My perfect service was to bear the god a child. A son for the Seker, Who Lives and Dwells in Light—
I laughed aloud. “A son!” I cried. “A son to bring down the House of the Cheysuli!”
And the god was gone. I felt him go as abruptly as he had come. I wavered there on the edge, enshrouded in swirling smoke, and then Devin raised me up to keep me from tumbling in. “Ginevra?”
It was vital that I know. I turned my head to look at my father. “Is it done? Is it done?”
Lochiel smiled. “The god is well pleased.”
I drew back then from Devin. “Kneel,” I said.
The blackness lived in his eyes, which once had been clear green, but I saw something more. The emptiness remained though he had drunk of the cup.
“Kneel,” I repeated. To mitigate the tone, I touched his face. For him, and only for him, I offered the key. “Release the cat,” I whispered, so my father would not hear. “Let him go free from the cage of your fear.”
Devin knelt. He crossed his arms against his breast and bent low in homage beside the Gate. The god spewed forth.
I held my breath. It will only take a moment—
Devin screamed. He screamed and screamed in a language I did not know, shaping words I could not decipher. His head fell back as he flung out both arms. He hung there on his knees, transfixed by the god. Blackened eyes were wide and blind.
I could not help myself: I shouted a denial. I saw the transformation, the alteration of bone and flesh. From man into cat: the hands became paws, the fingernails claws, the teeth elongated into fangs, and the sound that issued from his throat changed itself in mid-note from the shouting of a man to the scream of an angry cat.
Black as night, he was. Like the one we had seen in the canyon. But the eyes were purest green.
I was rooted to the stone. Cheysuli—Cheysuli—Cheysuli.
“Punish him!” Lochiel shouted. “Punish the transgressor!”
God, he was Cheysuli!
The god made him a man again, so he would know. I looked very hard for the mark of a Cheysuli, the sign of a demon, but all I saw was Devin.
In one step I reached him. I struck with all my strength, smashing my hand across his face. “How could you do this?” I shouted. “How could you do this to us?”
To us, I said. Not to me.
It infuriated me.
“How?” I cried. And then, viciously, “Is this part of your tahlmorra? To seduce an Ihlini so she conceives of your child?”
There was no response in his eyes. The god held him immobile, crucified on air; was he deaf as well as blind?
“Step back,” my father said. “The god will deal with him.”
Trembling, I stepped back. I saw the flicker in green eyes. Then a shudder wracked the Cheysuli.
“Tahlmorra,” he gasped, in the tongue I did not know. “Tahlmorra lujhala—”
My father overrode him. “Have you ever wondered,” he mused, “what it would be like to be trapped in lir-shape forever?”
“—lujhala me wiccan—cheysu—” And then, “Not Devin—”
The god sprang forth again. In a man’s place writhed a cat with eyes the color of emeralds.
All I could think of was the incongruity: Not yellow at all.
Lochiel looked at me. “We will turn it loose,” he said, “and then we will call a hunt.”
Six
Was it like this, I wondered, that they first brought you here?
The cat remained senseless, deep in enforced sleep; they had thrown him unresisting on his side across a horse, then tied him to the packframe.
“Ginevra,” my father said.
The cat’s tongue lolled from a slack-lipped mouth. The eyes were half-lidded, dulled by the touch of the god.
We shared a bed, you and I. We shared our hearts. We shared our souls. And now we share this: a hunt to the death.
“Ginevra.”
Lochiel again; I did not tarry longer. I turned my horse away from the cat and rode to the head of the party, letting no one see weakness. I was Lochiel’s daughter.
I led them out of Valgaard, across the Field of Beasts, through the narrow defile into the canyon beyond. Then my father stopped us and used his own knife to cut the beast free. The heavy black body fell flopping to the ground. It brought no response; dull green eyes remained slitted and senseless, and the red tongue fell out into the dirt.
“Ginevra.” A third time.
I looked at them all; at five of my father’s minions; at my mother who watched me with undiminished avidity. Lastly I looked at him, who served Asar-Suti with an unflagging, perfect service.
“Leave it,” I said evenly. “The hunt may commence tomorrow.”
My mother raised her voice for the first time since we had left the fortress. “I wonder,” she said, “that you take no steps to insure he does not flee. Would it not be wiser to kill him now?”
Lochiel looked at the cat. “Where is he to go? He is bound to Ginevra, bound by the god. And bound also, perhaps, by the child in her body.”
I could not look at him. I was ashamed, so ashamed that I had defiled myself. That I had permitted myself to love him.
“No,” he shook his head, “our prey will not flee. He will wait here for us, until we choose to come.”
“Sweet revenge,” I declared. “When you have trapped him, will you put him with the others in the undercroft?”
“There? No. When I decide to take him, it will be for his pelt. I have a whim to rest my feet in winter on the hide of a dead Cheysuli.”
My mother’s carmined mouth gloated.
* * *
In Valgaard, I threw back the lids to all the trunks and pulled the clothing from them, then piled it on the bed. I took the caskets containing the gifts I had bestowed and dumped the contents on top of the clothing. Lastly I dug out the nightshift I had worn the first night we shared a bed and tossed it into the pile. Then I summoned godfire.
