is unimportant."

 

"Not unimportant; less important—and that is

in wielding magic, not wearing clothing." I cast a

sidelong glance. "I want you to have better. These

do not fit well enough."

 

"And if I gain back the weight you say I have

lost, the new clothing will not." He touched my

cheek. "Let it be, Ginevra. I am content with what

I have."

 

"Then at least wear the ring." I took it from the

pouch hanging from my girdle. "Here. I sent it to

you last year. The least you can do is wear it in

my presence."

 

He took the emerald from me, studying it. I saw

the flattening of his mouth. "Even this I do not

recall. Any more than the other ring."

 

"No matter. Put it on."

 

He did so. The gold band turned on his finger.

I saw the look in his eye.

 

"Bind it with wool," I said. "When you are well,

it will fit."

 

He was frustrated and angry. "Will I ever be

well?"

 

"Dev—"

 

He stopped dead in his tracks, capturing my

shoulders in hands well recovered from his illness.

'"Will my memory return? Or am I sentenced to

spend the rest of my life but half a man, able only

to form the rune a child of two could make?"

 

It hurt me to see him so affected. If I could pro-

vide help—

 

I could. It was up to me to risk it.

 

I sighed. "I think it is time . , . come with me."

 

"Where?"

 

"To my father."

 

The black in his eyes expanded. "You would

shame me before Lochiel?"

 

Jennifer Roberson

 

442

 

"There is no shame in this. My father under-

stands."

 

He shut up the ring in his hand as it turned

on his finger. "Can Lochiel restore me? Or is that

healing also, and therefore anathema?"

 

"Come," I said firmly, putting my hand on his

arm. "Ask him instead of me."

 

The room was empty as we entered. It was a

small private chamber tucked up into one of the

towers, draped with rune-worked cloth to soften

the walls, filled with a jumble of chairs and tables,

and candleracks sculpted to new forms by hard-

ened streamers of creamy wax. My father pre-

ferred the chamber when he desired to have

private discussions; he saw no need for opulence

among his family.

 

Devin was nonetheless impressed. It takes peo-

ple that way, to witness power incarnate. It lived

in the room. It was woven into the very cloth that

warded the stone walls.

 

None of the candles was lighted in my father's

absence. I blew a gentle breath that set them all

ablaze, laughed at Devin's expression, then threw

myself down in a chair and hooked a leg over the

arm. An undecorous position, perhaps, but mod-

esty was protected by voluminous skirts; I had, of

late, put off hunting trews to wear silks and vel-

vets. Even my hair was tamed; I contained it with

a simple silver circlet, so that it did not spring

forth from my scalp quite so exuberantly. I knew

Devin liked it loose; he watched me most avidly

from his sickbed when I combed it out after a

washing- It took two days to dry; if I wanted it

uncrimped, I had to leave it loose.

 

Devin heaved a sign and examined the room.

His spine was very rigid. Nervous—and for what?

He will be Lochiel's son. "Be at ease," I suggested.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

443

 

•^i

'•"%

 

- T'

 

 

 

 

'"You be at ease." Then he grinned at me. "I

daresay you would feel as I do were you to face

the Cheysuli Mujhar."

 

"Never." I smiled serenely. "But that is not the

case—and you are Ihlini, not Cheysuli. What have

you to fear?" I slanted an arch glance at him. "Be-

sides, you say you have no memories. How are

you to be nervous when you know nothing of the

man?"

 

Devin jeered, though not unkindly. "You have a

ready tongue. You put it to his name often enough

.. . 'Lochiel' this—'Lochiel' that. What else am I

to feel but unworthy of him?"

 

"Oh, you are unworthy—" I grinned, "—but he

will lift that from you. When you face Asar-Suti,

Lochiel will no longer seem half so bad as now."

 

"Ah. I am comforted." He folded his arms. "Are

we to wait all day on the chance he might come?

Or will you send someone for him?" He paused.

"Is he even in the fortress?"

 

"He is here." I tilted my head. "Very much

here."

 

And he was, all of a sudden, arriving as he does

to impress whoever waits. I wanted to chide him

for excess display, but one does not chide Lochiel.

 

Violet smoke roiled in the center of the cham-

ber. Devin stepped back hastily, mouthing an oath

he had learned from me, and stared transfixed as

the smoke transformed itself into the shape of a

man.

 

"Close your mouth," I hissed.

 

Devin acquiesced. My father smiled. "That," he

said quietly, "is something you should be able to

do."

 

The sun had returned color to Devin's flesh.

Now he burned darker. "Perhaps I could, once."

 

Lochiel, in his youth, did not appear much older

than Devin. "Has nothing come back?"

 

Jennifer Roberson

 

444

 

"No memories." He glanced at me. "Ginevra has

told me what she could of myself, but the words

mean nothing. I must believe whatever she tells

me; it is the only truth I know."

 

My father's gaze was unrelenting, "What are

you able to do?"

 

Devin laughed, though it lacked humor. He put

out his hand. He drew li'ri'a. It was a child's trick,

but he could do no better. I did not wonder at

the bitterness of his laughter. "That," he said, and

banished it.

 

My father's voice was gentle. "Do you find it

amusing?"

 

"In no way- I find it pitiful, and myself,"

"Ah." Lochiel smiled. "But I know who you are.

I know what potential you hold. I would not have

chosen you otherwise to sire sons upon my daugh-

ter." Briefly he looked at me, and I saw a light in

his eyes. "That you have forgotten your power

means nothing to me. It will be restored. But first

you must acknowledge it, instead of relying on the

belief that you have forgotten all."

"But I have—"

 

My father reached out and caught Devin's right

wrist. By the look in Devin's eyes I knew the grasp

was firm. "Call for it now," Lochiel commanded.

"Summon it to you. Let the power fill you com-

pletely, and you will see what you must know."

Devin was tense. "I have tried—"

"Try again." Lochiel's tone was hard. "Do you

forget I am with you?"

 

I saw the alteration in Devin's eyes. He did in-

deed reach for it. but clumsily. I held my breath,

knowing what my father intended to do.

 

Devin cried out. Wonder filled his face so that

his eyes glowed with it, and then the light was

extinguished. He cried out again, this time as if in

pain, and fell to his knees even as my father re-

 

A TAPSSTKY OF Uoivs

 

44S

 

leased his wrist. His breathing was loud. "You

would have—have me be—that—?"

 

Lochiel looked down upon him. "That is what

you are. It is what I desire of you: power aug-

mented by service to the god, and a perfect obedi-

ence. Not powerlessness, Devin. Never that; more."

My father put a hand upon Devin's head. "To-

gether, with that power, we can tear down the

House of Homana and destroy the prophecy. Do

you think I want a fool? Do you think I desire a

child? I need a man, Devin, who can augment my

own strength. A man to lie with my daughter and

sire children for the Seker."

 

Devin still knelt. His face was drained by the

knowledge of what he had felt, of the power in

my father. "How can I serve with such blankness

within me?"

 

Lochiel smiled. "You are empty. It will pass. We

will see to it you are filled. The god himself will

do it." He looked at me and smiled, then stretched

out his hand. "Take my daughter. Get a son upon

her. The wedding shall follow when I am certain

she has conceived." He put our hands together,

flesh against flesh.

 

I could look at no one save Devin. My father's

voice became a part of the chamber, like a chair

or a hanging; one did not acknowledge such things

when Devin was in the room.

 

His eyes burned brilliant green. His spirit could

not contain the avidity of his desire.

 

No more than I could mine.

 

"There is no need to wait," Lochiel said. "Much

is lost, in waiting. The Wheel of Life is turning; if

we do not stop it soon, our own lives will end."

 

Four

 

We had blown out the candles and now lay abed,

delighting in discovery. Devin's breath warmed

my neck. "What did he mean?" His mouth shaped

the words against my flesh. "Why do our lives end

if the Wheel of Life keeps turning?"

 

"A Cheysuli thing ..." I turned my head to kiss

his chin; to savor the taste of his flesh. "Must we

speak of this now?"

 

His laughter was soft, as were his fingertips as

they cherished my flesh. "Aye. You said you would

teach me everything—well, perhaps not this."

 

Indeed not this. It made me blush, to know my-

self so wanton. "I am not the one to speak—" I

caught my breath short and bit into my lip as

his hand grew more insistent, "—but—it seems to

me—gods, Devin\—that with all the wits you have

lost, you did not forget this." I used his emphasis.

 

Devin laughed again: a rumble deep in his chest.

His hand moved to my breasts, tracing their con-

tours. His flesh was darker than mine—I am Ihlini

fair, and his eyes were green in place of my ice-

gray—but our bones were similar. We Ihlini breed

true.

 

His voice was vibrant. "A man forgets little in

the way a body works in congress with a woman."

 

"So it would seem." Our hips were sealed to-

gether. I turned toward him again, glorying in the

feel of his flesh against my own. "The Wheel of

 

446

 

A TWESTHY OF LlWS

 

447

 

Life is a Cheysuli thing. They speak in images.

often: the Wheel, the Loom, and so on. They are,

if nothing else, a colorful race." I traced the flesh

of his chest, glad I could no longer count his ribs.

The muscle was firm again. I avoided the scar left

over from the healed knife wound. "This prophecy

of theirs bids to end our people by making a new

race. The Firstborn. If we keep them from that,

if we destroy the prophecy, their Wheel will stop

turning, and the world as we know it will continue

as it is."

 

"As it is?"

 

"Well—as it should be. It will take time to turn

them away from their gods. They are ignorant

people, all of them."

 

"The Cheysuli?"

 

It was difficult to concentrate as I explored his

body. "And others- The Homanans. The Ellasians.

The island savages." I touched his lips with my

fingers. "Even the Solindish must suffer—it is a

Cheysuli warrior who holds the throne in Lestra."

 

"Heresy," he whispered; his tone was amused.

 

"So it is."

 

"And if we make a child, we can stop this

Wheel?"

 

"My father is convinced."

 

He turned then and put his hand on my belly,

spreading his fingers. The warmth of his palm was

welcome. "Have we made it, then?"

 

I laughed. "Would it please you so much to be

quit of your duty after a single night?"

 

"Duty? Duty is something you do with no real

desire for it." The hand tightened as he bent down

to taste my mouth, "This is no duty."

 

Breathlessly, I asked, "And if I have not con-

ceived?"

 

"Then we will continue with this 'duty.' " His

 

Jennifer Robervon

 

448

 

tongue traced my eyelids. "Do you think I wish to

 

stop?"

It was abrupt, the chill in my soul. I could not

 

answer.

He sensed my mood immediately and ceased the

 

slow seduction. "What is it?"

 

I was reluctant to say it but felt I owed him

truth. "There is a—strangeness—in you."

 

The words were too facile. "When a man knows

nothing of his past, strangeness is natural."

 

"Aye. But—" I broke it off, sighing; this was not

a topic I wished to pursue. Now.

 

He did. "But?"

 

"I wish—I wish you were whole. I wish you

knew yourself. I wish you were all of a piece, so I

need not wonder what bits and pieces may yet be

missing."

 

Devin laughed. "I am whole where it counts."

 

"I am serious."

 

In that moment, so was he. Seduction and irony

fled. He turned onto his back. Our hair mingled,

black on black against the pallor of pillows.

Strands of mine were wound around his forearm.

"Aye, I wish I recalled my past—every day, I wish

it, and in the darkness of the nights ... but it is

gone. There is nothing, save a yawning emptiness."

 

It hurt to hear him so vulnerable. "I want it to

 

be vanquished."

 

There was no light, save from the stars beyond

the casement. I could see little of his face and

nothing of his expression. "I cannot spend my life

wondering what I might be if it never is recalled

... the present is what matters. What I am is what

you are making me. Ginevra—" But then he

laughed softly, banishing solemnity, as if he could

not bear to think about his plight. He twisted his

head to look at me. "What woman would not de-

 

A TAPESTRY OF LtOMS

 

449

 

sire such a man? You can meld me this way and

that, until you have what you want."

 

My vehemence stunned us both. "/ have what I

want."

 

He caught his breath a moment; released it

slowly. He turned onto a hip, moving to face me,

to wind his fingers in my hair. He pulled my face

to his even as he leaned to me. "Then we shall

have to give your father the grandson he desires

for the Seker, and then we shall make our own."

 

He was right. What counted was the now, not

the yesterday. If the child were not conceived

soon, the Wheel might turn far enough so that we

were destroyed in place of the Cheysuli.

 

But I could not tell him what I most feared.

That the emptiness in him, the bleakness in his

eyes that he would not acknowledge, might rob us

of our future.

 

My father gave us five days and nights together,

and then he summoned Devin. It piqued me that

he would give us so little -time—did he think we

could conjure a child with a rune?—but I did not

complain. Devin was nervous enough without my

poor temper, and I dared make no response to my

father.

 

I told Devin to go, that it was necessary he

spend much time with my father, to better pre-

pare him for the role he would assume once he

had received the god's blessing. I saw the look in

his eye, the tension in his body, and wished I knew

a way to banish the concern.

 

But it, too, was necessary; a man facing Lochiel

must understand what he did, lest he forget his

proper place in the ordering of the world.

 

And so I sent him off with a kiss upon his fingers

and one upon his mouth, knowing very well my

father would test him in ways no one, not even

 

450 Jennifer Roberson

 

Lochiel's daughter, could predict. If he were to

assume an aspect of power within the hierarchy

of the Ihlini, he had to learn the way.

 

It was late afternoon when I sent Devin to my

father; only the Seker and Lochiel knew when I

might see him again. I set myself the task of em-

broidering a runic design into the tunic I made for

him—green on black—and tried not to think bleak,

empty thoughts about what might happen if my

father decided, all on his own, that Devin's miss-

ing memory might render him weak in the ways

of Ihlini power.

 

My mother came into our chambers. She wore

deep, rich red. Matching color painted her lips.

 

"So."

 

I gritted my teeth and did not look up, concen-

trating fiercely on the design beneath my hands.

She would say what she had come to say; I would

not permit provocation.

 

The sound of her skirts was loud as she came

closer. "So, in all ways my daughter is a woman."

 

Do not be provoked— I nodded absently, taking

immense care with a particularly elaborate rune.

 

She waited. She expected a response. When I

made none, the air between us crackled. So close

to the Gate, such anger is personified.

 

I completed one rune, then began another.

 

My mother's hand swooped down and snatched

the tunic from me. "And did the earth move for

you? Did the stars fall from the sky?"

 

Sparks snapped from my fingers. With effort, I

snuffed them out. A single drop of blood welled

on a fingertip, where the needle had wounded me

as she snatched the tunic away. I looked up and

saw her smile; it satisfied her to know she had

won the battle of wills.

 

Or had she?

 

I shook back my hair and rose from my stool,

 

A, TAPESTRY OF LlO!VS               451

 

folding hands primly in violet skirts. "Indeed," I

said, "it did move. And will again, I trust, when he

returns to me." I smiled inoffensively. "It should

please you to know your daughter is well serviced.

I have no complaints of his manhood, or the fre-

quency of our coupling."

 

Breath hissed as she inhaled. The color in her

cheeks vied for preeminence over the paint on her

mouth. "I will have no such language from you!"

 

I laughed at her. "You began it!"

 

"Ginevra—"

 

"By the Seker himself," I said, "can you not let

me have this? You would take everything else

from me, even my father's attention .. . what

wrong have I done you? I am neither enemy nor

rival—I am your daughter'."

 

Her face was white. "He gives you everything. /

have to beg his attention,"

 

"Surely not. I know otherwise. I see otherwise."

I kept my hands in skirt folds, so as not to divulge

the tension in them. "You are only angry that you

misjudged Devin. You looked upon his injuries

and dismissed him at once, pleased your daughter

would wed an unhandsome man. And now that he

is healed and you see he is beautiful, you are angry

with yourself. Now that we have bedded and you

see I am content, you desire very much to destroy

what we have." I lifted my head. "I will not per-

mit it."

 

Melusine laughed, "He will break," she said.

"When he meets the god, or before . . . perhaps

now, with Lochiel. His head is empty of knowl-

edge, his spirit empty of power. He is no better

than a Cheysuli hauled here before the Gate, lirless

and powerless. Pleasing in bed or no, he is wholly

expendable."

 

I gritted my teeth. "The lifestone knew him. If

he had no power, it would have consumed him."

 

452 Jennifer Roberson

 

Crimson lips mocked a true smile. "There is an-

other test."

 

"My father tends to such things."

 

"You should tend to this one; you share a bed

with a stranger. What if Lochiel were to discover

he is not Devin at all?"

 

It was a refrain. "The lifestone knew him."

 

"Test him," she said. "Break it."

 

"It would kill him!"

 

"A chip," she said scornfully, "The tiniest chip

would divulge the truth."

 

The air crackled between us. This time it was

my doing. "I pity you," I told her. "That you must

stoop to this merely because he is a man who pre-

fers the daughter to the mother."

 

"What?"

 

"I know your ways better than you think. I have

seen you at meals, and other times. Do you think

I am blind? You court his favor assiduously ...

but he gives it all to me."

 

Red lips writhed. "I challenge you," she said.

