A Tapestry of Lions

by Jennifer Roberson

  What do they see?

  He had washed the blood from face and hands, and scrubbed at his jerkin. He believed no bloodstains remained, but possibly none were required; he wore guilt in his posture despite his desire not to.

  Sima padded beside him. They watched her, too, marking her apparent health. She did not limp or show any indication an arrow had but hours before driven her toward death. It was a natural healing, but to the Homanans, who had little knowledge of such things, it seemed to suggest that Kellin’s reaction was one of whim, not of need; as if he had killed Teague because the idea had occurred, and because he could.

  Kellin paused inside the palace to inquire as to the Mujhar’s whereabouts, and was told to go at once to the Great Hall. Inwardly, Kellin’s spirit quailed. Not in privacy? Or is it that he will discuss it with me as Mujhar, not grandsire, nor even Cheysuli warrior?

  Sima bumped his leg. I am with you.

  No. Kellin paused. This is for me to face atone. Go up to my chambers and wait.

  She hesitated, then turned and padded away.

  Kellin brushed haphazardly at the perspiration stippling his upper lip, then went on toward the Great Hall. Foreboding weighted his spirit until he twitched with it, desiring to scratch at stinging flesh.

  Brennan was on the throne. The Lion’s head reared above the Mujhar in a display of wooden glory. Aged eyes stared blindly; Kellin was grateful the Lion could not see what had become of a prince who would one day inherit it.

  It was nearing sundown. Light slanting through stained glass formed lattices on the stone floor, so that Kellin walked through sharp-etched pools of pure color. In spring, the firepit was unlighted. Kellin walked its length steadily, though more slowly than was his wont; he would not shirk the confrontation but did not desire to hasten it. What would come, would come; no need to accelerate it.

  He reached the dais all too soon. And then he saw Aileen standing at Brennan’s right side with one hand on the Lion. It is serious— Kellin clamped closed his teeth, feeling again the emptiness in his jaw where Luce had broken a tooth. Healing had sealed it closed, but the tooth was banished forever.

  His grandsire looked old. The years had been kind to him for a long time, but now the kindness was banished. The healing four weeks before had left its mark, and the knowledge Ennis had brought. Dark skin no longer was as supple and taut, permitting brackets to form at nose and mouth, and webwork patches beside his eyes. The Mujhar’s hands rested lightly over the curving, clawed armrests, but the knuckles were distended.

  Kellin halted before the dais. Briefly he inclined his head to Aileen, then offered homage to the Mujhar. He waited in tense silence, wishing Sima stood beside him; knowing it as weakness. It was time he acknowledged it.

  Brennan’s eyes did not waver. His voice was steady. “When a king has but a single heir, and no hope of any others, he often overlooks such things as the hot blood of youth, and the trouble a boy can rouse. Gold soothes injured pride and mends broken taverns. It will even, occasionally, placate an angry jehan whose daughter has been taken with child. But it does not buy back a life. Even a king dares not overlook that.”

  Kellin wet dry lips. “I do not ask you to overlook it. Merely understand it.”

  “I have been told by Ennis and the others that they heard Teague cry out; that he knew he had made a mistake.”

  “My lord, he did.”

  “And yet you used the power of lir-shape to kill him anyway.”

  It would have been better, Kellin decided, if the Mujhar had shouted at him, because then he could rely upon anger. But Brennan did not; he merely made quiet statements in a grave and habitual dignity that Kellin knew very well he could never emulate.

  He inhaled a trembling breath. “My lord, I am moved to remind you of what you already know: that a warrior in lir-shape encounters all of the pain his lir does. It—affects—him.”

  “I do know it,” Brennan agreed. “But a warrior in lir-shape is yet a man, and understands that a Homanan who acknowledges his mistake is not to be murdered.”

  Behind his back, Kellin balled his hands into fists. It would undermine his appeal if he shouted; and besides, he was guilty. “Sima was wounded. She was dying. All I could think about was that he had shot her, that she was badly hurt, and that if she died, I died also.” The words were hard to force past a tight throat. “He was my friend, my lord. I never meant to kill him.”

