Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08

by A Tapestry of Lions (v1. 0)

  "I do nothing but state the truth." Burr's tone was very quiet, lacking all emotion. "If a single man in your birthline had turned his back on his tahlmorra, you would not be the warrior destined to inherit the Lion."

  "You mean if my Jehan had turned his back on his tahlmorra." Kellin wanted to swear. "This is merely another attempt to persuade me that what my jehan did was necessary. You said yourself you are friends ... I hear bias in his favor,"

  "It was necessary," Burr said. "Who can say what might have become of you if Aidan had not renounced his title? Paths can be altered, Kellin—and prophecies. If Aidan had remained here, he would be Prince of Homana. You would merely be third in line behind Brennan and Aidan. That extra time could well have delayed completion of the prophecy, and destroyed it utterly."

  "You mean, it might have prevented me from lying with whatever woman I am supposed to lie with—according to the gods—in order to sire Cynric." Kellin tossed aside the twig. "A convenience, nothing more. No one knows this. Just as no one knows for certain a warrior goes mad if his lir is killed." He smiled victory. "You see? We have come full circle."

  Burr's answering smile was grim. "But I can name you the proofs; Duncan, Cheysuli clan-leader, kept alive by Ihlini sorcery though his lir was dead, and used as a weapon to strike at his son, Donal, who was meant to be Mujhar."

  Kellin felt cold; he knew this history.

  "Teiman, Blais' jehan, who assumed the role of clan-leader to the heretical a'saii. A warrior who would have, given the chance, pulled Brennan from the Lion and mounted it himself." Burr's tone was steady. "Tieman renounced his lir. In the end, completely mad, he threw himself into the Womb of the Earth before the eyes of your Jehan and jehana in an attempt to prove himself worthy to hold the Lion. He did not come out."

  Kellin knew that also.

  Burr said softly, "First we will speak of your jehan. Then of the balance."

  Kellin wanted it badly. "No," he said roughly. "What I learn of my jehan will be learned from him."

  Burr looked beyond him to the slack door-flap.

  He said a single word—a name—and a warrior came in. In his arms he held a small girl asleep against his shoulder; by his side stood a tousle-haired boy of perhaps three years.

  "There is another," the shar tahl said. "Another son; do you recall? Or have you forgotten entirely that these are your children?"

  "Mine—" Kellin blurted.

  "Three royal bastards." Burr's tone was unrelenting. "Packed off to Clankeep like so much unwanted baggage, and never once visited by the man who sired them."

  Thirteen

  Kellin refused to look at the children, or at the warrior with them. Instead he stared at Burr.

  "Bastards," he declared, biting off the word.

  The shar tahl's voice was calm. "That they are bastards does not preclude the need for parents."

  Kellin's lips were stiff. "Homanan halflings."

  "And what are you, my lord, but Homanan, Solindish, Atvian, Ennnish. .. ?" Burr let it trail off. "I am pure Cheysuli."

  "A'saii?" Kellin challenged. "You believe I should be replaced?"

  "If you refuse your lir, assuredly." Burr was relentless. "Look at your children, Kellin."

  He did not want to. He was desperate not to.

  "Bastards have no place in the line of succession—"

  "—and therefore do not matter?" Burr shook his head. "That is the Homanan in you, I fear ... in the clans bastardy bears no stigma." He paused. "Did Ian know you felt so? He, too, was a bastard."

  "Enough!" Kellin hissed. "You try to twist me inside out no matter what I say."

  "I shall twist you any way I deem necessary, if the result achieved is as I believe it should be."

  Burr looked at the boy. "Young, but he promises well. Homanan eyes—they are hazel—but the hair is yours. And the chin—"

  "Stop it."

  "The girl is too young yet to show much of what she shall be—"

  "Stop it!"

  "—and of course the other boy is but a handful of months." Burr looked at Kellin, all pretenses to neutrality dropped. "Explain it away, if you please. Justify your actions with regard to these children, though you refuse to permit your jehan the same favor."

