A Tapestry of Lions

by Jennifer Roberson

  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 upside 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 Ian had died. One small hand, not much darker than a Homanan’s, and one old hand, bronzed flesh aging into brittle, 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. “Shaine,” he said, “who began the qu’mahlin. His nephew Carillon, who took back Homana and ended the qu’mahlin. Then came Donal, son of Ali 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 dr
opped 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, and 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.

  “Already,” Aidan murmured.

  Kellin stared at his kinsman. Hart’s hair was white. His gaunt face was lined with grief. He looked briefly at Aidan and Ginevra, then fastened an unflinching gaze on his twin-born brother’s grandson. “I came for Brennan,” he said, “but it seems the gods have seen fit to deprive me of my rujho.”

  Mute, Kellin nodded.

  Hart looked at Aidan. “It would have been yours, once. Is that why you are come home at last?”

  Something moved in Aidan’s eyes. “I am come home for many reasons, su’fali. I am come to honor my jehan, whom the gods have taken; to offer strength to my jehana; to pay homage to my son, the Mujhar; to witness the coming of the Firstborn.” The yellow eyes were fierce. “But also to grieve. Will you permit me that?”

  Abashed, Hart nodded. He l
ooked from Aidan to Aidan’s son. “Brennan is gone, and so I come to you, his heir.” Anguish blossomed a moment, was damped down with effort. “I had a son once. Owain. Lochiel murdered him. Now I have no son. I have come to give you Solinde.”

  Kellin was astounded. “You have daughters!”

  Hart’s voice was steady. “Blythe has borne only girls, and will bear no more. Cluna bore three stillborn children and will not conceive again. Jennet died in childbed. Dulcie was wed to the High Prince of Ellas two months ago.” Hart’s tension lessened. “She grew tired of waiting for you.”

  Kellin smiled faintly.

  “And so the sons she bears, if she bears sons—we run to girls, I fear—will be reared Ellasian.”

  Kellin stood very still. The back of his neck prickled. He looked sharply at his father and saw the light in Aidan’s eyes. He said he knows things. He is “privileged” to know. He knew this would come. Realization was a knife plunged deep into his vitals. And he knows the others will come.

  He would stop it. He knew the way. He looked back at his grandsire’s brother. “You will not die so soon. This is unnecessary.”

  Hart said only, “Brennan died today.”

  After a stricken moment Kellin turned away and stared hard at the tapestry of lions. He could not bear Hart’s eyes. He could not bear to see his own grief in his great-uncle’s face.

  Three

  When at last Ginevra slept, wearied from long labor, Kellin sat beside her with their son in his arms, thinking thoughts of wonder, of pride, of relief; of the prophecy of the Firstborn.

  Lochiel’s daughter stirred, then slid again into sleep. He put one hand into the glorious hair and stroked it gently from her face. The long eyes were lidded, lost to him in sleep, but he knew what lived behind them: the blazing ice of Ihlini godfire, legacy of Lochiel’s power.

  Women had swaddled his son in countless linen wrappings. The child, he thought, was ugly, far uglier than foal or puppy, but he supposed time would alter the red-faced, wrinkled infant into a human child, and eventually into a man.