"Break a chip from the stone. Otherwise you will

always wonder if you sleep with Devin of High

Crags, or a man of another heritage."

 

Sparks flew as I pointed at the door. "Go!"

 

Melusine smiled. She built an elaborate rune in

the air between us; before I could build my own

to ward away the spell, she breathed upon the

rune. It was blown to the bed, where it sank into

the coverlet and disappeared- "There." she said.

"Let us see what pleasure it brings you when next

he services you."

 

"There are other beds," I told her. "And if you

ensorcell those, there is always the floor.

 

Melusine threw down the tunic. In her hands,

all the stitching had come undone. My labor was

for naught.

 

I waited until she was gone. Then I went to the

 

A TAPESTRY w LIONS           453

 

chest and drew out the pouch in which he had put

his lifestone. I loosened the thong-snugged mouth

and poured the ring into my hand.

 

In my palm the stone was black. No life moved

within it. But I had seen it bum twice; first, at my

father's touch; then on Devin's hand.

 

A lifestone crushed ended an Ihlini's life. To kill

a Cheysuli, you kill his lir; to kill us, you destroy

the lifestone.

 

If he were not what he seemed and I struck a

chip from the stone, nothing at all would happen

and we would know the truth. But if he were Devin

and I broke a piece of the stone, it would injure

him.

 

I shut up the ring in my hand. Gold bit into my

flesh. The stone was cool, lifeless. There must be

trust between us. If I doubt, I undermine the founda-

tions we have built.

 

At my mother's behest.

 

I bent and picked up the ruined tunic. With

great care I picked out the tattered embroidery,

gathered silk thread, then began with deliberation

to wind it around the ring. I would have him wear

the stone where my mother could see it.

 

When that was done, I would begin the pain-

staking spell to undo the binding she had put upon

the bed. Kept close in my arms, where the empti-

ness did not matter, it was his only haven.

 

Five days later, after a night-long meeting with

my father, Devin came to me high of heart just as

dawn broke. He woke me with a kiss. The bleak-

ness was replaced with good humor and an un-

bounded enthusiasm. He showed no effects from

staying up all night. "He says the power is build-

ing. He can feel it, he says."

 

I sat upright. "Are you sure?"

 

He laughed joyously. "/ cannot—I feel precisely

 

454 Jeaatfer Robersoa

 

the same today as I did when I awoke here—but

he assures me it is true. And so I begin to think I

may be of some use after all."

 

"Some use," I agreed. "But no one suggests how

much." I laughed at his feigned heart-blow. "And

what are you planning? I see the look in your eye."

 

His hand rose in the gesture I knew so well.

Two rings glinted upon it: my emerald, and the

lifestone. There was no hesitation in his manner.

His fingers were steady, assured, and the rune was

more elaborate than any I had seen from him

before.

 

"Kir'a'el!" I cried. "Devin—"

 

It shimmered in the air. Then it snuffed out the

candles and became the only illumination in the

room, dominating the dawn. It set his eyes aflame.

 

"Only a trick," he said negligently, but he could

not hide his satisfaction.

 

"Three months ago you could not bestir the air

to save your soul." I raised my own hand and built

a matching rune. It was the distaff side of kir'a'el.

Mine met his; they melted together like wax, then

twined themselves into one. The conjoined rune

glowed with the purest form of godfire. I stared

hard at Devin, filled with blazing pride. This was

what we were bom for. "Together we can make

anything!"

 

"A child?"

 

"Not yet." We touched our hands together, let

the new rune bathe our flesh, then bespoke the

word that banished it. "We shall have to try

again."

 

His eyes were still alight with the acknowledg-

ment of power. "Come out with me now. I have

horses waiting."

 

"You are sure of yourself."

 

"Then I will go by myself."

 

"Hah." I arched brows haughtily. "You could

 

A TAPESTRY OF LlOIVS            4S5

 

not even get beyond the Field of Beasts, let alone

find the defile."

 

"I found it before."

 

"Tied to the back of a horse like so much dead

meat? Aye, you found it." I caught his hand and

kissed it. "Let us go, then. I could not bear to have

you lost."

 

But even as I dressed, having banished him from

the chamber—otherwise I would never progress

beyond the disrobing stage—I was aware of a tiny

flicker of trepidation. For so long he had been

helpless, bereft of Ihlini power, yet now he prom-

ised power in full measure. I did not begrudge it—

we are what we are—but I was concerned.

 

Would he become so consumed by the power

and Lochiel's ambitions that he would neglect

me? Once the child was born, would there be a

need for me? Or would I become as my mother:

 

valueless in their eyes because my duty was done?

 

Naked, I shivered. Before me I conjured his eyes,

so avid in tenderness. I felt his arms, his mouth;

 

knew the answer in a body perfectly attuned to

his.

 

Lochiel had sired me. Melusine had borne me.

But it was Devin of High Crags who had brought

me to life. Without him, my flame dimmed.

 

/ will not be defined by the man with whom I

sleep.

 

Yet he was defined by me- I was his only water

in a wasteland of emptiness.

 

Devin took me out of Valgaard into the rocky

canyons. It was all new to him, who had seen none

of it, and I gloried in the telling of our history. He

was fascinated, asking many questions, until the

cat squalled. The noise of it echoed eerily.

 

, He reined his horse in at once. His face was

 

4S6 Jennifer Roberwa

 

stark white, bleached of color and substance. Even

his lips cried out for my mother's paint.

 

"Only a cat," I said. "Snow cat, I would wager.

They sometimes come into the canyons. Though

usually in winter." I frowned. "It is early for it,

but—"

 

The cat screamed again. Devin stared blindly.

 

I searched for any subject to break his mood. "My

father will call for a hunt. Perhaps you would care

to go. You could have the pelt for your own ... or

perhaps I could make a coverlet for the cradle—"

 

He turned to me then and fixed me with a gaze

of such brittle intensity I thought he might shat-

ter. His voice was a travesty. "The cat is calling

for something."

 

I shrugged. "Its mate, perhaps. Devin—"

 

A shudder took him. The tendons stood up in

his neck like rope knotted much too tightly. His

mouth moved rigidly as if to form words, but no

voice issued.

 

"Devin—"

 

"Do you hear it?" His eyes were wholly empty.

"A lonely, unhappy beast."

 

"Devin, wait—" But he rode on, ignoring me.

"Snow cats can be dangerous. If it is sick, or in-

jured ..." He heard none of it. I turned my own

mount and followed, irritated. "Wait for me."

 

He halted his horse roughly. As I saw the cause,

I reined mine in as well. "By the god," I whispered.

 

Not a snow cat after all, but a black mountain

cat. She crouched upon a ledge not far above our

heads, keening a wail that echoed throughout the

canyon. Great golden eyes glared.

 

I caught my breath. "Beware—"

 

But the cat did not spring. She merely held her

crouch, staring down at him. Then, as I rode for-

ward, she looked directly at me and screamed.

 

I reined in abruptly, apologizing inwardly to my

 

A TAPESTRY OF LifWS

 

457

 

mount. But the spell was broken. The cat turned

and ran, leaping up through a wide crack. She was

gone almost at once.

 

I released a breath. "Thanks to Asar-Suti ..." I

rode up to Devin. "I thought she would have you."

 

He stared after the cat.

 

"Devin."

 

His eyes were empty.

 

"Devin!"

 

At last, he looked at me. "Lonely," he said-

Then, "Let us go home."

 

I was glad to turn my horse and ride back

toward the defile, side by side with Devin. I did

not like the pallor of his face, or the bafflement in

his eyes.

 

As if he were incomplete, and now knew it more

than ever.

 

Five

 

He cried out in his sleep and woke me, so that I

sat upright with a hand clutched to my breast to

still the lurching of my heart. He was still asleep,

but he thrashed; I saw him grasp at his naked hip

as if he meant to draw a knife.

 

"Devin." I put a hand upon his shoulder and

felt the rigidity of muscle. "Devin—no." He came

awake at once and lunged upward, one hand grasp-

ing my throat as if he would kill me. "Devin!"

 

His eyes were wild in the shadows of the cham-

ber. Then sense came back to him, and horror. He

knew what he had done. "Gods—"

 

"I am well," I said at once, seeing the look in

his face. "Only somewhat surprised by your feroc-

ity." He seemed no better for all my irony, I dis-

missed it. "I promise. I am well."

 

One hand raked hair from his face. Moonlight

was gentle, but I could see the scars on his back

from where the river had embraced him. His eyes

were still full of realization: he had nearly stran-

gled me.

 

I touched his shoulder and feh it tense, "What

did you dream?"

 

"The cat."

 

At first I did not understand. Then the memory

came. "The mountain cat we saw two weeks ago?"

 

"No. Another." His eyes were black in the dark-

ness. "It was a lion."

 

458

 

A TAPESTRY W LIONS

 

459

 

"A lion!" Lions were mythical beasts. "Why

would you dream of a lion?"

 

"It stalks me . .." He let his breath out on a

long sigh, and the tension went with it. "Only a

dream."

 

"Then I will chase it away." I caught the fallen

forelock in my fingers and stripped it back (rom

his face. "I know what to do."

 

"No." His hand was on my wrist, pushing it

away. "Not—now." He turned back the covers and

slid out of the curtained bed. "I need to go out."

 

I was astonished. "In the middle of the night?"

 

"I need to walk. Just along the battlements. I

need to be alone." He slipped into a linen shirt

that glowed in the dimness. "I beg you, under-

stand—there is a demon in me. Let me exorcise it,

and I will come back to you."

 

I reached again for irony, so I would not sound

too petty, too clinging, too much in need of him.

"By morning? Or is this a difficult demon?"

 

"Difficult." His smile was strained. "But my

memory of you will vanquish it."

 

"Go, then." I yanked the covers back over my

breasts. "But do not be surprised if I am fast

asleep. It troubles me not at all to have an empty

bed."

 

He knew it for what it was, but the smile did

not reach his eyes. He finished dressing, pulled on

a fur-lined cloak, and went out of the chamber.

 

I stared into darkness. Resolution set me afire.

"I can banish a lion. I am Lochiel's daughter."

 

He came up hours later. I was not asleep. He

knew it instantly and apologized for keeping me

awake by his absence.

 

I held the blankets up so he could climb beneath

them. "Do you think I care?" His face was worn

and bleak as he stripped out of his clothing; we

 

Jennifer Roberson

 

460

 

had but an hour before dawn. "Have you de-

stroyed the demon?"

 

He climbed in beside me, shivering, and drew

me very close. At first he was gentle; then he held

me so tightly I thought I might shatter. He shud-

dered once, twice. "Ginevra—" It was muted

against my hair, but a cry nonetheless. "Gods—"

 

I had known it was coming. He had been wound

too tightly- Now the wire snapped.

 

I held him tightly, wrapping arms around his

shoulders and legs around his legs, until he was

cocooned in flesh and hair. "Be still," I whispered.

"I am here for you. I will always be here for you."

 

"I think—I think I am going mad."

 

"No. No, Devin. There is no madness in you."

 

"I wake in the night, in the darkness—"

 

"I know."

 

"—and there is nothing there, nothing at all,

save emptiness and anguish .. . and then I recall

there is you, always you—Ginevra, here, for me.

And I know that you are my salvation, my only

chance for survival—and I am afraid—"

 

"What do you fear?"

 

"That—you will go. That I will prove myself un-

worthy. That I will be turned out of Valgaard.

That you will repudiate me because I am not what

Lochiel needs me to be."

 

I stroked hair from his face. "You said he is

pleased by your progress. And I have seen it also.

There is nothing to fear, Devin. What can come

between us?" Then, when he did not answer,

"Where did you go?"

 

He said nothing at first. Then he shifted onto his

back, cradling me in one naked arm. My head

rested in the hollow of his shoulder. "I went

below," he said finally- "To the undercroft."

 

For the merest moment I believed he meant the

Gate. "The cats," I blurted.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           46S

 

"Aye." He was very still. The storm had passed,

but the aftermath was as painful to see. His ex-

pression was wasted. "They are wild things, Gine-

vra. They were not made to be caged." His breath

gusted softly. "Nor was I."

 

A hollow fear began to beat in my breast. "They

are cats."

 

"I looked in their eyes," he said. "I saw the truth

in them. They know what they have lost. They

long for it back,"

 

More desperately, I repeated, "They are cats."

 

"So am I, in my own way- I am very like them.

I am caged by ignorance."

 

I knew it suddenly, "You want to set them free."

 

His hand settled in my hair, winding it through

his fingers. "If we did, he would only replace them

with others. Perhaps even the black one we saw

in the canyon. I think—I think I could not bear to

see more imprisoned then he already has. No. Let

them alone. They have known their cages too

long."

 

I drew him closer yet,- warming his body as I

wished I could warm his spirit. How long? I won-

dered. How long will you know your cage?

 

How long would I know mine, in the prison of

his arms?

 

As long as I permitted it. As long as I desired it.

 

Forever is frightening.

 

The door opened very quietly as I sat before the

polished plate and combed my hair- In the reflec-

tion I saw Devin's face, peeking around the door,

and the expression he wore.

 

I stopped combing instantly and turned on the

stool. "What?"

 

The set of his brows was comical in dismay. "I

wanted to surprise you." But he did not seem so

disheartened that the smile left his face.

 

462 Jennifer Roberson

 

"What?" I repeated.

 

He gestured me down as I made to rise. "No.

Wait." His expression was serious now, and very

intent. His outstretched hand was held palm up.

He watched it closely; I watched him. I saw the

concentration, the effort he used, and then the star-

tled wonder he suppressed instantly so as to hide

his childlike pleasure in a task at last accomplished.

 

In his palm danced a tiny column of pure white

flame. Slowly it twisted, knotting itself, then re-

shaped itself into the aspect of a bird, brilliant as

a diamond.

 

I held my breath. The bird made of flame be-

came a bird in truth.

 

Devin extended the hand. "For you."

 

I put out my own hand, took the bird onto a

finger, and suppressed the urge to cry. It was a

tiny white nightingale, perfect in all respects, and

very, very real. It cocked its head, observed me

from glittering eyes, then began a jubilant song.

 

Devin's eyes shone. "Lochiel says it is because

of Valgaard. That though I have no recollections

of power, the power simply is. We are so close to

the Gate ... he says there is power for the taking;

 

that we breathe it every day, A man—or a woman—

need only know how to use it. Even a Cheysuli,

given enough time, if he claims the Old Blood."

 

The bird's tiny feet clung to my fingers. I could

not look at Devin for fear I would see the change

as I gave him the truth not all men would tolerate.

"You do know, do you not - . . that I am also

Cheysuli?"

 

He laughed. "Since your mother is a halfling,

one would assume so."

 

I set the nightingale on the edge of my mirror.

"The House of Homana and my own House are so

thickly intertwined, it is a wonder we keep our

 

A TAPESTHV OF LIONS           463

 

identities straight." I looked at him now. "You do

not mind?"

 

He came to me and threaded fingers into my

hair. "Cheysuli—Ihlini .. . what difference does it

make? What matters is that we have one another."

 

"It is tainted blood. The Cheysuli desire to de-

stroy us."

 

"So we will destroy them first." He laughed. "It

is a matter of upbringing, not blood. Prejudice and

hatred is created, not bom. You serve the Ihlini

because you know nothing else .. . but had you

been raised in Homana you would serve the Chey-

suli instead."

 

"I never could!"

 

"If you knew no better, of course you would."

 

"But I do—"

 

"So you do. And so you serve the Seker."

 

It could not go unasked. "What about you?"

 

Devin smiled. "I will do what must be done. If

the god grants us immortality, it would be a sorry

thing to repudiate his grace—and therefore watch

forever as our race dies out at the behest of the

Cheysuli."

 

I guided his hands and pressed them against my

belly. "We will not die out. Not while the child

within me lives."

 

Wonder engulfed his face. His fingers were gen-

tle as he pressed them against the folds of my

skirts. "Here?"

 

I laughed. "Thereabouts. It is too small for you

to feel. But in six months you shall have your

son."

 

He cradled my face in his hands. "Thank you,"

he said. "You have made it possible for me to be

a man."

 

I found it odd. "But you are a man!"

 

"An incomplete one. Do you understand? Now

 

464 Jennifer Roberaoa

 

we can be wed. Now, at last, I can go before the

god and let him weigh my value."

 

Against my ear I heard the beating of his heart.

Behind us, the bird stopped singing. When I

looked around, the nightingale was gone.

 

Illusions are transitory. At least Devin was not.

 

I had seen the Gate many times, and the cavern

that housed it, but never through Devin's eyes. It

made it new again.

 

I took his hand as we stepped out of the passage-

way into the cavern. He did first what everyone

does: tipped his head back to stare up at the

arches, the glasswork ceiling alive with reflected

flame. The symmetry was incomparable. So many

layers of ceilings, so many soaring arches, and

massive twisted columns spiraling from the floor.

We were required to pass through them; at the

end of the colonnade lay the Gate itself.

 

Devin was puzzled. "Where does the light come

from? I see no torches."

