Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08

by A Tapestry of Lions (v1. 0)

  "Meijhana." He captured her hand and tucked it into his arm, warming it with his own hand. "I know you too well; you are not the one to hide from a truth, harsh or no. You will tell them yourself."

  "Aye," she said, "I will. Just give me the chance!"

  Kellin laughed. "Then come into my house."

  "Gods—" she blurted, "—wait—"

  He turned around promptly and sat down upon the steps, hooking arms around upraised knees as Sima sat down beside him. The cat's purr rumbled against his thigh. When Ginevra did not move, he eventually glanced up. "Well?"

  Sunlight glinted on silver; he had loved her mass of black hair, but found this as much to his liking. She could be hairless, and I would love her.

  And then he grinned; who would have predicted Kellin of Homana would lose his heart at all, and to an Ihlini?

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  "Waiting. You wanted me to." He paused, elated by her presence and the knowledge of what life with her would be; never dull, never quiet. The Prince and Princess of Homana did not harbor timid souls. "Should I have food sent out? If we are to be here so long . .."

  Ginevra's sharp inhalation hissed. New color stained her cheeks. She turned on her heel and marched directly into the palace.

  He leaned his weight into Sima, who threatened to collapse his leg. Contradictory.

  Then you we well-suited.

  How could we not be? Was it not prophesied?

  Sima's eyes slitted. Not specifically. The prophecy merely said the Lion would lie down with the witch.

  Even the gods could not predict that you would be so much alike.

  He smiled. By now she may well be in the Great Hall confronting the Mujhar himself.

  Or in your chamber confronting the knowledge of other women.

  Kellin sat bolt upright, then got up at once.

  Sima relented. She is in the solar speaking with the Queen. Leave the women to one another—your place is with the Mujhar.

  And you?

  Sima's tufted ears nicked. She stared past him into the sunlight, transfixed on a thought he could not decipher. The ears flattened once, then lifted again.

  Kellin prodded. Lii?

  She looked at him. Her stare was level. He felt in that instant she looked beyond the exterior to the soul within, and wondered how she found it.

  It is for you to do, she told him.

  Kellin smiled. "He will understand. Once I have explained it. All of them will." He laughed aloud for joy. "Most assuredly my jehan, who undoubtedly knew very well what was to become of me!"

  The cat's glance was oblique as she shouldered by his knee into the palace. The Great Hall, she said, where the Lion lives.

  He went there at once, pushing open the hammered doors, and saw, as expected, the Mujhar sitting quietly in the belly of the Lion, contemplating his hall.

  Kellin paused just inside the doors. It had been half a year since he had been sent away by a man clearly desperate to salvage his only heir. 'Well, the heir is salvaged. Homana is preserved. Kellin's smile was slow, shaped by anticipation. There was much he longed to say, much he meant to share, but especially Ginevra. I will make him understand.

  And how could he not? Lochiel is dead. The Wheel of Life still turns.

  Kellin drew in a breath, lifted his head, then walked with steady strides the length of the firepit to pause before the dais. There he lowered his eyes out of respect for the man, and gave him Cheysuli greeting.

  The Mujhar did not answer.

  Anticipation waned. Kellin's belly tightened.

  Does he know already? Has word come before us:

  "The Prince of Homana has taken to wife an Ihlini witch!"

  The Mujhar offered nothing. When Kellin could no longer stand it, he raised his head at last.

  "Grandsire—"

  He checked. He stood there a long while. He denied it once, and twice. The truth offended him.

  He longed to discard it and conjure another.

  But truth was truth. Magic could not change it.

  His spirit withered within.

  Kellin climbed the three steps and sank to his knees. His trembling hand, naked of signet, reached out to touch the dark Cheysuli flesh that was still faintly warm.

  He looked for Sleeta, but the mountain cat was gone.

  Kellin thought of Sima. She knew. When she sat upon the steps— But he let it go. He looked into the face of the Cheysuli warrior who had ruled Homana for more than forty years. The body slumped only slightly, tilted slantwise across the back of the throne, as if he merely rested. One gold-freighted arm lay slack, hand upturned against a leather-clad thigh; the other was draped loosely along the armrest, so the dark Cheysuli fingers followed the curve of the claws. On his forefinger the seal ring of Homana glinted dully.

