Behold, Sima said.
“Behold!” Aidan cried.
Kellin heard it. At first he was not certain. Then he heard Ginevra’s gasp and swung awkwardly, clasping the infant against his shoulder. He could not help himself; he stepped off the dais even as Sima preceded him; even as Ginevra fled.
But he knew. He knew. And his doubts spilled away.
He looked at Sima. She was fully grown and magnificent. You knew all along.
Golden eyes blinked. I know many things. I am, after all, lir.
“Look,” Ginevra whispered. “Look what we have done!”
Kellin looked again. Words filled his mind, his mouth; too many words. He could not say them all; could not think them all.
In the end, he said the only ones he could manage. “Leijhana tu’sai—” he whispered, “for a lir such as this.”
With meticulous precision, the throne unbent itself. Wood split and peeled away; gilt cracked and was sloughed as dust. The shoulders broke through first, heaving free of imprisonment, and then the head, twisting, as it freed itself from an ancient, rigid roar. The gaping jaws closed. The crouching beast dropped to all fours and shook its heavy mane, spraying chips of wood and gilt.
In the hall, people cried out: Homanan, Cheysuli, Ihlini. Some fell to their knees. Others mouthed petitions to various gods.
Wood cracked and popped. From the tattered prison emerged a male lion full-fleshed and in his prime. Golden eyes gleamed, stripped now of age-soiled gilt to display the soul inside. A flame burned there, kindling into a bonfire as he gazed upon the hall.
The lion shook himself. Wood chips flew into the hall; those that landed in the firepit popped once and hissed into smoke.
The grime of antiquity, the sheen of a thousand hands, was sloughed off with a single shrug of massive, mane-clad shoulders. Littering the dais was the wooden pelt newly shed; what stood before them now was the Lion of Homana as he once was, before a power wholly perverted had shapechanged him to wood.
The massive jaws opened, displaying fearsome teeth. His roar filled the hall. Fragments of glass still clinging to their casements shattered into colored spray.
The roar died. The lion scented, tasting the air, then took note of the tiny infant. Golden eyes sharpened. He padded forth to stand at the edge of the steps, gazing down upon the child who was unafraid of his roar. The rumble deep in his chest was one of abiding contentment, of a lir newly bonded.
Ja’hai-na, Kellin thought. Imprisoned or no, this moment alone, here within the hall, has always been his tahlmorra.
He looked down at the infant he cradled in his arms. The eyes were not open. The fists were impotent. But Kellin knew his son would never be measured by such things; he was Cynric, and Firstborn; he would measure himself against a personal criteria more demanding than any other.
The lion roared again. The moon moved off the sun. Sunlight filled the Great Hall, where a week-old, naked infant shaped tiny glowing runes.
Ginevra cried in silence. Kellin clasped and kissed her hand, raising it in tribute; he would have everyone know he honored his queen. “Shansu,” he whispered. “The war is ended.”
As the Lion lay down behind them, Kellin turned to the gathering and raised his son once more. “His name is Cynric. In the name of Cheysuli gods, who conceived and bore us all, I ask you to accept him as my heir, the Prince of Homana—and the Firstborn come again!”
He was met at first by silence. Then a murmuring, a rustling of clothing, a clattering of jewelry; and at last the acclamation, wholly unrestrained, echoed in the rafters. The tongues conjoining were two: Homanan and Cheysuli. But the answer was encompassed in single word said twice.
“Ja’hai-na!”
“Accepted!”
Aidan came first, followed by Aileen. And Hart, Corin, Keely. Sean, Glyn, and Ilsa. Each of them approached the infant Prince of Homana to offer the kiss of kinfolk; only they could.
And then the others came: one by one by one—Cheysuli, Ihlini, Homanan—to pay homage to the heir, to the son, to the Firstborn, while on the dais behind the child, where Deirdre’s tapestry hung, the Lion of Homana guarded his newborn lir.
Author’s Note
The “Chronicles of the Cheysuli” was not originally intended as a series, but a single book only, titled The Shapechangers. It was my first foray into written fantasy, although I’d been reading it for many years; I’d written other (unpublished) novels, but no fantasy, because I was afraid. I loved the genre too much, and feared I couldn’t do it justice.
But my favorite authors—Marion Zimmer Bradley, C.J. Cherryh, Katherine Kurtz, Patricia McKillip, Anne McCaffrey, etc.—simply didn’t write fast enough to suit my reading addiction; I decided the only way to survive was to manufacture a “fix” by writing my own novel.
And so I concocted a plot about a race of shapechangers and their animal familiars, and a girl born of a mundane culture being absorbed into a magical one.
But plots always require thickening…I added royalty, a prophecy, created the Ihlini. And then one day, immediately following a cultural anthropology class in which we’d spent fifty minutes drawing triangles and circles as a generational exercise, I decided to apply my newfound knowledge to my stand-alone fantasy novel.
A trilogy was born.
More triangles and circles got added to the chart. The trilogy became a seven-book series. And when I realized seven didn’t quite cover everything, I added another and brought it to eight, whereupon I promised myself to end it. Finis.