 

I smiled. "It comes from the Gate. See how it

is reflected time and time again, multiplied one

hundredfold in the columns and the arches?" I

watched his avid eyes. "The Gate itself is in the

ground, but it is open, and its light is uninhibited.

It is god^re, Devin—it is the light of truth, so that

the Seker can illuminate the dark comers of your

soul."

 

The light was in his eyes. I could see no pupil

in them, only a vast empty blackness filled now

with livid godfire. "He will see my weakness."

 

"All men are weak. He will draw it from you

and replace it with strength."

 

"Is that why you have no fear?"

 

"I have fear." I touched his hand. "His glory is

terrible. When one looks upon his aspect, one

knows he—or she—is insignificance incarnate." I

 

A TAPESTRY W LIONS           46S

 

closed my fingers on the still flesh of his hand.

"The Seker awaits."

 

"Ginevra!" He drew me back as I turned toward

the columns. "Ginevra—wait." His face was graven

with lines of tension. "I need you."

 

I carried his hand to my mouth I felt his minute

trembling; he feared as all men do, who must face

Asar-Suti. Against his palm, I said, "I am here for

you. Before the god, I swear it: I will always be

here for you. We are bound already by the child

in my body. Once we share the nuptial cup, we

will be bound forever."

 

His voice was raw. "I am—unworthy,"

 

"Of the god?" I smiled. "Or of me?"

 

Devin laughed; it was what I had hoped for. "Of

both," he said.

 

I arched haughty brows. "Then neither the god

nor I have grounds for discontentment. Things are

as they should be." I glanced toward the Gate,

then looked back into his face. "Come," I said

gently. "There is no sense in delaying the truth."

 

"Truth," he echoed, "is'what I fear."

 

I held his hand tightly in mine. "Why?"

 

"I am what you have made me. Ginevra's Devin,

whatever—w/ioever—that is. I know nothing at all

of my past . .. what if Devin of High Crags is a

man who aspires to waste his coin in tavern wa-

gers and his seed in roadhouse whores?"

 

My laughter echoed throughout the cavern. "Then

the greater truth will be that Devin of High Crags

is now a changed man." I shook back hair. "And

they may spin the tale that it was the god's

doing—or lay credit where it is due."

 

He was suspicious now. "Where?"

 

I set his hand against my heart. "Here," I said,

"deep in my soul. What other truth is there?"

 

Devin looked beyond me. "Then let us get it

 

466 Jeaatfer Roberaoa

 

done. Have them bring the nuptial cup. I am very

thirsty."

 

My father waited for us at the Gate of the neth-

erworld, clothed in black that the godfire dyed pur-

ple. In his hand was a rune-scribed silver goblet;

 

at his feet lay the god himself.

 

"Where is he?" Devin breathed.

 

"There." I dipped my head. "Beneath the

ground—that pool is the Gate."

 

I heard vague surprise in the timbre of his tone.

"That hole in the ground?"

 

"His greatness is such that he requires no sepul-

cher," I said it more tartly than I intended; I ex-

pected Devin to be more circumspect in his worship

of the Seker. Everyone else was.

 

Devin stared at the Gate. Light lapped at the

edges, and smoke rose up. It wound around my

father and clung to the folds of his robe. His gaze

was fixed solely on Devin.

 

"Come," Lochiel said.

 

Devin's grasp tightened. "What is that?" he

whispered.

 

He meant the pedestal just behind my father.

"A chain," I whispered back. "A keepsake from a

Cheysuli who thought he could defeat my father."

 

"It is in two pieces."

 

"The Cheysuli broke it. He surrendered to my

father and broke the chain in half." I squeezed his

hand. "Enough. There is a task we must do. Or do

you mean to put off the ceremony that will make

us one in the eyes of the god?" Devin's smile was

fleeting. He stared at the cup.

 

"Empty," Lochiel said from the other side of the

Gate. He held out the goblet. "Fill it, Devin, if you

would have my daughter."

 

The tension spilled out of Devin. He turned to

face me, brought my hand to his lips, and kissed

 

A TAPESTRY OF LtOIVS            467

 

my fingers. Then he released my hand and turned

to Lochiel. He extended his arm across the maw

of the Gate.

 

So vulnerable, I thought. The god has only to rise

and swallow him whole.

 

But the Seker did not do it. Devin accepted the

cup from my father's hand, then knelt at the edge

of the Gate. Without hesitation, with no sign of

fear, he dipped the silver goblet into the pulsing

godfire.

 

Illumination engulfed him. Devin laughed, then

dipped the cup lower. When it was filled, he rose

and inclined his head in tribute to Lochiel, then

turned to me. The cup's smoking contents flared,

burning more brightly, so that the light stripped

bare all shadows from Devin's face, washing the

darkness from him- His eyes burned brilliant

green.

 

I placed my hands over his and guided the cup

to my mouth. I drank liquid light and let it fill

me. Cold fire burned as my blood responded to it.

 

Gods, but it was sweet. Such a sweet, cold fire ...

I laughed and shook back my hair, then guided

the cup to Devin.

 

He drank. I saw the widening of his eyes in

shock; I feared, for a horrible moment, he might

sprew it from his mouth. But he swallowed. He

shivered once. When I saw the emerald of his eyes

replaced with livid black, I knew it was done.

 

My father's voice was an intrusion. It took effort

. to listen. "You have shared the blood of the god

at the god's own Gate. His blood is yours. There

; can be no parting you now."

', Devin turned. "Is there more?"

I, "There is always more." Lochiel extended his

|'<Jhands, and Devin placed the goblet in them. My

ither smiled, then dropped the goblet into the

 

468 Jennifer Roberaon

 

light and smoke. "But you have begun already.

Kneel down. Ginevra—here, beside the Gate."

 

I knew better than to question.

 

"Remain there. It must be you first, so the child,

too, is blessed."

 

I dared not look at Devin. I knelt there beside

the Gate, thinking of my child, and waited for the

god.

 

He came all at once, without warning. I knew

only that I was blinded as the light sprang forth,

and then it engulfed me. I felt hands touching me,

reaching through my clothing to pluck at my flesh,

until I feared it might be stripped from my bones.

I shuddered once, then stilled. The god's hand was

upon me.

 

I knew only what my father had told me: that

the hand of the god, the light of the Seker, would

reveal the inner soul. Hidden truths would be un-

covered. Small vanities displayed. The insignifi-

cant desires of a human would be mocked for

what they were, so they could be replaced with

perfect service to the god.

 

My perfect service was to bear the god a child.

A son for the Seker, Who Lives and Dwells in

Light—

 

I laughed aloud. "A son!" I cried. "A son to bring

down the House of the Cheysuli!"

 

And the god was gone. I felt him go as abruptly

as he had come. I wavered there on the edge, en-

shrouded in swirling smoke, and then Devin raised

me up to keep me from tumbling in. "Ginevra?"

 

It was vital that I know. I turned my head to

look at my father. "Is it done? Is it done?"

 

Lochiel smiled. "The god is well pleased."

 

I drew back then from Devin. "Kneel," I said.

 

The blackness lived in his eyes, which once had

been clear green, but I saw something more. The

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

469

 

emptiness remained though he had drunk of the

cup.

 

"Kneel," I repeated. To mitigate the tone, I

touched his face- For him, and only for him, I of-

fered the key. "Release the cat," I whispered, so

my father would not hear. "Let him go free from

the cage of your fear."

 

Devin knelt. He crossed his arms against his

breast and bent low in homage beside the Gate.

The god spewed forth.

 

I held my breath. It will only take a moment—

 

Devin screamed. He screamed and screamed in

a language I did not know, shaping words I could

not decipher. His head fell back as he flung out

both arms. He hung there on his knees, transfixed

by the god. Blackened eyes were wide and blind-

 

1 could not help myself; I shouted a denial. I

saw the transformation, the alteration of bone and

flesh. From man into cat: the hands became paws,

the fingernails claws, the teeth elongated into

fangs, and the sound that issued from his throat

changed itself in mid-note from the shouting of a

man to the scream of an angry cat.

 

Black as night, he was- Like the one we had seen

in the canyon. But the eyes were purest green.

 

I was rooted to the stone, Cheysuh—Cheysuli—

Cheysuli.

 

"Punish him!" Lochiel shouted. "Punish the

transgressor!"

 

God, he was Cheysuli\

 

The god made him a man again, so he would

know. I looked very hard for the mark of a Chey-

suli, the sign of a demon, but all I saw was Devin.

 

In one step I reached him. I struck with all my

strength, smashing my hand across his face. "How

could you do this?" I shouted. "How could you do

this to us?"

 

To us, I said. Not to me.

 

470 Jennifer Robersoo

 

It infuriated me.

 

"How?" 1 cried. And then, viciously, "Is this part

of your tahlmorra? To seduce an Ihlini so she con-

ceives of your child?"

 

There was no response in his eyes. The god held

him immobile, crucified on air; was he deaf as

well as blind?

 

"Step back," my father said. "The god will deal

with him."

 

Trembling, I stepped back. I saw the nicker in

green eyes. Then a shudder wracked the Cheysuli.

 

"Tahlmorra," he gasped, in the tongue I did not

know. "Tahlmorra lujhalla-—"

 

My father overrode him. "Have you ever won-

dered," he mused, "what it would be like to be

trapped in lir-shape forever?"

 

"—lujhalla me wiccan—cheysu—" And then,

"Not Devin—"

 

The god sprang forth again. In a man's place

writhed a cat with eyes the color of emeralds.

 

All I could think of was the incongruity: Not

yellow at all.

 

Lochiel looked at me. "We will turn it loose,"

he said, "and then we will call a hunt."

 

Six

 

Was it like thts, I wondered, that they first brought

you here?

 

The cat remained senseless, deep in enforced

sleep; they had thrown him unresisting on his side

across a horse, then tied him to the packframe.

 

"Ginevra," my father said.

 

The cat's tongue lolled from a slack-lipped

mouth. The eyes were half-lidded, dulled by the

touch of the god.

 

We shared a bed, you and I. We shared our hearts.

We shared our souls. And now we share this: a hunt

to the death.

 

"Ginevra."

 

Lochiel again; I did not tarry longer. I turned

my horse away from the cat and rode to the head

of the party, letting no one see weakness. I was

Lochiel's daughter.

 

I led them out of Valgaard, across the Field of

Beasts, through the narrow defile into the canyon

beyond. Then my father stopped us and used his

own knife to cut the beast free. The heavy black

body fell flopping to the ground. It brought no

response; dull green eyes remained slitted and

senseless, and the red tongue fell out into the dirt.

 

"Ginevra." A third time.

 

I looked at them all; at five of my father's min-

ions; at my mother who watched me with undimin-

 

471

 

472 Jeaalfer Robersoa

 

ished avidity. Lastly I looked at him, who served

Asar-Suti with an unflagging, perfect service.

 

"Leave it," I said evenly. "The hunt may com-

mence tomorrow."

 

My mother raised her voice for the first time

since we had left the fortress. "I wonder," she said,

"that you take no steps to insure he does not flee.

Would it not be wiser to kill him now?"

 

Lochiel looked at the cat. "Where is he to go?

He is bound to Ginevra, bound by the god. And

bound also, perhaps, by the child in her body."

 

I could not look at him. I was ashamed, so

ashamed that I had denied myself. That I had per-

mitted myself to love him.

 

"No," he shook his head, "our prey will not flee.

He will wait here for us, until we choose to come."

 

"Sweet revenge," I declared. "When you have

trapped him, will you put him with the others in

the undercroft?"

 

"There? No. When I decide to take him, it will

be for his pelt. I have a whim to rest my feet in

winter on the hide of a dead Cheysuli."

 

My mother's car-mined mouth gloated.

 

In Valgaard, I threw back the lids to all the

trunks and pulled the clothing from them, then

piled it on the bed. I took the caskets containing

the gifts I had bestowed and dumped the contents

on top of the clothing. Lastly I dug out the

nightshift I had worn the first night we shared a

bed and tossed it into the pile. Then I summoned

godfire.

 

"A waste," my mother said, "of a comfortable

bed."

 

I did not turn. I did not care. Let her stand there

if she would; I wanted nothing more than to watch

all of it burn.

 

All of it. All of it. Every bit of it.

 

A TAPESTRY w LIONS

 

473

 

"Will you burn yourself too?"

 

I swung. The names were in her eyes- It turned

them Cheysuli yellow. "You wanted him," I said

viciously. "From the beginning, you wanted him.

How does it feel to know he was Cheysuli?"

 

My mother smiled. "So am I. So are you. And

aye, I would have bedded him. He was in every

way a man."

 

1 drew back my lips from my teeth. "Shape-

changer!"

 

The light in her eyes was livid. She looked be-

yond me to the bed as the godfire consumed it.

"Which one pleased you most?" she asked. "The

warrior—or the cat?"

 

I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to bum her,

too. I wanted to tear the mirror from the wall and

hurl it into the fire.

 

Even as I thought it, the mirror shattered.

 

Melusine shook her head. "A dangerous thing,

when Lochiel's daughter is angry. The very walls

are at risk."

 

"Why have you come?"! cried, "Are you hoping

I will cry?"

 

She wore her hair pinned up. Light glittered off

all the gemstones. "Once I wanted your father to

care as much for me as Devin does for you. He

does not. Once I wanted your father to care as

much for me as he does for you. He does not, and

never will. And so I am soundly defeated in all

patterns of the dances which are danced between

men and women—even between fathers and daugh-

ters." Her face was very still, but her eyes were

livid. "I bore a single living child. I nearly spent

myself in the birth, and tore myself so badly I

could never bear again."

 

Behind me the bed burned. So did all of his

clothing, the jewels I had given him, the nightshift

 

474 Jennifer Roberson

 

he had removed with avid tenderness. "You are

punishing me."

 

In her eyes godfire dimmed; the bed was nearly

consumed. "The child you carry is the child of

prophecy."

 

I touched a hand to my belly.

 

" 'The Lion shall lie down with the witch,' " my

mother quoted. "It is what their madman says,

the shar tahl who was a prince."

 

"Aidan," I murmured; I was consumed by real-

ization, by the knowledge of what I was: a vessel

for the child that could destroy my race. "I shared

a cradle with his son. My father told me."

 

"As an infant you shared his cradle. As a

woman, you shared his bed."

 

It jerked me out of numbness "That was Kellin>

Him? But—he said nothing of it! He made no indi-

cation! He was—" I broke it off, then finished it

by rote, "—Devin. We all thought he was Devin."

I looked at her. "You are punishing me. That is

why you have come."

 

Her eyes were yellow again. "You nearly killed

me/' she said. "But you were what he wanted,

once I could not bear again. You were his only

hope. I counted as nothing. And then he came—

and once there was a child, Lochiel gave you both

what should have been mine!"

 

The godfire died to ash. I grieved for the woman,

that she could be so bitter. I grieved for myself,

that I had lost my mother when I most needed

 

her.

 

And I grieved for the child who was not, after

all, the salvation of my race, but the herald of its

destruction.

 

"I will be dead," she said, "but you will live to

see it."

 

When I was certain she was gone, I closed the

door and locked it with meticulous care, I put a

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            47S

 

rune upon the lock so not even my mother could

open the door. Only my father might, but he

would not come.

 

Godfire was gone. The bed, the jewelry, the

nightshirt—all had been consumed. All that re-

mained were charred bits and pieces and a drift

of violet ash.

 

Grief roused itself. Anguish awoke. The terrible

anger was stilled.

 

I knelt. I plunged my hands into the ash and

closed them on frosted remnants. They did not

burn my flesh. The pain was all inside, where no

one could see it.

 

But I would know.

 

I would always know.

 

It burns, such pain. It devours the heart and

soul.

 

When the summons came, I did not shirk it. I

did not delay. Clad in the tattered remnants of my

pride, I went to the tower chamber and presented

myself to him. My deference was plain; there was

no latitude, in this, for anything save shame.

 

He sat upon a tall stool set before a grimoire on

a tripod stand. He wore russet hunting leathers,

as if he planned already how the chase would

commence. With his hair freshly cropped close

against his head, I saw the shape of the skull. A

beautiful man, my father; but the beauty now was

tarnished by the memory of another, who had so

indelibly replaced Lochiel as the model, in my

mind, of pure masculine beauty.

 

I hated myself for it, but I could not banish it.

I looked at my father, saw my father's face, and

superimposed the features of another man.

 

It was easy to do. I saw in that instant that they

were very like.

 

476 Jennifer Roberson

 

My lips parted. Color drained. "—true," I

blurted. "All of it true—"

 

Winged brows arched. "What is true?"

 

"I did not see it before—but now ..." I shivered.

"We are, both of us, linked by more than enmity."

 

Only a few candles shed illumination. Most were

unlighted. "Aye," my father said; in smoky light,

his eyes were bronze. "For years we denied it; for

decades, so did they. We came to accept it sooner

than the Cheysuli. Most of them still deny it." His

smile was slight. "We are everything they cannot

countenance, we who serve the Seker. I think it

less taxing to us to admit the truth. After all, we

merely desire to destroy them in order to maintain

what we have fought so hard to win. Autonomy

from gods."