  Though the flesh had stilled, the bones as yet defied the truth. Brennan was, even dead, still very much a king.

  Kellin's mouth moved stiffly as he managed a smile. He said it as he had told her on the steps before the palace. "The lady is Ginevra. The lady is my cheysula. You should be pleased the beast is tamed at last."

  In the Lion, silence reigned. The Mujhar had abdicated.

  "So much—" his grandson whispered, kneeling before the king. "So much I meant to say."

  Mostly leijhana tu'sai, for being jehan as well as grandsire.

  The Mujhar of Homana left the Great Hall and went directly to Aileen, where Ginevra was. He was aware of an odd dispassion, as if someone had wrung him empty of grief, and pain; with effort he put into words the requirements of state.

  Then he put into words that which most required telling: that he had loved and honored her cheysul far more deeply than he had shown, as he loved and honored her.

  In her face he saw his father's: chalk eroding in storm; crumbling beneath the sun. It ate below the layers and bared the granite of her grief, hard and sharp and impenetrable, and ageless as the gods.

  Pale lips moved at last. "If this were Erinn, we would take him to the sacred tor and give him to the cileann."

  But this was not Erinn. They would take him to his tomb and lay him to rest with other Mujhars.

  Kellin kissed his granddame. He sent for a servant. He sent for a shar tahl and Clankeep's clan-leader.

  He sent for his lir to bide her time with Ginevra, whose eyes bespoke her empathy, and returned to the Great Hall.

  People came. They took away the body. They gave him a ring. They called him "my lord Mujhar." They left him as he desired: alone in the hall as the day shapechanged to dusk.

  Kellin felt sick to his stomach. He sat upon the dais and wished the day were different, that he could stop the Wheel of Life from turning and then start it up again, only this time moving backward, backward, BACKWARD, so the time was turned up-side down and his grandsire could live again.

  He stared into the blazing firepit. I do not want to be Mujhar.

  He had wanted it all of his life.

  I want him back. Grandsire. Let him be Mujhar.

  They had trained him from birth to be king in his grandsire's place.

  A king must die to let another rule in his place.

  Kellin shut his eyes. He heard in the silence all the arguments they had shared, all the rude words he had shouted because his grandsire wanted too much, demanded too much of him; chained his grandson up so he would never know any freedom.

  The words were gall in his mouth. "Too much left unsaid."

  Behind him crouched the Lion. Its presence was demanding. Kellin heaved himself up and turned to confront it. Gilded eyes glared back.

  He moved because he had to; he could no longer sit still. He climbed the dais. Touched the throne.

  Moved around to the back of it and turned to face the wall. He stared hard at the tapestry while the lions within its folds blurred into shapeless blobs.

  He remembered very clearly the day lan had died. One small hand, not much darker than a Humanan's, and one old hand, bronzed flesh aging into bri
ttle, yellowed flesh.

  "Gods," he said aloud, "you should have made a better man than me."

  "The gods wrought very well. In time, you will know it. I already do."

  Kellin turned. "Jehan." He was mostly unsurprised; it seemed to fit perfectly. "You know."

  "I know."

  "Have you seen the Queen?"

  Aidan's eyes were steady. "I did not see your cheysula." He let it register, "But aye, I saw my jehana."

  The words were hard to say. "Did you know—before?"

  Aidan's face was graven with new lines at eyes and mouth. "I am privileged to know things before others do. It is part of my service."

  " 'Privileged' to know your father has died?"

  "Privileged to know certain things so I may prepare the way for greater purposes."

  Kellin smiled a little. "A true shar tahl, couching his words in obscurity."

  Aidan smiled back. "I believe it is required."

  Kellin nodded. His father walked very steadily toward the dais on which he stood. "How does one know if one is worthy of what he inherits?"

  "One never does." Aidan stopped before the dais. "I know, Kellin. For now, it is enough."

  Kellin swallowed heavily. "Did you come for him?"

  "I came for you. I came to bind the Lion."