  "He traded me for the gods!" It was a cry from the heart Kellin regretted at once. "Can you not see—"

  "What I see are two children without a jehan," Burr said. "Another yet sleeps at the breast of a Cheysuli woman who lost her own baby. I submit to you, my lord: for what did you trade them?"

  Words boiled up in Kellin's mouth, so many at first he could not find a single one that would, conjoined with another, make any sense at all. Furious, he thrust himself to his feet. At last the words broke free. "I get nothing from you. No truths, no support, no honorable service! Nothing more than drivel mouthed by a man who is truer to the a'saii than to his own Mujhar!"

  Burr did not rise. "Until you can look on those children and acknowledge your place in their lives, speak no word against Aidan."

  Kellin extended a shaking hand. He pointed at Sima. "I want no lir."

  "You have one."

  "I want to be rid of her."

  "And open the door to madness."

  "I do not believe it."

  Burr's eyes glinted. "Then test it, my lord. Challenge the gods. Renounce your lir and withstand the madness." He rose and took the small girl from the silent warrior's arms, settling her against his shoulder. Over her head, he said, "It will be a true test, I think. Certainly as true as the one Teirnan undertook at the Womb of the Earth."

  Desperate, Kellin declared, "I have no room in my life for the impediment of halfling bastards'"

  "That," Burr said, "is between you and the gods."

  Kellin shut his teeth. "You are wrong. All of you. I will prove you wrong."

  "Tahlmorra lujhalla mei wiccan, cheysu," Burr said. Then, as Kellin turned to flee, "Cheysuli i'halla shansu."

  Kellin did not stay the rest of the night in Clankeep but took back his borrowed mount and rode on toward Mujhara. He had moved beyond the point of weariness into the realm of an exhaustion so complex as to render him almost pretematurally alert. Small sounds were magnified into a clamor that filled his head, so that there was no room for thought. It pleased him. Thought renewed anger, reestablished frustration, reminded him yet again that no matter what he said—no matter who he was—no Cheysuli warrior would accept him as one of them so long as he lacked a lir.

  They would sooner have me go mad with a lir than go mad because I renounce one.

  It made no sense to Kellin. But neither did the mountain cat who shadowed his horse, loping in its wake.

  He had tried to send her away. Sima refused to go. Since he had made very clear his intentions to forswear her, the cat had said nothing. The link was suspiciously empty -

  As if she no longer exists. And yet here she was; he had only to glance over a shoulder to see her behind him.

  Would it not be simpler if he shut off that link forever? Certainly less hazardous. If Sima died while as yet unbonded, he could escape the death-ritual.

  Though Burr says I will not.

  Kellin shifted in the saddle, attempting to lessen the discomfort of his chest. The shar tahl had challenged him to test the conviction that a lirless warrior went mad. And he had accepted. Part of the reason was pride, part a natural defiance; uneasily Kellin wondered what might happen if he lost the challenge. If, after all, the Cheysuli belief was based on truth.

  What does it feel like to go mad? He slowed his mount as he approached the city; star- and moonlight, now tainted by Mujhara's illumination, made it difficult to see the road. What was Teiman thinking, as he leapt into the Womb?

  What had his father thought, and his mother, as the warrior without a lir tested his right to the Lion, and was repudiated?

  I would never throw myself into the Womb of the Earth. It was— He brought himself up short.

  Madness?

  Kellin swore the vilest oaths
he could think of.

  An arm scrubbed roughly across his face did nothing to rid his head of such thoughts. It smeared grime and crusted blood—he had left Clankeep without even so much as a damp cloth for cleaning his face—and tousled stiffened hair. His clothing was rigid with dried blood and scratched at bruised flesh. Inside the flesh, bones ached.

  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—leifhana tu'sai!—and caught his balance haphazardly against the startled horse's quivering nimp.

  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 Hr, 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, shirting 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; l
ike 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 scent 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.