 

I shivered. "But—the Seker."

 

"I said, 'gods.'" He emphasized the plural. "They

worship a pantheon of gods, while we comprehend

true power lies only with one." He held his silence

then, weighing me by expression. "It provides

many answers." He rose from the stool and lifted

something from the gutter in the pages of the gri-

moire. Candlelight glinted. A gold ring, set with

jet. "It lives again," he said. "It knows my touch."

 

"But—it knew his, too! And he is Cheysuli!"

 

"Kellin is many things. Kellin of Homana is

very nearly a Firstborn himself. He has the Old

Blood in abundance, twice and thrice again . . .

the earth magic lives in him." The ring sparked

deep red. "Our lifestones answer power. This close

to the Gate, it does not distinguish. It acknowl-

edged his gifts, no more. But it would not kill him;

 

his blood is very like ours."

 

"Old Blood," I said. "Ours is older yet."

 

"No." His tone was thoughtful as he contem-

plated the ring. "Exactly the same, Ginevra. In all

ways, the same. If I were to cut into my left hand

 

A TAPESTRY OF Lio\s

 

477

 

and spill my blood, then cut into Kellin's hand

and spill his blood, we would see they were the

same. But until we mixed the blood, until we

clasped hands, nothing could come of it save we

each would bleed to death if the cuts proved too

deep."

 

The cut inside my heart was very deep indeed.

"Then Devin of High Crags is dead."

 

"It would seem so." He shut his hand upon the

ring and squeezed. When he opened it again, the

ring was naught but shattered crystal. He blew it

from his palm. "Now, certainly." His eyes were

steady. "Come here, Ginevra."

 

I shuddered once. Suppressed it.

 

"Ginevra," he chided. "Do you fear me7 Do you

believe I would harm you?"

 

My lips were stiff. "There is no need," I said. "I

have shamed you. I have dishonored you. You

need do nothing save withhold your regard, and I

am diminished."

 

"Diminished." He smiled. "Lochiel's daughter

should never be diminished."

 

"I am. I am." I fell to my knees. "The god will

know my shame each time I go before him. And I

will know he knows!"

 

My father came to me. I bowed my head before

him. He put hands upon my head and cradled it

tenderly. "You are everything I could desire in a

daughter. You have not failed me. You have not

dishonored me. There is no shame in what you

have done; you did it at my behest. If you casti-

gate yourself, you also castigate me."

 

I turned my face to look up at him. "I would

never—"

 

"I know." Lochiel smiled. His eyes, in dim light,

were black instead of brown. "In anything we do,

there is no shame- Do you understand? I will have

 

478 Jennifer Roberson

 

it no other way. In anything we do, there is no

shame."

 

I nodded, grateful he would do so much to dis-

card my degradation.

 

"Good." His hands shifted. He lifted me up. Our

faces were very close. He studied mine avidly, and

then he smiled. "There is your mother in you, also.

You are her daughter as well."

 

"Aye." Though I hated to admit it.

 

"There is much in Melusine I find most enter-

taining, especially her passion. Are you the same?"

 

My face burned against his hands.

 

"Was the Cheysuli content?"

 

I began to tremble.

 

"Did you play kitten to his cat?"

 

"God—" 1 blurted.

 

Lochiel smiled. "After the hunt tomorrow, I will

come to your bed."

 

"My bed?"

 

"To destroy the Cheysuli's seed, we will replace

it with my own."

 

In my chamber, alone, where there was no bed,

I wondered if he would conjure another fitting for

his state.

 

Could I burn that one, too?

 

He would simply conjure again.

 

Did he think I would submit?

 

Or would he also conjure submission?

 

I looked at the door. I looked at the latch. No

ward I made would prevent Lochiel from entering

my chamber. No defense I summoned could pre-

vent him from entering me.

 

After the hunt.

 

After the cat is dead.

 

What would my mother say?

 

I caught back the laugh before it became a sob.

 

A TAFESTKY w LSONS

 

479

 

I pressed my hands against my mouth to suppress

another lest I shame myself.

 

There were drugs, I knew. There were all man-

ner of ways.

 

I did not want the child. I desired the child to

die.

 

There were other ways than this.

 

"There is your mother in you also."

 

He wanted it this way to gratify himself.

 

After he killed the cat.

 

I unlatched the door and went out of the cham-

ber that no longer contained a bed. I thanked the

god I had burned it. What the Cheysuli and I had

shared, despite centuries of enmity, was cleaner

by far than the union my father proposed.

 

I went down to the undercroft, to see the caged

cats. They greeted me with snarls, with lashings

of supple tails, with the fixed stare of the predator

as they paced out the dimensions of their lives.

 

What had he said of them? "They know what

they have lost. They long for it back."

 

He had lost humanity in the shaping of his self.

Did he know he had lost it? Did he long for it

back?

 

Did he know, in the great gulf of darkness, why

he could not leave?

 

Do you remember my name?

 

Did he understand what had happened?

 

Did you remember the truths we discovered in our

bed?

 

Did he recall the god at all, and how he had

come to be locked forever in cat-shape?

 

Do you remember the oath I swore, when you said

you needed me?

 

I remembered it all.

 

"Cheysuli," I said aloud. The word was alien,

shaped of a foreign tongue. Its sibilant hissed.

 

480 Jennifer Robersoa

 

He had said something as the god revealed the

truth. Something about fate. I knew the word for

that. The Cheysuli called it tahlmorra.

 

"Fate," I said aloud, "is another word for sur-

render." It was an Ihlini belief; we make our own

fates dependent on our needs.

 

One of the cats snarled. It thrust a tawny, wide-

toed paw through the iron bars and reached

toward me, slapping air with half-sheathed claws.

 

What else had he said? "Prejudice and hatred is

created, not born. You serve the Ihlini because you

know nothing else."

 

"I am Ihlini," I said, "What else would you have

me do?"

 

The cat waved its paw and snarled.

 

"Do you hate me?" I asked. "Because I am

Ihlini?"

 

His words were in my head. "Cheysuli—Ihlini ...

what difference does it make? What matters is that

we have one another."

 

I had sworn him an oath.

 

I looked at the cat. "Oaths are made to be

broken."

 

He was the father of my child.

 

The father of the Firstborn.

 

Anguish welled up. "Let me be free of this!"

 

It echoed in the undercroft, disturbing all the

cats.

 

They know what they have lost. They long for it

back.

 

" 'Let them alone,' you said- 'They have known

their cages too long.' "

 

He was not caged. He would not be caged. My

father would kill him, then strip the pelt from his

body and use it for a rug.

 

Would he have us couple on it when he saw I

had no bed?

 

The jaws clenched together. "For that, then," I

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           481

 

said. "I honor my oath that much—and then we

are quit of each other."

 

I knew what I had lost. I longed for it back. But

knew I could never have it.

 

In the hour before dawn I went out of Valgaard,

crossed the smoky Field of Beasts, and passed

through the defile into the canyon beyond. There

I found the cat I had known as man, whose name

was Kellin.

 

I was bundled in a heavy cloak. "You know

what you are," I said. "/ know what you are. Ac-

cording to my father, what you are is what you

shall be—until he desires to add a new rug to his

floor to keep his feet warm in winter."

 

The eyes were huge and green. Sense had re-

turned to them. They glared balefully.

 

"I owe you an oath," I said- "I gave it freely,

not knowing what you are, and could in all good

conscience claim its meaning forfeit .. . but there

are things between us that are not so easily gov-

erned." I looked at the female beside him. "Did

you tell her there is a child? That the child of the

prophecy, so beloved by the Cheysuli, lives here in

my body?" I pressed my hand against cloak-

swathed belly. "If I suffer this child to live, I bring

down my people. I destroy an entire race. That I

will not do. But neither will I permit my father to

kill you. I have no desire to gaze each winter upon

the stones they will put in the sockets that once

were your eyes."

 

The black tail lashed. Green eyes did not blink.

 

"Then come," I said roughly, angry that I cared.

"I will set you free of this shape so you may re-

sume your own. We have fought for centuries, the

Ihlini and Cheysuli—I think it will do no harm if

we fight a while longer."

 

If it came, it came. But I would not, as my

 

Jennifer Robersoa

 

482

 

mother threatened, live to see it. The god would,

in making the bargain, require something to seal

it. All I had of value was what he had given me.

 

Worth giving up, I thought, 50 / need not spend

the centuries watching the descendants of our races

waste lives trying to kill one another in the name of

a prophecy.

 

Worth giving up so I need not replace my

mother in my father's bed for the balance of

forever.

 

Interval

 

The woman knelt at the Gate, and fire bloomed in

her hands. She held them out steadily, reached

across the pool, and shaped living god/ire into a

reflection of itself. In her hands the god writhed

as he writhed within the Gate.

 

She parted her hands and drew them apart.

Flame surged in her palms, licking from her fin-

gers as each gout of godfire stretched toward the

other. Then she brought her hands together and

joined the halves again. She built of flame a gob-

let, then fed it on itself. Bloody runes formed on

the rim. In the bowl sparks snapped; smoke rose

from the contents.

 

She raised it to her mouth and drank the flame

away. The goblet was banished. Godfire glowed in

her eyes.

 

She looked at the cat who crouched nearby, be-

side the rim of the Gate. Tufted ears were flat-

tened. Fire blazed in green eyes as the tail beat

basalt.

 

The woman's mouth opened and smoke issued

forth. Her voice was alive with light. Each word

was a spark that broke from her lips and formed

into a rune. The words she spoke bound them-

selves into sentences, until the runes formed a

necklet that dangled in midair.

 

"He did not know," she said. "He believed him-

self Ihlini. He came to you consenting, eager for

 

483

 

484 Jennifer Robersoa

 

your touch, eager to serve the Seker. He meant to

bind himself to you. What you revealed in his soul

was not what he expected."

 

Viscid liquid boiled. Smoke billowed up. The

runes that had been words burned brightly in the

darkness.

 

"I do not question the punishment; he is Chey-

suli, and transgressor. But he meant only to serve.

His heart was empty of hostility. He meant no

sacrilege."

 

A second necklet was conjoined with the first

into a glowing girdle. It moved from the air to

bind itself around her hips; to seal her wrists to-

gether. Smoke issued from her nostrils. Her eyes

wept blood.

 

"To the god of the netherworld. Who Made and

Dwells in Light; who illuminates our souls, I offer

this bargain: my immortal life in exchange for his

true guise."

 

The blood she wept was black. It ran down her

cheeks to fall into the Gate, where the godfire

hissed in welcome to itself.

 

She prostrated herself. Her hair tumbled free of

pins and fell down into the Gate, where the godfire

crept up the strands. It lingered at her hairline.

then spilled in a glistening net to sheathe her face

in a glowing filigree.

 

Her breath was made of flames. "Let him go,"

she begged. "Let him be a man. I will give you

my life. I will give you the child."

 

Godfire gouted forth. It broke in a wave over

the cat, bound it in white fire, then dragged it

inexorably toward the Gate.

 

"No!" she cried. "I promised you the child!"

 

Claws locked into stone. And then the claws

were human fingers with bloodied, broken nails

digging into smoking rock. "Ginevra!" he shouted,

with the voice and mouth of a man. "Ginevra!"

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

485

 

She broke free of her bonds and thrust herself

to her knees, hands locked around wrists that were

fleshed in human flesh. She dragged him forth

from the Gate, breaking bonds- He climbed out,

dripping gouts of godfire, and was reborn as a

man.

 

Her grasp on his wrists broke as she fell to her

knees. "Done," she gasped.

 

The man's breathing was labored. He bared

human teeth in a snarl that was wholly bestial, as

if he had forgotten how to make his mouth form

words.

 

"Go," she said raggedly. "The bargain is made.

If you linger now, you invite his renewed interest."

 

The man laughed harshly. He knelt upon the

floor in an aspect of obeisance, but the burning in

his eyes was born of different loyalties. " 'The Lion

shall lie down with the witch.' "

 

She stared at him. "What?"

 

"My jehan had the right of it. And now we are

wed—Lochiel's daughter and the Prince of Ho-

mana." The laughter broke again from a throat

made raw from fire. "How the shar tahls will un-

tangle our birthlines I dare not predict; it may

take more decades than either of us has."

 

Her face spasmed. "Go."

 

"Not without you,"

 

Her breath halted, then resumed. Color ebbed

in a face of fragile, faceted planes, delicate as the

arches that shattered overhead. "That is finished.

That is over."

 

Green eyes burned in the clean, sculpted fea-

tures that were, in their fierceness, in their avidity,

far more feral than human. He was predator to

her prey.

 

"Go," she said again, as the Gate behind her

blazed. "There is nothing between us now."

 

He closed his hand around her wrist. "What is

 

486             Jennifer Roberson                      -^

 

between us now is of an entirely different making    -^

than what we shared in bed."

 

The woman's laughter echoed in basalt, and

crystal arches. "Enmity?"

 

He pulled her from the floor. "His name is

Cynric."

 

One

 

Kellin knew it at once. She does not understand—

she has no comprehension of what we did here, in

drinking from the cup.

 

Ginevra tore free of his grasp. Between them she

built a wall of conjoined, blazing runes.

 

His own shredded it- "I drank of the cup," he

told her. "What I know is not forgotten."

 

Ice-gray eyes were black in comprehension.

"What have I done?" she whispered. "What have

I wrought?"

 

Oddly, he wanted to laugh. "I think—peace."

His mind moved ahead to means. Kellin turned.

"Only one thing remains—"

 

She saw what he meant to do. "No! Not that—"

 

He did not heed her but went straight to the

glassy basalt pedestal, all twisted upon itself, and

snatched up the heavy links. He would take the

chain to his father and prove himself worthy of

being Aidan's son.

 

He turned back to Ginevra. Her face was bathed

in light, but the shadowed hollows beneath her

cheeks underscored the exquisite architecture of

her face. Gods, but she is magnificent. They wrought

well when they made her. Hoarsely, he said, "Now

we go."

 

"No! Not me!"

 

She was pride incarnate, and beautiful, blazing

 

489

 

490 Jennifer Roberson

 

with determination. Light from the Gate glowed

in her hair. All of it was silver now save for the

pure white frame around her face. She did not

know. She had not comprehended what the god

had stolen from her in addition to what was

offered.

 

Knowing what she is alters nothing. NOTHING. /

want her as much now as I did before. And—I need

her as badly.

 

Yet looking at her, knowing what he knew of the

woman who was Ihlini, but also whom he loved,

Kellin was keenly aware of a strange division in

his soul. He, too, had been raised to believe in

certain assurances, in certain absolutes, such as a

conviction that only one race could—and should—

survive- Assumptions were made predicated on

traditional beliefs; he wondered now if perhaps

disservices were done in the name of service.

 

To the IhHni, service to the Seker is as binding—

and as honorable—as ours to Cheysuli gods. In that

moment he understood. He comprehended at last

how his father could, in the name of prophecy,

give up a son.

 

Should he not be able to sacrifice something as

well to serve a greater purpose?

 

He looked at the woman. A small part of him

wanted to say she was Ihlini, and enemy, and

therefore worthy of hatred; but the greater part of

him recalled the other woman. Had he not said it

himself? "Prejucide and hatred is created, not born."

He had loved her as an Ihlini, knowing no differ-

ent; now that he did know, why should all things

change? Ginevra was simply Ginevra.

 

Kellin laughed painfully, cognizant of a truth

that no child could comprehend. He gave up his

son's childhood, but will have him in adulthood. I

give up old prejudice so I may have a woman, and

therefore serve the greatest purpose of all.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           491

 

Ginevra scrambled up as he rounded the Gate.

"I gave you your freedom! Now go!"

 

His hand closed upon her wrist. The other

clutched the chain. As she struggled to break free

he caught handfuls of her hair, all tangled with

bloodied fingers and links of rune-wrought gold.

He held her imprisoned skull very still between

his palms. "I want—" He could not say it. It filled

all of his being, he overflowed with it, but he could

not say it-

 

Her face twisted. "You want the child!"

 

Lips drew back. He did not mean to snarl, to

bare his teeth before her, but much of him recalled

what it was to be a cat in place of a man.

 

She was Lochiel's daughter.

 

Kellin laughed. He saw the spasm in her face,

the anguish in her eyes, and knew he had to ex-

plain. If he could but find the words. "Ginevra—" He

shut his teeth together. Why not let her believe it is

because of the child? It would be easier.

 

But he no longer desired to predicate decisions

on what was easiest- "I-have— I have lost too

much . . ." He would say it; he would. "In the

past—too many people." His breath stirred her

hair, stark white around her face, silver in his

hands- Say the words. Say them so she knows—say

them so YOU know. "If—if it is heresy—" He drew

in a hissing breath. "If it is heresy to love Lochiel's

daughter, then burn me now."

 

Her eyes were blackened sockets. Ginevra said

nothing.

 

His breath rushed out of his mouth. "I thought

it was a lie. This Lion, I swore, would never lie

down with the witch." His eyes were avid as he

cradled her face. "But he has, and found it good—"

 

"How can you say that?" she cried. "Knowing

what we are—"

 

"Knowing what we are is why I can say it." Kel-

 

492 Jennifer Roberson

 

lin clung to her more fiercely, wanting very badly

to find the proper words, but not knowing how.

