"Three children," Corwyth agreed. "But all bastards, 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 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."
"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 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 myself, 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 eyelids, or stop his heart again.
But Corwyth did not even look at his captive.
The sorcerer quietly went about his business, pacing out distances. Each time he halted, he sketched something in the air. The rune glowed briefly purple, 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 declarations of a separate Ihlini prophecy—or of the Cheysuli one entire—was nothing but arrant nonsense 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.
But why not? It was a Cheysuli custom that killed Blais, not an Ihlini.
Heresy.
Is it?
Kellin inhaled carefully, held his breath a moment 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 undermine his own convictions, which would" in turn undermine a spirit that might yet protest its captivity; 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 upright 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, shearing 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 Kellin's life.
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 commented, "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 Corwyth got to his feet.
A shudder wracked Kellin. "What is—" he grittened his teeth against another assault. "—ku'reshtin—" he managed. "What threat do I offer?"
Corwyth cast him a glance. "What inanities do you mout
h?"
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!"
I am your only escape.
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 lir 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. /I 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 permanent link.
He repudiated it. I 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. I 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 altered, 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 escape? To bait me with babbled nonsense?"
You must kill him.
He wanted to shout at the lir. 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, Kellin 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 lately?
"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 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 Ihlini'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 energy 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.
I 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-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 Ihlini, 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 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, pausi
ng twice to spit.
Lir.
Kellin jumped. He spun on his knees, panting, bracing himself on one stiff arm, and searched avidly for the mountain cat who had driven him beyond self. There was no sound. No cat. He saw nothing but star-weighted darkness and the scalloped 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 broken one of the most binding rules of the lir-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 relief: 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 methodically 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.
Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 Page 20
