Dripping, Kellin rose again. He made himself look. The view was no better: a sprawled, stilled body with only the pallor of vertebrae glistening in the ruin of a throat.
He shuddered. "I renounced you," he declared. "I made it very plain. Now more than ever it is imperative that I do not bond with a lir. If that is what it means—"
"That" was necessary. "That" was required.
"No." He would not now speak inside his head but say it as a man, so there existed no doubt as to who—and what—he was. "It was butchery, no more."
It was to save your life. The tone was terse, as if the lir suppressed a great emotion. What the Ihlini do, they do to preserve their power. Lochiel would have killed you. Or gelded you.
"Gelded—"
Do you think he would permit you to breed? You are his ending. The moment your son is born, the world begins anew.
Kellin wiped damp hands across his face, warping it out of shape as if self-inflicted violence would banish acknowledgment. "I want nothing to do with this."
It is too late.
"No. Not if I renounce you, as I have. Not if I refuse to bond with you."
Too late, the lir repeated. The tone now was muted.
Suspicion flared. He had been taught to honor all lir, but at this moment, conversing with this lir, he was afraid to assume it beneficent. "Why?"
Alarm replaced suspicion. "What have you done?"
It was necessary.
It filled him with apprehension. "What have you done?"
Lent you a piece of myself.
"You!"
Required, it insisted. Without that part of me, you would never have accomplished the shapechange.
A shudder wracked Kellin from head to foot.
The flesh on his scalp itched as if all his hairs stood up. "Tell me," he said intently. "Tell me what I have become."
Silence answered him.
"Tell me!" Kellin shouted. "By the gods, you beast, what have you done to me?"
The tone was odd. Why does a man swear by gods he cannot honor?
The inanity amazed him. "If I could see you—"
Then see me. A shadow moved at the edge of the trees. See me as I am. Know who Sima is.
A soft rustle, then nothing more. In the reflection of dying flames, gold eyes gleamed.
Kellin nearly gaped. "You are little more than a cub
Young, Sima conceded. But old enough for a lir.
"But—" Kellin blurted a choked laugh, then cut it off. "I want nothing to do with you. With you, or with any of it. No lir, no bonding, no shapechange. I want a full life ... not a travesty always threatened by an arcane ritual that needlessly wastes a warrior."
Sima blinked. I would die if you died. The cost is equally shared.
"I do not want to share it! I want not to risk it at all."
A tail twitched. She was black, black as Sleeta, the Mujhar's magnificent lir. But she was small, as yet immature, gangly as a half-grown kitten.
Incongruity, Kellin thought, in view of her intransigence.
I am empty, Sima said. I am but a shadow. Do you sentence me to that?
"Can I? I thought you said it was too late."
Gold eyes winked out, then opened again. If you wish to renounce me, you may. But then the Ihlini will be victorious, because both of us will die.
She did not sound young. She sounded ineffably old. "Sima." Kellin wet his lips. "What have you done to me?"
The sleek black head lowered. Tufted ears flattened. The tail whipped a branch to shreds.
"Sima!"
Caused you to change before the balance was learned.
Kellin's mouth felt dry. "And that is a bad thing?"
If balance is lost and not regained, if it is not maintained, a warrior in lir-shape risks his humanity.
His voice sounded rusty. "He would be locked in beast-shape?"
If he lost his balance and spent too long in lir-shape, he could lose knowledge of what he was. Self-knowledge is essential. Forgotten, the man becomes a monster caught between two selfs.
After a long moment, Kellin nodded. "Leijhana tu'sai," he said grimly, "for giving me the chance to become a child's nightmare."
I gave you the chance to survive. Corwyth would not have killed you, but he would have brought you pain. And Lochiel would have done worse.
Kellin did not argue. He would not speak to her.
He would give her no opportunity to drag him deeper into the mess she had made of his life.
Because he could not stay in the clearing with the mutilated body, Kellin took Corwyth's horse for his own. He turned the other mounts loose; he had no time for ponying.