He was afraid, suddenly. Afraid he could not win.

"Ginevra—"

 

A gout of godftre burst from the Gate- It show-

ered them with sparks. An eerie wailing whistle

accompanied smoke.

 

Ginevra flinched, then her eyes opened wide.

"He knows—the god knows—"

 

The ground beneath their feet shook. High over-

head, one of the arches shattered. Glass rained

down.

 

"No more time—" Kellin dragged her with him

as he headed toward the colonnade that led from

the Gate to the passageway beyond. More glass

shattered. The chime of its landing was swallowed

by the keening from the Gate. Godfire lapped at

the edges, then spilled onto the floor.

 

She staggered next to him, fighting to regain

balance. "I told you to go at once, so he would not

renew his interest! You lingered too long!"

 

He had, but it was for her. "Then we had best

make haste."

 

The voice echoed in the cavern, carrying easily

above the keening of the Gate. "Ginevra shall go

nowhere. She is my daughter—and within the

Seker's keeping."

 

They spun in place. Lochiel stood on the far side

of the Gate. In his outstretched palms danced

crimson runes. His cloak smoked of godfire, purl-

ing around his body. The ale-brown eyes, in lurid

light, were molten bronze in their sockets. The

clean architecture of bone, so clear and pure in

line, was visible behind the human mask that hid

perverted purpose -

 

"She made a mistake," he said, "but it is easily

rectified." The runes in his hand flared higher,

brighter, though the brilliance did not distract

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

493

 

him. They twisted into knots, then broke apart

and reformed. "First, there is the child. We cannot

permit it to live. Ginevra knows that. You have

only to look at her face."

 

Kellin did not. He knew what he would see

there. She was profoundly Ihlini; he did not know

if she loved him enough to bear the child whose

presence in the world would alter hers forever.

 

Scalloped arches broke from the ceiling in sheets

and fell behind them, shattering against basalt. A

splinter cut Kellin's cheek. The floor trembled

again. The Gate ran white with fire, bubbling over

its edges. Kellin had mastered the art of working

godftre in order to make runes, but he knew better

than to believe he might turn back the flood. Lo-

chiel was Lochiel: his arts were more powerful,

and his intentions deadly.

 

Kellin moved back two paces and took Ginevra

with him.

 

Lochiel's eyes were fixed on his daughter. "She

knows what must be done."

 

Color stood high in her face. "I serve the Seker."

 

"Aye," he said, "you do. In all ways necessary—

and in certain sacrifices."

 

"Wait—" Kellin blurted.

 

Ginevra cried out, then fell to her knees. Her

body shuddered once. Her face was alive with pain

as her mouth formed a rictus, then loosened its

hideous tension into slack astonishment. "—kill

me . . -" she gasped. "—to kill it, you kill me—"

 

"Sufficient punishment." Lochiel's runes blazed

more brilliantly. "You made a mistake."

 

Kellin dragged her up and turned her from the

Gate, pushing her onward. "Go on—go .. . get out

of the cavern!"

 

Ginevra screamed. "—inside me—" she gasped.

"—so black—" She thrust out her hands and

clawed at the air. Godfire sparked from fingertips.

 

Jennifer Roberson

 

494

 

Her hair, in the light, glowed silver. "My own—

father—"

 

Lochiel said calmly, "I can make other children."

 

Kellin built his own rune and hurled it across

the Gate, bleeding godfire as it flew. Lochiel's

blazed up, then shattered Kellin's rune into a

shower of impotent fragments. "Tricks," the Ihlini

said, and looked again at his daughter. "I would

kill a thousand Ginevras to destroy the Firstborn."

 

"You—will not . .. you will not—" She reached

out to Kellin, clawing. "Take—" She bit deeply

into her lip as his fingers closed on hers. "I—will

not—permit—"

 

"What choice have you?" Lochiel asked. "This

is your sacrifice. Accept it willingly, so you do not

shame me."

 

"Shame you! You?" Ginevra writhed against the

pain, laughing breathlessly. She clutched Kellin's

hand. "I need make no choice ... you have made

it for me—"

 

Godfire rose up in the Gate, then fell back,

splashing, to pool again on the floor.

 

She clutched his hand more tightly, "Kellin."

Her grin was ghastly as she bared it to her father.

"You are Lochiel the Ihlini, servant of the Seker—

but we—we—are more ... in my body lies the

Firstborn. Do you think he will allow you to kill

him?"

 

Lochiel laughed. "It is unborn, Ginevra! And

will stay that way."

 

"No—" She bit again into her Up. Blood ran

red, unsullied; she had given up immortality. "He

drank . .. and I drank. The child has tasted also.

What we are together is more than even you can

withstand." She bared her bloodied teeth in the

travesty of a smile. "The god, like your cats, is

hungry. I think it is time he was fed."

 

A TAPESTRY w LIONS           49S

 

Kellin felt her fingers bite into his own, setting

fingernails. He saw then what she meant to do.

 

"—help—" she gasped. "I cannot do it without

you-"

 

No. Nor could he without her, or the child in

her body.

 

"Earth magic," Kellin murmured- "This is a

Gate, like the Womb of the Earth. Here it is per-

verted, but there is still a stronger power—"

 

"Now!" Ginevra cried, and the walls around

them trembled- Archways tumbled down, shat-

tering to fragments against the floor.

 

Godfire blazed up. At its heart it burned white.

In its reflection, as its servant, Lochiel's face was

without feature. He was, in that moment, the ava-

tar of the god- "GINEVRA."

 

"He is hungry!" Ginevra cried. "He cries out for

food!"

 

''In the name of the Seker, in the name of Asar-

Suti~"

 

"Aye!" she cried. "In his name always, in all

ways. You are his creature; let the god have you!"

 

Lochiel's eyes were livid. "I will raze this for-

tress before I permit you to take that child from

here!"

 

Ginevra laughed. "You wanted to kill it! Now

you change your mind?"

 

"As I must," he said. "The Seker's aspect is of

godfire. I think he would like to be human once

again, that he may walk the land freely as he sun-

ders it."

 

She clung more tightly to Kellin's hand. 'Tf you

would give him a body, give him your own!"

 

"GINEVRA!"

 

"Your own!" she cried. And then, "Now, Kellin!"

 

With their power they burned out his eyes, leav-

ing blackened, melted sockets, and exploded the

runes in his hands. His clothing caught fire. The

 

496 Jennifer Roberaw

 

flesh of his face peeled away so the bone exposed

itself. A rictus replaced his lips, displaying perfect

teeth. Lochiel staggered forward, waving impotent

stubs on the ends of blazing arms, then tumbled

into the Gate.

 

The godfire within dimmed as if measuring its

addition. And then it burst upward in a geyser

of naked flame, licking at the jagged remains of

shattered crystal arches. The Gate bled godfire in

Lochiel's immolation.

 

A shudder wracked Ginevra. She fell to her

knees. Silver hair streamed around her, tangling

on the floor with steaming godfire and melting

glass. In the rumbling of the Gate, her sobs went

unheard.

 

"Come." Kellin urged her up. "If Asar-Suti de-

sires a second helping . .."

 

She caught great handfuls of god-bleached hair

in rigid, trembling hands. Tears shone on her face.

"What manner of man sires a child such as /, who

murders her own father?"

 

A ripple moved through the floor. It fractured

the massive columns that spiraled to the roof.

Black glass rained down. With it came more

arches, the fretwork of the ceiling, and then the

roof itself.

 

"Ginevra!" Kellin dragged her to her feet one-

handed as he tucked the two pieces of chain into

his belt.

 

Cracks appeared in the rim of the Gate. Fissures

ran toward them. As the roof fell down, part of it

splashed into the Gate, so that godfire gouted forth.

In its depths, something screamed.

 

The floor beneath them rolled. From high over

their heads, from the bulwark of the fortress, came

a keening howl of fury.

 

"They know," Ginevra said. "The bonds are all

broken. Lochiel is dead and so they die—and Val-

 

A TAPESTRY W LIONS           497

 

gaard is falling." She caught his hand tightly. "I

have to find my mother."

 

As they burst from out of the passageway into

the corridor, Melusine was waiting. In her hands

was a sword made of livid godfire. "What have you

done?" she cried. "What have you wrought?"

 

Ginevra laughed crazily to hear her own words

repeated. "Lochiel is dead."

 

"The walls fall," Melusine said; in her eyes

shone the light of madness, yellow as a Chey-

suli's. "Valgaard is sundered . . ." She looked at

Kellin. "Kinsman," she said, then raised the

sword high.

 

"No!" Ginevra struck before he could, trans-

fixing her mother's breast with a single blazing

rune. The sword was snuffed out. "No," Ginevra

repeated. Her eyes were anguished. "Go away,"

she said. "Get out of Valgaard now."

 

Melusine laughed. "Without Lochiel? You must

be mad!"

 

"Mother—" But the floor between them fissured.

A jagged hole appeared. Kellin staggered, righted

himself, then caught Ginevra and yanked her back

as Melusine, screaming, tumbled in. "Mother!"

 

He did not remonstrate, nor try to explain there

was no hope as godftre gushed forth and drove

them back. Ginevra knew. "Shansu." he whis-

pered, though she would not understand.

 

She pressed a hand across her face so he would

not see her tears.

 

Kellin did not permit them to stop until they

were through the defile on their Valgaard horses

and safe within the canyon, where the floor did

not split, the walls did not fall down, and the roof

above their heads did not collapse upon them.

There Sima waited.

 

498 Jennifer Robersoa

 

He expected the link to be sundered by Gine-

vra's presence, but Sima's pattern was clear. You

did well, his lir said, to release my kin.

 

He thought of the undercroft, where he had,

with his power, torn the doors off their hinges and

permitted the cats to escape. They deserved a better

tahlmorra than to die with Lochiel.

 

Sima's eyes gleamed golden. Tufted ears slicked.

Do you understand?

 

No. I was taught we could not link when an Ihlini

was near.

 

There is some of the god in you. Not only in your

magic, but in your tolerance. You are both children

of the gods; the time for schism is ending. She

glanced at Ginevra. Tend her first. There will be time

for us later.

 

He climbed off his horse, hooked its reins over

a branch, then went to Ginevra's. "Come down,"

he said, and reached out a hand.

 

Ginevra looked down at him from atop her

mount. Ash marred her cheek. Silver hair was a

tangled tapestry on either side of her face. In her

eyes was an anguish of such immensity he feared

it might break her.

 

He could not help herself. "Meijhana—"

 

At the sound of the enemy tongue, spoken so

close to sundered Valgaard, Ginevra flinched.

Then, with careful deliberation, she unhooked a

foot from a stirrup and got off on the other side.

It put the horse between them.

 

She could not have taken a blade and stabbed

any deeper. He was eviscerated.

 

Gods, he prayed, let this woman never hate me. I

could not bear it.

 

Ginevra took the horse away to the far side of

the canyon. She sat down there upon a broken

stump clad in the stormwrack of her soul and

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           499

 

stared blindly into shadows with ice-gray eyes

glazed black.

 

With effort, Kellin turned back to his horse. He

unbuckled girths, pulled off saddle and blankets,

scrubbed down the damp back with a handful of

leaves. When he was done, he went to her horse

and did the same service. Ginevra said nothing-

Smoke crept into the canyon- It was laden now

with odors: burned flesh, the stink of the nether-

world, the smell of a world come undone.

 

"It is gone," Ginevra said.

 

Kellin turned from her horse.

 

"Gone." She sketched a rune in the air; he rec-

ognized bal'sha'a by the movement of her fingers.

But nothing came of it. Her fingers moved deftly,

yet nothing flared into brilliance in answer to her

shaping. "The Gate is closed," she said. The hand,

bereft of power, slapped down slackly and lay

curled in her lap. "And so now there is no godfire."

Her eyes were oddly empty. "Everyone I knew is

dead. 'Everything I knew is gone."

 

His voice shook. "Ginevra—"

 

Her face was a wasteland- "Lochiel was right-

We are truly destroyed."

 

"No." He drew a slow breath, treading care-

fully; he desired in no way to be misconstrued, or

what they had built between them—that now was

in jeopardy—would collapse into ruins. "No, not

destroyed." He would not lie to her; would never

lie to her. "This aspect of it, perhaps, but your race

survives. Asar-Suti is defeated, but there are Ihlini

in the world."

 

"Good Ihlini?" She smiled, but without amuse-

ment; it was a ghastly mockery of the smiles he

had won before. "Those who repudiate the Seker

will surely survive and be looked upon with favor,

but what of—us? Those like my father, and Stra-

han before him, and Tynstar before him." The line

 

500 Jennifer Roberson

 

of. her jaw was blade-sharp as she set her teeth.

"What of Ihlini like me?"

 

"You said it yourself: the Gate is closed."

 

She did not flinch. "Aye."

 

"I would like to think that as we end this war,

such Ihlini as they were will turn from the dark

arts to fashion a new world."

 

" 'Such Ihlini/ " she echoed. "Like me?"

 

He said it deliberately: "You are not your

father."

 

"No." Moonlight glinted in hair. "No, so I am

not- Or surely I would have killed you there at

the Gate." Her mouth warped briefly. "Perhaps I

should have."

 

"Aye," he agreed. "Or left the cat loose so the

hunt could commence."

 

It shook her. It shook her so badly he knew she

as much as he comprehended the precipice.

 

He gave her the truth. "I do not believe Cynric's

task is to have the Ihlini killed."

 

Her tone was harsh. "As we killed my mother

and my father?"

 

My poor meijhana. He went to her, and squatted

down before her. "No matter how hard you strike

at me, it will not bring them back."

 

Ginevra laughed harshly. "How can I strike at

you? You only did as I asked, there in the cavern.

What does it matter to me how it was done, or

that we used an unborn child for his power?"

 

He caught her hand. "Do not punish yourself for

choosing to live. You did—we did—what had to be

done."

 

"All of it? All of it?" Her hand shook in his. "My

father. My mother. My—home." Tears glazed her

eyes as she put a hand against her belly. "So falls

the Ihlini race. As according to prophecy—but be-

fore he is even born!" Her voice was raw. "Are

you pleased by it?"

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS           501

 

He put his hand on her hand and let it rest

against her belly. "He is Ihlini, also."

 

She wrenched her hand away and pressed both

against her mouth. Fingers trembled minutely.

Through them, she said, "How can you love me?

I am everything you hate."

 

"When I was Cheysuli—" He smiled to see her

start. "When I was Cheysuli, and knew it, I hated

Ihlini- There was no choice. They meant to destroy

my House- They had killed people I loved. They

would kill me. if I gave them the chance to do so."

He pulled her hands away and held them in his.

"When I was Cheysuli but no longer knew it, I was

free to understand that life is much more complex.

That the gods, when they act, when they wish to

humble a man, wield a weapon of irony."

 

"Vour gods'"

 

"Mine. Yours also." He lifted a strand of her

hair. In the sunset, the silver was gilt. "You knew

what would happen."

 

Ginevra stiffened.

 

"You knew very well. It was what you implied

when you came to me here, to fetch me to the

Gate so you could win me back my human form."

He looked into her eyes. "You grieve for more than

their deaths. You grieve because of your guilt.

That Lochiel's daughter, bred to serve her people,

preserved in the name of love the life of the only

man who could destroy her race."

 

"You shame me," she said.

 

It shook him. "In what way?"

 

"The truth. The truth shames me. I have betrayed

my race." She put trembling fingers against his

mouth. "And I would do it again."

 

He wanted in that moment, recognizing her

truth as an absolute, to give her a truth in return.

To admit to her—and to himself as well—what

demon had lived in his soul all his adult life.

 

502 Jennifer Roberson

 

Before, he had not known- And if someone had

told him, if someone had dared, he would have

taken solace in ridicule. / have used weapons in my

life, but none so sharp as the blade of honesty. It is

time, I think, to use it on myself and lance the can-

ker I have cherished.

 

Kellin took her hand away, caught up the other

one, then tucked both against his chest so she

could feel his heartbeat. "I have been afraid of

many things in my life, but none so much as the

intimacy of loving a woman. I lay with many, aye,

to assuage a physical need in vain attempts to dull

the emotional pain, but nothing sufficed. I was al-

ways empty, always in despair, despite what I be-

lieved. Despite what I yearned for." His fingers

warmed hers. He pressed her palms against his

heart. "In fear of losing others, I distorted my soul

on purpose. I cherished bitterness. I drove people

away, even those whom I loved, because I wanted

no one to care for me so / would not be required

to care for them ... to care was to lose them,

and I could not bear it. Not after so many

deaths," He carried her hands to his mouth and

kissed them. "The river gave me the chance to

become another man, perhaps the one I was

meant to be all along. What you see before you

now is not Kellin of Homana, but Kellin the man,

of whom Ginevra had the shaping." He set his

mouth against her palm. "I am your construct. If

you would destroy me now, you need only with-

draw your love."

 

She looked away from him. She gazed over his

shoulder. Beyond the defile, beyond the Beasts,

Valgaard yet burned. The air was laden with

smoke.

