A Tapestry of Lions Page 24

  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 to the Bluetooth River; beyond lay the Northern Wastes, and Valgaard.

  Kellin shivered. I would have gone there, had Corwyth persevered.

  Through the Northern Gate lay the poorer sections of Mujhara, including the Midden. Kellin intended 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 suddenly to life, engulfing him utterly. He heard the frantic barking, the growls; then Sima’s wailing cry. The link, half-made though it was, reverberated 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 shadows, 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 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, flinging his head in protest.

  Before Kellin could attempt to regain control of the reins, hands grabbed his left leg. It was summarily jerked out of the stirrup and twisted violently, 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—leijhana tu’sai!—and caught his balance haphazardly against the startled horse’s quivering rump.

  Before he could draw a breath, the man was on him.

  Inconsequentially, even as he fought, Kellin believed 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 lir, 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 narrow, 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 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 Kellin’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 Kellin’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 another; 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, shifting on his forearm. “First the thumb,” the attacker grunted.

  There was no air, no air at all—but pain—

  “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 Kellin’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 legs 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 desperation. 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.

  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 allowed 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 s
cent 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, exultant 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 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 hunger. 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. I do not feel like a man. THIS is man, this food here beneath me. Saliva dripped from his jowls. You want it for yourself.

  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 accomplish 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 corner.

  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, 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. I 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 corner 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 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, unmindful 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 fading flame-dazzle with another at his side: a magnificent black female well into her prime. Her grace denounced the gangliness of the young female 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 humans 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 caution. 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 und
erstood 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, Kellin. Let the anger go.”

  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 transformation. “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 manner 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—”