Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08

by A Tapestry of Lions (v1. 0)

  "Why not banish the Lion's aspect and face me as a man? Or do you fear me after all?"

  Grunting and panting faded. The night was silent 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. I 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.

  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 entrance 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 casements 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 intense he thought he was on fire. His hands trembled 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 replaced it; he was desolate now, with a spirit wholly diminished. Weakness replaced the hideous 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.

  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 curtains, blessing the servant who had left the warming pan.

  But he could not stay there. A restlessness consumed 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 everything 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 Cheysuli 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. I was bred for it. All the blood that flows in me cries out to rule Homana ... I 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 steps to the throne and sat himself upon it, moving 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 nothing 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, Kellin the new; one day the old would die.

  Kellin tapped the blade against wooden claws.

  "Perhaps better suited than you believe."

  "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, compressed 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 insult, 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?"

  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—because 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 I—?" 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 accuse me of murder?"

  "You have labored assiduously to make me believe you are capable of anything."

  "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 believe 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 Kellin you once were. I cannot understand it, but I am cognizant of why."

  "Are you?" The anger was banished now, replaced with bitter helplessness. "You are not me."

  "Thank the gods, no." Brennan lifted his shoulders 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 matters 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 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 I 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 tavern 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 terrorizes victims long before he confronts them."

  "I have vanquished the lion," Kellin said, "but he will look for something else. Corwyth has convinced 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. "Homana-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?"

  "I feel no guilt," Kellin told him. "That is for 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 yourself—and then recall that he is your SON. I know very well who should have the ordering of the other."

  Brennan lost his temper. Kellin listened in startled 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 Brennan's mouth. "Risk your life and the lives of honorable 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 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. "Perhaps 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. Brennan was at least as quick as he; a forcible reminder 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 Blais. 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 suggestion. 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, Kellin 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.

  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 anticipation filled his belly. I 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 intensified 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.