 

He would not release her hands. "What we have

shared could transfigure a world. Even this one."

 

The scent of smoke was thick. Ginevra's mouth

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

503

 

warped briefly. "I have no roof," she said. "It has

all fallen down."

 

Kellin cradled her face in his hands, threading

fingers into the shining wealth of her hair. Softly

he said, "Homana-Mujhar's still stands."

 

She flinched visibly; he saw she regretted it at

once. "I am Lochiel's daughter."

 

He pressed his lips against her brow. He kissed

it twice, thrice, then moved the great distance be-

tween forehead and mouth. Cynric or no, prophecy

or no, how could I even consider giving up this

woman?

 

He never had. Not once.

 

The truth seared his soul even as his lips shaped

words on hers with careful tenderness. "I need

you," he whispered, "as I have needed no one. You

are my balance."

 

He knew it was not enough. But it was all he

had to give her.

 

When her hand touched his shoulder, Kellin

opened his eyes. It was full night. He had not

slept. Neither had she.

 

He waited. He held his silence, his position. The

tension in her fingers, as she touched his shoulder,

was a reflection of his own.

 

The canyon stank of smoke. Valgaard burned.

The full moon above them was dyed violet and

black.

 

Her hand withdrew. When she touched him

again, her fingers were cool on his face. They

touched his mouth and clung.

 

Kellin sat up. He sat upon his heels even as she

sat upon hers; their knees touched, and hands.

 

Ginevra stared into his face. Her own was shad-

owed in the shroud of her hair. He saw the angle

of a cheekbone, the curve of her brow. Her eyes

 

304 Jennifer Roberson

 

were pockets of darkness. "If I am your balance,

you are my Ufestone."

 

In silence, Kellin waited.

 

She took one of his hands and carried it to her

breast. She cupped his fingers around it. "Make

me feel again."

 

Two

 

Ginevra stopped Kellin at the top of the steps

leading into Homana-Mujhar. Rigid hands bit into

his forearm as he turned immediately. "Meij-

hana-—what is it?"

 

Her face was a sculpted mask with burning ice

for eyes. "How will you say it?" she asked. "How

will you tell them who I am?"

 

Kellin smiled, moving down a single step so he

did not tower so much; she was shorter than he,

and delicate, but her stature belied the dominance

of her spirit. "Easily. I will say to all of them:

 

'This lady is Ginevra. This lady is my cheysula.

You all of you should be pleased the beast is

tamed at last.' "

 

Color bloomed in her cheeks. Fingernails dug

through fabric into flesh that was lighter than the

norm for a Cheysuli, but darker than hers. "And

will they want me tamed? The wicked Ihlini?" She

had left tears in Solinde; what she gave him now

was pride fierce as a Cheysuli's. "At least you came

to my home without excess display!"

 

It took effort for him to keep his hands and

mouth from her here and now, out of doors, before

the palace entrance and all the bailey, and the

soldiers from the guardhouse. "I was unconscious,"

he reminded her. "I have not the slightest idea if

there was display, or no. For all I know, you might

 

505

 

506 Jennifer Roberson

 

have hung me from my ankles and dried me over

a fire."

 

Ginevra let go of his arm. "It never would have

worked. Your brain was much too soggy!"

 

"Meijhana." He captured her hand and tucked

it into his arm, warming it with his own hand. "I

know you too well; you are not the one to hide

from a truth, harsh or no. You will tell them

yourself."

 

"Aye," she said, "I will. Just give me the chance!"

 

Kellin laughed. "Then come into my house."

 

"Gods—" she blurted, "—wait—"

 

He turned around promptly and sat down upon

the steps, hooking arms around upraised knees as

Sima sat down beside him. The cat's purr rumbled

against his thigh. When Ginevra did not move, he

eventually glanced up. "Well?"

 

Sunlight glinted on silver; he had loved her

mass of black hair, but found this as much to his

liking. She could be hairless, and I would love her.

And then he grinned; who would have predicted

Kellin of Homana would lose his heart at all, and

to an Ihlini?

 

"What are you doing?" she asked.

 

"Waiting. You wanted me to." He paused, elated

by her presence and the knowledge of what life

with her would be; never dull, never quiet. The

Prince and Princess of Homana did not harbor

timid souls. "Should I have food sent out? If we

are to be here so long . .."

 

Ginevra's sharp inhalation hissed. New color

stained her cheeks. She turned on her heel and

marched directly into the palace.

 

He leaned his weight into Sima, who threatened

to collapse his leg. Contradictory.

 

Then you we well-suited.

 

How could we not be? Was it not prophesied?

 

Sima's eyes slitted. Not specifically. The prophecy

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             507

 

merely said the Lion would lie down with the witch.

Even the gods could not predict that you would be

so much alike.

 

He smiled. By now she may well be in the Great

Hall confronting the Mujhar himself.

 

Or in your chamber confronting the knowledge of

other women.

 

Kellin sat bolt upright, then got up at once.

 

Sima relented. She is in the solar speaking with

the Queen. Leave the women to one another—your

place is with the Mujhar.

 

And you?

 

Sima's tufted ears nicked. She stared past him

into the sunlight, transfixed on a thought he could

not decipher. The ears flattened once, then lifted

again.

 

Kellin prodded. Lii?

 

She looked at him. Her stare was level. He felt

in that instant she looked beyond the exterior to

the soul within, and wondered how she found it.

/; is for you to do, she told him.

 

Kellin smiled. "He wil^ understand. Once I have

explained it. All of them will." He laughed aloud

for joy. "Most assuredly my jehan, who undoubt-

edly knew very well what was to become of me!"

 

The cat's glance was oblique as she shouldered

by his knee into the palace. The Great Hall, she

said, where the Lion lives.

 

He went there at once, pushing open the ham-

mered doors, and saw, as expected, the Mujhar

sitting quietly in the belly of the Lion, contemplat-

ing his hall.

 

Kellin paused just inside the doors. It had been

half a year since he had been sent away by a man

clearly desperate to salvage his only heir. 'Well, the

heir is salvaged. Homana is preserved. Kellin's

smile was slow, shaped by anticipation. There was

 

508 Jennifer Roberson

 

much he longed to say, much he meant to share,

but especially Ginevra. / will make him understand.

And how could he not? Lochiel is dead. The Wheel

of Life still turns.

 

Kellin drew in a breath, lifted his head, then

walked with steady strides the length of the firepit

to pause before the dais. There he lowered his eyes

out of respect for the man, and gave him Cheysuli

greeting.

 

The Mujhar did not answer.

 

Anticipation waned. Kellin's belly tightened.

Does he know already? Has word come before us:

 

"The Prince of Homana has taken to wife an Ihlini

witch!"

 

The Mujhar offered nothing. When Kellin could

no longer stand it, he raised his head at last.

"Grandsire—"

 

He checked. He stood there a long while. He

denied it once, and twice. The truth offended him.

He longed to discard it and conjure another.

 

But truth was truth. Magic could not change it.

 

His spirit withered within.

 

Kellin climbed the three steps and sank to his

knees. His trembling hand, naked of signet, reached

out to touch the dark Cheysuli flesh that was still

faintly warm.

 

He looked for Sleeta, but the mountain cat was

gone.

 

Kellin thought of Sima. She knew. When she sat

upon the steps— But he let it go. He looked into

the face of the Cheysuli warrior who had ruled

Homana for more than forty years. The body

slumped only slightly, tilted slantwise across the

back of the throne, as if he merely rested. One

gold-freighted arm lay slack, hand upturned against

a leather-clad thigh; the other was draped loosely

along the armrest, so the dark Cheysuli fingers fol-

 

"ff

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             509

 

\     lowed the curve of the claws. On his forefinger the

^     seal ring of Homana glinted dully.

 

Though the flesh had stilled, the bones as yet

defied the truth. Brennan was, even dead, still

very much a king.

 

Kellin's mouth moved stiffly as he managed a

smile. He said it as he had told her on the steps

before the palace. "The lady is Ginevra. The lady

is my cheysula. You should be pleased the beast is

tamed at last."

 

In the Lion, silence reigned. The Mujhar had

abdicated.

 

"So much—" his grandson whispered, kneeling

before the king. "So much I meant to say."

 

Mostly leijhana tu'sai, for being jehan as well as

grandsire.

 

The Mujhar of Homana left the Great Hall and

went directly to Aileen, where Ginevra was. He

was aware of an odd dispassion, as if someone had

wrung him empty of grief, and pain; with effort

he put into words the requirements of state.

 

Then he put into words that which most re-

quired telling: that he had loved and honored her

cheysul far more deeply than he had shown, as he

loved and honored her.

 

In her face he saw his father's: chalk eroding in

storm; crumbling beneath the sun. It ate below

the layers and bared the granite of her grief, hard

and sharp and impenetrable, and ageless as the

gods.

 

Pale lips moved at last. "If this were Erinn, we

would take him to the sacred tor and give him to

the cileann."

 

But this was not Erinn. They would take him to

his tomb and lay him to rest with other Mujhars.

 

Kellin kissed his granddame. He sent for a ser-

 

510             Jennifer Robersim

 

vant. He sent for a shar tahl and Clankeep's clan-

leader.

 

He sent for his lir to bide her time with Ginevra,

whose eyes bespoke her empathy, and returned to

the Great Hall.

 

People came. They took away the body. They

gave him a ring. They called him "my lord

Mujhar." They left him as he desired: alone in the

hall as the day shapechanged to dusk.

 

Kellin felt sick to his stomach. He sat upon the

dais and wished the day were different, that he

could stop the Wheel of Life from turning and then

start it up again, only this time moving backward,

backward, BACKWARD, so the time was turned up-

side down and his grandsire could live again.

 

He stared into the blazing firepit. / do not want

to be Mujhar.

 

He had wanted it all of his life.

 

/ want him back. Grandsire. Let him be Mujhar.

 

They had trained him from birth to be king in

his grandsire's place.

 

A king must die to let another rule in his place.

 

Kellin shut his eyes. He heard in the silence all

the arguments they had shared, all the rude words

he had shouted because his grandsire wanted too

much, demanded too much of him; chained his

grandson up so he would never know any freedom.

 

The words were gall in his mouth. "Too much

left unsaid."

 

Behind him crouched the Lion. Its presence was

demanding. Kellin heaved himself up and turned

to confront it. Gilded eyes glared back.

 

He moved because he had to; he could no longer

sit still. He climbed the dais. Touched the throne.

Moved around to the back of it and turned to face

the wall. He stared hard at the tapestry while the

lions within its folds blurred into shapeless blobs.

 

A TAFBSTRV w LIONS

 

Sll

 

He remembered very clearly the day lan had

died. One small hand, not much darker than a

Humanan's, and one old hand, bronzed flesh aging

into brittle, yellowed flesh.

 

"Gods," he said aloud, "you should have made

a better man than me."

 

"The gods wrought very well. In time, you will

know it. I already do."

 

Kellin turned. "Jehan." He was mostly unsur-

prised; it seemed to fit perfectly- "You know."

 

"I know."

 

"Have you seen the Queen?"

 

Aidan's eyes were steady. "I did not see your

cheysula." He let it register, "But aye, I saw my

jehana."

 

The words were hard to say. "Did you know—

before?"

 

Aidan's face was graven with new lines at eyes

and mouth. "I am privileged to know things before

others do. It is part of my service."

 

" 'Privileged' to know your father has died?"

 

"Privileged to know certain things so I may pre-

pare the way for greater purposes."

 

Kellin smiled a little. "A true shar tahl, couching

his words in obscurity."

 

Aidan smiled back. "I believe it is required."

 

Kellin nodded. His father walked very steadily

toward the dais on which he stood. "How does one

know if one is worthy of what he inherits?"

 

"One never does." Aidan stopped before the

dais. "/ know, Kellin. For now, it is enough."

 

Kellin swallowed heavily. "Did you come for

him?"

 

"I came for you. I came to bind the Lion."

 

"Bind ..." Kellin sighed. He felt very old. "I

feared it, once." He stroked away a lock of hair-

"The Lion lay down with the witch."

 

Aidan nodded. "I know."

 

512 Jennifer Roberson

 

Kellin wanted to smile, but his face felt old, and

empty. "You prophesied for me, that day. You said

I would marry."

 

A glint, purest yellow. "Most princes do."

 

"But you knew it would be Ginevra."

 

The glint died. Aidan's eyes were calm. "It

seemed a tidy way of achieving what we all of us

have worked for."

 

"The Lion lay down with the witch. And so the

prophecy—"

 

"—continues." Aidan's expression was solemn.

"Despite what you may hope, it is not yet com-

plete. There are things we still must do."

 

"Ah." Kellin put his hands to his belt, then

undid the buckle with fingers that felt thick and

slow. He slid the links free. "Here. This is yours."

 

Aidan took the broken chain as Kellin redid his

belt. "Sit down, my lord. It is time I chained the

Lion."

 

He was too weary to question the task. He sat

down. The Lion's mouth gaped. Kellin touched the

wood and felt an echo of ancient power. Mine? he

wondered. Or left over from my grandsire?

 

Aidan stood before the dais, before the firepit.

His eyes burned feral yellow in the umber light of

the dying day. In his hands were links. "Shame,"

he said, "who began the qu'mahlin. His nephew

Carillon, who took back Homana and ended the

qu'mahlin. Then came Donal, son of AH and Dun-

can—and after him, Niall, followed by Brennan."

Gold chimed on gold. "The next link is broken. Its

name was Aidan. I shattered it myself to bargain

for my son. To know without a doubt that what I

sacrificed would make Homana stronger." He held

up the shorter length. "Two more links. One of

them is Kellin. The other is named Cynric."

 

Kellin waited.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LtONS             513

 

Aidan smiled. He turned to the firepit and

dropped the two halves into flame.

 

Kellin started up from the throne, then checked.

 

Aidan said clearly, "The chain shall bind the

Lion."

 

Their eyes locked. He does not ask, he TELLS.

And then Kellin laughed. He stood up from the

Lion and walked down the dais steps. He knelt

beside the firepit with his back to the Lion, and

knew what he must do.

 

Aidan waited.

 

What is fire, but fire? I have withstood godfire: I

have made godfire. This comes from my jehan—

surely its flame is cleaner. Kellin drew in a breath.

He put his hand through flames, then farther into

coals.

 

It burned, but did not consume. Fingers found

metal. He sought the shape of the link and could

not find it. What he found was something else.

 

"Free it," Aidan said.

 

Kellin brought it out of the flame, unsurprised

to discover his hand was whole. He opened it. In

the palm lay an earring. The head of a mountain

cat stared back at him.

 

"More," Aidan said-

 

Kellin set the earring onto the rim of the firepit.

He reached into the flame again, dug down into

coals, and took from the pit two /ir-bands.

 

Aidan was patient. "And again."

 

"Again?" But he set the armbands also on the

rim and plunged both hands into the blazing

coals.

 

Aidan smiled. "A king must have a crown."

 

Kellin drew it forth. A rune-wrought circlet of

lir gleamed against his palms. Its workmanship

was such that no man, looking upon it, could with-

stand the desire to set it on his brow.

 

The voice was light and calm, pitched to reach

 

514 Jennifer Robersoa

 

the dais. "So this is Cheysuli magic." Ginevra's

winged brows rose as she walked the length of the

hall. "Does all your gold come from fire?"

 

"No." Aidan answered. "Our gold is merely

gold, though blessed by the gods in the Ceremony

of Honors. This gold, however, is to replace that

he lost in misadventure."

 

"Misadventure." Her gaze dwelled on Kellin.

She had tamed the silvered hair by braiding it

into quiescence with blood-red cord. "The sort of

misadventure that rendered him without memory

of name, of rank—of race." She looked now at

Aidan- "You are the one my father most feared."

 

In dying light, Aidan's hair glowed russet. "He

never told me so."

 

"He did fear you. He never told me so—my fa-

ther was not a man to admit to such things as

fear—but I think he must have. He spoke of you

repeatedly, telling me how it was, in your mad-

ness, that you came to him in Valgaard to bargain

for your son. I think he did not know what else

you might do, and it frightened him."

 

Kellin clutched the circlet. The gold was warm

in his hands. What passed between his father and

Ginevra was undivulged even in gesture; he could

not decipher it.

 

Aidan's face was relaxed. "I might have chosen

 

you."

 

"Aye. And brought me here," She cast a glance

at Kellin. "My lord prevails upon me to insist that

had I been, I would never once have realized I was

anything but Cheysuli."

 

"But you are." Aidan answered. "You are many

things, Ginevra . .. among them Cheysuli. Among

them Ihlini."

 

Her chin firmed. "And the mother of the

Firstborn."

 

Aidan looked at her belly. She did not show

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS             SIS

 

much yet, but her cupped hands divulged the

truth. He smiled into her eyes. "You may choose

what you will be. The gods give us free will—even

to Ihlini."

 

"Choose?" She glanced sidelong at Kellin, then

returned her gaze to Aidan. "In what way do I

choose? And what?"

 

"How you shall be remembered." Aidan rose.

