A Tapestry of Lions Read online

  “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 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 Homana will desire our company?”

  He had not considered that. Perhaps his marriage 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 flutter in his belly.

  Be not so fearful, Sima suggested, following on his heels. We have time.

  How much? he asked uneasily. What should happen if, driven to anger in the midst of political turmoil, 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. I 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.

  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 satisfy 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 unaware, beaten down from his humanity into animal 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 threatened equilibrium. Kellin thrust out a staying hand intended to hold him upright, but it broke through 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 lir-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 unchanged 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 permitted; 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 himself 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 recalled he was Kellin, and human, so as not to tip the balance from lir-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.

  Sima interrupted. A stag, just ahead. Fit for Homana-Mujhar?

  He saw it; it was. A fine, huge stag with a magnificent rack of antlers.

  Kellin slowed, then stilled even as Sima did. The stag stood unmoving, poised in a patch of sunlight. 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 lir-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 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 lir-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 welled 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 Teague!”

  Sima panted behind him. Kellin turned his dripping 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 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 communication. 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 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 anguished 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 awkwardly 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 renewed 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.

  Lir? Sima’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! If you would live, take Teague and go!” He knelt down at Sima’s side. What am I 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 condition 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 unexpectedly, expanding what had collapsed, refilling 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 complete. 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 shoulder. I 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—”

  Reflex, she told him. A cat, to protect himself, strikes first. You struck to protect me.

  “Teague,” Kellin mouthed.

  Even the comfort of the lir-link was not enough.

  He had killed a man who was not an Ihlini, not a thief, not an enemy.

  I have killed a friend.

  Kellin sank down to the ground and pressed his face against it, unmindful of bloodied leaves.

  I 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 customary 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.