“A waste,” my mother said, “of a comfortable bed.”
I did not turn. I did not care. Let her stand there if she would; I wanted nothing more than to watch all of it burn.
All of it. All of it. Every bit of it.
“Will you burn yourself too?”
I swung. The flames were in her eyes. It turned them Cheysuli yellow. “You wanted him,” I said viciously. “From the beginning, you wanted him. How does it feel to know he was Cheysuli?”
My mother smiled. “So am I. So are you. And aye, I would have bedded him. He was in every way a man.”
I drew back my lips from my teeth. “Shapechanger!”
The light in her eyes was livid. She looked beyond me to the bed as the godfire consumed it. “Which one pleased you most?” she asked. “The warrior—or the cat?”
I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to burn her, too. I wanted to tear the mirror from the wall and hurl it into the fire.
Even as I thought it, the mirror shattered.
Melusine shook her head. “A dangerous thing, when Lochiel’s daughter is angry. The very walls are at risk.”
“Why have you come?” I cried. “Are you hoping I will cry?”
She wore her hair pinned up. Light glittered off all the gemstones. “Once I wanted your father to care as much for me as Devin does for you. He does not. Once I wanted your father to care as much for me as he does for you. He does not, and never will. And so I am soundly defeated in all patterns of the dances which are danced between men and women—even between fathers and daughters.” Her face was very still, but her eyes were livid. “I bore a single living child. I nearly spent myself in the birth, and tore myself so badly I could never bear again.”
Behind me the bed burned. So did all of his clothing, the jewels I had given him, the nightshift he had removed with avid tenderness. “You are punishing me.”
In her eyes godfire dimmed; the bed was nearly consumed. “The child you carry is the child of prophecy.”
I touched a hand to my belly.
“Aidan,” I murmured; I was consumed by realization, by the knowledge of what I was: a vessel for the child that could destroy my race. “I shared a cradle with his son. My father told me.”
“As an infant you shared his cradle. As a woman, you shared his bed.”
It jerked me out of numbness. “That was Kellin? Him? But—he said nothing of it! He made no indication! He was—” I broke it off, then finished it by rote, “—Devin. We all thought he was Devin.” I looked at her. “You are punishing me. That is why you have come.”
Her eyes were yellow again. “You nearly killed me,” she said. “But you were what he wanted, once I could not bear again. You were his only hope. I counted as nothing. And then he came—and once there was a child, Lochiel gave you both what should have been mine!”
The godfire died to ash. I grieved for the woman, that she could be so bitter. I grieved for myself, that I had lost my mother when I most needed her.
And I grieved for the child who was not, after all, the salvation of my race, but the herald of its destruction.
“I will be dead,” she said, “but you will live to see it.”
When I was certain she was gone, I closed the door and locked it with meticulous care. I put a rune upon the lock so not even my mother could open the door. Only my father might, but he would not come.
Godfire was gone. The bed, the jewelry, the nightshift—all had been consumed. All that remained were charred bits and pieces and a drift of violet ash.
Grief roused itself. Anguish awoke. The terrible anger was stilled.
I knelt. I plunged my hands into the ash and closed them on frosted remnants. They did not burn my flesh. The pain was all inside, where no one could see it.
But I would know.
I would always know.
It burns, such pain. It devours the heart and soul.
* * *
When the summons came, I did not shirk it. I did not delay. Clad in the tattered remnants of my pride, I went to the tower chamber and presented myself to him. My deference was plain; there was no latitude, in this, for anything save shame.
He sat upon a tall stool set before a grimoire on a tripod stand. He wore russet hunting leathers, as if he planned already how the chase would commence. With his hair freshly cropped close against his head, I saw the shape of the skull. A beautiful man, my father; but the beauty now was tarnished by the memory of another, who had so indelibly replaced Lochiel as the model, in my mind, of pure masculine beauty.
I hated myself for it, but I could not banish it. I looked at my father, saw my father’s face, and superimposed the features of another man.
It was easy to do. I saw in that instant that they were very like.
My lips parted. Color drained. “—true,” I blurted. “All of it true—”
Winged brows arched. “What is true?”
“I did not see it before—but now…” I shivered. “We are, both of us, linked by more than enmity.”
Only a few candles shed illumination. Most were unlighted. “Aye,” my father said; in smoky light, his eyes were bronze. “For years we denied it; for decades, so did they. We came to accept it sooner than the Cheysuli. Most of them still deny it.” His smile was slight. “We are everything they cannot countenance, we who serve the Seker. I think it less taxing to us to admit the truth. After all, we merely desire to destroy them in order to maintain what we have fought so hard to win. Autonomy from gods.”
I shivered. “But—the Seker.”
“I said, ‘gods.’” He emphasized the plural. “They worship a pantheon of gods, while we comprehend true power lies only with one.” He held his silence then, weighing me by expression. “It provides many answers.” He rose from the stool and lifted something from the gutter in the pages of the grimoire. Candlelight glinted. A gold ring, set with jet. “It lives again,” he said. “It knows my touch.”