"You may be Kellin's cheysula. You may be Queen

of Homana. You may be merely a mother—or the

mother of the Firstborn."

 

"I was and always will be Lochiel's daughter."

 

Aidan inclined his head.

 

"And it will mark me," she declared. "That is

how they will know me!"

 

"Aye," Aidan agreed, "because it is required."

His eyes were very feral in the waning light.

Flames turned them molten. "As it concerns you,

my prophesying is done."

 

It startled her. "What?"

 

"You were the witch. But that is done. When

Kellin lies down again, it will be with his cheysula.

If you mean to be anything more, you yourself will

make the choice."

 

Color stood in her face. "You mean if I choose

to remind them I am heir to Lochiel's power." She

smiled. "I could. I could do it easily,"

 

"That would depend," Aidan said calmly, "on

how you chose to do it."

 

She stared fixedly at him, then looked at Kellin.

She was, in that moment, pride and glory incarnate.

 

Leijhana tu'sai, he thought, for giving me the

wit—or robbing me of them.'—so / might see beyond

the wall of our people's enmity to the woman

beyond.

 

The fire kindled her eyes and melted Ihlini ice.

The quality of her tone was pitched now to ac-

knowledgment, and a warmth that left him

 

516 Jennifer Roberson

 

breathless. "Then I would choose to be the woman

who crowned a king. So they would know I want

no war. So they would know I am Ginevra, and

not merely Lochiel's daughter."

 

"Then do it," Aidan said.

 

Ginevra lifted her head. She advanced steadily.

Beside the firepit she paused, stared up into the

blind, gilded eyes of the Lion Throne of Homana,

and smiled a tiny smile. "Tahlmorra," she said

dryly. "Is that not what you call this?"

 

Aidan's voice was quiet. "All men—and all

women—have a tahlmorra. You were bred of Chey-

suli gods as surely as of Ihlini . . . they were—and

remain—the same. In their view we are all of us

'Cheysuli.' The word means 'children of the gods-' "

His smile was gentle, lacking in threat, lacking

in arrogance. "We have a saying, of twins: 'Two

blossoms from the same vine.' Though our vine

was split and the two halves borne away to sepa-

rate gardens, the rootstock remains the same. It is

time we replanted."

 

She hesitated. "Asar-Suti? The Seker?"

 

"We are but aspects of our creators- When there

is evil among men, look first at those gods from

whom they inherited it."

 

Kellin's belly clenched. "Then he is not dead."

 

"The Gate was closed in the destruction ofVal-

gaard. It takes times to build another. While Asar-

Suti labors, centuries may pass."

 

Ginevra's smile was crooked- "Then I had best

crown the king before the Gate is rebuilt." She

held it out, above his head. Flames glinted off

gold. Clearly she said, "In the name of all the gods,

even the Seker who is but one among them, I de-

clare you Mujhar of Homana."

 

Kellin bowed his head. The circlet was cool as

she slid it onto his head with trembling fingers. It

warmed against his brow.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            517

 

"Done," Ginevra said.

 

Aidan smiled. "And so the Lion is chained by

the witch with whom he lay."

 

Kellin picked up the earring. "But this is Ur-

gold! How could this chain me?"

 

"Memories," Aidan answered. "History and her-

itage, and an ancestry that reaches across centu-

ries. When the Lion roars he must recall what

went before, so he will rule the world wisely. Re-

sponsibility binds a man; it binds a king more. Do

not discount its weight."

 

"No," Kellin said. "Not ever again, jehan."

 

One of the hammered doors scraped open. A

man came in, Kellin got to his feet.

 

"Already," Aidan murmured-

 

Kellin stared at his kinsman. Hart's hair was

white. His gaunt face was lined with grief. He

looked briefly at Aidan and Ginevra, then fastened

an unflinching gaze on his twin-bom brother's

grandson. "I came for Brennan," he said, "but it

seems the gods have seen fit to deprive me of my

rujho."

 

Mute, Kellin nodded.

 

Hart looked at Aidan. "It would have been

yours, once. Is that why you are come home at

last?"

 

Something moved in Aidan's eyes. "I am come

home for many reasons, su'fali. I am come to

honor my jehan, whom the gods have taken; to

offer strength to my jehana; to pay homage to my

son, the Mujhar; to witness the coming of the

Firstborn." The yellow eyes were fierce. "But also

to grieve. Will you permit me that?"

 

Abashed, Hart nodded. He looked from Aidan to

Aidan's son. "Brennan is gone, and so I come to

you, his heir." Anguish blossomed a moment, was

damped down with effort. "I had a son once.

 

518 Jennifer Roberson

 

Owain- Lochiel murdered him. Now I have no son.

I have come to give you Solinde."

 

Kellin was astounded. "You have daughters!"

 

Hart's voice was steady. "Biythe has borne only

girls, and will bear no more. Cluna bore three still-

born children and will not conceive again. Jennet

died in childbed. Dulcie was wed to the High

Prince of Ellas two months ago." Hart's tension

lessened. "She grew tired of waiting for you."

 

Kellin smiled faintly.

 

"And so the sons she bears, if she bears sons—

we run to girls, I fear—will be reared EUasian."

 

Kellin stood very still. The back of his neck

prickled. He looked sharply at his father and saw

the light in Aidan's eyes. He said he knows things.

He is "privileged" to know. He knew this would

come. Realization was a knife plunged deep into

his vitals. And he knows the others will come.

 

He would stop it. He knew the way. He looked

back at his grandsire's brother. "You will not die

so soon. This is unnecessary."

 

Hart said only, "Brennan died today."

 

After a stricken moment Kellin turned away and

stared hard at the tapestry of lions. He could not

bear Hart's eyes. He could not bear to see his own

grief in his great-uncle's face.

 

Three

 

When at last Ginevra slept, wearied from long

labor, Kellin sat beside her with their son in his

arms, thinking thoughts of wonder, of pride, of

relief; of the prophecy of the Firstborn.

 

Lochiel's daughter stirred, then slid again into

sleep. He put one hand into the glorious hair and

stroked it gently from her face. The long eyes were

lidded, lost to him in sleep, but he knew what

lived behind them: the blazing ice oflhlini godfire,

legacy of Lochiel's power.

 

Women had swaddled his son in countless linen

wrappings. The child, he thought, was ugly, far

uglier than foal or puppy,-but he supposed time

would alter the red-faced, wrinkled infant into a

human child, and eventually into a man.

 

Kellin drew in a breath. What manner of power

will you claim? Will you be human at all?

 

Sima, at his feet, sent a lazy suggestion through

the link that he let the child grow up and discover

for himself what his tahlmorra was. That a father

could, if he watered the clay too much, turn it into

sludge so that no one at all could use it.

 

Kellin smiled, /s that what I was? Sludge?

 

Sima blinked. Clay with too much grit. You cut

the flesh of an unsuspecting potter.

 

Ah. He laughed softly. And then he thought of

other children who had no father to water them

at all. / will have them come here.

 

519

 

520 Jennifer Roberson

 

Sima yawned. Be wary of asking too much. You

gave them to those women; if you mean to take them

back, you will do more harm than good.

 

They are my children.

 

Bastards.

 

He heard the echo of his own arrogance, and

knew what Sima intended. He acceded to a greater

wisdom than his own; she was, after all, lir. "Then

I will give them leave to come whenever they like,

so they will know their heritage."

 

And?

 

He smiled. And I will go to them, so I will share

their lives.

 

Better. She lashed her tail once. What will you

do with the others?

 

What others? He stiffened. And there more?

 

I mean the ones to come later.

 

Later! Sima, by all the gods, do you think me a

selfish, rutting fool? What man in the world would

turn to another woman with this one in his bed?

 

Sima purred more loudly and shut her golden

eyes. She offered no comment. Her work was done.

 

Kellin laughed softly and looked down upon his

son. Where would a warrior be without a lir such as

Sima? Or Sleeta? Or Teel? Or Ion's Tasha? Or Blais

Tanni? He touched his son's brow. What lir will

you have—if you have a lir at all?

 

"Kellin."

 

He glanced up. Hart stood in the doorway. He

knew without being told what his kinsman had

come to say. "They are here," Kellin said. "Conn.

And Keely."

 

Hart's face spasmed. "Did Aidan forewarn you?

Or have you your own measure of his power of

prophecy?"

 

It hurt, but he knew the pain was shared. It

goaded all of them. "I have no power at all, save

what any of us do. I know only what we all do—

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            521

 

that the Lion shall swallow the lands." He beck-

oned one of the women, gave her Cynric, and rose.

"You came to give me Solinde. I think we will find

they have come to do the same with their own

realms."

 

In Hart's eyes was a measure of quiet respect.

"Brennan wrote me of his fears, of his frustrations.

He knew very well what you could be, if you per-

mitted yourself to achieve it, I see now he was not

wrong." He nodded slightly. "A fitting legacy for

my rujho. He wrought well, did Brennan. And Ho-

mana shall prosper for it."

 

Kellin paused in the doorway; it was Corin he

saw first. The Lord of Atvia stood with his back to

the deep-silled casement. A ruddy fox sat beside

one leg: Kiri. Midday sunlight glinted off ^r-gold.

The once-tawny hair had faded, intermixed with

silver, and the beard Corin yet wore showed traces

of white, but no sign of age softened the tension

in his body or the pride in his stance. For all he

had none of the color, he was Cheysuli to the bone.

 

Kellin was aware of them all within an instant

of entering the chamber: Aileen's solar, with Ai-

leen in it, seated on a chair; near Corin stood a

dark-haired woman with eloquent brown eyes he

knew was Glyn, Conn's cheysula; a second woman

in a chair with hair a pristine white and eyes like

ice—Ginevra's eyes—was lisa, Hart's Solindish

queen; and Keely, Corin's twin, seated nearby with

Scan of Erinn at her back. The Erinnish lord was

huge, dominating the chamber. Even in quietude

his presence was of the kind another man, even a

king, could not ignore.

 

And lastly Aidan, his father, who stood quietly

behind his mother with a raven close at hand,

watching the tableau as if he knew very well what

was to come.

 

522 Jennifer Roberson

 

No doubt he does know. Kellin looked back at

Corin even as Hart moved by him into the cham-

ber to join lisa. He wondered what had passed

among his kinfolk as they awaited his arrival.

They had spoken of Brennan certainly; a quiet

grief lingered in Keely's eyes. Her face was tautly

drawn over high, pronounced cheekbones. The

stubborn jaw was set. But Kellin saw a softness

there that she might not acknowledge; she was,

they all said, a very proud woman.

 

He smiled faintly to see her in skirts. He had

heard the stories of her tempestuous youth. She

belongs in jerkin and leggings, with a sword in her

hands. Shona, they said, had been very like Keely.

In the face of his granddame, he looked for his

mother. In the face of his grandsire, he looked for

himself.

 

But Sean was all Erinnish, bred in the Aerie's

mews; Kellin was Cheysuli. As well as other things,

which bring me to this point.

 

Sean's rumble broke the silence. "Lad," he said,

"we've come for other things, but we owe our re-

spects to the Mujhar of Homana."

 

"Leijhana tu'sai," Kellin said, and saw the star-

tled speculation in Keely's eyes; had she heard

that Brennan's heir repudiated his race? Well, it

was time they understood. "In the name of my

other grandsire, I welcome you to his home."

 

"Yours," Keely said softly.

 

Corin's smile was grim. "I came to speak with

Brennan on a matter of some importance. I find

instead I must speak to his heir. It may be—

difficult."

 

Kellin nodded. "You none of you know me." He

looked at Keely; at Sean. "Not even you, who

raised a proud daughter well worthy of my jehan.

And I, am I fortunate, will be worthy of them."

He stepped aside and beckoned Sima in. The cat

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            S23

 

slid through with a rub against his leg, then pad-

ded to a deep-silled casement aglow with midday

sun. She leapt up, curled herself, and settled on

the sill, "You may have heard nonsense of a

young, foolish prince desiring nothing of a lir for

fear he would lose her, or himself if she were

killed. But that man was ignorant. He did not

know what manner of gift the gods offered." He

looked at Sima and saw they did the same. "In

time, he came to see that a warrior without a lir

is not a man at all ... and wholly unfit to inherit

the Lion Throne."

 

Tension fled Conn's shoulders. His smile wid-

ened. "News travels slowly."

 

"Much more slowly than rumor."

 

Ruefully, Corin laughed. "I know your birthline

as well as my own, as I am in much of it ... I

have no quarrel with it. But you are young to be

Mujhar."

 

"I am the age you were when you sailed away

to your island."

 

Corin looked at Keely. "A-long time ago, rujhoUa."

 

Keely's hair also had begun to silver, altering

the gold of younger years. "Much too long, I fear,

for either of us to recall the feelings of youth, and

why we did what we did." She smiled at her

brother, then looked to Keltin. "We are informed

there is a new Prince of Homana."

 

Kellin saw no reason to rely on courtesy, or the

traditions of a culture that now would be altered.

"More than that," he said easily. "Cynric is the

Firstborn."

 

Tension reinfected the chamber. He wondered if

they believed he would not acknowledge such a

thing; that he would deny sleeping with an Ihlini

despite what it had produced.

 

Kellin understood; it would be so for years, until

old prejudices died. "Her name is Ginevra. Among

 

524 Jennifer Roberson

 

the Houses in her blood is our own: she is, as am

I, a grandchild of Brennan."

 

The silence was heavy. Keely broke it. "We do

not question that. The gods made it clear that one

day it would happen, though I admit none of us

believed you might marry an Ihlini." She slanted

a troubled glance at Aidan, who had served as Cy-

nric's prophet. "But it is difficult for me to recon-

cile her as anything other than Lochiel's child. He

killed my daughter—"

 

"—and nearly his own." Kellin saw it register;

 

marked startled attention. "When he learned the

child she carried was Cynric, he tried to murder

her. Ginevra refused to submit to the sacrifice he

and his god required. With my help—and the help

of her unborn child—she killed her father- She de-

stroyed him in the Gate of his own god." He

looked at each of them, one at a time, until he

knew he had them. "We have fought the Ihlini

forever. It was Ginevra's choice that this war be

ended."

 

Keely's gaze did not waver. Her smile was bit-

tersweet. "If it is possible for you to care so much

for her, then perhaps I should take instruction in

the art of forgiveness. I would like to forgive; she

is, by marriage, my granddaughter. But such

things do not come easy to a childless woman."

 

"Childless!" Kellin looked at Scan and saw an-

guished affirmation. "But—you also had a son—"

 

The upstanding veins of Keely's hand knotted.

"Sean and Riordan went to Atvia to visit Corin

and Glyn. This time, I did not go." A spasm of

grief wracked her face- "This once, I did not go—"

 

"Keely." Sean put a big hand upon her shoul-

der. " 'Twas a storm in the Dragon's Tail- I was

injured ... in saving me, my son risked himself."

His eyes glazed abruptly though the voice re-

 

A TAPESTRY OF LSO!VS              525

 

mained steady. "In Erinn, men rule. There is no

one else left of my line."

 

Kellin drew in a breath. "Will Erinn have me?"

 

Aileen laughed softly. Grief had deeply marked

her, but she was still profoundly Erinnish in color-

ing and speech. "With your eyes, my lad? They'll

be needing no kivama .. . there's no mistaking

your blood! They'll be having themselves an Erin-

nish lord even if he is Mujhar of Homana."

 

"As for me," Corin said, "I have always known

I would go elsewhere for my heir." His hand en-

folded Glyn's. "A barren queen is worthless, some

men might declare—but I know better. I would

trade her for nothing, and no one." He exchanged

a smile with the woman who could not speak, and

looked back at Kellin. "It seemed natural to me

that Brennan be my heir should I predecease him,

despite the arguments of our youth. He was withal

a supremely compassionate and competent man,

a man who understood responsibility; he was far

better fit to rule than I." For a moment his voice

faltered, "That now is moot, but there is another

man to whom I might entrust my realm."

 

Kellin did not immediately answer. He was in-

tensely aware that all of them looked at him ex-

pectantly, awaiting his response. He knew what

it would be, but he wondered if they did; if they

understood at all what was about to happen in the

ordering of their world.

 

/; has nothing to do with me. But they do not see

it; they see only me, and think of immediacies in-

stead of the future. They have not yet reconciled

what it is I have done by siring a son with Ginevra.

I am Kellin to them, no more—except perhaps to my

jehan, who understands very well.

 

He smiled at Aidan and saw the answer in yel-

low eyes; indeed, his father knew. The shar tahl

 

526 Jennifer Roberson

 

knew many things. He was, after all, the mouth-

piece of the gods.

 

One day they will know. They will come to under-

stand. It has nothng to do with me.

 

Kellin glanced at Sima. Then he looked back at

the others and gave them their answer. "/ will

have none of your realms." Their startlement was

palpable in the minute stirring of their bodies, the

intensity in their eyes. "Should you predecease

me, you may be certain I shall respect and cherish

your lands, doing what I must to keep the people

content—but I will name none of them mine. I

will serve only as regent until such a time as my

son comes of age." He looked at his father; Aidan's

smile was content. "The Lion may swallow the

lands, but it is the Firstborn who shall rule them

in the name of ancient gods."

