A Tapestry of Lions Page 22

  Kellin sighed relief. He felt better already. Once his plight was explained, all would be understood. He had spent portions of his childhood in Clankeep 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 childhood—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.

  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 nothing at all to do with food.

  He listened for and heard the faint rustling behind. 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 before 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 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, without the depressing weight of personal recollection.

  Despite the hour he was welcomed immediately by the warriors manning the gate and was escorted directly to the clan-leader’s pavilion. In the dark it stood out because of its color: a pale saffron bedecked with ruddy-hued foxes. Moonlight set it softly aglow.

  Kellin dismounted as his escort ducked into Gavan’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 doorflap. Kellin drew in a deep breath and went in, acutely aware of his dishabille. He paused inside as his eyes adjusted to the muted glow of a firecairn, 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 murmured word of thanks and accepted cup and platter. 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 was hollowed and eerily feral, dominated by yellow 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 Kellin’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 tension. Kellin wondered fleetingly if Gavan had been present during the Ihlini attack. Then he dismissed 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 Corwyth’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 thing which must be attended.” It was more difficult 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 warrior…it was of some concern that the tardiness of the lir-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 fraying 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 firecairn; at the bronze-bound trunk with a handful of Cheysuli ornaments scattered across its closed lid; at the compact warbow—once called a hunting bow—leaning against the trunk; at the shadows 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 together. 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 Solindish halfling.”

  “Aislinn. Who wed Donal and bore Niall.” Gavan smiled then, his faint consternatio
n clearing. “Is this because Niall, too, was late receiving his lir? 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. Gavan’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 disingenuousness; 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 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 produce 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 discuss 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 his mouth too widely, he would spew it like a dismantled 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 natural 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 approaching 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 Homana, 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 survived— He put it into words. “If Blais had survived, 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 Solindish and Atvian bloodlines. It would have taken 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 firecairn. 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 defiance 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 rebellion 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 deserted 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 pavilion was difficult to see in the darkness; moonlight was obscured by clustered trees and overhanging branches. The Cheysuli had moved Clankeep after the Ihlini attack, for a part of the forest had burned. Only rain a day or two later had prevented 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 tahl.

  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 lir-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 altered. 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 doorflap. “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; 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 stren
gth 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 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 derision 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 compared 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 Homana’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 nodded slightly. “So you have been to Gavan 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 renounce the lir-bond, lest you be stripped of your rank. And you would never permit that; it would echo your jehan’s actions.”