  “You did. In that moment, you did indeed intend to kill him.” Brennan’s hands closed more tightly over the armrest. “Do you think I cannot see it? I am Cheysuli also.”

  Grief and anguish commingled to overwhelm. “Then why confront me like this?” Kellin cried. “By the gods, grandsire—”

  But Brennan’s sharp gesture cut Kellin’s protest off. “Enough. There are other things to concern ourselves with than whether I understand what led to the attack.”

  “What other things?” Kellin demanded. “You yourself have said we cannot buy back Teague’s life, but I will do whatever I must to atone for my mistake.”

  Brennan leaned forward. “Do you hear what you are saying? You speak of Teague’s death as a mistake, an unfortunate circumstance you could not avoid.”

  “It was!”

  “Yet when Teague makes a mistake, you respond by killing him.” Brennan’s face was taut. “Tell me where the difference lies. Why is one mistake excused—because you are a prince?—while one results in murder?”

  “I—” Kellin swallowed heavily. “I could not help myself.”

  “In lir-shape.”

  “Aye.” He understood now what Brennan meant him to see. “I felt her pain, her fear—”

  “And your own.”

  “And my own.” Kellin’s face warped briefly. “I feared for her, grandsire—I had not had her very long, yet I could not imagine what it would be like to lose her. The grief, the anguish—” He looked at Brennan. “I thought I might go mad.”

  “Had she died, you would have.” The Mujhar sank back into the Lion. “It is the price we pay. All your arguments against the death-ritual now mean nothing.”

  Kellin stared hard at the stone beneath his boots. “Aye.”

  “Through the link, her pain was yours…and you feared she would die. Knowing what it would cost.”

  “My life,” Kellin murmured.

  “So you took his, even though you might have turned to Sima at once and begun the healing that would have saved two lives: hers, and Teague’s.”

  His mouth was stiff, awkward. “I could not help myself.”

  “No,” Brennan agreed in abject weariness, “you never have been able to. And that is why you are here before us now: to decide what must be done.”

  He looked up sharply. “What must be done?” he echoed. “But—what is there to do? There are rituals for Teague, and his family to tend, and i’toshaa-ni for me—”

  “Kellin.” Brennan’s voice was steady. He glanced briefly at Aileen, whose expression was so taut as to break, then firmed his mouth and looked back at his grandson. “Tell me why the qu’mahlin came about.”

  It was preposterous. Kellin nearly gaped. “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “You desire a history lesson?”

  “I desire you to do whatever I require of you.”

  “Aye.” It was blurted before Kellin thought about it. Frowning his perplexity, he began the lesson. “A Homanan princess ran away with a Cheysuli. Lindir, Shaine’s daughter—she went away with Hale, Shaine’s liege man.” In the face of Brennan’s expectant patience, Kellin groped for more. “She was meant to wed Ellic of Solinde, to seal an alliance between Homana and Solinde, but she ran away instead with Hale.” He paused. “That is what I was taught, grandsire. Is there more you want?”

  “Those are the political concerns, Kellin. What the elopement did as regards Homana and Solinde was to destroy any opportunity for peace to flourish; the two realms remained at war. But that would not cause the birth of the qu’mahlin, which was a strict
ly Homanan-Cheysuli conflict.”

  “Shaine’s pride was such that he declared them attainted, subject to punishment.”

  “That is part of it, Kellin. But think a moment…consider something more.” Brennan’s fingers tightened against aged wood. “It is one thing for a king to declare his daughter and his liege man attainted; he has the right to ask for their lives if he chooses to. It is quite another for that king to declare an entire race attainted, and set all of Homana against it.”

  Kellin waited for more. Nothing more was said. “Aye,” he agreed at last. “But Shaine was a madman—”

  “Even a madman cannot lead his people into civil war if they do not believe what he has said. What did he say, Kellin?”

  He knew it very well; Rogan had been at some pains to instruct him, and the Cheysuli at Clankeep as well. “He said we were demons and sorcerers and had to be destroyed.”

  “Why were we demons and sorcerers? What was his foremost proof?”