 

Epilogue

 

The Lion's claws curled down beneath Kellin's

hands. His fingers followed the line, tracing gilt-

etched wood. He sought the Lion's strength to

carry him through the ceremony that would, in its

celebration, herald a new age.

 

His arms were heavy with /ir-gold; his brow

ablaze with more. The weight at his left ear, after

its emptiness, was infinitely reassuring. He was,

at last, Cheysuli in all things; a /i'r-blessed warrior

who also knew his balance.

 

Kellin drew in a deep breath, held it a long mo-

ment, then released it slowly. He was aware of

approval emanating from" beside his right leg,

snugged between Mujhar and Queen to offer them

both support: Sima sat in silence with tail tucked

over paws- Great golden eyes were fixed on those

gathering to witness the investiture of a new

Prince of Homana.

 

So many people. His kinfolk, of course, grouped

near the firepit: Aileen first, wearing the fir-torque

Brennan had given her decades before. Their son,

Aidan, with a raven upon his shoulder and his

mother's hand in his. Hart with Rael, and lisa;

 

Corin and K-iri with mute Glyn; Keely flanked by

Scan. And lir, so many lir, in rafters and windows

and comers.

 

Others also: the Homanan Council, complete in

all regards, and the castle staff; Gavan, clan-leader

 

527

 

528 Jennifer Roberaoa

 

of Clankeep, with Burr and other shar tahls; plus

the multitudes of warriors, and women with large-

eyed children, from all the keeps of Homana. Ih-

lini also, from Solinde, who did not honor Asar-

Suti. No one was turned away. Those who could

not fit into the Great Hall gathered in corridors,

in other chambers, in the baileys; even, he had

been told, in the castle kitchens.

 

The firepit blazed. The sun beyond stained

glass slanted into the crowded hall, glinting off

?ir-gold and other ornamentation, tinting into a

likeness the fair Homanan faces and dark Chey-

suli ones.

 

Kellin noted it. He noted everything, but noth-

ing stood out so much as the woman at his side.

 

She stood quietly at his right, holding linen-

swathed Cynric, She wore a velvet robe of deep

bloodied wine that was, in its folds, in its richness,

very nearly black. At her ears she wore rubies and

jet; her slender neck was weighted with the gold

of his /ir-torque. Unbound silver hair fell in sheets

to her knees. The white around her face framed

an exquisite, alien beauty even more remarkable

for her pride, for the blazing of her spirit, for the

determination housed in icy Ihlini eyes.

 

This was her son. If it be her task alone, they

would none of them forget it.

 

Kellin smiled. They will remember her from this

day. No matter what else may happen, they will

never forget Ginevra.

 

He looked out again at the multitude, then rose

from the throne. He extended his right hand. Gine-

vra put into it her left, as her right arm cradled

Cynric. Two steps only, and they stood at the edge

of the marble dais steps.

 

Aidan moved out from the throng. His voice was

pitched quietly, but no one in the hall could not

hear what he said. "He is the sword." A shower of

 

A TAPESTRY OF Lims           S29

 

sparks rose up from the firepit- "He is the sword

and the bow and the knife. He is darkness and

light. He is good and evil. He is the child and

the elder; the girl and the boy; the wolf and the

lamb."

 

No one spoke. No child protested, no lir ruffled

wing.

 

Aidan's eyes were black. "/ am no one; I am

everyone. I am the child of the prophecy; child of

darkness and light; of like breeding with like until

the blood is one again."

 

Stained glass shattered. Empty casements dis-

played a sudden darkness: the moon slid across

the sun and did not depart. Inside, the hall was

black; outside, the world was.

 

People cried out in fear; Homanans, Kellin

knew. Cheysuli feared no gods.

 

Aidan's voice whispered: "The sword—and the

bow—and the knife."

 

Flames roared up in the firepit. The iron lid that

covered the stairway to the Womb was flung back

on its hinges, crashing into piled wood. In the

flurry of ash and flame came a greater, more com-

plex motion: the rushing torrent of dozens of lir

issuing from the hole. In the flames they were

creamy marble, with blind creamy eyes, but as

they burst forth into the light, into the darkness

of eclipse, marble shapechanged itself into the

clothing of living lir.

 

Ginevra's hand gripped Kellin's. He felt her

trembling; sensed the wonder in her heart, and his

own, that their son could be the inheritor of so

much power.

 

"/ am Cynric," Aidan said, "and I am Firstborn

of those who have returned."

 

Lir upon lir, freed of imprisonment, joined brother

and sister lir in hammer-beamed rafters, in rune-

 

530 Jennifer Roberson

 

rimmed sills, at the edge of the firepit. Others

gathered near the dais.

 

Firepit flames died. The hall was left in darkness.

"Cynric," Aidan said, "who will bring light to the

darkness so all men may see."

The darkness was complete. Silence was loud.

Then Kellin understood. He looked at Ginevra,

marking the sheen of silver hair in the dimness of

the hall. "Unwrap him."

 

Her mouth parted as comprehension filled her

eyes. Ginevra deftly freed the week-old infant from

embroidered linen wrappings. With an avid ten-

derness she handed him to Kellin, who raised him

up, naked, to the multitudes.

 

Tiny arms waved. In the darkness fire bloomed.

A pale, luminous gold born of infant-etched runes,

that encompassed the darkness and defeated it. Its

heart was livid white.

 

Upturned faces were illuminated. Kellin heard

murmurings, saw groping hands reach out to one

another. Homanans and Cheysuli were bound to-

gether by awe-

He looked at his kinfolk standing near the dais:

 

Aileen, crying; Hart and lisa; Corin and Glyn;

 

Keely and Sean, all clasping hands. Their expres-

sions were rapt.

 

Aidan raised his hands to encompass everyone.

"From among them shall come a hr worthy of the

Firstborn. Worthy of the child who had united, in

peace, four warring realms and two magical races."

His voice soared above them. "Cynric, child of

prophecy; the Firstborn come again!"

 

There was a shifting among the crowd as war-

riors looked at Ur, and an abrupt apprehension

that was palpable. Kellin himself felt it.

 

He looked sharply at Sima. What ts this? Will we

lose the lir after all?

Sima's eyes were fixed on him in an unwavering

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            531

 

intentness. Pupils were nonexistent. You have

wrought well. Decade after decade, until years be-

came centuries, the Cheysuli have labored well. It is

time now for two races to become one; for the power

to be fixed as it was once before. From you and Lo-

chiel's daughter will come others, and they in their

turn shall sire their own, until the Firstborn as a

race is viable again.

 

He felt a clutch of trepidation. What of us? What

becomes of the Cheysuli and the Ihlini? Do we die

out? Are we replaced? He cast a harried glance at

the gathered lir. Desperately he asked. Have I de-

stroyed my own race to elevate yours?

 

The tip of her tail twitched.

 

Kellin began to tremble. Sima—am I to lose you

after all? To my son? He could not bear it. He could

not bear the idea. Gods—do not do this! Would you

have me be a monster to my people?

 

Behold, Sima said.

 

"Behold!" Aidan cried.

 

Kellin heard it. At first he was not certain. Then

he heard Ginevra's gasp and swung awkwardly,

clasping the infant against his shoulder. He could

not help himself; he stepped off the dais even as

Sima preceded him; even as Ginevra fled.

 

But he knew. He knew. And his doubts spilled

away.

 

He looked at Sima. She was fully grown and

magnificent. You knew all along.

 

Golden eyes blinked. / know many things. I am,

after all, lir.

 

"Look," Ginevra whispered. "Look what we

have done!"

 

Kellin looked again. Words filled his mind, his

mouth; too many words. He could not say them

all; could not think them all.

 

In the end, he said the only ones he could man-

 

532 Jennifer Roberson

 

age. "Leijhana tu'sai—" he whispered, "for a lir

such as this.

 

With meticulous precision, the throne unbent it-

self. Wood split and peeled away; gilt cracked and

was sloughed as dust. The shoulders broke through

first, heaving free of imprisonment, and then the

head, twisting, as it freed itself from an ancient,

rigid roar. The gaping jaws closed. The crouching

beast dropped to all fours and shook its heavy

mane, spraying chips of wood and gilt.

 

In the hall, people cried out: Homanan, Cheyuli,

Ihlini. Some fell to their knees. Others mouthed

petitions to various gods.

 

Wood cracked and popped. From the tattered

prison emerged a male lion full-fleshed and in his

prime. Golden eyes gleamed, stripped now of age-

soiled gilt to display the soul inside. A flame

burned there, kindling into a bonfire as he gazed

upon the hall.

 

The lion shook himself. Wood chips flew into the

hall; those that landed in the firepit popped once

and hissed into smoke.

 

The grime of antiquity, the sheen of a thousand

hands, was sloughed off with a single shrug of

massive, mane-clad shoulders. Littering the dais

was the wooden pelt newly shed; what stood be-

fore them now was the Lion of Homana as he once

was, before a power wholly perverted had shape-

changed him to wood.

 

The massive jaws opened, displaying fearsome

teeth. His roar filled the hall. Fragments of glass

still clinging to their casements shattered into col-

ored spray.

 

The roar died. The lion scented, tasting the air,

then took note of the tiny infant- Golden eyes

sharpened. He padded forth to stand at the edge

of the steps, gazing down upon the child who was

unafraid of his roar. The rumble deep in his chest

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS            533

 

was one of abiding contentment, of a lir newly

 

bonded.

 

Ja'hai-na, Kellin thought. Imprisoned or no, this

moment alone, here within the hall, has always been

his tahlmorra.

 

He looked down at the infant he cradled in

his arms- The eyes were not open. The fists were

impotent. But Kellin knew his son would never

be measured by such things; he was Cynric, and

Firstborn; he would measure himself against a

personal criteria more demanding than any other.

 

The lion roared again- The moon moved off the

sun. Sunlight filled the Great Hall, where a week-

old, naked infant shaped tiny glowing runes.

 

Ginevra cried in silence, Kellin clasped and

kissed her hand, raising it in tribute; he would have

everyone know he honored his queen. "Shansu," he

whispered. "The war is ended,"

 

As the Lion lay down behind them, Kellin

turned to the gathering and raised his son once

more. "His name is Cynric. In the name of Chey-

suli gods, who conceived and bore us all, I ask you

to accept him as my heir, the Prince of Homana—

and the Firstborn come again!"

 

He was met at first by silence. Then a murmur-

ing, a rustling of clothing, a clattering of jewelry;

 

and at last the acclamation, wholly unrestrained,

echoed in the rafters. The tongues conjoining were

two: Homanan and Cheysuli. But the answer was

encompassed in single word said twice.

 

"Ja'hai-na!"

 

"Accepted!"

 

Aidan came first, followed by Aileen. And Hart,

Corin, Keely. Sean, Glyn, and lisa. Each of them

approached the infant Prince of Homana to offer

the kiss of kinfolk; only they could.

 

And then the others came: one by one by one—

Cheysuli, Ihlini, Homanan—to pay homage to

 

534 Jennifer Roberson

 

the heir, to the son, to the Firstborn, while on the

dais behind the child, where Deirdre's tapestry

hung, the Lion of Homana guarded his newborn

lir.

 

Author's Note

 

The "Chronicles of the CheysuH" was not originally

intended as a series, but a single book only, titled

The Shapechangers. It was my first foray into writ-

ten fantasy, although I'd been reading it for many

years; I'd written other (unpublished) novels, but

no fantasy, because I was afraid. I loved the genre

too much, and feared I couldn't do it justice.

 

But my favorite authors—Marion Zimmer Brad-

ley, C.J. Cherryh, Katherine Kurtz, Patricia McKil-

lip. Anne McCaffrey, etc.—simply didn't write fast

enough to suit my reading addiction; I decided the

only way to survive was to manufacture a "fix"

by writing my own novel-

 

And so I concocted a plot about a race of shape-

changers and their animal familiars, and a girl

bom of a mundane culture being absorbed into a

magical one.

 

But plots always require thickening ... I added

royalty, a prophecy, created the Ihlini. And then

one day, immediately following a cultural anthro-

pology class in which we'd spent fifty minutes

drawing triangles and circles as a generational ex-

ercise, I decided to apply my newfound knowledge

to my stand-alone fantasy novel.

 

A trilogy was born.

 

More triangles and circles got added to the

chart. The trilogy became a seven-book series- And

when I realized seven didn't quite cover every-

 

535

 

536 Jennifer Robersoa

 

thing, I added another and brought it to eight,

whereupon I promised myself to end it. Finis.

 

Twelve years later, it's ended. The prophecy is

complete.

 

No author likes to turn her back on a world and

its people after spending so much time creating

them; Homana's root, after all, is home. But she

does it, at least for a while, because to linger

longer is to risk creative stagnation.

 

The "Chronicles of the Cheysuli" have covered

approximately 100 years in the history of Homana

and her races, blessed and unblessed alike. It's my

belief Cynric, child of prophecy—the final result

of centuries of genetic manipulation—had his own

share of adventures. It's also my conceit to wonder

about the five undocumented years Finn and Caril-

lon spent in exile; the boyhoods of Duncan and

Finn; the adventures facing Keely, Hart, and Corin

after leaving Homana; the true account of the love

between Hale and Lindir and the events that

touched off the qumahlin (although a "prequel"

novelette, "Of Honor and the Lion," appeared in

DAW'S 1988 anthology, Spell Singers.)

 

In a history so vast, there are stories left to be

told. Maybe someday I'll tell them.

 

—J.R.

 

Chandler, Arizona

1992

 

APPENDIX I

 

CHEYSU1I/OID TONGUE

GLOSSARY

(with pronunciation guide)

 

a'saii (uh-SIGH)—Cheysuli zealots dedicated to

 

pure line of descent.

bu'lasa (boo-LAH-suh)—grandson

bu'sala (boo-SAH-luh)—foster-son

cheysu (chay-SOO)—man/woman; neuter; used

 

within phrases.

cheysul (chay-SOOL)—husband

cheysula (chay-SOO-luh)—wife

cheysuli (chay-SOO-lee)—(literal translation): chil-

dren of the gods-

Cheysuli i'halla shansu (chay-SOO-lee i-HALLA

 

shan-SOO)—(lit.): May there be Cheysuli peace

 

upon you.

godftre (god-fire)—common manifestation of Ihlini

 

power; cold, lurid flame; purple tones.

harana (huh-RAH-na)—niece

harani (huh-RAH-nee)—nephew

homana (ho-MAH-na)—(literal translation): of all

 

blood.

 

i'halla (ih-HALL-uh)—upon you: used within phrases.

i'toshaa-ni (ih-tosha-NEE)—Cheysuli cleansing

 

ceremony; atonement ritual.

ja'hai ([French ;'] zshuh-HIGH)—accept

ja 'hai-na (zshuh-HIGH-nuh)—accepted

 

537

 

538 Jennifer Robersoa

 

jehan (zsheh-HAHN)—father

 

jehana (zsheh-HAH-na)—mother

 

kureshtin (koo-RESH-tin)—epithet; name-calling

 

leijharm tu'sai (lay-HAHN-uh too-SIGH)—(to.): thank

 

you very much.

 

lir (leer)—magical animal(s) linked to individual

Cheysuli; title used indiscriminately between

lir and warriors-

meijha (MEE-hah)—Cheysuli; light woman; (lit.):

 

mistress.

 

meijhana (mee-HAH-na)—slang: pretty one

Mujhar (moo-HAR)—king

 

qu'mahlin (koo-MAH-lin)—purge; extermination

Resh'ta-ni (resh-tah-NEE)—(lit.): As you would have it.

rujho (ROO-ho)—slang: brother (diminutive)

rujhoUa (roo-HALL-uh)—sister (formal)

rujholli (roo-HALL-ee)—brother (formal)

ru'maii (roo-MY-ee)—(lit.): in the name of

Ru'shalla-tu (roo-SHAWL-uh T00)-~(lit.) May it be

 

so,

 

Seker (Sek-AIR)—formal title: god of the netherworld.

shansu (shan-SOO)—peace

shar tahl (shar TAHL)—priest-historian; keeper of

 

the prophecy.

shu'maii (shoo-MY-ee)—sponsor

su'fala (soo-FALL-uh)—aunt

su'fali (soo-FALL-ee)—uncle

 

sul'harai (sool-hah-RYE)—moment of greatest sat-

isfaction in union of man and woman; de-

scribes shapechange,

 

tahlmorra (tall-MORE-uh)—fate; destiny; kismet.

Tahlmorra lujhala mei wiccan, cheysu (tall-MORE-

uh loo-HALLA may WICK-un, chay-SOO)-—

(lit.): The fate of a man rests always within the

hands of the gods.

 

A TAPESTRY OF LIONS

 

539

 

tetsu (tet-SOO)—poisonous root given to allay

 

great pain; addictive, eventually fatal.

tu'halla dei (too-HALLA-day-EE)—(lit.): Lord to

 

liege man.

 

usca (OOlS-kuh)—powerful liquor from the Steppes.

y'jahai (EE-zshuh-HIGH)—(^.): I accept.