Twelve years later, it’s ended. The prophecy is complete.
No author likes to turn her back on a world and its people after spending so much time creating them; Homana’s root, after all, is home. But she does it, at least for a while, because to linger longer is to risk creative stagnation.
The “Chronicles of the Cheysuli” have covered approximately 100 years in the history of Homana and her races, blessed and unblessed alike. It’s my belief Cynric, child of prophecy—the final result of centuries of genetic manipulation—had his own share of adventures. It’s also my conceit to wonder about the five undocumented years Finn and Carillon spent in exile; the boyhoods of Duncan and Finn; the adventures facing Keely, Hart, and Corin after leaving Homana; the true account of the love between Hale and Lindir and the events that touched off the qu’mahlin (although a “prequel” novelette, “Of Honor and the Lion,” appeared in DAW’s 1988 anthology, Spell Singers.)
In a history so vast, there are stories left to be told. Maybe someday I’ll tell them.
—J.R.
Chandler, Arizona
1992
APPENDIX I
CHEYSULI/OLD TONGUE
GLOSSARY
(with pronunciation guide)
a’saii (uh-SIGH)—Cheysuli zealots dedicated to pure line of descent.
bu’lasa (boo-LAH-suh)—grandson
bu’sala (boo-SAH-luh)—foster-son
cheysu (chay-SOO)—man/woman; neuter; used within phrases.
cheysul (chay-SOOL)—husband
cheysula (chay-SOO-luh)—wife
cheysuli (chay-SOO-lee)—(literal translation): children of the gods.
Cheysuli i’halla shansu (chay-SOO-lee i-HALLA shan-SOO)—(lit.): May there be Cheysuli peace upon you.
godfire (god-fire)—common manifestation of Ihlini power; cold, lurid flame; purple tones.
harana (huh-RAH-na)—niece
harani (huh-RAH-nee)—nephew
homana (ho-MAH-na)—(literal translation): of all blood.
i’halla (ih-HALL-uh)—upon you: used within phrases.
i’toshaa-ni (ih-tosha-NEE)—Cheysuli cleansing ceremony; atonement ritual.
ja’hai ([French j] zshuh-HIGH)—accept
ja’hai-na (zshuh-HIGH-nuh)—accepted
jehan (zsheh-HAHN)—father
jehana (zsheh-HAH-na)—mother
ku’reshtin (koo-RESH-tin)—epithet; name-calling
leijhana tu’sai (lay-HAHN-uh too-SIGH)—(lit
.): thank you very much.
lir (leer)—magical animal(s) linked to individual Cheysuli; title used indiscriminately between lir and warriors.
meijha (MEE-hah)—Cheysuli: light woman; (lit.): mistress.
meijhana (mee-HAH-na)—slang: pretty one
Mujhar (moo-HAR)—king
qu’mahlin (koo-MAH-lin)—purge; extermination
Resh’ta-ni (resh-tah-NEE)—(lit.): As you would have it.
rujho (ROO-ho)—slang: brother (diminutive)
rujholla (roo-HALL-uh)—sister (formal)
rujholli (roo-HALL-ee)—brother (formal)
ru’maii (roo-MY-ee)—(lit.): in the name of
Ru’shalla-tu (roo-SHAWL-uh TOO)—(lit.) May it be so.
Seker (Sek-AIR)—formal title: god of the netherworld.
shansu (shan-SOO)—peace
shar tahl (shar TAHL)—priest-historian; keeper of the prophecy.
shu’maii (shoo-MY-ee)—sponsor
su’fala (soo-FALL-uh)—aunt
su’fali (soo-FALL-ee)—uncle
sul’harai (sool-hah-RYE)—moment of greatest satisfaction in union of man and woman; describes shapechange,
tahlmorra (tall-MORE-uh)—fate; destiny; kismet.
Tahlmorra lujhala mei wiccan, cheysu (tall-MORE-uh loo-HALLA may WICK-un, chay-SOO)—(lit.): The fate of a man rests always within the hands of the gods.
tetsu (tet-SOO)—poisonous root given to allay great pain; addictive, eventually fatal.
tu’halla dei (too-HALLA-day-EE)—(lit.): Lord to liege man.
usca (OOIS-kuh)—powerful liquor from the Steppes.
y’ja’hai (EE-zshuh-HIGH)—(lit.): I accept.
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Don’t miss JENNIFER ROBERSON’S monumental fantasies:
CHRONICLES OF THE CHEYSULI:
SHAPECHANGERS
THE SONG OF HOMANA
LEGACY OF THE SWORD
TRACK OF THE WHITE WOLF
A PRIDE OF PRINCES
DAUGHTER OF THE LION
FLIGHT OF THE RAVEN
A TAPESTRY OF LIONS
THE NOVELS OF TIGER AND DEL:
SWORD-DANCER
SWORD-SINGER
SWORD-MAKER
SWORD-BREAKER
SWORD-SWORN
SWORD-BORN
SWORD-BOUND
KARAVANS:
KARAVANS
DEEPWOOD
THE WILD ROAD
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