  "Bind ..." Kellin sighed. He felt very old. "I feared it, once." He stroked away a lock of hair. "The Lion lay down with the witch."

  Aidan nodded. "I know."

  Kellin wanted to smile, but his face felt old, and empty. "You prophesied for me, that day. You said I would marry."

  A glint, purest yellow. "Most princes do."

  "But you knew it would be Ginevra."

  The glint died. Aidan's eyes were calm. "It seemed a tidy way of achieving what we all of us have worked for."

  "The Lion lay down with the witch. And so the prophecy—"

  "—continues." Aidan's expression was solemn.

  "Despite what you may hope, it is not yet complete. There are things we still must do."

  "Ah." Kellin put his hands to his belt, then undid the buckle with fingers that felt thick and slow. He slid the links free. "Here. This is yours."

  Aidan took the broken chain as Kellin redid his belt. "Sit down, my lord. It is time I chained the Lion."

  He was too weary to question the task. He sat down. The Lion's mouth gaped. Kellin touched the wood and felt an echo of ancient power. Mine? he wondered. Or left over from my grandsire?

  Aidan stood before the dais, before the firepit.

  His eyes burned feral yellow in the umber light of the dying day. In his hands were links. "Shame," he said, "who began the qu'mahlin. His nephew Carillon, who took back Homana and ended the qu'mahlin. Then came Donal, son of AH and Duncan—and after him, Niall, followed by Brennan."

  Gold chimed on gold. "The next link is broken. Its name was Aidan. I shattered it myself to bargain for my son. To know without a doubt that what I sacrificed would make Homana stronger." He held up the shorter length. "Two more links. One of them is Kellin. The other is named Cynric."

  Kellin waited.

  Aidan smiled. He turned to the firepit and dropped the two halves into flame.

  Kellin started up from the throne, then checked.

  Aidan said clearly, "The chain shall bind the Lion."

  Their eyes locked. He does not ask, he TELLS.

  And then Kellin laughed. He stood up from the Lion and walked down the dais steps. He knelt beside the firepit with his back to the Lion, and knew what he must do.

  Aidan waited.

  What is fire, but fire? I have withstood godfire: I have made godfire. This comes from my jehan—surely its flame is cleaner. Kellin drew in a breath.

  He put his hand through flames, then farther into coals.

  It burned, but did not consume. Fingers found metal. He sought the shape of the link and could not find it. What he found was something else.

  "Free it," Aidan said.

  Kellin brought it out of the flame, unsurprised to discover his hand was whole. He opened it. In the palm lay an earring. The head of a mountain cat stared back at him.

  "More," Aidan said.

  Kellin set the earring onto the rim of the firepit.

  He reached into the flame again, dug down into coals, and took from the pit two lir-bands.

  Aidan was patient. "And again."

  "Again?" But he set the armbands also on the rim and plunged both hands into the blazing coals.

  Aidan smiled. "A king must have a crown."

  Kellin drew it forth. A rune-wrought circlet of lir gleamed against his palms. Its workmanship was such that no man, looking upon it, could withstand the desire to set it on his brow.

  The voice was light and calm, pitched to reach the dais. "So this is Cheysuli magic." Ginevra's winged brows rose as she walked the length of the hall. "Does all your gold come from fire?"

  "No." Aidan answered. "Our gold is merely gold, though blessed by the gods in the Ceremony of Honors. This gold, however, is to replace that he lost in misadventure."

  "Misadventure." Her gaze dwelled on Kellin.

  She had tamed the silvered hair by braiding it into quiescence with blood-red cord. "The sort of misadventure that rendered him without memory of name, of rank—of race." She looked now at Aidan. "You are the one my father most feared."

  In dying light, Aidan's hair glowed russet. "He never told me so."

  "He did fear you. He never told me so—my father was not a man to admit to such things as fear—but I think he must have. He spoke of you repeatedly, telling me how it was, in your madness, that you came to him in Valgaard to bargain for your son. I think he did not know what else you might do, and it frightened him."

  Kellin clutched the circlet. The gold was warm in his hands. What passed between his father and Ginevra was undivulged even in gesture; he could not decipher it.