  “That we could assume the shape of animals at will—” Kellin broke it off. He stared blindly at his grandsire. “That we could assume beast-shape and kill all the Homanans.” He felt ill. “As—I killed Teague.”

  “As you killed Teague.” Brennan sighed deeply. “In the days of Shaine, the Homanans believed themselves in danger. It was far easier to kill all the Cheysuli than risk their sovereignty. And so they tried. Shaine began it, and others carried it out. It took many years, including Ihlini and Solindish domination, before the Cheysuli were admitted again to Homana without fear of extermination.”

  “Carillon,” Kellin murmured. “He ended the qu’mahlin.”

  “And made a Cheysuli Prince of Homana when he sired no sons of his own.” A silver forelock had frosted to white. “Before the Lion came into the hands of Homanans, it was a Cheysuli legacy. The kingdom of Homana was a Cheysuli realm. But we gave it up rather than have the Homanans fear us, knowing that someday it would fall again to us, and to the Firstborn who would bind four realms and two magical races in a true peace.” Brennan drew in a breath. “How can the Homanans permit a man to rule them who cannot control himself when he assumes lir-shape? He is, to them, nightmare; a beast without self-control. And I am not so certain, just at this moment, the Homanans are wrong.”

  It shocked. “Grandsire—”

  “I know what it is to share pain through the link. I know what it is to be driven half-mad by fear—you have heard stories, I know, of how I am in small places—but I do not kill.”

  “Grandsire—”

  “What if it happens again?”

  “Again!” Kellin stared. “You believe it might?”

  “I must. These four weeks you have achieved much, but obviously self-control in lir-shape is not one of them. I cannot risk it, Kellin.”

  “Given time, guidance—”

  “Aye. But I cannot risk it while you remain in Homana-Mujhar. It gives the Homanans too broad a target.”

  Kellin’s belly clenched. “Clankeep, then.” Where he would have to explain to Gavan, and to Burr, and to men and women who would not understand how a Cheysuli warrior could permit such atrocity in the name of his lir, whom once he had meant to banish. “Balance,” he murmured. “If I can learn the balance…”

  “There is another balance, Kellin. One which has eluded you through all of your life, and which I have, in my ignorance, permitted to warp that life. I am as much to blame as you are, in this.”

  Aileen stirred. “No. Not you. I will not allow you to blame yourself.”

  Kellin looked at her. Aileen’s green eyes blazed with conviction as she stared at her husband; he would get no support from her. He longed for Sima, but would not call her to him. “Banishment, then.”

  “The Council has approved.”

  Kellin winced.

  “It is not a permanent thing. You will be permitted home when I am assured you have learned what you need to know.”

  “And when the rumors have died down.” Kellin sighed. “I understand, grandsire. But—”

  “I know.” Brennan’s eyes were filled with compassion. “It has happened before. My own jehan grew weary of the excesses of his sons, and banished two of them. Hart he sent to Solinde, Corin to Atvia. Neither wanted to go any more than you desire to go. As for me—” he smiled briefly at Aileen, “—I was made to wed before either of us was ready.”

  Aileen’s face was rigid. “I do not regret it now.”

  “We both did then.” Brennan turned back to his grandson. “For a six-month, a year—no longer than is necessary.”

  Kellin nodded. “When?”

  “In the morning. I have made arrangements for the journey, and a boat will be waiting.”

  “Boat?” Kellin stared. “A boat? Why? What need have I of a boat?” Trepidation flared into panic. “Where are you sending me?”

  “To the Crystal Isle. To your jehan.”

  Panic transmuted itself to outrage. “No!”

  “It is arranged.”

  “Unarrange it! I will not go!”

  “You wanted this for years.”

  “Not now. Not for ten years, grandsire! I have no intention of going to my jehan.”

  Brennan’s gaze was level. “You will go. For all your anger and bitterness, and the multiplicity of your small rebellions, you are still a warrior of the clan. I am Mujhar. If I bid you to do so, you will go.”