“But—it knew his, too! And he is Cheysuli!”
“Kellin is many things. Kellin of Homana is very nearly a Firstborn himself. He has the Old Blood in abundance, twice and thrice again…the earth magic lives in him.” The ring sparked deep red. “Our lifestones answer power. This close to the Gate, it does not distinguish. It acknowledged his gifts, no more. But it would not kill him; his blood is very like ours.”
“Old Blood,” I said. “Ours is older yet.”
“No.” His tone was thoughtful as he contemplated the ring. “Exactly the same, Ginevra. In all ways, the same. If I were to cut into my left hand and spill my blood, then cut into Kellin’s hand and spill his blood, we would see they were the same. But until we mixed the blood, until we clasped hands, nothing could come of it save we each would bleed to death if the cuts proved too deep.”
The cut inside my heart was very deep indeed. “Then Devin of High Crags is dead.”
“It would seem so.” He shut his hand upon the ring and squeezed. When he opened it again, the ring was naught but shattered crystal. He blew it from his palm. “Now, certainly.” His eyes were steady. “Come here, Ginevra.”
I shuddered once. Suppressed it.
“Ginevra,” he chided. “Do you fear me? Do you believe I would harm you?”
My lips were stiff. “There is no need,” I said. “I have shamed you. I have dishonored you. You need do nothing save withhold your regard, and I am diminished.”
“Diminished.” He smiled. “Lochiel’s daughter should never be diminished.”
“I am. I am.” I fell to my knees. “The god will know my shame each time I go before him. And I will know he knows!”
My father came to me. I bowed my head before him. He put hands upon my head and cradled it tenderly. “You are everything I could desire in a daughter. You have not failed me. You have not dishonored me. There is no shame in what you have done; you did it at my behest. If you castigate yourself, you also castigate me.”
I turned my face to look up at him. “I would never—”
“I know.” Lochiel smiled. His eyes, in dim light, were black instead of brown. “In anything we do, there is no shame. Do you understand? I will have it no other way. In anything we do, there is no shame.”
I nodded, grateful he would do so much to discard my degradation.
“Good.” His hands shifted. He lifted me up. Our faces were very close. He studied mine avidly, and then he smiled. “There is your mother in you, also. You are her daughter as well.”
“Aye.” Though I hated to admit it.
“There is much in Melusine I find most entertaining, especially her passion. Are you the same?”
My face burned against his hands.
“Was the Cheysuli content?”
I began to tremble.
“Did you play kitten to his cat?”
“God—” I blurted.
Lochiel smiled. “After the hunt tomorrow, I will come to your bed.”
“My bed?”
“To destroy the Cheysuli’s seed, we will replace it with my own.”
* * *
In my chamber, alone, where there was no bed, I wondered if he would conjure another fitting for his state.
Could I burn that one, too?
He would simply conjure again.
Did he think I would submit?
Or would he also conjure submission?
I looked at the door. I looked at the latch. No ward I made would prevent Lochiel from entering my chamber. No defense I summoned could prevent him from entering me.
After the hunt.
After the cat is dead.
What would my mother say?
I caught back the laugh before it became a sob. I pressed my hands against my mouth to suppress another lest I shame myself.
There were drugs, I knew. There were all manner of ways.
I did not want the child. I desired the child to die.
There were other ways th
an this.
“There is your mother in you also.”
He wanted it this way to gratify himself.
After he killed the cat.
I unlatched the door and went out of the chamber that no longer contained a bed. I thanked the god I had burned it. What the Cheysuli and I had shared, despite centuries of enmity, was cleaner by far than the union my father proposed.
* * *
I went down to the undercroft, to see the caged cats. They greeted me with snarls, with lashings of supple tails, with the fixed stare of the predator as they paced out the dimensions of their lives.
What had he said of them? “They know what they have lost. They long for it back.”
He had lost humanity in the shaping of his self. Did he know he had lost it? Did he long for it back?
Did he know, in the great gulf of darkness, why he could not leave?
Do you remember my name?
Did he understand what had happened?
Did you remember the truths we discovered in our bed?
Did he recall the god at all, and how he had come to be locked forever in cat-shape?
Do you remember the oath I swore, when you said you needed me?
I remembered it all.
“Cheysuli,” I said aloud. The word was alien, shaped of a foreign tongue. Its sibilant hissed.
He had said something as the god revealed the truth. Something about fate. I knew the word for that. The Cheysuli called it tahlmorra.
“Fate,” I said aloud, “is another word for surrender.” It was an Ihlini belief; we make our own fates dependent on our needs.
One of the cats snarled. It thrust a tawny, wide-toed paw through the iron bars and reached toward me, slapping air with half-sheathed claws.
What else had he said? “Prejudice and hatred is created, not born. You serve the Ihlini because you know nothing else.”
“I am Ihlini,” I said. “What else would you have me do?”
The cat waved its paw and snarled.
“Do you hate me?” I asked. “Because I am Ihlini?”
A Tapestry of Lions Page 39