Sima did not honor his moratorium on speech.
They would have killed me.
He knew immediately what she referred to. For the first time, he contemplated what it was to a lir to experience guilt. He understood there was no choice in killing the minions; they would have skinned her and taken the pelt to Valgaard for presentation to Lochiel.
Even as they presented me. Grimly Kellin said. "I would wish that on no one, beast or no."
Leijhana tu'sai. Sima twitched her tail.
Kellin slanted her a hard glance as he snugged the girth tight. "You know the Old Tongue?"
Better than you do.
He grunted. "Privy to the gods, are you? More favored than most?"
Of course. All lir are. The cat paused. You are an angry man.
"After what you have made of me, do you expect gratitude?"
No. You are angry all the time.
He slipped fingers between girth and belly to check for a horse's favorite trick: intentional bloating to keep the girth loose. "How would you know what I am?"
I know.
"Obscurity does not commend you."
Sima thumped her tail. A difficult bonding, I see.
"No bonding at all." As the horse released its breath in response to an elbow jab, Kellin snugged the girth tighter. "Go back to wherever it is lir come from."
I cannot.
"I will not have you with me."
You cannot NOT have me.
"Oh?" Kellin cast her an arch glance. "Will you stop me with violence?"
Of course not. I am sworn to protect you, not injure you.
"That is something." He looped reins over the bay gelding's neck. "Go back to the gods, cat. I will have none of you."
You have no choice.
"Have I not?" Kellin gritted his teeth and put a boot toe into the left stirrup. Swearing inventively, he swung up into the saddle and settled himself slowly. "—I think I have every choice, cat."
None. Not if you wish to survive.
"There have been lirless Cheysuli before."
None who survived.
Kellin gathered in reins. "General Rowan," he said briefly. "Rowan was meticulous in teaching my history. Rowan was one of Carillon's most trusted men. He was a lirless Cheysuli."
He did not lose a lir. He never had one. He was kept from the bonding by the Ellasians who did not know what he was.
"I know what I am. I know what you are." He swung the horse southwesterly. "Go back to the gods who sent you. I will have none of them, or you."
Lir—
"No." Kellin spared a final glance at the body beside the fire. In time the beasts would eat it. He would not be one of them; he had done his part already. "Tu'halla dei," he said. "Or whatever the terminology from warrior to renounced lir."
The sleek back cat rose. I am Sima. I am for you.
Kellin kicked the horse into a walk. "Find another lir."
There IS none! she cried.
For the first time he heard the fear in her tone.
Kellin jerked the horse to a halt. He turned in the saddle to stare angrily at the mountain cat. "I saw what became of Tanni. I know what became of Blais. I am meant to hold the Lion and sire a Firstborn son—do you think I dare risk it all for you? To know that if you die, the prophecy dies also?"
Without me, you die. Withou
t you, I do. With both of us dead, there is no need for the prophecy.
Kellin laughed. "Surely the gods must see the folly in this! A lir is a warrior's weakness, not his strength. I begin to think the lir-bond is nothing more than divine jest."
I am for you, she said. Without you, I am empty.
It infuriated him. "Tell it to someone who cares!"
But as he rode from the campsite, the mountain cat followed.
Eleven
Kellin was exhausted by the time he reached Clankeep. He had briefly considered riding directly to Homana-Mujhar—no doubt Brennan and Aileen wondered what had become of him—but decided against it. Clankeep was the answer. His problem had nothing at all to do with the Homanan portion of his blood, but was wholly a Cheysuli concern.
I will tell them what has happened. I will explain what I was forced to become, and the result—surely they cannot countenance a warrior who in lir-shape compromises every bit of his humanity. He steadfastly ignored the shadow slinking behind him with gold eyes fixed on his back. They will understand that this kind of bonding -cannot be allowed to stand.
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 doorHap.
Kellin drew in a deep breath and went in, acutely aware of his deshabille. 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 consternation 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. Ga van'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 disingenuity; 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."
Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 Page 21