  “What has he to do with this? This is something I must deal with on my own! I do not require the aid of a man who cannot keep his son but must give up everything to live on an island—”

  “—where you will go.” Brennan rose. “Aidan has everything to do with this. We could not have predicted it then, and I doubt it occurred to him—he was in thrall to the gods, and thought of nothing else but the tahlmorra meant for him—but it is something we must deal with now. You will go to the Crystal Isle and see your jehan.”

  “Why? Why do you think this will help me?”

  “Because perhaps he can remove the boy’s anger and replace it with a man’s understanding that what the world—and gods—mete out is what he must deal with in a rational, realistic manner, without recourse to an anger that, in asserting itself, kills men.” The muscles flexed in Brennan’s jaw. “Because there is nowhere else I can send you and not be afraid.”

  Kellin stared. Shame banished outrage. “Of me? You are afraid of me?”

  “I must be. I have seen what happens when the anger consumes the man.” His eyes were bleak. “You must go to the source of your pain. To someone who can aid you.”

  “I want nothing to do with him!”

  “He shaped you. By his very distance, by his own tahlmorra, he shaped you. I think it is time the jehan, and not the grandsire, tended the clay that his own loins sired.” Brennan pushed a trembling hand across his brow. “I am too old to raise you now. It is Aidan’s turn.”

  “Why,” Kellin spat out between clenched teeth, “did you wait so long for this? I begged it all those years!”

  “He did not wish it, and I believed you did not need it.”

  “Does he wish it now?”

  “No.”

  “But now you believe I need it.”

  “Aye.”

  It congealed into bitterness. “Would I need it now if I had had it then?”

  Brennan shut his eyes. “Gods—I cannot say…if so, I am to blame for what you have become—”

  “No!” Aileen cried. “By all the gods of Erinn, Brennan, I’ve said it before—I’ll not have you blaming yourself for this! What must I do to convince you? He is what he is. Let him take it to his father. Aidan is more fit to deal with aberration than either of us!”

  “Why?” Kellin asked. “Because he is ‘aberration,’ and now I am also?”

  Aileen looked at him. “You are my grandson,” she said. “I love you for that—I will always love you for that—but I cannot comprehend a man who lacks the self-control to prevent him from killing other men.” Her hands balled into fists. “I am Erinnish, not Ch
eysuli—I cannot understand the soul of a Cheysuli. That it is wild, I know, and untamed, and unlike that of any other, I know. But it is an honorable soul also, well-bound by the gods, and duty…yours is unbound. Yours is as unlike Brennan’s—or Corin’s—than any I have known. It is most like Aidan’s in its waywardness, but with a blackness of spirit that makes you dangerous. Aidan was never that.” Aileen glanced at Brennan briefly, then back to her grandson. “Go to your father. ’Tis what you need—and, I’m thinking, Aidan also.”

  Kellin’s jaws hurt. “You said—‘no longer than is necessary.’ How am I to know?”

  Brennan reached for and took into his own one of Aileen’s hands. “Until Aidan sends you back.”

  He looked at Aileen in desperation. “Was it your idea?”

  She offered oblique answer though her face was wasted. “In Erinn,” she said quietly, “a man accepts his punishment. And the will of his lord.”

  Kellin stood there a long time. Then, summoning what little pride remained, he bowed and took his leave.

  Interval

  He had, since coming to the Crystal Isle, seen to it that much of its wildness was tamed, at least so much that a man might walk freely along a track without fearing to lose an eye to an importunate branch. And yet not so much wildness was vanquished that a man, a Cheysuli, might feel his spirit threatened by too much change.

  It was incongruity: to make the wildness useful without diluting its strength. And to offer change within a culture whose very strength was wildness.

  He wore leathers, as always, snug against flesh that did not as yet begin to wither with age, and lir-gold on bare arms that did not surrender muscle. He was fit, if but a few years beyond his prime; a young man of twenty would call him old—perhaps, more kindly, older—but to another man he represented all that was remarkable about a Cheysuli.

  He paused at the border between woodlands and beach. Sunlight glinted off water, scouring white sands paler yet, so that he was forced to lift his hand against the blinding glare.