  Aidan's face was relaxed. "I might have chosen you."

  "Aye. And brought me here," She cast a glance at Kellin. "My lord prevails upon me to insist that had I been, I would never once have realized I was anything but Cheysuli."

  "But you are." Aidan answered. "You are many things, Ginevra . .. among them Cheysuli. Among them Ihlini."

  Her chin firmed. "And the mother of the Firstborn."

  Aidan looked at her belly. She did not show much yet, but her cupped hands divulged the truth. He smiled into her eyes. "You may choose what you will be. The gods give us free will—even to Ihlini."

  "Choose?" She glanced sidelong at Kellin, then returned her gaze to Aidan. "In what way do I choose? And what?"

  "How you shall be remembered." Aidan rose.

  "You may be Kellin's cheysula. You may be Queen of Homana. You may be merely a mother—or the mother of the Firstborn."

  "I was and always will be Lochiel's daughter."

  Aidan inclined his head.

  "And it will mark me," she declared. "That is how they will know me!"

  "Aye," Aidan agreed, "because it is required."

  His eyes were very feral in the waning light.

  Flames turned them molten. "As it concerns you, my prophesying is done."

  It startled her. "What?"

  "You were the witch. But that is done. When Kellin lies down again, it will be with his cheysula. If you mean to be anything more, you yourself will make the choice."

  Color stood in her face. "You mean if I choose to remind them I am heir to Lochiel's power." She smiled. "I could. I could do it easily."

  "That would depend," Aidan said calmly, "on how you chose to do it."

  She stared fixedly at him, then looked at Kellin.

  She was, in that moment, pride and glory incarnate.

  Leijhana tu'sai, he thought, for giving me the wit—or robbing me of them.'—so I might see beyond the wall of our people's enmity to the woman beyond.

  The fire kindled her eyes and melted Ihlini ice.

  The quality of her tone was pitched now to acknowledgment, an
d a warmth that left him breathless. "Then I would choose to be the woman who crowned a king. So they would know I want no war. So they would know I am Ginevra, and not merely Lochiel's daughter."

  "Then do it," Aidan said.

  Ginevra lifted her head. She advanced steadily.

  Beside the firepit she paused, stared up into the blind, gilded eyes of the Lion Throne of Homana, and smiled a tiny smile. "Tahlmorra," she said dryly. "Is that not what you call this?"

  Aidan's voice was quiet. "All men—and all women—have a tahlmorra. You were bred of Cheysuli gods as surely as of Ihlini . . . they were—and remain—the same. In their view we are all of us

  'Cheysuli.' The word means 'children of the gods-' "

  His smile was gentle, lacking in threat, lacking in arrogance. "We have a saying, of twins: 'Two blossoms from the same vine.' Though our vine was split and the two halves borne away to separate gardens, the rootstock remains the same. It is time we replanted."

  She hesitated. "Asar-Suti? The Seker?"

  "We are but aspects of our creators. When there is evil among men, look first at those gods from whom they inherited it."

  Kellin's belly clenched. "Then he is not dead."

  "The Gate was closed in the destruction of Valgaard. It takes times to build another. While Asar-Suti labors, centuries may pass."

  Ginevra's smile was crooked. "Then I had best crown the king before the Gate is rebuilt." She held it out, above his head. Flames glinted off gold. Clearly she said, "In the name of all the gods, even the Seker who is but one among them, I declare you Mujhar of Homana."

  Kellin bowed his head. The circlet was cool as she slid it onto his head with trembling fingers. It warmed against his brow.

  "Done," Ginevra said.

  Aidan smiled. "And so the Lion is chained by the witch with whom he lay."

  Kellin picked up the earring. "But this is lir-gold! How could this chain me?"

  "Memories," Aidan answered. "History and heritage, and an ancestry that reaches across centuries. When the Lion roars he must recall what went before, so he will rule the world wisely. Responsibility binds a man; it binds a king more. Do not discount its weight."

  "No," Kellin said. "Not ever again, jehan."

  One of the hammered doors scraped open. A man came in, Kellin got to his feet.